ა ˙˖ in which → you have car sex with your biggest op, satoru gojo
frat!jo 𝓍 fem!reader
Everyone knows you hate fraternities, especially Theta Phi and it's president, Satoru Gojo
It was a given. The sky is blue, grass is green and according to you, fraternities are the root of all evil.
Which is why when you started fucking Gojo, it was under the condition that this was strictly between the two of you and you'd ruin his life if he told anyone about this.. arrangement.
Here's what not even your closest friends know about you: you had a very high libido and none of the men you were interested in had been capable of keeping up. you tried sleeping with athletes but even they didn't have the stamina to go for more than two rounds and while your vibrators always helped you, you had grown sexually frustrated and needed more.
You started snapping over the tiniest things, losing sleep and even daydreaming during lectures about getting fucked.
This.. arrangement started when you had been assigned to work on a project with Gojo, the arrogant white haired manchild you hated since the first day of uni. Now you were stuck with him for two months, working on a project he cared little about since he was too busy trying to charm his way into not just your pants, but your heart.
As if!
"Fuck, just like that, princesss. Come on, I know you can go faster." Gojo chuckles and grabs onto your hips, spreading his legs wider as he starts bouncing you on his cock so hard that the car is rocking back and forth, windows fogging up as he lifts his hips to pound into you.
You should be working on this project that was due in a few weeks, but instead you let Gojo drag you to the backseat of his car with the promise that this would be quick, something to clear your minds so you could focus on your work without any distractions.
Yet here you were four rounds later with cum dripping down your thighs from his previous loads that started to seep from the condom, body shaking as you neared your fourth orgasm.
"Screw you asshole, how about you get on top you lazy bast- oh!" Gojo lifts you off his cock and flips you onto your knees, awkwardly moving within the limited space until he’s behind you and lining his cock up with your entrance.
"You're so fucking mean to me, I love it." Gojo leans over your body to suck on your neck, one hand holding onto your hip while the other grips the back of the seat as he pushes into you.
"You d-deserve it." You push back against him as he pushes forward, meeting him halfway until he's balls deep inside of you, your cunt hungrily squeezing him for more, eyes rolling back when he starts to slowly move his hips.
You hadn't meant for this to go on for as long as it has. You had been frustrated after a shift at work, then you walked in on your roommate getting her back blown out, and when you went to meet Gojo for a quick study session at the library, it was closed and he smirked and told you his place was around the corner.
You reluctantly got into his car, arms folded across your chest as you stared out the window the entire way there, ignoring his flirtatious comments. It had frustrated you to no end, so who could really blame you when you started drooling after he offered to help you with your little issue?
It was supposed to be a one time thing, a quick solution to your "problem" until you could find someone more permanent, someone you didn't despise.
Only Gojo had matched your freak perfectly, going six rounds your first time and only taking a break once. You didn't want it to be him, did everything to convince yourself that he was actually terrible in bed but your vibrators had turned stale after that night, your mind constantly drifting to how hard Gojo made you cum on his dick and on his tongue.
He was just too good.
You arch your back so he can hit deeper, hands tightly gripping the leather head rest to steady yourself, skirt yanked above your waist, bra and shirt long discarded on the car floor.
You cry out when he hits a spot inside of you that has you seeing stars, head spinning from how deep he was fucking you.
Gojo groans and leans forward, grabbing your chin to turn your head toward his, pink lips slamming against yours. The kiss is careless, his tongue fighting yours, you angrily biting his lip because you hate yourself for letting him fuck you when you swore up and down you’d never get involved with a fratboy.
Gojo didn’t care, savoring the taste of his blood mixing with the spit you both traded.
When he pulls away, your brows furrow from the way he's staring at you, white hair falling into his face, lips slightly busted from your bite, a foreign feeling twirling in your belly. This was just sex, you wanted nothing more from him so why was he staring at you like he wanted to tell you something that would ruin your current agreement?
"Look at you.” He whispers too softly. “Letting me fuck you like a slut in my car. Anyone could walk by, you know? See how good I fuck you, how well you take me. You want that?"
When you try to turn your head, he tightens his grip on your jaw and smirks, slamming into you as he thrusts grow sloppy. The sound of your wet pussy squelching filling the car has him dizzy with need.
"You don't have to answer, your moans are telling me enough." He kisses you one more time before letting you go and pulling back.
You don't have a chance to dwell on what he was implying before he was gripping your hips and pounding into you at a pace that had you crying out as the coil in your belly tightens, your puffy walls gripping around Gojo's cock.
"M'gonna cum again!" You whined as his tip hit your cervix perfectly, fat tears escaping your eyes while your mouth dropped open in a silent cry.
You try to fuck him back, really you do but your legs are noodles at this point and the only thing keeping you up was Gojo's steady hands on your hips, euphoria coursing through your body and making your head dizzy with need.
“Come on, princess. Give me another one, yeah? You can do it, such a good girl f’me.”
You hate him so much, hate that he knows exactly what to say to push you over the edge, that he was way too in-tune with your body as if he had been created to please you.
Gojo pulls you up against his chest and you let your head fall on his shoulder. He wraps one arm around your waist and squeezes you flush against him, his other hand moving around your body until he’s rubbing circles on your clit and you’re lazily bucking back against him.
“Feels so good Toru, haah, don’t stop!”
The car reeked of sex, windows blurred from the breathy moans falling from yours and Gojo’s mouths as you both rock into each other. Anyone walking by would know what was happening inside. You thanked god it was late and the parking lot had been empty.
“Really? Thought you hated me, pretty girl. Who knew- fuck, who knew you had such loose morals?” He laughs in your ear, hand pushing on your back to arch it even further while he split you on his cock.
“F-fuck you, oh im close!”
Gojo laughs and places a kiss on the side of your head that lingers longer than it should before pushing you back down to get a better angle and his next slam sends you over the edge, your orgasm tearing through your soul as you squirt all over his seats and cry out his name.
This was better than porn.
Gojo doesn’t laugh this time, doesn’t make any snide comments because he can barely breathe with the way your cunt is pulsing around his cock, your juices dripping down his thighs and he thinks he’s going crazy because he’s never had pussy this good.
The fact that you hated him made this even better for some reason, motivated him to fuck you until you finally admitted that this was more than just casual sex. That he wasn’t delusional in thinking this could be something deeper.
He squeezes your hips tighter, pushing as deep as he can as he pumps his third load into the condom, eyes rolling back and a strangled groan escaping his lips as thick hot cum drips from the latex and into your warm pussy.
Gojo can feel it slipping it off, can feel your heat and gummy walls on his half free cock and it has him feral as he picks up his pace and fucks another load into you, his balls tightening and pulsing because you had never felt this good.
“Shit, princess. You’re so fucking wet, so good, s-so perfect.” He drops against your back, still holding you up as his hips stutter and slow, pushing the last of his orgasm out while you both catch your breath.
He stays there for a moment, his face tucked into the crook of your neck, thumbs rubbing circles on your hips as you both come down from your high. You can feel his cum leaking from you and down your thighs and you hate how it awakens something primal inside of you. And when the thought to push it back in had formed, you blamed it on your disheveled state.
In any other instance you would have pushed him off you already, huffing that it was only sex and would never happen again even though you both knew that was a lie.
Something about Gojo had you coming back for seconds and thirds. Every fuck session was somehow better than the last, making you forget that this was supposed to be a one time thing, something to hold you over until you found a more suitable partner.
Only you were starting to realize Gojo might be the best you ever had. It made you hate him more.
You gasp when he slowly pulls out, pussy overstimulated and swollen from the multiple rounds you went in the span of an hour. Both of you sitting on the cushion, one of your arms draped across the seat, Gojo’s throw over his eyes.
You sneak a look at him, heart thumping at how attractive he looked. His hair was all over the place, cheeks red from exhaustion, and his pants and boxers were still halfway down, cock still free and housing a half on condom. Your skin tingles at the sight of his abdomen and white pubes wet with your release.
He looked as fucked out as you felt.
Not one for awkward silence, you lift your hips to pull your panties back up and your skirt down, stretching your body to reach into the front seat for your shirt, ass in the air and you almost have it, your finger literally grazes the blue fabric before Gojo grabs you and pulls you down.
“Gojo! Oh my god, let go you freak.” You’re fuming, trying your best to wiggle out his grip but he just tightens his arms around your stomach, pulling you against him and lowering his head onto your back, littering it in soft kisses that burn through your skin.
"Go on a date with me. Please?"
This again. You told him multiple times before that this was simply sex, two college students helping each other out and nothing more. No feelings outside of helping the other get off. His stubbornness would only hurt him in the end.
"God no, I don't date frat boys."
"What if I left?"
You freeze against him, a lump forming in your chest. "Aren't you the president? You can't just leave."
What a cruel joke. Not that you wanted him anyways but even if you did, Gojo would never leave his fraternity. Certainly not for you. You two weren’t lovers, weren’t friends and we’re barely acquaintances given the fact that he was your number one op.
You remembered the time in sophomore year when he publicly called you an uptight bitch because you told him his party sucked. You lived different lives, it could never work. He would never change and you would never see him as more than a quick fuck and your unfortunate project buddy that you’d go back to ignoring once this was over.
"I can do whatever I want sweetheart, did you forget my last name?" He lifts his head and kisses your shoulder this time, goosebumps forming on your arms. Of course, he always tried to fix everything with money and status, which is another reason why you hated him.
You sit there quietly, lost in your thoughts.
You couldn’t seriously be with someone like Gojo, right? He was brash, had an ego out of this world and was a bratty nepo baby that flirted with anyone with a hole.
"So?" he asks, hopeful. HIs fingers gently dig into your belly to keep you from moving away, one hand coming up to grip your chin and turn your head back to him.
"So?" You repeat, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you lose yourself in his eyes.
For all of his.. lack of good qualities, he never failed in the facial department. Perhaps that was another reason you disliked him, because no matter how many insults you can throw his way, ugly wasn’t one of them.
Satoru Gojo was sculpted by the Gods themselves, which was unfortunate, because no one with a face like that should have a personality so catastrophically irritating. You can’t help but to let your eyes. traitorous things that they were, linger.
He notices because of course he does, and the smile that spreads across his face lacks any of his usual arrogance and for a second you imagined what life as his girlfriend could be like.
The thought came uninvited, images of him giving you sleepy morning kisses nad taking you on dates vivid enough to make your stomach twist.
Absolutely not.
Satoru Gojo was many things: powerful, insufferable, unbearably handsome, but he was not boyfriend material.
"Will you go on a date with me if I leave the frat?"
"No."
You answer too fast and Gojo is once again left heartbroken as you pull away to finish dressing yourself, refusing to spare him another look. He could understand why you hated him, but if you would just give him a chance to prove he could be different, he knew he wouldn’t disappoint you.
He would just have to keep trying, keep working for your favor because he would make you his if it was the last thing he did. He was competitive to his core and that wouldn’t waver just because he had finally met his match.
On the contrary, it only motivated him more. He saw the way you looked at him, how you were starting to let him touch you longer than you would have when this first started.
He was slowly breaking your walls down and it was only a matter of time before he made you his.
❦ lisa's note: this will be a series! I'll post the masterlist for it soon but lemme know if you wanna be tagged! 😋
✦ CONTENT WARNINGS: mdni. explicit sexual content, x reader, mutual pining, accidental confession, friends to lovers, kissing, heavy petting, oral (f receiving + m receiving), fingering, handjobs, penetrative sex (p in v), unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, praise, body worship, breast play, nipple stimulation, light spanking/ass slapping, possessive affection, emotional intimacy, aftercare, fluff, humor, happy endings.
✦ WORD COUNT: ~13k+ (60mins)
author’s note ♡ i genuinely thought this was going to be a short little fic. instead it’s 13k+ words. i don’t know either. this is also my first time writing Choso and Ino, so if i got either of them wrong you are legally allowed to beat me up. also… why is there such a severe shortage of hot Ino fanart?? i wasn’t familiar with this struggle until now. and somehow my very first Ino fic ended up being almost 6,000 words, which feels extremely on brand for me. There will be 2 more parts soon! hope you guys enjoy!!
GOJO ♡ MINE
He picks up your phone. You don't notice at first. You're making tea in the kitchen, humming something under your breath, completely unaware that you left your phone unlocked on the couch. Completely unaware of what's still open on the screen.
"…Huh."
Your blood goes cold. You turn around slowly. Gojo's sitting there, your phone in his hand, those blue eyes scanning the screen with an expression you can't quite read.
"…Satoru."
Then his eyebrows go up. "Wait."
Oh no.
"…Is that me?"
You cross the room in three steps, reaching for it. He leans back, holding it just out of reach, that wicked grin spreading across his face.
"Hold on." He's scrolling now. "I'm just—wow, okay. '#gojo smut' '#gojo x reader' '#this ruined my life'—"
"Give me my phone."
"18,000 notes?"
"Satoru—"
"Baby." He looks at you, eyes sparkling with absolute delight. "You've got three tabs open."
You want to die. "I don't—"
"Three." He taps the screen. "All me."
Your face is burning. "So what?"
"So." He stands, still holding your phone away from you. "You bookmarked it."
"I did not—"
"You absolutely did." He shows you the screen. The little bookmark icon is filled in.
"…Okay, fine."
"And you left a comment."
Your stomach drops. "I did not."
"You did."
"Satoru, I swear—"
"'Need him biblically.'"
You actually make a sound—something between a gasp and a whimper. "Oh my god."
"That's what you wrote."
"Stop—"
"'Need him biblically.'" He's laughing now, stepping closer. "That's amazing."
You lunge for the phone. He sidesteps easily, still grinning. "Give it back."
"Not yet." His voice is closer now, darker. "You've been thinking about me."
Your breath catches. "…So?"
"So." He steps closer, eyes locked on yours. "That's why you've been looking at me like that. Like you want me to—" He glances at the phone. "—quote, 'ruin you.'"
Your heart is pounding. "…Maybe."
His grin widens. He tosses your phone onto the couch. "You know what?" His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back. "You could've just asked."
His grin turns absolutely wicked. "For me to fuck you the way I do in your little stories."
You stare at him, cheeks burning.
"Think the author got me right?" Then his mouth is on yours. His tongue slides against yours and you make a sound you didn't mean to make—something desperate and needy.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing yours. "You wanted this."
"Yes—"
He kisses you again, harder, walking you backward until your legs hit the couch. You fall onto it as he follows you down, settling over you. Your legs part as he slots between them. His hands pull your shirt over your head, and unhook your bra.
"Fuck." He's looking down at you like he wants to devour you. His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples and you gasp. Your back arches into his touch.
"I want to hear every sound you make."
His mouth closes over your nipple and you cry out. He swirls his tongue then licks from your breasts to your navel. He kisses down your stomach, his fingers hooking in your pants, pulling them down with your underwear.
Your legs spread as he settles between your thighs. Then stops.
“…Oh, baby.” His thumb drags slowly through your slickness. “You’re already so wet.” He groans. “All this from reading about me?”
"Yes…" you breathe.
“Say it properly.”
"It's all for you—"
"That's right." One finger slides inside you, curling upward. You arch off the couch.
"Satoru—oh my god—"
He adds a second finger, curling them both. You whimper.
"There it is." His voice is smug. "There's the sound from your story."
His fingers move faster, his thumb circling your clit. His other hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. "You're mine."
"Yes—"
His thumb presses harder, his fingers moving faster. Your hips grind against his hand, your legs trembling.
"Then come."
"Oh—fuck—Toruuu—"
It hits you suddenly—your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes through you. Your legs clamp around his hand, your pussy clenching hard around his fingers.
"That's it—" He doesn't stop moving. "That's my girl—"
"Satoru—I'm—" You're gasping, shaking against the cushions.
"So beautiful when you come."
You're still shivering when he pulls his fingers out, brings them to his mouth and licks them clean. "Fuck. You taste so good."
He's undressing, and you watch as he pulls his shirt over his head, pushes his pants down. His cock is hard and flushed, your mouth goes dry watching it.
Then he's lying back on the couch, pulling you up. "Come here."
"What—"
"Turn around." His hands guide your hips, positioning you over his face. You're facing away from him now, your thighs on either side of his head.
"Satoru—"
"Sit." His breath is hot against your pussy.
His hands grip your ass hard, his fingers digging into the flesh as he pulls you down onto his face. Not gently. He yanks you down, spreading you open with his grip, and buries his face between your thighs like he's been starving for it.
The first drag of his tongue makes you cry out, your upper body collapsing forward onto his lower half. Everything is so sensitive, too much, and his tongue is relentless—licking through your folds, circling your clit.
"Oh god—"
Your hands brace on his thighs and that's when you see it. His cock, so amazingly hard and glistening at the tip, right in front of your face. As you watch, it twitches.
His fingers dig deeper into your soft skin, holding you exactly where he wants you. He's breathing you in, completely lost.
His tongue pushes deeper and you moan, your hips rocking back against his mouth. Without thinking, you lean forward, wrapping your hand around his length. He groans into your pussy, the vibration making you whine.
You take him into your mouth.
"Fuck—" The word is muffled against you. His hands grip your ass even harder, fingers digging in, pulling you down so hard he can barely breathe, his tongue working faster.
You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, and his hips buck up slightly. The taste of him, the weight on your tongue, the way he's devouring you—it's overwhelming. You moan around his cock and he groans again, the sound vibrating through your core.
His tongue finds your clit, sucking hard, and your rhythm falters. You're dripping now, can feel it on his chin, his lips, and he's not stopping. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, your head bobbing faster.
Then his hips start moving. Fucking up into your mouth in shallow thrusts that make you gag slightly, drool spilling down his length. You're moaning constantly now, the sounds muffled around his cock, because his tongue is doing something absolutely sinful to your clit.
"Satoru—" You pull off to gasp. "I'm going to—"
He doesn't let you finish. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking hard, his fingers digging bruises into your ass as he holds you down, and you take him back into your mouth just as the orgasm hits.
You scream around his cock, your whole body convulsing, your pussy clenching against his tongue. The vibration of your scream, the way you're shaking—
"Fuuuckkkk—“ His hips jerk up and he comes hard, spilling down your throat. You swallow reflexively, still moaning, still trembling through your own orgasm as his tongue continues working you through it.
Briefly, you're both just breathing hard, your body collapsed on top of his.
Then his hands are on you again, pulling you around, dragging you up his body until he can kiss you. It's messy, desperate, tasting like both of you, and he kisses you like he'd die if you pulled away.
"Baby—" He breaks away just long enough to speak. "Your—so fucking perfect—taste so fucking good—" His hands are everywhere, gripping your ass, your thighs, pulling you closer. "Could do that for hours.”
He kisses you again, harder, his tongue tangling with yours. When he finally pulls back, you're both panting.
Then he's flipping you onto your back, his body covering yours.
"Wait—" You look down between your bodies. He's hard again, his cock pressing against your entrance. "You're still—"
"Reversed cursed technique is useful in more ways than you think." His grin is absolutely wicked. "Couldn't leave your poor pussy unfilled, pretty girl."
He guides himself into you slowly. You feel yourself stretch around him as he sinks deeper.
"Shit— His voice is rough. "Always so good for me."
He's fully inside you now, his hips flush against yours. He pulls out almost completely before thrusting back in, setting a steady rhythm. His hands settle on your hips, controlling the pace.
"You wanted it like this?"
"Yes—"
Then he shifts the angle, tilting his hips upward. His cock hits something inside you that makes your vision blur.
"Oh—fuck—"
He grins, his bright blue eyes locked on yours. His thumb traces your jawline. "Still comparing me to fiction?"
"Satoru—"
His other hand tangles in your hair, gripping firmly, tilting your head back to expose your throat. He leans down, teeth grazing your neck, then bites down. You gasp.
"It's actually cute." He smiles against your skin. "You really thought an author knew me better than you do."
"Satoru—"
"Come on." He laughs softly. "Who do you think they're trying to write?"
He kisses your neck.
"Me."
Another slow thrust.
"Problem is…" His grin widens. "They've never actually been me."
He tips your chin up until you're looking at him.
"They've never watched you." His smile turns almost unbearably smug. "I have."
His hips drive forward and you cry out. He releases your hair to grip your hip possessively, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave marks.
Your breath catches. The certainty in his voice feels almost unfair.
"There. Knew that'd get you." He moves again, hitting that same spot deep inside, and groans. Your back arches off the couch, your pussy clenching around him.
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
He sets a rhythm—deep, angled perfectly. Then his hands slide under your thighs, lifting them, folding you nearly in half as he presses into you. Your knees are past your shoulders now.
"Oh god—"
He sinks deeper, his gaze dropping to where your bodies meet. His eyes catch on the subtle indent in your abdomen and he stares for a heartbeat longer than he means to. His thumb traces it slowly, unable to resist.
"That's mine," he groans, his voice rough with possession.
One hand braces beside your head. The other slides down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit. He moves in tight circles while his hips drive forward relentlessly.
"Satoru—"
"I've got you." His face is inches from yours, those blue eyes drinking in every reaction. His smile turns almost lazy. "I can read it all over your face."
Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, leaving marks of your own.
"Squeezing me so fucking tight, baby." His pace is relentless, his stamina endless. "Look at me."
You do. His eyes are blazing, pupils blown wide with desire.
"Bet your author never wrote it like this." His smile is all teeth. His fingers press harder against your clit. "You're close."
"I—yes—"
He slows just enough to keep you on the edge. His fingers keep circling, his hips still moving, but the rhythm shifts—deliberate torture.
"Satoru—please—"
You lock onto his gaze. Those bright blue eyes pinning you just like his body does. He watches you for another heartbeat, deliberately keeping you suspended there.
"Now."
His fingers press harder. His hips drive forward, burying himself completely. Your orgasm crashes through you—your whole body going rigid as pleasure whites out your vision. Your pussy clenches hard around his cock, pulsing.
"Fuck—Satoru—"
His voice is rough with satisfaction. "So fucking perfect when you come for me."
"Wait—" Your voice breaks. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can." His hips roll forward, slow and deep. You groan—everything is too sensitive, too much. "I'm not done with you yet."
"Satoru—"
"Shh." His fingers find your clit again and you gasp, your whole body jerking. His other hand slides into your hair, gripping tight, holding you still. "You're going to give me another one."
"I can't—"
"You will." His pace picks up—faster now, still controlled but relentless. His fingers move in tight circles. "You're going to fall apart for me one more time."
The overstimulation hits harder this time, sharper. Your body is already sensitive, and he knows exactly how to work you. His hand in your hair keeps you from looking away, forces you to hold his gaze.
"Oh god—"
"Forgot all about those stories now, didn't you?"
Suddenly your whole body convulses around him.
"Fuck—Satoru!" you cry.
And his composure shatters.
"Jesus—" His voice breaks. His hips stutter, the rhythm faltering for the first time all night. Your pussy keeps pulsing around him and he groans against your shoulder, his grip tightening. "Fuck—I can't—"
His thrusts become erratic and desperate. He buries himself deep one final time and comes hard, filling you completely. His whole body goes rigid, his head dropping to your shoulder, panting against your neck.
For a while, he just stays there, both of you shaking.
Then slowly, carefully, he pulls out. You both wince. He collapses on top of you, bracing his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush you.
"…Holy shit."
You laugh breathlessly. "Yeah."
He lifts his head to look at you. His hair is a mess. His eyes are soft now. "You okay?"
"Yes, baby… I'm so much more okay."
He grins. "So."
"What?"
"…Accurate?"
You swat his shoulder weakly. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Fictional me has nothing on the real thing."
"You're so annoying."
"You love it."
"…Maybe."
He shifts, pulling you against his side on the couch. "Come here." You curl into him. His hand runs up and down your spine. "…You know you can tell me what you want, right?"
His voice is quieter now, serious. "You don't have to read about it."
"I know."
"Do you?"
You look up at him. "I do."
He studies your face for a moment. "Good.…But also."
"What?"
His grin returns, that arrogant one that started this entire thing. "If you find any other good ideas in those stories…"
"Satoru."
"I'm just saying."
"You're impossible."
He pulls you closer, his chin resting on top of your head. "Mine," he murmurs against your hair.
You smile into his chest. "Yeah."
NANAMI ♡ TELL ME
The apartment is quiet when Nanami arrives home.
He loosens his tie as he steps through the door, briefcase in hand, the familiar weight of the day settling across his shoulders. The living room is empty, but he can hear you moving around somewhere in the back—the soft shuffle of laundry being done.
He sets his briefcase down by the door. That's when he notices your laptop. It's open on the couch, screen still glowing. You must have stepped away for just a moment.
Nanami moves toward it, intending only to close it—save the battery, keep the screen from burning in—but then he sees his own face staring back at him.
He pauses.
It takes less than ten seconds to understand what he's looking at.
Nanami Kento x Reader. Explicit Sexual Content. Dominance. Praise Kink.
He reads a single line. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Then he closes the laptop with deliberate care and sets it on the coffee table. He sits down on the couch. Rests one hand on top of the closed device. And waits.
You walk back into the living room two minutes later, a basket of folded towels balanced on your hip.
You freeze the moment you see him. Nanami is sitting on the couch, perfectly still, one hand resting on your laptop. His tie is loosened. His jacket is still on. His expression is calm. But his eyes are on you.
"…Kento."
"I wasn't searching through your computer," he says evenly. "Your screen was visible."
You set the basket down on the chair and move toward him, hands already reaching for the laptop. "Don't—"
He gently closes his hand over yours before you can grab it. "There's no need to panic."
"I'm not panicking."
"You're shaking."
You pull your hand back. He's right. You are.
Nanami studies you for a long moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. Then he says, very calmly, "There appear to be quite a lot of these stories."
You stare at the floor. "…There are."
"You've bookmarked several."
"…Yes."
"And judging by the timestamps, you've been reading them regularly."
"…Yes."
He scrolls through the open browser. "Different settings." He scrolls once. "Same dynamic." He closes the laptop. "You've developed a fairly specific preference."
"…Kento, I—"
"Do you enjoy these stories?"
The question is so direct, so matter-of-fact, that it catches you completely off guard. You hesitate. Then nod. "…Yes."
His jaw tightens slightly. "Do you wish I would treat you that way?"
"…I…"
He waits. You force yourself to meet his eyes. "…Yes."
Nanami stands and closes the distance between you in three measured steps. He tips your chin up with two fingers.
“You wanted this.”
You can barely breathe. “…I didn’t know how to bring it up.”
His expression softens just a fraction. “No,” he says quietly. “I imagine you didn’t.” His thumb brushes along your jaw. “But now I know.”
You swallow hard. “…And?”
His eyes darken. "Then I'll give it to you."
He doesn't move immediately. Instead, his hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, gripping firmly but not painfully. He pulls you closer until you're inches from his face, and you can feel the tension radiating off him—controlled, deliberate, dangerous.
"Come," he says quietly.
Then he releases you and turns toward the bedroom, leaving you to follow.
Nanami's hand is on your waist, pulling you back against him hard, and you can feel the raw need radiating off him—something you've never felt from him before.
"Bed," he says, voice rough. "On your hands and knees. Now."
Your breath catches. "Ken—"
"Please." The word comes out desperate, strained, and it sends heat flooding through you.
You climb onto the bed and position yourself, heart pounding. Behind you, you hear the rustle of fabric as he strips off his shirt, the sharp clink of his belt, the harsh intake of breath when he sees you waiting for him.
His hands are on you immediately—rough, urgent. He runs his palms up the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your ass, gripping hard enough to leave marks.
"God," he breathes. "Look at you."
He yanks your shorts down, underwear with them, and then you're bare and exposed and aching for him.
His hands trail slowly down your back before gripping your ass hard. One hand slides down your thigh, then back up the inside of it with deliberate slowness until you're trembling. Only then do his fingers slip between your thighs.
"Already so wet for me."
"Ken, please—"
"I know, sweetheart. I know."
He pushes two fingers inside you without warning, and you gasp at the sudden intrusion. "Ahh—"
"Perfect," he groans, working you open roughly.
His fingers curl, finding that spot deep inside that makes your toes curl, and you rock back against his hand desperately. He pumps them in and out with deliberate force, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. When he scissors them, stretching you wider, you whimper at the burn.
"That's it," he says, voice dark. "Show me how much you need this."
You push back against his hand, shameless, and he rewards you with a third finger. The stretch is intense—almost too much—and you feel yourself clenching around the intrusion.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groans. "Even like this. Even when you're dripping for me."
He works all three fingers deep, curling them ruthlessly against that spot until your thighs are shaking and you're gasping his name.
"Please—"
"Not yet." His other hand grips your hip, holding you still. "I want you desperate for it."
He finger-fucks you hard and fast until you're trembling, until you're so close to the edge you could cry, and then he pulls his fingers out.
You hear him freeing himself, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance.
He's big—you know this, you've taken him so many times before—but somehow it still makes your breath catch.
He pushes forward slowly at first, just the tip breaching you, and the stretch makes you gasp. Then he grips your hips with both hands and drives in hard—one brutal thrust that buries him completely.
The stretch is overwhelming. You feel split open, stuffed full, every nerve ending screaming as he sinks impossibly deep. He's so thick that you feel the drag of every inch, the way your body has to adjust to accommodate him.
"Oh god—Ken—!"
"Fuck," he chokes out, voice strained. "You feel—god—so fucking tight—"
He stays buried deep for a moment, letting you feel the fullness, the way he's stretching you open. You can feel him pulsing inside you, can feel your own body clenching around him reflexively.
Then he pulls back almost all the way out and slams back in.
The force drives you forward, and you brace yourself against the mattress as he sets a brutal rhythm—deep, powerful thrusts that make you feel every inch of him.
His hands grip your hips hard, fingers digging in as he fucks you relentlessly.
"You like it when I fuck you like this?" He grunts. "Answer me."
"Yes—!"
"Good girl," he growls, slamming in deep.
Every thrust is hard, deliberate, and you can barely think through the intensity of it.
"Oh god—"
He drives in deeper. "That's right. You take it perfectly."
The sound of skin against skin fills the room—wet and obscene. He's relentless, fucking you with a roughness you've never felt from him before.
He changes his angle slightly, pulling your hips higher, and suddenly he's hitting even deeper. The new position makes you sob.
"Tell me what you want."
"You—I want you—"
"You have me." He punctuates it with a particularly brutal thrust. "All of me."
One hand slides up your spine and tangles in your hair. He pulls hard, arching your back and changing the angle again. Suddenly he's even deeper, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.
Your back arches sharply, and a broken cry tears from your throat.
"Ah—ah—Ken—"
He releases your hair only to push your shoulders down hard, pinning you to the mattress. Your ass is high in the air now, and the angle lets him drive impossibly deep.
"You're exactly where you need to be." His grip tightens. "Do you understand?"
"Yes—!"
He picks up the pace, fucking you even harder now, and you can hear his breathing getting ragged.
"Fuck—" His voice cracks slightly. "You feel so fucking good—"
His other hand slides around to your front, fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you whimper.
His rhythm falters for just a second. His grip on your hip loosens slightly, becomes less bruising.
He drives in deep and holds there, grinding against you, and you feel him shudder.
"I'm so close—"
"I know." His fingers circle your clit faster, and his voice has lost that commanding edge. Now it's just... him. Your Kento. "Let go."
He pulls back and thrusts in again, deeper now. "Please," he breathes against your back. "Come for me, sweetheart. I need—I need to feel you—"
His other hand releases your hip and slides up your side to cup your breasts, gently now despite the force of his thrusts.
"Oh Ken—“
"That's it," he groans, and you can hear the emotion in his voice.
"Ah—ah—I'm gonna—"
"Yes—" His voice finally breaks. "Please, honey, come for me—"
Your orgasm crashes over you intensely. You clench around him rhythmically, your whole body shaking, and you hear yourself crying out his name but you can barely process it through the pleasure.
"OH—oh my GOD—Ken—"
"Fuck—" He groans, and his voice is wrecked now, all pretense of control gone. "You're so beautiful—"
He continues to thrust into you, but his movements have changed completely.
He breathes against your back, "So good for me—always so good—"
His fingers never stop circling your clit, drawing out every aftershock until your vision starts swimming.
"Too much—"
"One more." He groans, and it's a plea now, not a command. "Please, baby—I need to feel you come again—need it—"
He adjusts the angle slightly, pulling you back against him with one arm wrapped around your waist. The new position lets him grind into you with every thrust, hitting that perfect spot while his fingers keep working your clit.
"All mine," he says softly.
His fingers circle your clit faster, and the sensation of him inside you and his hand on you is too much.
Your breath catches in your throat.
"That's it, baby," he encourages, voice soft and loving now. "I can feel you—so close—"
He grinds deep, staying buried inside you, and the constant pressure of him filling you, finally pushes you over.
Your second orgasm hits and it's stronger than the first—overwhelming. Your vision whites out and you scream his name as your body convulses around him, clenching so tight your legs start to tingle.
"I love you—" you gasp.
"Fuck—" His rhythm breaks completely. "I’m—“
He buries himself as deep as he can go, and you feel him start to pulse inside you.
"I love you—" he chokes out. "God, I love you so much—“
He comes with a broken groan, and you feel him pulsing inside you, filling you with heat. His whole body shudders against yours, and he wraps both arms around you, holding you tight against him as he empties himself deep inside you.
You feel his release start to drip down your thigh as he finally stills, and you hear him make a soft, overwhelmed sound as he collapses forward over you, careful not to crush you but unable to hold himself up anymore.
Then, carefully, he pulls out. He pulls you against him, your back to his chest for a moment while he catches his breath.
Once his breathing is even again, he leaves for a moment and returns with a warm washcloth. His touch is so gentle now as he cleans you. The contrast makes your heart feel full.
When he's done, he helps you roll over. His hair is a mess. His face is still flushed. He looks thoroughly undone.
He pulls you against his chest, and you feel him take a slow breath.
Then, very quietly he says, "…Was I satisfactory?"
The question catches you off guard. Even now, it sounds less like insecurity than quiet sincerity. You can't help but smile against his skin.
"More than satisfactory," you whisper.
His arms tighten around you. "I'm glad," he murmurs into your hair. His hand traces slow patterns across your back. From your shoulder blade to your spine, then back up again soothingly.
"How long?"
You blink against his chest. "What?"
"How long have you been reading those stories?"
Your face heats. "…A while."
"Months?"
"…Yes."
His hand pauses briefly, then resumes its path. "I see."
Silence settles between you again, but it doesn't feel uncomfortable. It feels like he's processing.
"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice is quiet and genuinely curious. "We've been together over a year… sweetheart, we’re engaged.”
You shift slightly in his arms. "I didn't know how. It felt… embarrassing."
"Embarrassing," he repeats, like he's testing the word. "To want something from me?"
"To want that from you." You press your face into his shoulder. "You're always so controlled. So careful with me. I didn't know if you'd even want to—"
"I did."
You pull back enough to look at him. "You did?"
His expression is serious. "I've always wanted to give you what you need. I simply didn't know what that was." His thumb brushes along your jaw. "I wish you'd known you could tell me."
"I know." Your voice comes out small. "I just… couldn't find the words."
He considers that. "What specifically appealed to you? About those stories."
God, he really does want to understand.
"The… the way you—he—took control," you say carefully. "The certainty. Like there was no question about what he wanted or how he'd get it."
"And that's what you wanted from me."
"…Yes."
His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck. "Did I give you what you needed tonight?"
You meet his eyes. "Yes. God, yes."
"Good." He pulls you closer, and you feel him exhale slowly against your hair. "I want you to tell me these things directly. I can't read your mind."
"I know."
"If there's something you want from me—anything—tell me.”
His words settle something deep inside you. "Okay."
"I mean it." His voice is firm now, almost stern. "Promise me."
"I promise."
He holds you tighter, and you feel some tension leave his body. "Good."
You stay like that for a while, wrapped around each other, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
Your throat tightens. "Thank you for not making me feel ashamed of it."
His lips press against your forehead. "Darling, I could never be ashamed of you."
And that's all either of you needs to say.
CHOSO ♡ WANTED
You hear the knock just as you’re trying to decide between two shirts.
“Coming!”
You glance at yourself in the mirror one more time. “…Actually.” A laugh slips out.
“Come in! It’s unlocked! I’ll be right out!”
“Alright.” Choso’s voice is as quiet and even as ever.
A second later, the front door opens and closes. He slips off his shoes automatically before stepping into your apartment.
The place is familiar. A blanket thrown over the couch. One of your mugs abandoned on the coffee table. A book left open where you’d clearly been reading.
And your laptop. Still awake. He only glances at it because something catches his eye. His own face.
He stops. “…Hm.”
He steps closer. Not to pry. Just to make sure he’s seeing what he thinks he is. It really is him. A photograph. His name.
Choso Kamo x Reader
His brow furrows. “…Reader?” He says the word quietly to himself, trying to understand it.
His gaze drifts lower. There are paragraphs underneath. He reads without really meaning to. His expression changes almost imperceptibly. His ears begin to redden.
He reads one more sentence.
Then another.
“…This is…”
A story... about him… about you.
He simply stands there, staring. Not embarrassed. Confused.
Why would someone imagine this?
Why would they imagine him?
More importantly… Why were you reading it?
Your footsteps break the silence. He looks up just as you round the corner. Your eyes land on him. Then on the laptop. Still open. Still displaying his face.
Your stomach drops. “…Choso.”
His attention leaves the screen immediately. “I apologize.” He steps back from the coffee table without hesitation. “I wasn’t trying to read your computer.”
A small pause. “I saw my face.”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out.
He watches you for another moment before asking, with complete sincerity, “…Why would someone write something like this about me?”
“I…” Your brain completely empties. “…Choso…”
“Yes?”
“It’s not…” You stop… then start over. “I didn’t write it.”
“…No?”
“I’m just…” Your face burns. “…Reading it.”
His eyes widen just a fraction. “…You’re reading stories…” He glances at the laptop. “…About me.”
It’s not really a question. Just something he’s trying to fit together in his head.
You nod. “…Yeah… I know it’s strange.”
“No.” He answers so quickly it surprises you. “I just…” He searches for the right words. “I didn’t think anyone would imagine me that way.”
That lands somewhere deep in your chest. You laugh once, weakly. “…Trust me.”
He looks at you.
“…There are a lot of people imagining you that way.”
He blinks. “…There are?”
You nod, mortified. “…A lot.”
He’s quiet for several seconds. Thinking. Then his gaze returns to you. “…But you chose to read them.”
“…Yeah.”
“…Because you wanted to?”
You nod again.
His voice grows quieter. “…You wanted me.”
Heat floods your face. “…Yes.”
He takes a slow step toward you. “…Like that?”
“…Yes.”
Another step. “…You’ve imagined me touching you.”
“…Choso…”
“…Imagined what I’d say.” He’s close now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him. “…What I’d be like.”
Your breath catches. “…Yes.”
His hand lifts to your face, cupping your jaw with surprising tenderness. “…I’ve wanted you for months.”
His voice is barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think…” He shakes his head once. “I didn’t think you could want me too.” He rests his forehead against yours. “…Tell me this is real.”
You smile nervously despite yourself. “It is.”
“…You want me?”
“I do.”
Only then does he let out the breath he’d been holding. His shoulders finally relax, and for the first time since walking into your apartment, he smiles. It’s small, almost disbelieving.
“…Good.”
He doesn’t move. He just looks at you. Like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he’s afraid that if he blinks, you’ll disappear.
His thumb brushes across your cheek once. “…I really thought I was the only one feeling this.”
You shake your head.
His eyes soften, the last trace of uncertainty fading.
Then he's on you. His mouth crashes into yours—desperate and hungry, with months of restraint exploding in an instant. He walks you backward until your back slams against the wall. His body presses into yours, pinning you there. You can feel how hard he is. He’s thick and straining against his pants, pressing into your hip.
"…Fuck—" The word tears out of him. "…Can't believe—this is—“
He hikes your skirt up, bunching it around your waist. He drops to his knees like he's worshipping at an altar. His hands grip your thighs rough and desperate, and he lifts you, hoisting you up against the wall as your legs drape over his shoulders.
"…Oh god—"
For a second he just stares. Your pussy right in front of his face. Already wet. Already wanting him.
"…Fuck—you're so—" His voice breaks. "…So fucking perfect—"
Then his mouth is on you. No hesitation. No teasing. His tongue flattens against your clit and he groans, deep and guttural and completely wrecked, like he's tasting something he's been dreaming about.
"…Oh my god—" His words are muffled against you. "…Taste so—mmmgood—"
His tongue works you with single-minded devotion. Circling your clit. Flicking. Sucking. He's moaning into your pussy like he can't help it. Like eating you out is the most incredible thing he's ever experienced.
His hips grind forward desperately, seeking friction against nothing. He's so hard it hurts and he doesn't even care. All he cares about is you. Your taste. Your sounds. The way your thighs squeeze against his face.
"…Choso—oh fuck—"
He groans louder at the sound of his name. His fingers dig into your thighs. They’re bruising and possessive. He’s holding you exactly where he wants you. His tongue slides lower, pushing inside you, fucking you with it while his nose grinds against your clit.
"…Yes—yes—fuck—just like that—"
He's whimpering now. Actually whimpering. Lost in it. Drowning in your pussy like it's the only thing that matters. His face presses harder, his tongue working deeper, and the vibration of his desperate moans sends shocks through your entire body.
"…Cho—oh god—I'm—"
He pulls back just enough to gasp, "…Please" His voice is wrecked. He’s begging you. “I need to feel you come on my face—please”
Then his mouth is back on you. Sucking your clit, hard. His tongue flicking feverishly.
"…Fuck—fuck—Choso—"
He groans and it’s desperate and animalistic. His grip on your thighs tightens until you can't move, can't squirm, can't do anything but take it. You're completely at his mercy and he's treating you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
"…Give it to me—" His voice is a command. It’s raw and broken. "Come for me—please—need it—"
"…Oh fuck—oh fuck—Choso—I'm—"
It crashes over you like a wave. Your whole body locks up and then.. you gush. Fluid squirts out of you, soaking his face, his chin, and dripping down his neck and chest. You lose control completely, your hips grinding against his mouth as broken sounds tear from your throat.
He moans, loud and utterly destroyed. But his tongue is still working you, lapping at you, drinking you down like he's been dying of thirst. He doesn't pull away. Doesn't flinch. He takes everything you give him like it's a gift. Like it's a privilege.
He keeps going. Keeps his mouth on you even as you shake, even as you're gasping his name, even as the aftershocks roll through you in waves. He's completely obsessed.
When he finally pulls back, his face is drenched. His shirt is soaked through, clinging to his chest. He's panting, staring up at you with blown pupils and wet lips, looking absolutely ruined.
For a long moment, he doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He just stares at you like he's trying to remember every second of it. His chest heaves. His hands are still buried where they rest on your thighs.
His hand lifts slowly and he traces a line down your inner thigh. Just... touching you. Grounding himself in the reality that you're here. That this happened. That he just made you come so hard you lost control completely. His eyes are glassy. His whole body is trembling.
Then he's lifting you carefully, like you're something precious. Carrying you down the hall with his hands still shaking. He lays you on the bed with surprising gentleness, then strips your skirt and underwear off completely.
His breathing is still ragged. His pupils are blown so wide they swallow almost all of the amber.
"…Everything you read—" His voice cracks slightly. "…It was real. All of it."
Then he's climbing over you. His cock presses against your entrance, it’s and hot and leaking. He's already losing it. Already drunk on you before he's even inside you.
"…Please—I need—“ The pleas tear from his throat
"…Yes—"
He pushes just the tip in at first. But the sound he makes? Shattered and needy and completely overwhelmed.. It goes straight through you.
"…Oh god—"
His whole body is shaking. “…So tight—so—fuck—"
He sinks deeper. Inch by inch. Filling you completely. His forehead drops to yours and he's hissing at the feeling of being wrapped completely in your walls as he finally bottoms out.
"…Yes—" His voice cracks. He can't form coherent thoughts anymore. Then he starts moving. And he loses it completely.
His hips snap forward. It’s hard, and desperate, and frantic. There’s no rhythm. Just an overwhelming, all-consuming need.
"…I love you—fuck—I love you—“ The words spill out involuntarily.
He buries his face in your neck, panting against your skin. You can feel his breath, it’s hot and ragged, and his chest is heaving against yours. His hands grip you tighter, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.
He's completely wrecked by the sensation of being inside you. By the reality that this is actually happening.
His hips stutter. He pulls back just to look at you—really look at you. His eyes are unfocused, but they hold everything he can't say out loud. For a second he just stares at you. His jaw clenched. His hands shake where they grip your sides.
Then he's moving again. Harder. Deeper. Chasing the feeling of you around him.
His hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit and he rubs in desperate circles.
"…Oh—Choso—"
"…Please—" He's whining “—Need to feel you come—"
The pressure builds fast, it’s almost overwhelming. "…Choso—I'm—I'm—"
His fingers work harder. His whole body tenses. "…That's it—please—give it to me.”
It crashes over you again. Every muscle seizes before the release tears through you. "…Oh god—oh god—Choso—"
You clench around him, and it’s tight and rhythmic and perfect. He whimpers, his rhythm breaking completely. “…Fuck—yes—just like that—“
He keeps fucking you through it. Prolonging your pleasure. His fingers still working your clit. Drawing it out until you're falling apart underneath him.
"…Wait—wait—too much—"
The sensitivity is becoming unbearable. You push at his chest and he pulls out immediately. He’s confused and worried, but you're already moving. You climb on top of him and straddle his hips.
"…Oh—oh fuck—" His hands fly to your waist. "…You're—"
He stares up at you like you've given him the world. Like watching you take control of him is the best thing he's ever seen.
You sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch, savoring the stretch and fullness. The way his cock fills you perfectly.
"…Fuck—" His voice breaks. "…You're so—I can't—“
You start moving, slowly rolling your hips. Riding him with a deliberate and torturous slowness.
"…Oh god—" His fingers dig into your hips. "…Please—"
"Slow down, Cho—" Your voice is shaky and breathless.
"…Okay—okay—" He's trying. You can see him trying. His jaw is working. Every muscle is taut with restraint. "…Anything—whatever you want—"
You lean forward and kiss him softly. Your foreheads press together as you ride him. He breathes against you, trying to hold on. Like the intimacy of this and the control you have over him right now is almost too much to bear.
His hands slide up your sides, running up your ribcage and resting just below your breasts. Like he's trying to feel every curve, every dip, every inch of you.
His eyes squeeze shut and his whole body tenses beneath you. Every muscle is locked tight, fighting the urge to take over. Fighting himself.
"…I'm sorry—I'm sorry—" His hips buck up into you hard and involuntary. "…Fuck—I’m sorry—sooo sorry—“
"…Cho—"
Then his control shatters completely and his hands slam your hips down as he drives up into you deeper and deeper with every thrust. Taking over. Taking what he needs.
"…Oh—fuck—yes—"
He does it again and again and again. Slamming you down on his cock while fucking up into you brutally.
"…Ah—ah—Choso—"
His face buries in your neck and his breathing is rough against your skin. He just moves. There’s no words, no sounds except his breath and the wet heat between you.
"…Please—" His voice cracks against your skin. "…I need—"
Your nails dig into his shoulders, scratching down his back. “…Choso—fuck—yes—harder”
He's so close that he can barely breathe. “I’m—gonna—“
It hits you both at once. You scream his name as you clench around him, just as he drives as deep as he can possibly go, and comes hard, filling you up completely. You can feel the warmth of his cum shooting into you. His whole body shaking as he holds you down on him. His fingers bruising your hips.
"…Fuck—yes—oh god—yes—"
His hips rock gently with the last of his release. You collapse into him and his arms lock tightly around you immediately—like he's anchoring himself to you. His breathing is ragged against your hair. He stays inside you and just holds you.
"…That was—" He struggles to catch his breath, a small incredulous laugh leaves him. "…Holy fuck."
"…Yeah."
He kisses your shoulder, then your neck. His breathing gradually steadies. His hands move slowly up and down your back, almost like doing it on instinct. “…Better than any fantasy.”
You smile gently with your eyes closed, trying to bring yourself back to the world. “So much better.”
“…Because it was real.”
You open your eyes and watch him for a moment before brushing your thumb across his cheek. “…You know,” you tease softly, “you said ‘I love you’ a lot.”
He freezes. “…I did?”
“More than once.”
His ears go red and he looks away for a second before meeting your eyes again.
“You really wanted me?” It’s barely a whisper.
You lace your fingers through his. “I did.. and I still do.”
He lets out a slow breath and folds you back against his chest. “…I thought I was imagining it,” he murmurs into your hair. “That I was just seeing what I wanted to see.”
You run your fingers through his hair and feel him melt into your touch. "…You weren't."
He holds you tighter, like he needs something to keep him here. To you. To the idea that you could feel the same way he did.
Outside, the city still hums. But inside, there's just the sound of your breathing slowly mixing with his and the quiet rhythm of two people who finally stopped waiting.
INO ♡ … ME?
Your phone buzzes just as you’re tossing a blanket over the back of the couch.
Takuma: Outside.
You grin.
You: Door’s unlocked! Come in! I’ll be one sec!
Takuma: 👍
You laugh to yourself, ducking into your bedroom to grab the hoodie you’d forgotten.
A second later, the front door opens. “Hey?”
“In here!” you call. “I’ll be right out!”
“Okay!”
Ino kicks off his shoes without thinking and wanders into the living room. It already feels familiar. Your favorite blanket is draped over the couch. Two mugs are sitting on the coffee table from yesterday.
A half-empty bag of chips you both forgot about is still sitting where you left it after movie night. He shakes his head with a smile.
“You seriously never clean…”
Then he notices your laptop. Still open. Still awake.
“…You’ll kill the battery.”
He reaches over to close it. Then stops.
“…Huh?”
His own face is staring back at him. He leans closer.
“…That’s me.”
The title above the photo makes him blink.
Takuma Ino x Reader
“…What?” He frowns.
“Reader?”
He doesn’t really know what that means. Curious now, he looks a little lower. There are tags.
#takuma ino x reader
#ino fluff
#ino smut
His ears immediately go pink.
“…No way.”
His thumb twitches against the trackpad. The page scrolls.
“…Oh.”
Another line.
“…OH.”
His entire face goes scarlet. He jerks his hand away from the laptop like it burned him.
“…I definitely shouldn’t have read that.”
He takes one hurried step backward. Then another. Just as your bedroom door opens. You round the corner. You see Ino. Then the laptop.
Still open. Still displaying his face.
“…Takuma.”
His eyes go wide. “I can explain!”
“…Can you?”
“I wasn’t snooping!” He points frantically at the laptop. “I was trying to close it!”
You don’t answer.
“…Then…” He rubs the back of his neck, looking impossibly guilty. “…I saw my own face.”
Silence.
“I swear I wasn’t trying to read it.”
“…It just…” He gestures helplessly. “…Kept being about me.”
You cover your face with both hands. “Oh my god…”
“I didn’t mean to keep scrolling!”
“You kept scrolling?”
“It was an accident!”
You let out the most defeated sigh of your life. “I can never look at you again.”
“What?”
“I have to move.”
“What?”
“To another country.”
Ino laughs. Then he notices you’re serious.
“…Wait.” His smile fades into confusion. He looks back at the laptop. Then at you. “…Those were…”
A pause.
“…Stories.”
“…Yeah.”
“…About me.”
“…Yeah.” Another pause. “…And…” He points between himself and you. “…You were reading them?”
You slowly nod. “…Yeah.”
He blinks. “…Why?”
You stare at him. “…Takuma.”
“No, I mean…” He’s genuinely puzzled. “…Why me?”
You just stare harder. “…Seriously?”
“…I…” He laughs awkwardly. “…I guess I just…” He rubs the back of his neck again. “…I never thought…” His voice gets quieter. “…You liked me.”
That, more than anything, knocks the embarrassment out of you. You lower your hands. “…You’ve seriously never noticed?”
He stares. “…Noticed what?”
“…Takuma.”
“…What?”
“…I’ve had a crush on you for months.”
His mouth falls open. “…You…” He points at himself. “…Me?”
You nod. “…You.”
He just stands there. Processing. Then, very slowly, an enormous grin spreads across his face. “…No way.” He laughs, a bright, and disbelieving laugh. “…No actual way.”
He looks at the laptop. Then back at you. “…You were reading stories because you wanted…” He points at himself again. “…Me?”
Your face burns. “…Please stop saying it like that.”
“I’ve been an idiot.”
“You really have.”
“Oh my god.” He laughs again, running a hand through his hair. “I thought you were just… nice.”
“You thought I was just nice?”
“You brought me soup when I was sick!”
“I like you!”
“I know that now!”
He looks at you for a long second, still smiling like he can’t believe his luck.
“…Can I ask you something?”
“…What?”
“…Would you rather stop reading about me…” He takes a tentative step closer. “…And actually do what happens in those stories?”
Your heart stops. "…What?"
Ino takes another step closer. "I'm serious." His voice is softer now. "I've been thinking about you for months."
"…You have?"
"Yeah." He laughs, a little breathless. "I just… I didn't think I had a chance."
"Takuma…"
"So I'm asking." He's close enough now that you can see the flush spreading down his neck. "Would you rather keep reading about me…"
His eyes meet yours. "…Or let me show you?"
The air between you feels electric.
"…Show me what?"
His smile turns shy. “Everything you've been reading about."
Your breath catches. "…You don't have to—"
"I want to." He reaches out, fingertips brushing your wrist. "I really, really want to."
The touch sends heat racing up your arm. “…Takuma."
"Tell me yes." His thumb traces a circle against your pulse point. "Please."
You can barely breathe. “…Yes."
The word is barely out before he's kissing you. It's not tentative. It's months of restraint breaking all at once.
His hands cup your face, tilting your head back as he deepens the kiss, and you make a sound against his mouth that makes him groan.
"God," he breathes against your lips. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
"Show me."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and pupils blown wide. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you again, slower this time, savoring it. Then his hands slide down to your waist. "Can I…?"
"Yes."
"I didn't finish asking."
You laugh breathlessly. "I don't care. Yes."
His grin is brilliant. "Okay."
He guides you backward toward the couch, never breaking the kiss, until the backs of your knees hit the cushions and you sit down hard.
Ino follows you down, kneeling between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs. "Is this okay?"
"More than okay."
"Good." His fingers find the hem of your shirt. "Can I take this off?"
"Takuma, you can do whatever you want."
He makes a strangled sound. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm already losing my mind."
You reach down and pull your shirt over your head yourself. His eyes go wide.
"…Oh."
"Your turn."
He doesn't need to be told twice. His shirt hits the floor a second later, and then his hands are back on you, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra.
"You're the prettiest person I've ever seen."
He leans in, pressing kisses along your collarbone. Your fingers thread through his hair. “You're going to kill me."
"Not yet." He grins against your skin. "I haven't even started."
His hands slide around to your back, finding the clasp of your bra. “Can I—?"
“Yes."
His fingers fumble slightly, nervously, before the clasp gives way. The fabric falls away. For a moment, he just stares. “…Fuck." His voice comes out strangled.
"Oh—"
"No, I—" He swallows hard, eyes wide. "You're—" His hands hover, trembling slightly. “Can I touch you?"
"Please."
His hands finally make contact, cupping your breasts, and he gasps.
"Oh my god—you're so soft."
His thumbs brush over your nipples experimentally, and you shiver. He squeezes gently.
"I've wanted to do this for months." He laughs breathlessly. "Every time you wore that blue sweater I tried not to stare."
"Takuma—"
He leans in, pressing a kiss between your breasts. "You have no idea how many times I—"
You pull him up and kiss him hard, cutting him off. When you break away, he blinks. "…Where was I?"
"You were talking too much."
"Right… I definitely was."
His mouth finds your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he takes it into his mouth.
You gasp, arching into him. "Oh—"
He groans around you, and his hand works the other breast, squeezing, thumb brushing over the nipple in time with his tongue. He sucks harder, and your fingers tighten in his hair. He pulls back with a wet sound, immediately moving to the other breast.
"Can't neglect this one."
His tongue flicks over your nipple before he takes it into his mouth, and you feel his other hand slide down to grip your thigh.
"You laughed at one of my jokes three weeks ago—" He switches breasts, licking. "—and I thought about it for two days."
"That's—"
"Pathetic?"
"Sweet."
He grins against your skin, then sucks hard enough to make you moan. His hand slides from your thigh to your ass, squeezing hard.
"Fuck, your body—"
He's alternating between your breasts now, unable to choose, wanting to touch and taste everything at once.
Kissing. Licking. Sucking.
His hands knead your ass while his mouth works your breasts with focus.
"I could do this all day." His teeth graze gently, and you gasp. "Just—fuck—you feel so good in my mouth."
He buries his face between your breasts, kissing there, hands cupping both.
"So warm—"
You grab his face and kiss him again, swallowing whatever he was about to say. He makes a surprised sound, then melts into it, tongue sliding against yours. When you pull back, he's breathing hard.
"You keep interrupting me."
"You keep rambling."
"Mmm.”
He takes one nipple back into his mouth, sucking slowly, thoroughly, and you feel his hand slide back down to grip your ass, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch.
"Want to worship every inch of you."
"Takuma, please—"
"Please what?"
"More."
He pulls back, grinning. "More?"
"Don't tease."
"I'm not teasing." His hands slide down to the waistband of your skirt. "I'm savoring."
"Takuma—"
"But if you want more… I can do that."
You lift your hips, and he slips your skirt up and pulls down your panties. For a second, he just stares. His hands are frozen on your calves.
"…Jesus."
"Oh—"
"No, I—“ He swallows hard. "How are you real?"
"What?"
"You're—" His eyes drag up your body slowly, taking in every inch. "You're perfect."
"Stop—"
"I'm serious." His voice comes out rough. "I've been thinking about this nonstop.” His hands slide up your calves to your knees. "Thinking about you." Higher now, to your thighs. "About touching you." He squeezes gently, and you feel the tremor in his fingers. "About how you'd feel."
"Mhm—"
"And you're—" He shakes his head like he can't believe it. "You're so much better than anything I imagined."
His thumbs stroke the inside of your thighs, and you shiver. His breath catches. He closes his eyes like he's trying to ground himself, then opens them again and they’re dark with want.
His hands slide higher, spreading your thighs wider. "How the hell did I get you interested in me?" His voice comes out rough, almost broken with disbelief.
“Have you seen yourself?" You ask him.
He laughs breathlessly. "Have you seen you?"
His gaze drops between your legs, and he makes a strangled sound. "Fuck."
"Eloquent."
"I'm—" He can't seem to finish the sentence. His hands are shaking now as they grip your thighs. "You wore that skirt last week and I couldn't stop thinking about what was under it." He leans in, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. "And now I get to find out."
His breath is hot against your skin as he kisses higher. His hands slide around to grip your ass, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch.
"Can I?"
"Yes—"
"I need to hear you say it." His eyes meet yours. "Tell me I can taste you."
"Please—"
"Say it."
"Taste me, Takuma."
He groans. "Fuck, I love hearing you say my name." His hands squeeze your ass, kneading the flesh. "You're so soft." Another kiss to your inner thigh. “So perfect." He's so close now you can feel his breath against you. "I can't believe this is real."
"It's real."
"Good." He presses one more kiss to your thigh. "Because I've been dying to do this." Then his mouth is on you, and you cry out.
"Fuck—oh god—"
He hums against you, the vibration making you jerk. His tongue is everywhere—circling, flicking, pressing—and you can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
"Oh god—oh god—"
His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he works you over meticulously.
"Takuma—I—"
He pulls back just enough to speak. "You taste so good." Then he's back, tongue pressing flat against you before circling your clit, and you're gone.
"I'm—I'm gonna—"
"Do it." His voice is muffled against you. "Come for me."
The orgasm hits you, and you cry out his name, fingers tangled in his hair as pleasure crashes through you.
He doesn't stop. He works you through it, tongue gentling but never leaving, until you're gasping and oversensitive and pulling at his shoulders.
"Takuma—too much—"
He pulls back, grinning. His lips are wet. "Too much?"
"I need—"
"What do you need?"
You reach for his belt. “You."
His eyes darken. "Yeah?"
"Please."
He stands, making quick work of his pants, and then he's naked in front of you, and—
"…Oh."
He laughs, a little self-conscious. "Is that a good 'oh'?"
"Very good." You slide off the couch, sinking to your knees in front of him.
His eyes go wide. "Wait—you don't have to—"
"I want to." You reach up, wrapping your hand around him, and he gasps. "Oh—"
"Is this okay?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
You stroke him slowly, watching the way his stomach muscles tense. "You're so hard."
"I—yeah—" His voice is already strained. You lean in, pressing a kiss his tip, and he makes a strangled sound. "Oh my god—" You lick a stripe up the underside, and his hand flies to your hair. "Fuck—"
Then you take him into your mouth. "Oh—" His fingers slide into your hair. "Your mouth—" You take him deeper. "Fuck—"
You hollow your cheeks, and he groans, hips thrusting forward. "Sorry—I—“ You take him deeper in response, and the apology dies in his throat. "God—"
His other hand joins the first, cradling your head. "You look—" His voice breaks. "On your knees like this—"
You pull back slowly, tongue swirling around the tip, and he shudders. “I've thought about this." The words come out rough. "Your mouth on me—but this is—"
You take him deep again, relaxing your throat, your nose almost touching his abs, and he makes a choked sound.
"—so much better—" His fingers tighten in your hair. You bob your head, finding a rhythm, and his breathing becomes uneven. "The way you—the way your lips—" You hum around him, and his knees nearly buckle.
"Oh fuck—"
You can feel him throbbing against your tongue, getting harder. His whole body goes rigid, trembling as he forces his eyes open to watch you. His breathing fractures into something desperate and broken.
His thumb strokes your cheek, gentle even as his hips continue to pump into your mouth. You encourage the movement, hands gripping his thighs, and he gasps.
"You're taking me so—so well—" His voice is getting quieter, more broken. "Every time you—when you do that thingwith your tongue—"
You do it again, and he moans. “—yeah, that—fuck—"
You can feel him losing control, his whole body trembling. "Your eyes—looking up at me like that—" His breathing is harsh now, desperate. "I'm close—I'm—"
You suck harder, and his words fragment completely. “I—can't—too good—you're—"
His cock pulses against your tongue. "Gonna—I'm gonna—"
Suddenly he pulls back, hands gentle but urgent as he guides you off him.
"Wait—wait—"
You look up at him, confused, and he's staring down at you with wild eyes.
"I'll be damned if I come before I even get to fuck you."
His voice is wrecked, shaking. "Need to be inside you—need to feel you—"
He helps you up, hands trembling as they grip your arms.
The moment you're standing, he kisses you hard and demanding, tasting himself on your tongue. When he pulls back, he's breathing hard.
"You're incredible." He cups your face with both hands. "You're—you're everything."
"Mm—"
"I'm serious." He kisses your forehead, your nose, your lips. "Everything."
You reach for him, and he comes willingly, letting you pull him down onto the couch. You push at his shoulders until he's sitting, then swing a leg over his lap. His hands immediately find your hips.
His eyes are locked on yours, wide and dark and full of want. "You bit your lip when you were concentrating on that movie last week and I couldn't focus for the rest of it."
You reach between you, wrapping your hand around him, and he groans. You stroke him slowly, watching his face. He rocks up into your hand with a groan. "You were actually reading those stories about me."
His eyes are half-lidded, watching you stroke him. "And now you're here. Actually touching me." He laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. "I can't—"
You position him at your entrance, and before he can say anything else, you sink down.
The groan that tears from his throat is deep and broken. "Oh—oh fuck—"
You take him slowly, inch by inch, and his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise.
"I've wanted this—" His voice breaks.
Another inch.
"You feel so good—" His head falls back against the couch, throat exposed, and you can see him swallowing hard.
You sink down completely, taking him completely, and he makes a sound like he's been punched.
"Oh my god—" His hands grip your hips. One hand slides up to cup your breast, squeezing.
"You laughed at my joke three weeks ago," he breathes, staring at your chest like he's never seen anything more beautiful. "And I couldn't stop thinking about it."
He leans forward, taking your nipple into his mouth, and groans around it. The vibration makes you clench around him, and he pulls back with a gasp.
"Fuck—when you do that—" His other hand slides around to grip your ass.
"I've stared at your ass so many times—tried to be respectful—" He laughs, a little hysterical. “But I couldn't help it—"
You lean down and kiss him hard, cutting him off. He makes a surprised sound, melting into it. When you pull back, he's breathing harder.
Both hands are on your ass now, gripping tight, pulling you down harder onto him. You both moan.
His voice breaks. “God you’re so—wet—fuck"
He's staring at where you're joined now, watching himself disappear inside you.
"Look at you taking me—" One hand slides from your ass to your hip, thumb stroking your skin.
"You were actually reading those stories about me—" His voice cracks with disbelief. “And now you're here—"
Both hands are on your breasts now, squeezing and kneading. He leans forward, kissing between them, his lips warm against your skin. His hips buck up, and you gasp at the angle. His thumb finds your clit, and he groans.
"Fuck—right there—"
He circles slowly, watching your face as you react to his touch. “Right—here?”
He circles slowly, and you clench around him. "Fuck—when you squeeze me like that—" His head falls back again. "I can't think—"
You start rolling your hips, just slightly, and his words fragment.
"Oh—oh god—" His hands fly to your hips, gripping. "You're—the way you move—" His hips are moving now, small thrusts upwards. His hands grip tighter, his thumb presses harder against your clit, and he's losing it.
You lift up and sink back down, harder this time, and he gasps. "Oh fuck—"
His breath catches, stuttering out in broken gasps. His eyes go glassy, unfocused, like his mind is breaking under the sensation of you.
"This is—fuck, is perfect—"
"Right there—"
"You're so—"
You grab his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. "’KUMA" Your voice is stern.
He blinks, eyes focusing on yours, looking almost confused. "I—what—"
You hold his gaze. "Shut up and fuck me."
His eyes go even darker. "Yes, ma'am." He swallows hard. "Fuck, you're so hot."
You kiss him hard, swallowing whatever else he was about to say. He groans into your mouth, hands tightening on your hips.
Then you start moving. Slowly at first, rolling your hips, finding the angle that makes you both gasp.
He breaks the kiss with a moan. "Oh—oh fuck—" You lift up and sink back down, taking him deep.
"Yes—" His hands guide you, helping you move. "Just like that—" You move faster, riding him properly now.
"God—you feel so good—" His thumb finds your clit again, circling. "So fucking good—"
You're already so close. But you want to feel every second of this.
"Takuma—"
"Yeah?" His voice is strained, breathless.
"Touch me."
"I am touching you—"
"More."
His free hand slides up your side, over your ribs, cupping your breast. "Like this?"
"Yes—"
He squeezes, thumb brushing over your nipple, and you gasp.
You roll your hips again and he groans.
“Fuck—"
"Keep talking."
"What?"
"I like hearing you."
His eyes go even darker. "You remember when you fell asleep on my shoulder? Your head was right here—" His hand slides up to your neck, thumb stroking your jaw. "And I just... sat there. Didn't move for two hours."
"Mmm—"
"Thought about this." His hips thrust up to meet yours. "About having you like this—" The angle shifts slightly, and suddenly he's hitting that perfect spot inside you.
"Oh—!”
"There?"
"Yes—right there—!”
You move faster, chasing the pleasure building in your core. His hand on your breast squeezes gently, possessive. "Never thought I'd actually get to feel this—"
"'Kuma—"
“I love watching you." His thumb presses harder on your clit. "Love feeling you—"
"I'm getting close—"
"Good." His voice drops lower. "Want to feel you come on my cock."
"Fuck—"
"Want to feel you squeeze me—"
You're right on the edge. “Mmm—“
"You're so beautiful like this." His hand slides from your breast down to your hip, hard.
"Taking what you want—"
"Yes—!”
"Using me—"
"Oh god—!”
"I'm yours." His eyes lock on yours. "Completely yours."
The building orgasm is almost unbearable.
"Taku—I can't—"
"Yes you can." His thumb circles faster. "Let go." He thrusts up harder. “I can feel you—so close to coming for me baby girl.”
"Mhm—it’s right—there—“
"Do it." His voice is commanding now, desperate. "Come for me."
"Ah—ah—taku—“
"Please—" His other hand slides up to cup your face. “I need you to fall apart."
"I'm—"
"Come—God baby—pleeasee.” he wines. His thumb presses hard on your clit.
That does it. The orgasm crashes over you like a bomb, sudden and overwhelming. Your whole body goes taut, every muscle tensing.
"Yes—Oh god—" You can feel yourself clenching around him, pulsing.
"Fuck—" He groans beneath you, feeling every contraction. "That's it—" The sensation is almost too much, bordering on pain.
His thumb keeps circling, drawing it out. Wave after wave crashes through you. "’Kuma—" Your thighs are shaking, your whole body twitching.
"I've got you." His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as you ride it out. "So pretty—"
You can't form words anymore, just broken sounds.
"That's it—"
You finally collapse forward onto his chest, completely spent.
"I know—baby—“ His arms come around you immediately, holding you close. "I've got you—"
You lift your head just enough to capture his mouth with yours. The kiss is deep and messy, tongues sliding together. He groans into your mouth, hands sliding up your back. You kiss him harder, tasting the salt of sweat on his lips. His tongue tangles with yours, and you can feel him still hard inside you. When you finally break away, you're both breathing hard. You press kisses along his jaw, down to his neck.
"Fuck—"
You work your way up, kissing and licking until you reach his ear.
"'Kuma—" Your voice comes out breathless, shaky. "I can't—my legs are—useless—" You kiss just below his ear, feeling him shiver. "I need you to bend me over and fuck me."
He goes completely still beneath you. "What?"
You bite his earlobe gently, tugging. "Please."
"Oh my god—" His hands grip your hips hard. "Yes—fuck yes—" You can hear the excitement in his voice, feel the way his cock twitches inside you.
"Holy shit." He's already moving, helping you lift off him. "Yes—absolutely—fuck—"
You turn around on shaky legs, bracing yourself against the arm of the couch. Face down, ass up.
Behind you, Ino makes a strangled sound. "Oh my god."
You look back over your shoulder at him. He's standing now, staring at you like he's seeing heaven.
"You're—" His hands come to your hips, then slide down to grip your ass. He squeezes hard, kneading, and you gasp.
"Fuck—I love your ass." One hand slides between your legs, fingers brushing through the wetness there.
He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, like he’s taking a mental picture of this moment. He pushes in slowly, and you both groan. "Oh—"
From this angle, he feels even bigger, stretching you. He grips your ass with both hands, pulling you back onto him. He starts moving, slow at first, watching.
"I can see—" His voice breaks. "Can see myself—filling you—“
“Faster—"
He picks up the pace, hips snapping forward. The sound of skin on skin fills the room. One hand comes down on your ass with a sharp smack.
"Oh—ah!”
"Fuck—" He does it again, watching the way you jolt forward.
"You're taking me so deep like this—" His hands grip your hips, pulling you back to meet his thrusts.
"Mmmmfuuuck” You moan against the couch cushion.
"The way you—when I—" His words are fragmenting, overwhelmed. Another smack, and you moan. "Yes—like that—"
He's fucking you harder now, the angle letting him go deeper. "Every time I—you get tighter—" One hand slides around to find your clit. "Want to feel you come again—"
His fingers circle, and you gasp. "Oh GOD—“
"You're shaking—"
"Fuck—please!”
"I'm close too—fuck—so close—" His hips are moving frantically now. “You're going to—I'm going to—"
His fingers press hard on your clit. The orgasm hits you like lightning. You clench around him, and he groans. "Oh fuck—"
You're pulsing and squeezing him in waves. "Yes—yes—!”
He slams into you one more time, burying himself deep. "I'm—" You feel him pulse inside you filling you with thick hot ropes of cum. “Fuuuuckkk—" His whole body shudders, hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks.
He's groaning, broken sounds falling from his lips as he empties himself inside you.
You're both trembling, pleasure washing through you in waves. He collapses forward slightly, pressing kisses to your back breathing into you. Then he carefully pulls out, and you both wince.
"Come here." He helps you turn around, pulling you against his chest. "You okay?"
"I—yeah—that was—“
You're both sweaty, exhausted, completely satisfied. He kisses the top of your head. His arms come around you, holding you close.
“Better than those stories?” He murmurs.
You laugh breathlessly against his neck, then pull back to look at him. He's grinning, sweaty and flushed and absolutely beautiful.
"So much better."
"Good." He kisses you again. “Because I plan on doing that again."
"Again?"
"Many, many times."
You laugh. “Ambitious."
"I'm serious." His hands slide up your back. “I've been waiting months for this…. So we have a lot of time to make up for."
"Is that so?"
"Definitely." He shifts, and you wince. "Sorry”
"It's okay."
"Come here." He pulls you closer, tucked against him completely. "Better?"
"Yes.” You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
He's quiet for a moment. Then, “Can I admit something?"
"Depends."
"I think I talked too much."
You look at him. "…You think?"
He groans into the pillow. "I got nervous."
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I know."
"It was bad, wasn't it?"
"No." You shift to look at him properly. "Don't stop."
He blinks at you. “…Really?"
"Really."
His expression softens, something vulnerable crossing his face. "You mean it?"
"I love it." You reach up and cup his face. "It's you. All of you. The rambling, the overthinking, the way you can't keep your thoughts in your head—I love that about you."
He leans into your touch. "Even when I'm being ridiculous?"
"Especially then." You kiss him gently. “Don't change. Not for me. Not for anyone."
He smiles against your lips. "Okay." He pulls you closer. "I can do that."
The moment settles into comfortable silence.
Then, "…Takuma?"
"Yeah?"
"I can't believe you read my laptop."
He laughs. "I can't believe you were reading smut about me."
"It wasn't just smut."
"Oh?"
"Some of it was fluff."
"Fluff?"
"You know. Cute stuff."
He grins. "Like what?"
"Like… you bringing me coffee. Or holding my hand. Or—"
"Or this?" He presses a kiss to your forehead.
"…Yeah. Like this."
"Good." His arms tighten around you. "Because I plan on doing all of that too."
"The fluff and the smut?"
"Especially the smut."
You laugh, swatting his chest. "You're ridiculous."
"You like it."
"I do." You tilt your head up to look at him. "I really do."
His expression softens. "I like you too."
"Just like?"
"Okay, fine." He cups your face. "I'm crazy about you."
"Better."
"And now that I know you feel the same way…" He grins. "I'm never letting you go."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He kisses you again, slow and sweet. When he pulls back, his eyes are warm. "So… can I ask you something?"
"What?"
"Are you going to keep reading those stories?"
You feel your face heat. "…Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"I mean… they're well-written."
He laughs. "Well-written."
"They are!"
"I'm sure."
He's grinning now. "But you know what?"
"What?"
"I think we can do better." He pulls you closer. "We've got the real thing now."
You smile against his chest. "Yeah. We do."
Outside, the city hums. Your laptop sits forgotten on the coffee table, screen finally dark. And for the first time in months, you don't need the stories. You have something better. You have him.
♡ summary: Yuta comes home after another brutal mission planning to pretend he’s fine. You let him fall apart instead.
♡ pairing: Yuta Okkotsu × fem!reader
♡ content warnings: MDNI. established relationship, explicit sexual content, emotional reunion, post-mission comfort, oral (f receiving), fingering, vaginal sex (p in v), multiple orgasms, praise, dirty talk, body worship, desperate!Yuta, lovesick!Yuta, possessive affection, gentle dominance, hair pulling, aftercare, cuddling, domestic intimacy, creampie, emotional sex, mission aftermath, comfort, fluff with smut, all characters are 18+, aged up yuta, college au.
♡ author’s note: I just wanted Yuta to come home to someone who loved him.
The apartment is quiet when you hear the lock turn. Past midnight. You'd stopped checking your phone an hour ago.
The door opens slowly. Yuta stands in the doorway, and he looks wrecked. Uniform torn. Dark stains you don't want to identify. Cut above his eyebrow already healing, bruises blooming along his jaw.
But it's his eyes that make your chest tighten. Dark. Haunted. Exhausted in a way that goes soul deep.
You're curled on the couch in his oversized t-shirt, and when his gaze lands on you, something shifts. The exhaustion is still there, but underneath it is something desperate.
He doesn't move. Just stands there, one hand on the doorframe like he needs it to stay upright.
His chest rises and falls. His jaw clenches. His knuckles go white.
"Yuta," you say softly, starting to stand.
"Don't." His voice comes out rough. "Just—stay there."
You settle back. He looks. Really looks.
Your bare legs tucked beneath you. His shirt pooling around your thighs. The collar slipping off one shoulder. His throat works as he swallows.
After what feels like forever, he moves. Drops his jacket somewhere behind him. Crosses the room slowly, like one wrong step would shatter whatever this is.
When he reaches the couch, he stops. His hands hover near your face. Then settle against your cheeks. He lets out a shaky breath.
"…I missed you."
"I missed you too," you say, covering his hands with yours.
His forehead drops to yours. Eyes closed. Breathing you in. You can feel the tremor running through him. When he opens his eyes again, they're darker.
His fingers hook under the collar of the shirt, pulling it lower on your shoulder.
"Is this my shirt?"
You nod. Something in his expression cracks.
"Have you been waiting up?"
"Yeah."
"In my shirt?”
"Yeah."
His jaw clenches again.
He traces the line of your throat with his thumbs, feeling your pulse. Then lower, mapping your collarbones with deliberate touches. He stops at the neckline. Just looks.
"Nothing underneath?"
"Nothing."
He stares at you.
"I need—" He stops. "Can I—"
You lean up and kiss him. His mouth crashes against yours. The kiss is demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips. He tastes like mint and copper and something darker. Your fingers tangle in his hair and he groans.
He grips your hips, bunching the shirt higher. When his palms hit bare skin, he shudders. For a moment, he just touches you there—mapping your waist, your ribs.
The kiss gets deeper. You gasp, and he swallows the sound. One hand cradles the back of your head. The other grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
He's kissing you like he's drowning. When he pulls back, you're both panting. His forehead rests against yours. Eyes wild.
"I can't—" His voice breaks. "I can't be gentle right now."
"Then don't be.”
You pull him back down. This time there's no hesitation.
He tugs the shirt up over your ribs, palms hot against your skin. When his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts, you both groan.
He pulls the shirt over your head in one motion. You're bare before him. He just looks. The raw hunger in his gaze makes you clench.
"God," he breathes.
Then his mouth is on you.
He kisses down your throat, your collarbones, the space between your breasts. His mouth closes around your nipple, tongue swirling, teeth grazing. Pleasure shoots straight through you.
You arch into him. Fingers threading through his hair. He moves to the other breast, sucking and licking until you're squirming, thighs pressing together.
He grips your thigh, pushing your legs apart with his knee. His fingers trail up your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin. You're trembling before he even touches you. When his fingertips finally brush against you, you both groan.
"Fuck… you’re already so wet,” he breathes, circling your clit slowly.
His jaw clenches. Eyes fixed on your face.
"I missed this."
“Missed you" you gasp, hips bucking. "Yuuu— please—"
He presses harder, rubbing tight circles. His other hand palms your breast, pinching your nipple just hard enough to make you cry out.
When he slides two fingers inside you, the stretch makes you arch off the couch. He pumps them slowly at first, curling them just right. Your vision starts blurring.
"More," you gasp, clutching his shoulders. "Need you, Yuuuu—“
He withdraws his fingers. Before you can whimper, he's sliding down your body, settling between your thighs. His hands grip your hips. Then his mouth is on you.
The first swipe of his tongue makes you cry out. He groans against you, the vibration sending pleasure racing up your spine. His mouth is desperate. He seals his lips around your clit and sucks.
You nearly come apart. Your fingers tangle in his hair, hips grinding against his face. He grips your thighs harder, spreading you wider.
The sounds he's making—low groans, desperate whimpers—vibrate against you and drive you higher.
When he slides his fingers back inside, curling them while his mouth works your clit, it's overwhelming. The orgasm builds, coiling tight. He doubles his efforts.
"Yuta," you gasp. "I'm—I'm gonna—"
You shatter. Pleasure whites out your vision. You scream his name, thighs clamping around his head.
He works you through it, relentless. When you finally come down, gasping and shaking, he's watching you.
He presses kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones. His chin is soaked. The sight makes heat flare in your belly again.
He stands.
You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he strips off his shirt and your gaze falls on his lean muscle and the scars mapping his skin. Then his pants, his boxers.
His cock springs free. Hard and flushed and already leaking. He catches your hand and brings it to wrap your fingers around him.
You both groan. He's hot and hard in your palm. When you stroke him, his hips buck.
"That's—" he barely manages.
His hand covers yours, guiding you to stroke harder, faster. Pre-cum leaks from the tip. You use your thumb to spread it. His head falls back.
After a moment, he pulls your hand away.
"Please," he says roughly.
That single word carries everything. He guides you up, turning you around so you're bent over the arm of the couch.
His hands smooth over your back, your hips, the curve of your ass. Then he's spreading you open. The head of his cock nudges your entrance.
He pushes in slowly. Even soaking wet, the stretch is intense. He's thick, filling you inch by inch. When his hips are finally flush against your ass you're both groaning. He pauses.
His forehead rests between your shoulder blades. He just breathes.
"God, you feel—"
He can't finish. He pulls almost all the way out. You whimper. Then he slams back in. The force makes you cry out.
He sets a brutal pace, his hips snapping against your ass. Skin against skin. Your moans and his grunts filling the room.
One hand grips your hip, fingers digging in. The other finds your hair, pulling gently as he drives deeper with every thrust.
"Yes," you sob, pushing back to meet him. "Oh God, Yuuu—"
The angle has him hitting deep, dragging against that spot inside you, that drives you crazy. He's not holding back. His breathing is ragged, punctuated by low groans.
"So good," he pants. "You're so—"
Another orgasm builds fast. Your arms shake. Yuta notices. His hand slides from your hair to wrap around your waist to hold you up. The shift in angle makes him hit even deeper.
"Fuck—" you gasp. "Yuuu, I’m gonna—“
One hand slides around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles.
”Come, baby.. let me feel it.”
His voice cracks. The added stimulation sends you over. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first. You scream his name, body convulsing.
Your inner walls clamp down around him. He groans, fucking you through it, prolonging the pleasure until you're sobbing.
He pulls out suddenly. You whimper at the loss. Then he's turning you around, hands gripping your waist. He lifts you into his lap.
You sink down onto him slowly, both of you groaning as he fills you again.
Your faces are inches apart now. His hands settle on your hips, holding you still for a moment.
You're both breathing hard, flushed, skin slick with sweat. His eyes are dark and wild.
You reach up and cup his face. Run your thumb along his cheekbone.
"Hi," you whisper.
It comes out soft. Almost shy. For a second, he just stares at you. Then something in his expression cracks completely. He laughs.
A real, genuine laugh that comes from somewhere deep in his chest, the kind you haven't heard in weeks. The sound makes your heart clench.
"Hi baby," he says softly.
He's smiling at you like you're the most incredible thing he's ever seen. You feel your own smile spreading, helpless against it.
"I missed you," you say quietly.
One hand slides up your spine. The other presses against the small of your back, holding you impossibly close.
"I missed you so much." His forehead drops to yours. "Every day. Every fucking day."
"Me too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You thread your fingers through his hair, and he leans into the touch like he's starving for it. "Counted them."
"How many?"
"Too many." Your voice cracks. "Don't leave for that long again."
He huffs a quiet laugh, and you feel it everywhere— in your chest, where you're pressed together, where he's still buried inside you.
"I love you," he says suddenly. Urgently. "God, I love you so much."
"I love you too." You kiss him softly. “So much it's stupid."
"How much?"
His eyes are lighter now. It makes your chest ache—how much you've missed these moments with him.
"This much." You spread your arms wide.
He catches your wrists, pulling them back around his neck.
"That's a lot."
"It's not enough," you say. "There's not a measurement big enough."
"Mmmm," he murmurs, but his voice is thick.
You brace your hands on his shoulders as he pulls you closer—one hand curling around your neck, the other splayed between your shoulder blades.
You shift slightly in his lap, and you both gasp. He's still hard inside you. Still filling you. He grips your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there.
He lifts you slowly—just an inch—then guides you back down. The drag of him inside you makes you moan into his mouth.
"Again," he breathes.
You roll your hips, and his eyes flutter closed. His fingers dig into your skin as he lifts you again. Slower this time. Letting you feel every inch of him as you sink back down.
"Fuck," you whisper.
He does it again. And again. Setting a rhythm that's unhurried but deliberate. Each time he lifts you, you can feel the muscles in his arms flexing. Each time you sink down, he fills you completely.
You brace your hands on his shoulders, meeting his movements. His eyes open, locking onto yours. Dark and intense.
"You feel so good," he murmurs. "So fucking good."
His pace starts to quicken. Just slightly. Lifting you faster, pulling you down harder. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room. Your breathing gets heavier.
His grip on your hips tightens, you know there'll be bruises tomorrow, and the thought makes you clench around him. He groans.
"Do that again."
You do, squeezing him deliberately as he thrusts up into you.
"Fuck—"
His jaw clenches. His eyes go wild.
He's fucking you harder now. Lifting you up and slamming you back down onto his cock with increasing urgency. Focused. Deliberate. Like he knows exactly what he needs.
One hand slides up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. The other stays on your hip, guiding your movements.
"Yuuuu—" Your voice breaks on his name.
"I know." His voice is rough. "I can feel you getting close."
He's right. The tension is building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every thrust.
He shifts the angle slightly, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
"Oh god—"
"There?" he asks, doing it again.
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
He keeps that angle, pounding into you relentlessly now. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit. Rubbing tight, deliberate circles. You're so close you can barely breathe.
"Come for me," he says, and there's an edge of desperation in his voice. "Please, baby..”
His fingers press harder against your clit. His hips snap up to meet yours with bruising force. You can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel how close he is too.
"Yuta—I'm—"
"I know. I've got you."
The tension snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, and you cry out—his name, incoherent pleas, you're not even sure.
Your body clenches around him rhythmically, and you feel him everywhere. He doesn't stop moving. Keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking.
"Fuck—" His rhythm falters. "I'm gonna—"
He pulls you down hard one last time, burying himself as deep as possible. His cock pulses inside you as he comes with a broken groan.
You feel the hot rush of him filling you, feel the way he twitches with each wave. It triggers another smaller orgasm, and you clench around him again. He moans, hips jerking involuntarily.
His arms wrap around you, crushing you against his chest as the aftershocks roll through both of you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just breathing hard. Hearts racing in sync. You can feel him trembling, still buried deep inside you. One hand cradles the back of your head. The other splays across your lower back. He makes no move to pull out.
"… Don’t want to move," he murmurs against your neck.
"Then don't."
You stay like that for a while. His face buried in the crook of your shoulder. Your fingers tracing idle patterns on his back.
His breathing gradually slows, evens out. You feel the tension bleeding out of his muscles.
Eventually he shifts, carefully standing with you still wrapped around him. Still connected. You gasp at the movement—the way it makes him press deeper. He groans softly.
His hands cup your ass, supporting your weight as he carries you to the bedroom. Every step makes you clench around him.
You can feel the mess between your legs, the slickness of his release and yours. He doesn't seem to care.
By the time he lowers you both onto the bed, you're both breathing harder again.
He rolls onto his side, pulling you with him so you're facing each other. One of your legs hooked over his hip to keep him inside you.
His fingers find the curve of your jaw, tilting your face toward his.
"Tell me about your day."
You laugh softly. "Really? Right now?"
"Yeah." He shifts slightly. Fingers threading gently through your hair. "Everything's too loud in my head. I need—"
He stops, collects himself.
"I need you to talk. About anything. Something normal."
So you tell him. About how Nobara dragged you shopping and spent two hours trying on sunglasses, insisting each pair gave her a "different energy."
"She tried on literally every pair in the store. The employee looked like he wanted to die."
Yuta's lips quirk. "Which ones did she get?"
"The first pair she tried on."
He huffs a quiet laugh against your hair. You feel his cock twitch inside you at the movement. His thumb traces lazy circles on your hip where his hand settles.
You tell him about Yuji challenging Megumi to see who could eat more convenience store onigiri.
"Yuji made it to twelve before he gave up. Just collapsed on our floor like a starfish, groaning about how he was going to die."
"Idiot," Yuta murmurs, but there's fondness in his voice. He strokes your hip slowly, mapping the bone there as he thickens inside you again, filling you more gradually.
"Megumi only ate three, but he looked so smug about it. Just sat there sipping tea while Yuji suffered."
Yuta's breathing has changed slightly. Gotten deeper. You shift your hips experimentally. He makes a low sound in his throat. He's definitely getting harder.
“Megumi had Divine Dog out during training today,” you murmur. “The black one fell asleep on your hoodie.”
“Traitor,” Yuta says, smiling against your skin.
He cups your breast, thumb brushing your nipple in slow, lazy strokes.
"He looked so comfortable I didn't have the heart to move him. I took a picture. It's very cute."
"Show me later."
His voice has gone lower, rougher. He's fully hard again now, thick and hot inside you. When his hips roll forward in a slow, deliberate thrust, you both gasp.
"Nobara also tried to convince me to get a tattoo with her," you say.
Your voice comes out breathier than you intended. He feels your heartbeat racing under his palm as his hips roll forward again, deeper this time.
"What design?"
He's moving now, slow thrusts that make you feel every inch of him. He anchors you with a hand on the small of your back, rocking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts.
“She said we’d ‘know when we saw it.’”
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
But he's smiling.
He rocks into you again, more deliberately this time. You can feel him dragging against your inner walls with every slow thrust.
"Yuuu—"
"Keep talking," he murmurs against your skin. "I'm listening."
You try to remember what else happened, but it's hard to think when he's moving inside you like this. Deep and unhurried.
His mouth finds your neck, kissing, sucking gently. His other hand traces a path down your stomach—feather-light—before settling on your hip.
"Yuji... he asked if you were coming to movie night next week..."
"Mm."
His rhythm stays slow, rolling his hips in deep strokes that make you feel every inch of him. Each thrust is deliberate, measured.
"What'd you tell him?"
"Said I'd—ah—I'd ask you."
"Mmm, we’ll be there."
Between your bodies, his fingers find your clit. Slow circles, making you moan. He groans in response, his cock twitching inside you.
"Anything else happen?"
You can barely think. His fingers on your clit. His cock moving inside you. The heat of his body pressed against yours. It's overwhelming in a completely different way than before. Intimate.
"Gojo... stopped by. Ate all our snacks."
Yuta huffs a laugh. The vibration travels through you.
"Of course he did."
His fingers keep working your clit. His thrusts get slightly deeper, though still maintaining that slow, deliberate pace.
"What else?"
"He—"
You gasp as Yuta's fingers press harder against your clit.
"He tried to teach Yuji some new technique. Broke our coffee table."
"I'll fix it."
His mouth moves to your jaw, pressing kisses there. His hips roll forward in a particularly deep thrust that makes you both moan.
"Keep going."
"That's—that's all I remember," you admit.
Thinking is becoming impossible. The pleasure is building again—different this time… warmer, slower, spreading through your whole body.
"That's okay."
He kisses you then, slow and deep. His tongue sliding against yours in the same rhythm as his hips.
His hand never stops moving on your clit. Those slow circles driving you steadily higher. You can feel yourself getting close.
Your inner walls starting to flutter around him. He groans into your mouth. His rhythm falters slightly. He can feel it too.
"Yuta," you breathe against his lips. "I'm—"
"I know, baby.”
He increases the pressure on your clit as his next thrust goes deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.
When you come, it's a slow build that crests gently. Rolling through you in waves. You bury your face in his neck, breathing his name.
He holds you through it, still moving, still filling you. His thrusts get slightly faster, more erratic. Then he's groaning low against your hair, his hips stuttering as he comes again.
You feel the warmth of him spilling inside you again. The way his cock pulses. The way his arms tighten around you.
He still doesn't pull out. Just holds you closer. One hand stays tangled in your hair. The other traces slow patterns down your spine.
You can feel his release leaking out around where you're joined, mixing with the mess from before. Neither of you moves.
"You're—" he starts, then stops. Breathes. Then tries again.
"You're the only thing that makes sense after those missions."
You press a kiss to his jaw.
"I'll always be here, waiting for you."
His arms tighten even more around you. Within minutes, his breathing evens out. You follow him into sleep soon after. Still connected. Still tangled together.
[reblog if yuta okkotsu can ruin your life] [comments and tags appreciated!]
18+ slight angst. meet footballer!gojo & his cheerleader fwb !
1. CHEERLEADERS ARE FOR CHEERING—NOT FONDLING!
“girl… isn’t that your man?”
your first mistake is letting your eyes follow shoko’s gaze to the bleachers. your second mistake is making eye contact with golden boy gojo satoru, still in his jersey & ‘hiding’ behind a skinny pole with a very annoyed geto suguru by his side.
you don’t bother correcting shoko. instead you ignore the grin satoru flashes you, taking out the water bottle between your lips with a pop! “is he supposed to be hiding?”
shoko shrugs, turns on her heel. “dunno, ask him. he’s clearly waiting.”
you roll your eyes with a sigh, but you’re already moving.
shoes clicking against the wood gym floor, skirt swishing between your thighs. gojo satoru has long come out of his hiding spot. he’s slumped against the pole now; hands in his pockets, grin lazy, blue eyes glimmering in the orange sun. beside him geto suguru is there, jaw tight in an expression that says he’d rather be anywhere but here.
you still have your bottle in hand when gojo reaches for your hips. “hi, baby…”
you barely murmur back a hi before he’s tugging you in by your skirt. his head dips to kiss your neck, then your cheek, then somewhere else your brain doesn’t register because his hands glide up to squeeze your ass cheeks underneath your skirt. a soft noise slips past your lips as he sucks on your neck.
“mm,” he murmurs, “missed you.”
geto clears his throat.
you let satoru do as he pleases, threading your hands through his hair as his hand dips between your inner thighs. he hums into your neck when you scratch his scalp. “suguru,” you breathe, “how’d you two even get here? coach toji’s gonna kill you guys.”
“kiss,” satoru interrupts. you tilt your head towards him, eyes still on suguru as gojo presses his lips to yours.
suguru’s face twists in disgust, but he doesn’t comment. “satoru bribed him. paid him a couple hundreds to see you for five minutes.”
“right—” your voice strains when gojo gropes your ass once again. “and you followed him because?”
geto is already looking away. “he bribed me too.”
you snort, but it turns into a shiver as satoru sucks on your earlobe. he hums, pleased, when your fingers tighten in his hair.
“mmh… got an away match,” he kisses your jaw. “wanted to see my girl first.”
you’re not his girl, you know you’ll never be, but you still laugh when he squeezes your waist & presses hurried kisses to your cheek. you shove him away & his grin is cocky.
“gonna score for you,” he tugs you back, dipping his head to your ear. “and then you’ll treat me, yeah?”
you hum when his arms snake around your hips once again.
“only if you score the winning goal.”
2. POST MATCH SEXCAPADES !
satoru comes back too late.
you’re not sure exactly why—maybe overtime, maybe the team stopped somewhere to celebrate their win—but you don’t let the thought plague you. you’re more concerned about the fact that it’s nearly evening & you can hear a ball kicking against the gym walls. you’re still in your cheer uniform, tiny skirt & sheer top, standing at the metal doors as you watch gojo dribble on his own.
he stops dribbling to catch his breath, wiping sweat off his chin. and then he’s off to sit at the bleachers, letting water slide down his neck as he chugs from a bottle.
you take it as your cue.
you have your hands behind your back, padding all slow, steps soft as you make your way to him. gojo keeps his bottle pressed to his lips but he sees it. how your skirt clings to your thighs. how your breasts ripple under the thin material. he lets out a low hum as you sit yourself on his lap.
you loop your hands around his neck. “hi.”
his lip tugs. “hi,”
he squeezes your waist as you press yourself into him. your tits smush against his chest, nipples hardening, and his fingers are already tracing the hem of your skirt & gliding up your thigh.
“how was the match?” you mumble.
“was good,” he mutters, but his thumb has already found your panties underneath your skirt. he rubs a slow circle over the bud. “you miss me?”
“no,” you sass, but he presses his thumb into your clit & your hips stutter. satoru laughs.
“i know what you like now,” he hums, left hand gliding up your side as the other rubs slow circles over your panties. “know it only takes a little.”
his thumb finds your nipple through your thin shirt. he rubs a circle over the pebbled peak, slow, but then he raises a brow. “no bra?”
you can’t respond. your breath hitches as your head falls into his shoulder.
“so cute,” he murmurs softly. he lets you press against him, leaving your panties to grope your heavy tits in his palm. he squeezes and fondles, pressing light kisses to your cheek as you make pretty noises in his ear. your hips buck into him.
“needy,” he scoffs, but his hands come up to guide your hips as you rut against him. he’s already hard and your panties are soaked thin and you let the material cling between your folds as your clit rubs against him. he flips up your skirt to find you drenched & slobbering. he bites his cheek.
“fuck, baby,” he rasps, sliding your panties over your aching cunt. you’re still humping him. “why’s your pussy so fucking wet?”
you only whimper as he presses his thumb to your sticky clit, rubbing hard circles over the bud. his other hand gropes your hip, guiding you faster over him. your breathing shudders as his thumb circles your clit faster and harder, until your hips are stuttering & he’s cupping your pussy so you cum in his palm.
you whimper, tears pricking at your lashes as you come down from your high. satoru kisses your cheek slow. “mmh, good job, baby.”
he’s still rubbing his palm over your pussy, massaging your warmth all slow & lazy. your eyes drop to his bulge, his cock practically twitching in his shorts. you reach a hand to glide over it, palming him so his hips twitch. he inhales sharply, “fuck—”
“not in my uniform,” he steals your hand, kissing your jaw. “gonna be a nightmare to clean.”
you glare at him through your lashes. “it’s already dirty, idiot.”
he laughs at your pretty face glaring up at him. your cheeks are still flushed, lashes wet, and your lips are in a frown but satoru swears you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. he folds his hand over yours and dips his head to kiss you warm & slow. you gasp as his tongue pushes in, a soft moan leaving your lips as his tongue grazes yours.
“another time,” he murmurs against your lips. “no pouting, yeah?”
you pout anyways, and satoru kisses it off.
3. NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND !
satoru is driving too fast.
his jaw is tight, knuckles white against the steering as you clutch your seatbelt beside him. your heart hammers against your ribs but the engine soon slows, his foot easing down on the breaks as the car comes to a stop at a traffic light.
today’s match went bad, really bad, so bad to the point that afterwards you’d tried to console him and he’d simply walked past. you try not to let it get to you. you know how men are when it comes to losing in sports.
but satoru’s breathing settles beside you, so you try once more.
“you played good today.”
silence.
"i know you're upset," you continue, voice soft. "but it's just one game, and you'll get them next time.”
silence again. his jaw only ticks, face illuminated by the traffic light’s red glow. the seconds seem to stretch into minutes, and you fumble with your skirt.
“you did your best,” you turn to him. “that’s all that matters—“
“can you stop?”
you freeze.
satoru doesn’t look at you. his fingers tap against the steering as he lowers his foot to the gas pedal. he’s not speeding anymore, but the silence stretches & you can feel a lump clawing at your throat.
you bite your lip. and satoru’s mad, yes, but he’s got no right to talk to you like that or take his anger out on you. so you suck in a breath, try to correct him. “i was only trying to help. you don’t have to take it out on me—“
“do you ever get tired of talking?”
“what?”
but satoru continues. “you always have something to say, don’t you? you’re not my fucking girlfriend. and i don’t need your fucking comfort.”
you blink. the words don’t register at first, but soon your throat is closing up, and you’re nodding obediently before you can think any better of it. your skirt bunches in your hands as you try to keep your breathing steady. god forbid you give him a reason to snap at you once again.
“you’re right,” you try for sass but it fails. “and i won’t act like it again.”
but satoru sees you through the rearview mirror. your eyes are on your lap, like you’re still trying to process what just happened, your thumbs fiddling with the hem of your skirt. satoru only swallows, glances away. if he ignores you long enough, you’ll be just fine, right?
your breath hitches beside him and he crumbles immediately.
he’s already pulling over, unbuckling his belt to reach over the console. “no baby, i’m sorry,” he pleads, and maybe he shouldn’t because it only makes tears fall from your eyes. “shh baby don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so fucking sorry.”
he smushes your face into his chest, carding his fingers through your hair. you try to push him away but he takes your hand and presses it to his chest.
“didn’t mean to snap at you,” his breathing is ragged as he cups your face. “don’t cry baby, you know i hate it when you cry.”
you sniffle as he swipes a thumb over your wet lashes. “then what are we?”
satoru doesn’t answer. instead he presses his lips to yours, slow and warm, head tilting to deepen the kiss. “you’re my girl,” kiss. “my baby,” kiss. “my everything,” kiss.
he doesn’t say my girlfriend. but he doesn’t need to, right?
footballer!gojo doesn’t do relationships. and cheerleaders like you don’t make good girlfriends anyway. so you swallow the lump growing in your throat & let him part open your thighs.
“Eighty-three years of loneliness taught Yuji Itadori never to reach for things he couldn’t keep. Then he saw the Six Eyes again.”
♡ summary:
Yuji has spent years refusing to get attached. Then he meets the first Six Eyes user since Satoru Gojo and suddenly every promise he’s ever made to himself stops mattering.
♡ content warnings:
MDNI. post-canon future AU, immortal!Yuji, strangers to lovers, possessive!Yuji, emotionally touch-starved!Yuji, obsessive affection, grief, mentions of Gojo, heavy kissing, explicit sexual content, mirror sex, rough intimacy, dirty talk, praise, possessive language, consensual choking, hair pulling, oral (f receiving), fingering, vaginal sex (p in v), multiple orgasms, creampie, aftercare.
♡ author’s note:
I’ve been thinking about adult Yuji meeting the next Six Eyes user for weeks, and this idea completely took over my brain. Apparently the result is eighty-three years of repressed attachment issues. 🤍
Until You
Yuji doesn't know your name.
He doesn't know your favorite color, doesn't know where you're from, doesn't know why every sorcerer in this crowded district meeting seems to know exactly who you are while he's completely in the dark.
He just knows the guy flirting with you needs to leave.
Now.
It's irrational. Completely irrational. He's eighty-three years old—even if he doesn't look it, even if Sukuna's lingering influence keeps him frozen at twenty-something while the world ages around him. Eighty-three years should have taught him better than this. Should have taught him control, restraint, the careful art of not getting attached to people who will inevitably leave.
And they always leave.
Sometimes they age out—gray hair and laugh lines appearing while he stays exactly the same, until the gap between them becomes too wide to bridge. Sometimes they die before their time, because being close to him is dangerous, because curses are drawn to power and he's been a beacon for decades. Sometimes they just... break. Crumble under the weight of what knowing him means.
He has Nobara. He has Todo. That's it. That's the complete list of people who've survived in his orbit long enough to matter. Everyone else is gone—dust and memories and names he doesn't let himself think about anymore because thinking about them hurts worse than any curse ever could.
He's learned not to hope. Learned not to reach for things he can't keep.
So he should walk away right now. Should let the tall sorcerer with the perfectly styled hair and the too-bright smile continue his conversation with you, should disappear back into the crowd and forget he ever noticed you leaning against that wall with your arms crossed and that politely neutral expression that somehow makes you more magnetic than if you were smiling.
He should.
But he’s already moving.
And then you turn your head and Yuji forgets how to breathe for a moment.
It isn't just that you're beautiful. It isn't the way the room seems to arrange itself around you, every sorcerer careful not to stare too openly.
It's your eyes.
He knows those eyes.
Hasn't seen them in decades. Not since Satoru Gojo laughed in his face, too bright and too untouchable, acting like the world couldn't possibly end because he was still standing in it.
Six Eyes.
For one awful second, Yuji isn't there in the room anymore. He's younger. Grieving. Looking at an empty space where the strongest used to be.
Then you blink, and the memory breaks. Because they aren't Gojo's eyes. They're yours. And somehow that makes it worse.
The recognition hurts more than it should—not the loss of Gojo, but the terrifying realization that you might actually be strong enough to survive him. That the Six Eyes might mean you won't crumble, won't age out, won't break under the weight of what knowing him costs.
Hope is dangerous. Hope gets people killed… But he's already hoping.
The crowd parts around him without him having to ask—maybe they sense something in the way he's walking, something predatory and single-minded that makes people step aside instinctively. He catches fragments of whispered conversation as he passes.
"—can't believe she's actually here—"
"—the Six Eyes, after all this time—"
But then the sorcerer's hand lands on your lower back—casual, familiar, presumptuous—and something ancient and possessive tightens in Yuji's chest so violently it steals his breath.
He's standing between you and the sorcerer before he's consciously decided to move.
"Move."
His voice comes out quieter than he intended. Flat. No anger in it, no heat—and somehow that makes it more dangerous than if he'd shouted. The sorcerer blinks, clearly not understanding what's happening, his hand still resting on your back like he has any right to touch you.
Like you're not already Yuji's.
The thought should disturb him. He doesn't even know you. Has no claim to you. No right to this surge of territorial possessiveness that's currently shredding through eighty-three years of carefully maintained control.
"Excuse me?" The sorcerer's smile is confused, still friendly. Still there. "I was just—"
"I said move."
Yuji doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. Something in his tone—or maybe in his eyes, in the way he's standing, in the barely leashed violence humming under his skin—finally registers. The sorcerer's smile falters. His hand drops from your back.
"Right. Yeah. I'll just—" He's already backing away, already disappearing into the crowd, and Yuji doesn't watch him go because his attention has locked onto you with an intensity that should probably scare him.
You're looking at him with raised eyebrows, more amused than intimidated. There's a slight curve to your lips that might be the beginning of a smile, and the sight of it does something catastrophic to his chest.
"That was subtle," you say, and your voice is exactly what he didn't know he'd been waiting to hear—warm and slightly teasing and real in a way that makes him want to hear you say his name just to know what it would sound like.
He should introduce himself. Should say something normal, something that doesn't make him sound like a territorial animal who's just claimed something that doesn't belong to him.
"He was touching you."
That's what comes out instead. Blunt. Possessive. Completely failing at the whole 'normal human interaction' thing he was going for.
"He was," you agree, and there's definitely amusement in your eyes now. "I didn't realize that was a problem."
"It is."
"For who?"
For me. For him. For anyone who thinks they can touch what's mine.
The thought is so immediate, so visceral, that it takes him a second to realize he can't actually say it out loud. You're not his. He doesn't even know your name. He has no right to the jealousy currently eating through his self-control like acid.
But when he looks at you—really looks at you, takes in the way you're watching him with curiosity instead of fear, the way you haven't stepped back or called for help or done any of the sensible things someone should do when a stranger gets territorial over them—something clicks into place.
Something that feels like recognition.
Like maybe you're the answer to a question he didn't know he was asking.
"For me," he finally says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended. "It's a problem for me."
You tilt your head slightly, studying him. "Why?"
Because eighty-three years of loneliness just shattered the moment he saw you. Because he's spent decades learning not to want things he can't keep and you've somehow destroyed that lesson in twenty minutes. Because when he looks at you, there's a terrifying thought taking root in his chest: She might actually survive me.
"Don't know," he lies. "Just is."
The corner of your mouth quirks up. "That's not much of an explanation."
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
The silence stretches between you, charged with something he can't name. Around you, the meeting continues—sorcerers talking, laughing, networking, completely oblivious to the fact that Yuji's entire world has just narrowed down to you and the space between your bodies and the desperate need to close that distance.
He should walk away. Should let you go back to your conversation, back to your life, back to whatever protection the Gojo Clan thinks they can offer you. Should save you from the inevitable heartbreak of getting close to someone who's going to watch you age while he stays frozen, or worse, watch you die because being near him is dangerous.
"Come with me," he says instead.
It's not a question. It should be—he should give you the choice, should let you decide if you want to follow a stranger who just scared off your conversation partner for no good reason. But the words come out like a command, rough and desperate and completely bypassing his brain's better judgment.
You should say no. Should tell him to leave you alone, should recognize that there's something wrong with the intensity in his eyes, the barely leashed need in his voice.
"Okay," you say.
His hand finds your wrist immediately—not forceful, just inevitable. His fingers wrap around it like they've been waiting for permission.
And just like that, he's doomed you both.
The bathroom door locks behind you with a click that sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
Yuji's hand is still wrapped around your wrist—not tight, just... there. Like he needs the contact. Like letting go isn't an option his body will allow.
He's staring at you, chest rising and falling too fast, and there's something almost panicked in his eyes. Something that looks like a man who's just realized he's made a terrible mistake but can't bring himself to fix it.
"I was going to explain," he says, voice rough. His thumb brushes across the inside of your wrist—once, twice—like he's checking your pulse. Making sure you're real.
Then he's kissing you.
It's desperate and claiming and nothing like the controlled person who scared off that sorcerer. His hands come up to frame your face, angling your head so he can deepen the kiss, and when you gasp he makes a sound that's half-groan, half-relief.
The kiss breaks. He pulls back exactly far enough to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, and you can feel him shaking.
"Fuck," he whispers.
His hand drifts up to cup your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone. He's looking at you like he's trying to memorize every detail, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he blinks.
Two seconds. That's how long he lasts before he's kissing you again.
This time it's softer. Almost reverent. His fingers slide into your hair, and the touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. When he pulls back again, there's something wrecked in his expression.
"I can't—" He stops. Tries again. "I've spent eighty-three years teaching myself not to reach for people."
His hand finds yours, fingers threading through yours like he needs to hold on.
"And somehow I've forgotten everything in the last twenty minutes."
You should probably be concerned about that. Should ask what he means, should demand an explanation for why a stranger is confessing decades of loneliness while touching you like you're something precious.
Should definitely ask why he just said eighty-three years when he looks like he's barely in his twenties.
But his hand is still on your face, and the desperation in his eyes is real, and you're still shaking.
He can't help himself.
His mouth finds yours again. The moment you're kissing him back, his control shatters completely. His hands are everywhere.. sliding into your hair, cupping your face, tracing down your neck, gripping your waist. Not rough, just... constant. Like he can't stop. Like every touch is confirmation that you're real and here and letting him do this.
"Sorry," he breathes against your mouth, even as his hands drift to your hips. "I'm sorry, I just—"
He doesn't finish. Just kisses you again, deeper this time, his body crowding yours back against the sink. You can feel him quaking—not with desire, though that's there too, but with something that feels like restraint breaking after decades of holding on too tight.
Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and the touch seems to undo something in him. He breaks the kiss to press his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
"Tell me to stop," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "Tell me this is a bad idea. Tell me—"
You kiss him instead of answering.
His hands tighten on your waist, and then he's kissing you back with a desperation that steals your breath. His mouth moves to your neck, and when he bites down—you can't stop the sound that escapes. That is all the permission he needs.
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't pull back or check in. Just keeps going, completely consumed now, his mouth moving back to your neck, biting at your collarbone, tasting your skin. His hands are gripping your waist, pulling you closer, and there's nothing controlled about it—just pure need.
His hands work at your clothes with an urgency that borders on frantic, and when his fingers finally touch bare skin, you both gasp.
"Fuck," he breathes. His hand slides up your side, shaking slightly. "You're so—" He stops. Tries again. "I don't think I've wanted to touch another person this badly in decades."
His fingers push beneath the fabric without hesitation. You're already wet, and that knowledge seems to undo him completely. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breathing hard against your skin.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You're—"
He doesn't finish the thought. His fingers are already moving, exploring, claiming. There's nothing gentle about it—just pure possession, pure need. He touches you with a single-minded focus, and when he slides one finger inside you, his other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to his.
"Look at me," he says, voice rough. "Need to see you."
You meet his eyes, and the intensity there steals your breath. He's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking for a long time.
He adds a second finger, and the stretch makes your breath catch. His thumb finds your clit, circling with just enough pressure that your hips jerk involuntarily, pleasure radiating through your core in sharp, electric waves. Your thighs tremble, and he watches every expression on your face—the way your eyes flutter, the way your mouth falls open—like he's cataloging each one.
"Don't hide," he murmurs. "Let me have this."
His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and you can't stop the moan that tears from your throat. He does it again, building a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, and his free hand keeps drifting—to your face, your neck, your hair—like he can't stop touching you.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You're—I can feel—" His words dissolve into something almost incoherent.
The orgasm builds faster than you expect, pleasure coiling tight in your belly with each thrust of his hand. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding on, and he leans in to kiss you—messy and desperate.
The orgasm crashes over you, and he swallows your cry with another kiss. His fingers work you through it, gentling but not stopping, drawing out every last tremor until you're gasping and shaking.
When you finally open your eyes, he's staring at you with something like awe.
His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing away the tear you didn't realize had fallen. He stares at you for a long moment, like he's trying to catalog this—the exact angle of your face, the way you look when you're undone.
Then he's dropping to his knees, and before you can process what's happening, his mouth is on you.
The first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. You're still sensitive from your orgasm, and the sensation is almost too much, but he's relentless—licking and sucking with a desperation that suggests he's been starving for this.
"Oh god," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "I can't—"
He pulls back just enough to breathe. "Not stopping," he says, and it's not a question. His breath is hot against your oversensitive flesh.
Then his mouth is on you again, and coherent thought becomes impossible. He eats you out like it's the only thing keeping him alive, his tongue working against your clit with devastating precision. His hands grip your thighs—hard, possessive—pinning you exactly where he wants you. You can't move, can't escape the relentless pressure of his mouth. He controls every second of it.
He works you through it with the same relentless intensity, wringing every last tremor from your body until you're limp. When he finally pulls back, his lips are wet, his eyes dark and hungry.
He rises to his feet, and immediately his hands are on you—gripping your jaw, sliding into your hair and pulling. His mouth crashes against yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.
His hands work at his belt, movements sharp and urgent. When he finally frees himself, your mouth goes dry.
He's long and thick in a way that makes your stomach clench. For a moment you just stare, your breath catching as the reality of what's about to happen hits you. He's bigger than anything you've experienced. Your body recognizes it before your mind catches up—heat flooding through you despite the spike of nervousness.
He turns you around roughly, pressing your front against the sink. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—flushed and disheveled.
His hand slides up your spine, and you feel the tremor in his fingers even as his grip tightens—like he's trying to steady himself by holding onto you. "Look," he commands, voice rough and uneven.
The head of him slides through your wetness once, and then he's pushing inside—one hard thrust that fills you completely. The stretch makes you cry out, and he groans against your neck, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.
He doesn't wait. Doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a brutal pace immediately. Each thrust is deep, claiming, like he's trying to convince himself you're real and here and not going to disappear.
"Fuck," he groans. One hand slides up to tangle in your hair, yanking your head back so you're forced to watch yourself in the mirror. He's watching too, jaw clenched, eyes dark and almost desperate. "Look at yourself. Look at—" His voice breaks. "I need you to see this."
The angle has him hitting that devastating spot inside you with every thrust, and combined with the sight of yourself in the mirror—completely undone, completely his—it's overwhelming. His other hand wraps around your throat, grip firm.
"Mine," he breathes against your ear. "Right here. Right now. Mine."
Your breath catches. You can't form words, can only take what he's giving you.
His hand tightens on your throat—enough to make your head spin, enough that you feel his palm against your pulse—and the combination of sensations pushes you over the edge. Your third orgasm crashes over you with devastating force, and you silently cry out, your body clenching around him.
The moment you clamp down on him, Yuji's entire body goes rigid. A groan tears from his chest—raw, almost pained—his grip on your hair tightens like he's afraid you'll slip away, his hips driving deeper, harder, like he's chasing something.
"Fuck, you feel—" His voice breaks. He pulls back just enough to thrust in again, and again, each movement desperate and punishing. "Not yet. Not fucking yet."
His breathing is ragged, his movements becoming almost frantic as he pushes you toward another peak. His hand stays locked around your throat. He doesn't let go. Can't let go. Just keeps driving into you with single-minded intensity, each thrust hitting deeper, harder.
You're already oversensitive, shaking, but he doesn't stop. Won't stop. His grip on your hair keeps your head tilted back, forcing you to watch yourself in the mirror as he takes you apart again.
When the fourth orgasm hits, it's almost too much. Your body clamps down around him violently, and you hear yourself cry out—broken, desperate.
That's what breaks him.
The moment you squeeze around him, Yuji's hand releases your throat. Both hands grab your hips hard and he drives into you with brutal force. Chasing his own release with the same desperate intensity he's shown since the moment he touched you.
He comes with a groan that sounds like it's been torn from somewhere deep inside him, his hips jerking as he buries himself as deep as he can go. You feel the heat of him, the way his entire body shudders against yours.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, shuddering with aftershocks. When he finally pulls out, you feel the loss of him and whimper.
He turns you around immediately, and his hands are on you.
Your face first—cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Then your neck, fingers tracing the line of your throat. Then he's taking your hand, threading his fingers through yours, holding on. His other hand smooths your hair back from your face. Then returns to cup your jaw. Then drifts to your wrist, thumb finding your pulse point.
He's not thinking about it. Not pausing between touches. His hands move from one point of contact to the next like they have a mind of their own, like he's confirming something over and over.
You watch him for several seconds in silence. Then, quietly you say, "You keep touching me."
He freezes. Actually freezes.
Looks down at his hands like he's only just now realizing what they're doing. One is still holding yours, fingers intertwined. The other—his thumb is brushing your cheekbone again, that same gentle sweep he's done at least a dozen times in the last minute.
"I know." His voice comes out rough. Almost helpless. "I don't know how to stop."
The silence that follows is heavy. You can see something like panic flickering in his eyes—not fear of you, but fear of himself. Of what this means.
"I shouldn't want this," he says quietly. "But I can't stop." His voice breaks on the last word. He laughs once. Quietly, defeated. His eyes search yours like he's looking for absolution he knows he doesn't deserve.
The worst part? It wasn't the kiss. It wasn't bringing you in here. It wasn't even letting himself hope. It was this. His hands. They kept finding you. Your cheek. Your hair. Your wrist. Your fingers. Every time he thought they'd finally gone still, they moved again—reaching for you like his body had forgotten how to exist without touching you.
Eighty-three years of discipline had disappeared so quietly he hadn't even noticed it happening. And standing here with you looking back at him… He couldn't find it in himself to want it back.
"So," you say, leaning back against the sink. "Are you going to tell me what that was about?"
He should explain. Should tell you that he's not normally like this, that getting close to him is dangerous.
He doesn't.
"I kept telling myself to leave you alone," he says instead, and his voice comes out quieter now. Darker. He takes a step closer. "Kept telling myself this was a bad idea."
"What was?"
"You." Another step. He's close enough now to see the way your pulse jumps in your throat, close enough to catch your scent—something clean and sharp that makes him want to bury his face in your neck and just breathe. "Wanting you. Needing you."
His hand comes up, cups your jaw without hesitation.
"You don't even know me," you point out, but your voice has gone softer.
"Going to." The words come out like a promise. Like a threat. "Going to know everything. Your name. What you're afraid of. Why everyone out there treats you like you're made of glass." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can feel the barely restrained hunger in the touch. "Going to know what makes you gasp. What makes you beg. What you look like when you come undone."
"That's—"
"Mine." His other hand finds your waist, pulls you flush against him. "You're mine now. You know that, right?"
It should sound insane. Should make you pull away, should trigger every self-preservation instinct you have.
It doesn't.
"I was going to say presumptuous," you murmur, but your hands come up to rest against his chest anyway.
The touch makes something feral spark in his eyes.
"You have no idea what you've been doing to me all night." The confession spills out raw and honest and completely lacking any pretense of control. "I saw you across that room and something just—" He breaks off, his grip on your waist tightening. "I looked at you and knew."
"Knew what?"
His forehead drops to rest against yours. "That I wasn't letting you go. That I was going to keep you. That everyone else in that room could fuck off because you were already mine."
"I know it's selfish," he continues, voice dropping lower. "I know keeping you is dangerous. I know proximity to me gets people killed."
He pauses. Lets the weight of that sink in.
"Don't care."
The words are simple. Final.
His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, possessive and certain. "I'm going to keep you. I'm going to learn every inch of you. I'm going to take everything you'll give me and then take more."
You're quiet for a long moment, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes. Waiting to see if you'll try to run. Knowing he won't let you even if you do.
"What's your name?" you ask instead.
The question catches him off guard. Of all the things you could have said, all the ways you could have responded, you're asking for his name.
"Yuji," he manages. "Yuji Itadori."
"Yuji," you repeat, and the sound of his name in your voice does something catastrophic to his chest.
He kisses you before you can say anything else. It's not soft or sweet. His hands tangle in your hair, angling your head so he can deepen the kiss, and when you gasp against his mouth he swallows the sound like he's claiming it.
You kiss him back just as desperately, your hands fisting in his shirt, and the response makes something primal roar to life in his chest. Mine, mine, mine.
It's selfish. It's dangerous. It's the most honest thing he's felt in decades.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. Your lips are swollen, your hair mussed from his hands, and you're looking at him like you understand exactly what you've just agreed to.
"I need to know your name," he says, and his voice comes out wrecked. "Need to know what to call you when you're underneath me."
You tell him.
And when you do, he commits it to memory like it's the most important thing he's ever learned. Like maybe if he holds onto it tightly enough, you won't slip away like everyone else.
"Say it again," he demands, his hands still framing your face.
You do. And then again when he asks. And again.
His thumb traces your cheekbone. Then your jaw. Then back to your cheek. He's not thinking about it anymore. His hands just move. Your name sits on his tongue like something he's tasting for the first time.
He says it once more. Quiet. Almost to himself. His grip doesn't loosen.
Tomorrow he'll face what this costs. Tomorrow he'll deal with the consequences of wanting to keep you.
But his hands are still on your face, and your pulse is still racing under his touch, and somewhere in the last hour the decision stopped being a choice.
“You planned Nanami Kento a surprise birthday party. Nanami Kento planned on spending his birthday in bed with you instead. Guess whose plan won?”
♡ summary:
You planned a surprise party. Nanami planned something else entirely. One innocent “whatever you want” later, Gojo is ready to file a missing persons report, Ino has lost feeling in his legs, and the birthday boy has absolutely no regrets.
♡ pairing:
Nanami Kento × fem!reader
♡ content warnings:
MDNI. established relationship, praise, possessive affection, aftercare, fluff with spice, explicit sexual content, morning sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, vaginal sex (p in v), multiple orgasms, praise, dirty talk, orgasm delay/edging, light orgasm control, possessive affection, gentle dominance, mutual consent, body worship, hair pulling, light spanking, domestic intimacy, lovesick!Nanami
♡ author’s note:
It’s Nanami’s birthday today, so naturally I started wondering what would happen if someone told him, “Whatever you want.” Turns out he’d take that very literally. Happy birthday to the salaryman who deserves the world.
The morning light filters through the curtains in soft, golden bands, painting stripes across the bedroom floor. You've been awake for twenty minutes already, watching Nanami sleep—something you rarely get to do. He's usually up before dawn, already dressed and making coffee by the time you stumble into the kitchen.
But today is different.
Today, you made him promise to sleep in.
He's on his back, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. His chest rises and falls in that steady, measured rhythm that's so distinctly him. Even in sleep, Nanami Kento is composed. No sprawling limbs, no snoring, no drool. Just quiet, controlled rest.
You prop yourself up on one elbow, studying the relaxed lines of his face. There's something softer about him like this—without the sharp focus he brings to everything else. The furrow between his brows has smoothed out. His jaw is slack. He looks... peaceful.
It makes your chest ache in the best way.
Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to his temple, then another to his cheek, then finally to his lips.
"Good morning," you whisper against his mouth.
His eyes open slowly, that warm brown gaze finding yours immediately. For a moment, he just looks at you, and then his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you down for a proper kiss—deeper, slower, the kind that makes your toes curl.
When he finally releases you, there's the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
"Good morning," he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.
You grin. "Happy birthday, Kento."
Something flickers in his expression—not quite discomfort, but close. He's never liked making a fuss about his birthday. You've known this for months. He'd spent the entire week leading up to today dropping subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints.
"Please don't make a fuss."
"I'd prefer something quiet."
"A normal day would be ideal."
And every time, you'd smiled innocently and said, "Of course not."
Now, watching him try to hide his unease, you almost feel guilty.
Almost.
"I have something for you," you say, reaching over to the nightstand where you'd placed the neatly wrapped box earlier. It's simple—cream-colored paper, navy ribbon, no excessive decoration. Exactly his style.
Nanami sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, and accepts the gift with both hands. He examines it for a moment, running his thumb along the edge of the ribbon, before carefully untying it. No ripping, no tearing. He unfolds the paper with the same precision he brings to everything else.
Inside is a watch—elegant, understated, with a leather band the exact shade of his usual suit. You'd spent weeks tracking it down, making sure it was perfect.
He stares at it for a long moment, then looks up at you.
"This is..." He trails off, and you see him swallow. "Thank you."
The sincerity in his voice makes your heart squeeze.
"You're welcome." You lean in, kissing his jaw. "You needed a new one anyway. The clasp on your old watch has been sticking for months."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you."
His gaze softens in a way that's almost unbearable. He sets the watch aside carefully, then reaches for you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, straddling his thighs, your hands coming to rest on his bare shoulders.
"Today's your day," you say, smiling up at him. Your fingers trace idle patterns against his skin. "Whatever you want."
It's meant to be playful. Light. An open-ended offer for breakfast in bed, or a quiet walk, or maybe just staying in and watching him read while you curl up beside him.
But Nanami goes very still.
His hands tighten slightly on your hips, and when he looks at you, there's something different in his eyes. Something darker. More focused.
"Whatever I want?" he repeats slowly.
You laugh, because he sounds so serious. "Yes, Kento. It's your birthday. We can do whatever you—"
"Anything?"
But he doesn't respond. Instead, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. His dark eyes search yours, and you watch something shift behind them—a calculation, a decision being made in real time. His jaw tightens slightly. His thumbs press a little harder against your hips.
The silence stretches between you. Not awkward. Deliberate. Like he's weighing every consequence before making a decision he already knows he's going to make.
"Anything?" he repeats quietly.
The single word lands with surprising weight.
You blink at him, suddenly aware of the weight of his gaze, the way his thumbs are now stroking small circles against your hipbones through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. The air in the room feels heavier somehow.
"I... yes?" you say, though it comes out more like a question. "I mean, within reason. If you want to go somewhere, or—"
"I want you."
Three words. Simple. Direct. Devastating.
Your brain short-circuits for a second.
"You... I'm right here," you manage, trying to laugh it off even as heat floods your cheeks.
"No." His voice drops lower, and one hand slides up your spine, firm and possessive. "I want you. Here. Now. For as long as I decide."
Oh.
Oh.
"Kento—"
"You said anything." His eyes haven't left yours. "Did you mean it?"
Your mouth has gone dry. You'd been thinking coffee. Maybe pancakes. A lazy morning together.
Not... this.
Except now that he's said it, now that you can see the intent written clearly across his face, you realize you should have known better. Nanami doesn't do anything halfway. And when presented with an open-ended offer, of course he'd take it literally.
Of course he would.
"I—" You swallow hard. "Yes. I meant it."
The smile that curves his mouth is small, controlled, but there's a predatory edge to it that makes your stomach flip.
"Good," he says quietly, and then he's kissing you again—deeper this time, more demanding. His hand fists in your hair, angling your head exactly where he wants it, and you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against you through the sheets.
When he pulls back, you're breathless.
"Then we have an understanding," Nanami murmurs against your lips. His free hand slides under your shirt, palm hot against your lower back. "Today, I'm going to be selfish. I'm going to spend today doing exactly what I want. And you're going to let me."
You should probably mention the surprise party.
You should definitely mention the surprise party.
But then his mouth is on your neck, and his hands are everywhere, and the only thing you can manage is a shaky, "Yes."
His teeth graze the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that makes him hum with satisfaction against your skin.
"There," he murmurs, voice dropping even lower. "I want to hear every reaction. Don't hold anything back."
His hands slide up under your shirt with deliberate slowness, palms warm and slightly rough against your ribs. He's mapping you out, relearning territory he knows by heart, but there's something different about his touch today. More possessive. More demanding.
"Kento—"
"I'm going to take my time with you," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want. "I'm going to touch every part of you. Taste every part of you. And I'm going to make sure you can't think of anything else."
Your breath catches. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I'll—I'll tell you."
"That's what I need to hear."
The praise sends heat flooding through you, pooling low in your belly. He knows exactly what those words do to you, and the slight curve of his mouth says he's pleased with your reaction.
He sits up, pulling you with him, and in one smooth motion strips your shirt over your head. The morning air is cool against your heated skin, and you shiver—though whether from temperature or anticipation, you're not sure.
Nanami's gaze travels over you slowly, thoroughly, like he's committing every detail to memory. Then his hands follow the same path, tracing your collarbones, the curve of your breasts, down to your waist.
"I could spend all day just watching how you respond to me," he says quietly, almost to himself.
Before you can answer him, he's guiding you back down onto the mattress, positioning you exactly where he wants you—centered on the bed, arms above your head. His hand wraps around both your wrists, pinning them to the pillow. The oval diamond catches the morning light as he holds you there, the platinum band gleaming against your skin—a small, deliberate reminder of what you are to him.
"Keep them there," he instructs, his free hand trailing down your arm, across your shoulder, down to cup your breast. "Don't move them unless I tell you to."
"Kento—"
His thumb brushes over your nipple, and your back arches involuntarily.
"What did I just say?" His voice is still calm, still controlled, but there's steel underneath it.
"Keep—keep them there," you manage, forcing your arms to stay still even as your body wants to reach for him.
"Exactly." He rewards you by lowering his mouth to your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he takes it between his lips and sucks—hard enough to make you cry out.
"Oh god—Kento—"
He hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you. His other hand is working your other breast, rolling and pinching your nipple between his fingers with just enough pressure to toe the line between pleasure and pain.
"Tell me," he says, pulling back slightly. "Tell me how it feels."
"It feels—" You're panting now, struggling to form coherent words. "It feels so good, your mouth, your hands—please don't stop—"
"I won't. Not until I've learned exactly what you need." His breath is hot against your wet skin.
He switches sides, giving your other breast the same thorough attention while his hand slides down your stomach. His fingers trace the waistband of your sleep shorts, dipping just beneath the elastic but not going further. Teasing.
"Kento, please—"
"Please what?" He looks up at you, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "I need to hear you."
"Touch me," you gasp out. "Please, I need you to touch me."
"Where?" His fingers trace patterns on your lower stomach, so close to where you're aching for him but not quite there. "Here?"
"Lower—please—"
"Like this?" He presses his palm against you through the fabric of your shorts, and even through two layers of cloth, the pressure makes you moan.
"Yes—yes, like that—"
"You're already so wet," he observes, voice rough with approval. "I can feel it through your clothes. Is this all for me?"
"Yes—all for you—always for you—"
He makes a satisfied sound low in his throat, then hooks his fingers into your waistband. "Lift your hips."
You obey immediately, and he strips both your shorts and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him. The way he looks at you—like you're something precious and profane all at once—makes heat flood through your entire body.
"Spread your legs," he says quietly. "Let me see you."
You do, feeling exposed and vulnerable and desperately aroused all at once. Nanami settles between your thighs, his hands running up the inside of your legs, thumbs tracing patterns on your sensitive inner thighs.
"I know what you need." His thumb brushes over your clit—just once, just barely—and you nearly sob with the need for more. "But I'm going to take my time. I'm going to watch you come apart. And you're going to let me, aren't you?"
"Yes—yes, anything—"
"That's the answer I wanted."
Then his mouth is on you, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
He starts with long, slow strokes of his tongue, learning your taste, mapping out every fold and curve. His hands grip your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you, and when you try to close your legs around his head, he pushes them back open with firm pressure.
"Stay open for me," he says against your skin, and the vibration of his voice makes you whimper. "I want access to all of you."
"Kento—oh god—"
He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, not quite giving you the direct pressure you're craving. It's maddening, the way he's taking his time, the way he's so completely in control while you're falling apart beneath him.
"Please—please, I need—"
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath hot against your skin. "What do you need, love?” he asks quietly.
"More—I need more—"
"More of this?" He licks a broad stripe up your center, and you cry out. "Or this?" His tongue flicks directly over your clit, and your hips buck involuntarily.
"That—yes, that—please—"
"I thought so. That’s the spot."
He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and the sensation is so intense you nearly scream. Your hands fly down to his hair, fingers tangling in the blonde strands, and he makes a warning sound against you.
"What did I tell you about your hands?"
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I couldn't—"
"Put them back." His voice is firm but not unkind. "Or I'll stop."
You force your hands back above your head, gripping the pillow so hard your knuckles turn white. It's torture, not being able to touch him, but there's something about the restriction that makes every sensation more intense.
"Much better." He rewards you by sliding one finger inside you, and you moan at the intrusion. "You're doing so well."
He starts a slow rhythm, finger curling inside you to hit that spot that makes you see stars, while his tongue works your clit with methodical precision. He's not rushing, not chasing your orgasm—he's building it slowly, deliberately, layer by layer.
"Kento—oh god, Kento—"
"That's it," he murmurs against you. "I want every sound you make for me," he murmurs against you.
"Mmmfuuck Ken—I'm so close—"
"Not yet." He slows his movements, pulling you back from the edge. "Not until I say."
You make a frustrated sound, and he chuckles—actually chuckles—against your sensitive flesh.
"Patience," he says. "I told you I was going to take my time."
He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the slight burn mixed with pleasure makes you gasp. His fingers are thick, filling you in a way that's almost but not quite enough, and he knows it. He's doing this on purpose, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall over.
"Please—Kento, please—I need to come—"
"I know you do." His voice is rough now, affected despite his control. "But you're going to wait. You're going to wait until I've had my fill of you."
His tongue returns to your clit, circling and flicking while his fingers pump in and out of you with increasing speed. The wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you mix with your desperate moans, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, your body responding to his every touch.
"You taste so good," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. "I could do this for hours. Would you like that? Would you like me to keep you right here, right on the edge, until you're begging?"
"I am begging—please, Kento, please let me come—"
"Not yet."
He's relentless, building you up and pulling you back, over and over, until you're shaking and sobbing and completely at his mercy. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body wound so tight you think you might shatter, and still he doesn't let you fall.
"Look at you," he murmurs, and there's something like awe in his voice. "So desperate for me. And I'm going to take care of you."
"Ken— I need to—“
"That's right." He adds a third finger, and the stretch makes you cry out. "I'm going to make you come so hard you forget your own name."
"Yes—please—please, Kento—"
"Now," he says, and seals his lips around your clit while his fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot with devastating precision.
Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with such intensity that you do scream—his name, over and over, while your body convulses and your vision goes white. He doesn't let up, working you through it, drawing it out until you're not sure where one wave ends and the next begins.
"That's it," he's saying, voice rough and approving. "Just like that. Give me everything."
You're sobbing now, overwhelmed by sensation, and still he doesn't stop. He gentles his touch but keeps moving, keeping you suspended in that space between too much and not enough, until you're begging again—though whether for him to stop or continue, you're not sure anymore.
Finally, when you're completely wrung out and shaking, he pulls back. His chin is wet with you, his eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of him like that—disheveled and affected—sends another pulse of heat through you despite your exhaustion.
"You respond exactly the way I know you would," he says, crawling up your body to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it should probably be embarrassing, but instead it's incredibly hot.
"Kento," you manage, voice wrecked. "That was—"
"We're not done." He's still fully clothed, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. "I told you—until I'm satisfied. And I'm nowhere near satisfied yet."
He sits back and strips off his shirt in one smooth motion. You've seen him shirtless countless times, but it never fails to make your mouth go dry—the broad shoulders, the defined muscle, the deliberate way he moves.
Your hands reach for him without thinking, and this time he doesn't stop you. Your fingers trace over his chest, his stomach, and he catches your wrist, bringing it to his lips.
"Feel what you do to me," he says quietly, guiding your hand down to the front of his pants. He's rock hard, straining against the fabric.
"I want you," you whisper. "Please—"
He's already unbuttoning his pants, pushing them down, and then he's finally naked above you. He helps you roll over, positioning you exactly how he wants you—face down, hips elevated, legs spread.
His hands run down your back, over your hips. "This way I can see all of you."
You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance, sliding through your wetness, and you push back desperately.
"Please—"
"I know—" And then he's pushing in, slow and deep, until he's fully seated inside you. You both groan at the sensation.
For a moment, he goes completely still. His hands tighten on your hips, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are closed. His jaw is tight. He looks like a man trying to memorize something.
"Kento?"
He opens his eyes, and the look on his face makes your breath catch. It's not dominance. It's not control.
It's want. Pure, unguarded want.
"I chose this," he says, voice low and rough. "I could be anywhere right now. But I want you."
Then he starts to move—slow, deep, deliberate. Each thrust hits something devastating inside you, and you're already building toward another orgasm.
"Yes—" you gasp. "Yes—"
His hand slides up your back, fisting gently in your hair, turning your head so he can see your face. "Look at me."
You do. His face is flushed, eyes locked on yours with burning intensity.
"I'm going to—"
"I know baby.” His other hand finds your clit, circling with firm pressure. "Let me feel it."
The combination is too much. Your second orgasm builds fast and hard, and when it hits, you scream into the pillow, your whole body clenching around him.
"Fuuuck baby—" His voice breaks on the word, hips stuttering. "You’re such a good girl.”
The praise sends another aftershock through you, and you feel him throb inside you in response. But he doesn't come. Instead, his grip on your hips tightens, and he starts moving again—harder this time, more demanding.
"Again," he says, voice rough. "I want to feel you come again."
"Kento—I can't—"
"You can." His thrusts are deeper now, more forceful. Each one pushes you slightly up the bed, your body sliding against the sheets. "I know you can."
He releases your hair to grip both your hips with bruising strength, angling you exactly how he wants you. The new position makes him hit even deeper, and you cry out, fingers clutching at the sheets.
"There," he groans. "That's the angle."
"Yes—oh god—yes—"
He increases his pace, fucking you harder, and now each thrust is pushing you further up the bed. You have to brace your hands against the headboard to keep from being driven into it. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his low groans.
"So perfect," he's saying, voice strained. "Taking me so well—"
Your arms give out, and your upper body collapses into the mattress, face pressed into the pillows. The new angle makes everything more intense—you're completely at his mercy, held up only by his strong hands gripping your hips, keeping your lower body elevated so he can keep driving into you.
"Oh my God—" you manage between thrusts. "Kento—fuck—I love—you—"
Each word is punctuated by another deep thrust, and you hear him groan in response.
"I love you too, sweetheart—" His voice is wrecked, breathless. "Mmmm—fuck—"
Then his hand comes down on your ass—not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to make you gasp. The sting sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you, and you clench around him involuntarily.
"Fuck—" He does it again, and you moan into the pillow. "You like that, don’t you?"
"Yes—yes—please—"
He's fucking you harder now, faster, one hand sliding up your spine to rest at the back of your neck, holding you down. The pressure is grounding, possessive, and it makes you feel completely owned in the best possible way.
"Fuck—" His voice is rough, focused. "Tell me you're here. Tell me you chose this."
His other hand slides around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that make you see stars.
"I'm here—“ you cry out, voice muffled by the pillow. "Kento—oh god—I’m all yours—"
"That's right." His fingers work your clit with devastating precision while he keeps pounding into you. "All mine."
The dual sensation is overwhelming. You can feel another orgasm building, bigger than the last two, and you're not sure you can survive it.
"Kento—I'm going to—"
"Come for me," he commands, voice strained. "Let me feel you"
Your third orgasm hits you like lightning, white-hot and all-consuming. You scream into the pillow, your whole body convulsing, clenching around him so hard you can feel every pulse, every throb.
"Fuck—" His control finally shatters. His hips snap forward one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and then he's coming with a low, broken groan. You feel him pulsing inside you, hot and overwhelming, triggering another small orgasm that makes you whimper.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, trembling with aftershocks. Then, carefully, he pulls out and rolls you over, gathering you against his chest.
"Are you alright?" His voice is soft now, concerned, one hand stroking your hair.
"Yes," you manage, voice hoarse. "That was—"
"Intense?"
"Perfect."
He kisses your forehead, your temple, your cheek. "You're perfect. Thank you for trusting me."
"Always," you murmur, already starting to drift in the warm, satisfied haze of post-orgasm bliss.
You lose track of time after that, dozing in and out while Nanami holds you. At some point, he gets up to get a warm washcloth, cleaning you both with gentle efficiency before pulling you back against him. The morning light has shifted, grown stronger, but you're too content to care about the time.
It's only when his phone starts vibrating insistently across the nightstand that reality begins to intrude.
Nanami reaches over without moving you from his chest, his arm extending to grab the phone. The screen lights up immediately, and you feel him go still.
"How many?" you ask sleepily, not bothering to open your eyes.
"Twenty-seven missed calls," he says quietly, scrolling through with methodical precision. "Forty-three unread messages."
You crack one eye open. "Oh no."
"Oh yes." There's something in his tone—a thread of amusement, maybe—that makes you lift your head to look at him.
His expression is perfectly neutral as he reads, but there's the faintest curve to his mouth. He scrolls through the messages, and you watch his eyes track across the screen, taking in every word.
Gojo (10:47 AM): Where are you two???
Gojo (10:52 AM): Nanami if you're late I'm going to be so mad
Shoko (10:58 AM): Tell me he didn't figure it out.
Ino (11:03 AM): Everyone is in position. Repeat, everyone is in position.
Gojo (11:05 AM): NANAMI
Gojo (11:07 AM): ANSWER YOUR PHONE
Shoko (11:12 AM): He figured it out. He 100% figured it out.
Ino (11:15 AM): My legs are cramping. How long do we have to hide behind this couch?
Gojo (11:18 AM): I'm going to kill him
Gojo (11:20 AM): I'm going to actually kill him
Gojo (11:22 AM): WHERE IS HE
Shoko (11:25 AM): He's definitely with her. Doing... something.
Gojo (11:27 AM): OH MY GOD
Gojo (11:28 AM): DID YOU SERIOUSLY TAKE "WHATEVER YOU WANT" LITERALLY????
Ino (11:30 AM): I can't feel my feet anymore
Gojo (11:32 AM): This is the funniest thing that's ever happened
Gojo (11:33 AM): I'm going to laugh about this forever
Shoko (11:35 AM): Please just answer so we know you're alive
Gojo (11:37 AM): NANAMI
Gojo (11:38 AM): NANAMI
Gojo (11:39 AM): NANAMI
Ino (11:40 AM): Everyone stop yelling in the chat, he's going to hear us
Gojo (11:41 AM): HE CAN'T HEAR US THROUGH TEXT YOU IDIOT
Shoko (11:42 AM): I'm leaving. My back hurts.
Gojo (11:43 AM): YOU WILL NOT
Ino (11:45 AM): Is anyone else hungry? I'm hungry.
Gojo (11:47 AM): FOCUS
Gojo (11:48 AM): He's going to show up any second now
Gojo (11:50 AM): Any second
Gojo (11:52 AM): ...
Gojo (11:53 AM): He's not coming is he
Shoko (11:54 AM): He's definitely not coming.
Ino (11:55 AM): My legs have fallen asleep. I think I'm paralyzed.
You watch Nanami's face as he reads through the entire chain. His expression doesn't change, but you can see the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—he's fighting a smile.
"What time is it?" you ask.
He glances at the clock on the nightstand. "11:58 AM."
"Oh god. They've been waiting for almost two hours."
"Two hours and eleven minutes, to be precise," he corrects, setting the phone down on his chest. "Since approximately 9:47 AM, based on Gojo's first message."
You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. "We should probably go."
Nanami is quiet for a moment. Then: "No."
You blink. "No?"
"No," he repeats calmly, one hand resuming its gentle stroking of your hair. "We should not."
"I am aware." His voice is perfectly level. "I specifically requested not to have a surprise party."
You prop yourself up on your elbow, looking down at him. "You... knew?"
"I suspected." He meets your eyes, and there's definitely amusement there now. "Gojo is not subtle. Neither are you, for that matter. You've been coordinating with him for weeks."
"And you still—"
"I was presented with two options," he says, his hand moving to cup your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone with deliberate gentleness. "Spend my birthday entertaining Gojo and enduring whatever ridiculous surprise he's orchestrated."
He pauses, letting the weight of the alternative hang in the air.
"Or spend it with you."
Your heart does a little flip in your chest.
"I believe I made the objectively correct decision," he says, with the faintest hint of a smile.
You laugh against his chest. "Gojo will murder you."
"Mm." He pulls you back down against his chest. "Gojo will survive another hour. Everyone hiding behind furniture will survive another hour. You and I, however, have only just begun to properly celebrate."
"Kento—"
"One more hour," he repeats, kissing the top of your head. "And then we'll go be gracious about their party."
You smile against his chest. "You're going to act surprised, aren't you?"
"Of course." There's dry amusement in his voice. "I am nothing if not considerate."
“Eighty-three years of loneliness taught Yuji Itadori never to reach for things he couldn’t keep. Then he saw the Six Eyes again.”
♡ summary:
Yuji has spent years refusing to get attached. Then he meets the first Six Eyes user since Satoru Gojo and suddenly every promise he’s ever made to himself stops mattering.
♡ content warnings:
MDNI. post-canon future AU, immortal!Yuji, strangers to lovers, possessive!Yuji, emotionally touch-starved!Yuji, obsessive affection, grief, mentions of Gojo, heavy kissing, explicit sexual content, mirror sex, rough intimacy, dirty talk, praise, possessive language, consensual choking, hair pulling, oral (f receiving), fingering, vaginal sex (p in v), multiple orgasms, creampie, aftercare.
♡ author’s note:
I’ve been thinking about adult Yuji meeting the next Six Eyes user for weeks, and this idea completely took over my brain. Apparently the result is eighty-three years of repressed attachment issues. 🤍
Until You
Yuji doesn't know your name.
He doesn't know your favorite color, doesn't know where you're from, doesn't know why every sorcerer in this crowded district meeting seems to know exactly who you are while he's completely in the dark.
He just knows the guy flirting with you needs to leave.
Now.
It's irrational. Completely irrational. He's eighty-three years old—even if he doesn't look it, even if Sukuna's lingering influence keeps him frozen at twenty-something while the world ages around him. Eighty-three years should have taught him better than this. Should have taught him control, restraint, the careful art of not getting attached to people who will inevitably leave.
And they always leave.
Sometimes they age out—gray hair and laugh lines appearing while he stays exactly the same, until the gap between them becomes too wide to bridge. Sometimes they die before their time, because being close to him is dangerous, because curses are drawn to power and he's been a beacon for decades. Sometimes they just... break. Crumble under the weight of what knowing him means.
He has Nobara. He has Todo. That's it. That's the complete list of people who've survived in his orbit long enough to matter. Everyone else is gone—dust and memories and names he doesn't let himself think about anymore because thinking about them hurts worse than any curse ever could.
He's learned not to hope. Learned not to reach for things he can't keep.
So he should walk away right now. Should let the tall sorcerer with the perfectly styled hair and the too-bright smile continue his conversation with you, should disappear back into the crowd and forget he ever noticed you leaning against that wall with your arms crossed and that politely neutral expression that somehow makes you more magnetic than if you were smiling.
He should.
But he’s already moving.
And then you turn your head and Yuji forgets how to breathe for a moment.
It isn't just that you're beautiful. It isn't the way the room seems to arrange itself around you, every sorcerer careful not to stare too openly.
It's your eyes.
He knows those eyes.
Hasn't seen them in decades. Not since Satoru Gojo laughed in his face, too bright and too untouchable, acting like the world couldn't possibly end because he was still standing in it.
Six Eyes.
For one awful second, Yuji isn't there in the room anymore. He's younger. Grieving. Looking at an empty space where the strongest used to be.
Then you blink, and the memory breaks. Because they aren't Gojo's eyes. They're yours. And somehow that makes it worse.
The recognition hurts more than it should—not the loss of Gojo, but the terrifying realization that you might actually be strong enough to survive him. That the Six Eyes might mean you won't crumble, won't age out, won't break under the weight of what knowing him costs.
Hope is dangerous. Hope gets people killed… But he's already hoping.
The crowd parts around him without him having to ask—maybe they sense something in the way he's walking, something predatory and single-minded that makes people step aside instinctively. He catches fragments of whispered conversation as he passes.
"—can't believe she's actually here—"
"—the Six Eyes, after all this time—"
But then the sorcerer's hand lands on your lower back—casual, familiar, presumptuous—and something ancient and possessive tightens in Yuji's chest so violently it steals his breath.
He's standing between you and the sorcerer before he's consciously decided to move.
"Move."
His voice comes out quieter than he intended. Flat. No anger in it, no heat—and somehow that makes it more dangerous than if he'd shouted. The sorcerer blinks, clearly not understanding what's happening, his hand still resting on your back like he has any right to touch you.
Like you're not already Yuji's.
The thought should disturb him. He doesn't even know you. Has no claim to you. No right to this surge of territorial possessiveness that's currently shredding through eighty-three years of carefully maintained control.
"Excuse me?" The sorcerer's smile is confused, still friendly. Still there. "I was just—"
"I said move."
Yuji doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. Something in his tone—or maybe in his eyes, in the way he's standing, in the barely leashed violence humming under his skin—finally registers. The sorcerer's smile falters. His hand drops from your back.
"Right. Yeah. I'll just—" He's already backing away, already disappearing into the crowd, and Yuji doesn't watch him go because his attention has locked onto you with an intensity that should probably scare him.
You're looking at him with raised eyebrows, more amused than intimidated. There's a slight curve to your lips that might be the beginning of a smile, and the sight of it does something catastrophic to his chest.
"That was subtle," you say, and your voice is exactly what he didn't know he'd been waiting to hear—warm and slightly teasing and real in a way that makes him want to hear you say his name just to know what it would sound like.
He should introduce himself. Should say something normal, something that doesn't make him sound like a territorial animal who's just claimed something that doesn't belong to him.
"He was touching you."
That's what comes out instead. Blunt. Possessive. Completely failing at the whole 'normal human interaction' thing he was going for.
"He was," you agree, and there's definitely amusement in your eyes now. "I didn't realize that was a problem."
"It is."
"For who?"
For me. For him. For anyone who thinks they can touch what's mine.
The thought is so immediate, so visceral, that it takes him a second to realize he can't actually say it out loud. You're not his. He doesn't even know your name. He has no right to the jealousy currently eating through his self-control like acid.
But when he looks at you—really looks at you, takes in the way you're watching him with curiosity instead of fear, the way you haven't stepped back or called for help or done any of the sensible things someone should do when a stranger gets territorial over them—something clicks into place.
Something that feels like recognition.
Like maybe you're the answer to a question he didn't know he was asking.
"For me," he finally says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended. "It's a problem for me."
You tilt your head slightly, studying him. "Why?"
Because eighty-three years of loneliness just shattered the moment he saw you. Because he's spent decades learning not to want things he can't keep and you've somehow destroyed that lesson in twenty minutes. Because when he looks at you, there's a terrifying thought taking root in his chest: She might actually survive me.
"Don't know," he lies. "Just is."
The corner of your mouth quirks up. "That's not much of an explanation."
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
The silence stretches between you, charged with something he can't name. Around you, the meeting continues—sorcerers talking, laughing, networking, completely oblivious to the fact that Yuji's entire world has just narrowed down to you and the space between your bodies and the desperate need to close that distance.
He should walk away. Should let you go back to your conversation, back to your life, back to whatever protection the Gojo Clan thinks they can offer you. Should save you from the inevitable heartbreak of getting close to someone who's going to watch you age while he stays frozen, or worse, watch you die because being near him is dangerous.
"Come with me," he says instead.
It's not a question. It should be—he should give you the choice, should let you decide if you want to follow a stranger who just scared off your conversation partner for no good reason. But the words come out like a command, rough and desperate and completely bypassing his brain's better judgment.
You should say no. Should tell him to leave you alone, should recognize that there's something wrong with the intensity in his eyes, the barely leashed need in his voice.
"Okay," you say.
His hand finds your wrist immediately—not forceful, just inevitable. His fingers wrap around it like they've been waiting for permission.
And just like that, he's doomed you both.
The bathroom door locks behind you with a click that sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
Yuji's hand is still wrapped around your wrist—not tight, just... there. Like he needs the contact. Like letting go isn't an option his body will allow.
He's staring at you, chest rising and falling too fast, and there's something almost panicked in his eyes. Something that looks like a man who's just realized he's made a terrible mistake but can't bring himself to fix it.
"I was going to explain," he says, voice rough. His thumb brushes across the inside of your wrist—once, twice—like he's checking your pulse. Making sure you're real.
Then he's kissing you.
It's desperate and claiming and nothing like the controlled person who scared off that sorcerer. His hands come up to frame your face, angling your head so he can deepen the kiss, and when you gasp he makes a sound that's half-groan, half-relief.
The kiss breaks. He pulls back exactly far enough to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, and you can feel him shaking.
"Fuck," he whispers.
His hand drifts up to cup your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone. He's looking at you like he's trying to memorize every detail, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he blinks.
Two seconds. That's how long he lasts before he's kissing you again.
This time it's softer. Almost reverent. His fingers slide into your hair, and the touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. When he pulls back again, there's something wrecked in his expression.
"I can't—" He stops. Tries again. "I've spent eighty-three years teaching myself not to reach for people."
His hand finds yours, fingers threading through yours like he needs to hold on.
"And somehow I've forgotten everything in the last twenty minutes."
You should probably be concerned about that. Should ask what he means, should demand an explanation for why a stranger is confessing decades of loneliness while touching you like you're something precious.
Should definitely ask why he just said eighty-three years when he looks like he's barely in his twenties.
But his hand is still on your face, and the desperation in his eyes is real, and you're still shaking.
He can't help himself.
His mouth finds yours again. The moment you're kissing him back, his control shatters completely. His hands are everywhere.. sliding into your hair, cupping your face, tracing down your neck, gripping your waist. Not rough, just... constant. Like he can't stop. Like every touch is confirmation that you're real and here and letting him do this.
"Sorry," he breathes against your mouth, even as his hands drift to your hips. "I'm sorry, I just—"
He doesn't finish. Just kisses you again, deeper this time, his body crowding yours back against the sink. You can feel him quaking—not with desire, though that's there too, but with something that feels like restraint breaking after decades of holding on too tight.
Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and the touch seems to undo something in him. He breaks the kiss to press his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
"Tell me to stop," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "Tell me this is a bad idea. Tell me—"
You kiss him instead of answering.
His hands tighten on your waist, and then he's kissing you back with a desperation that steals your breath. His mouth moves to your neck, and when he bites down—you can't stop the sound that escapes. That is all the permission he needs.
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't pull back or check in. Just keeps going, completely consumed now, his mouth moving back to your neck, biting at your collarbone, tasting your skin. His hands are gripping your waist, pulling you closer, and there's nothing controlled about it—just pure need.
His hands work at your clothes with an urgency that borders on frantic, and when his fingers finally touch bare skin, you both gasp.
"Fuck," he breathes. His hand slides up your side, shaking slightly. "You're so—" He stops. Tries again. "I don't think I've wanted to touch another person this badly in decades."
His fingers push beneath the fabric without hesitation. You're already wet, and that knowledge seems to undo him completely. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breathing hard against your skin.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You're—"
He doesn't finish the thought. His fingers are already moving, exploring, claiming. There's nothing gentle about it—just pure possession, pure need. He touches you with a single-minded focus, and when he slides one finger inside you, his other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to his.
"Look at me," he says, voice rough. "Need to see you."
You meet his eyes, and the intensity there steals your breath. He's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking for a long time.
He adds a second finger, and the stretch makes your breath catch. His thumb finds your clit, circling with just enough pressure that your hips jerk involuntarily, pleasure radiating through your core in sharp, electric waves. Your thighs tremble, and he watches every expression on your face—the way your eyes flutter, the way your mouth falls open—like he's cataloging each one.
"Don't hide," he murmurs. "Let me have this."
His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and you can't stop the moan that tears from your throat. He does it again, building a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, and his free hand keeps drifting—to your face, your neck, your hair—like he can't stop touching you.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You're—I can feel—" His words dissolve into something almost incoherent.
The orgasm builds faster than you expect, pleasure coiling tight in your belly with each thrust of his hand. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding on, and he leans in to kiss you—messy and desperate.
The orgasm crashes over you, and he swallows your cry with another kiss. His fingers work you through it, gentling but not stopping, drawing out every last tremor until you're gasping and shaking.
When you finally open your eyes, he's staring at you with something like awe.
His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing away the tear you didn't realize had fallen. He stares at you for a long moment, like he's trying to catalog this—the exact angle of your face, the way you look when you're undone.
Then he's dropping to his knees, and before you can process what's happening, his mouth is on you.
The first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. You're still sensitive from your orgasm, and the sensation is almost too much, but he's relentless—licking and sucking with a desperation that suggests he's been starving for this.
"Oh god," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "I can't—"
He pulls back just enough to breathe. "Not stopping," he says, and it's not a question. His breath is hot against your oversensitive flesh.
Then his mouth is on you again, and coherent thought becomes impossible. He eats you out like it's the only thing keeping him alive, his tongue working against your clit with devastating precision. His hands grip your thighs—hard, possessive—pinning you exactly where he wants you. You can't move, can't escape the relentless pressure of his mouth. He controls every second of it.
He works you through it with the same relentless intensity, wringing every last tremor from your body until you're limp. When he finally pulls back, his lips are wet, his eyes dark and hungry.
He rises to his feet, and immediately his hands are on you—gripping your jaw, sliding into your hair and pulling. His mouth crashes against yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.
His hands work at his belt, movements sharp and urgent. When he finally frees himself, your mouth goes dry.
He's long and thick in a way that makes your stomach clench. For a moment you just stare, your breath catching as the reality of what's about to happen hits you. He's bigger than anything you've experienced. Your body recognizes it before your mind catches up—heat flooding through you despite the spike of nervousness.
He turns you around roughly, pressing your front against the sink. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—flushed and disheveled.
His hand slides up your spine, and you feel the tremor in his fingers even as his grip tightens—like he's trying to steady himself by holding onto you. "Look," he commands, voice rough and uneven.
The head of him slides through your wetness once, and then he's pushing inside—one hard thrust that fills you completely. The stretch makes you cry out, and he groans against your neck, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.
He doesn't wait. Doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a brutal pace immediately. Each thrust is deep, claiming, like he's trying to convince himself you're real and here and not going to disappear.
"Fuck," he groans. One hand slides up to tangle in your hair, yanking your head back so you're forced to watch yourself in the mirror. He's watching too, jaw clenched, eyes dark and almost desperate. "Look at yourself. Look at—" His voice breaks. "I need you to see this."
The angle has him hitting that devastating spot inside you with every thrust, and combined with the sight of yourself in the mirror—completely undone, completely his—it's overwhelming. His other hand wraps around your throat, grip firm.
"Mine," he breathes against your ear. "Right here. Right now. Mine."
Your breath catches. You can't form words, can only take what he's giving you.
His hand tightens on your throat—enough to make your head spin, enough that you feel his palm against your pulse—and the combination of sensations pushes you over the edge. Your third orgasm crashes over you with devastating force, and you silently cry out, your body clenching around him.
The moment you clamp down on him, Yuji's entire body goes rigid. A groan tears from his chest—raw, almost pained—his grip on your hair tightens like he's afraid you'll slip away, his hips driving deeper, harder, like he's chasing something.
"Fuck, you feel—" His voice breaks. He pulls back just enough to thrust in again, and again, each movement desperate and punishing. "Not yet. Not fucking yet."
His breathing is ragged, his movements becoming almost frantic as he pushes you toward another peak. His hand stays locked around your throat. He doesn't let go. Can't let go. Just keeps driving into you with single-minded intensity, each thrust hitting deeper, harder.
You're already oversensitive, shaking, but he doesn't stop. Won't stop. His grip on your hair keeps your head tilted back, forcing you to watch yourself in the mirror as he takes you apart again.
When the fourth orgasm hits, it's almost too much. Your body clamps down around him violently, and you hear yourself cry out—broken, desperate.
That's what breaks him.
The moment you squeeze around him, Yuji's hand releases your throat. Both hands grab your hips hard and he drives into you with brutal force. Chasing his own release with the same desperate intensity he's shown since the moment he touched you.
He comes with a groan that sounds like it's been torn from somewhere deep inside him, his hips jerking as he buries himself as deep as he can go. You feel the heat of him, the way his entire body shudders against yours.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, shuddering with aftershocks. When he finally pulls out, you feel the loss of him and whimper.
He turns you around immediately, and his hands are on you.
Your face first—cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Then your neck, fingers tracing the line of your throat. Then he's taking your hand, threading his fingers through yours, holding on. His other hand smooths your hair back from your face. Then returns to cup your jaw. Then drifts to your wrist, thumb finding your pulse point.
He's not thinking about it. Not pausing between touches. His hands move from one point of contact to the next like they have a mind of their own, like he's confirming something over and over.
You watch him for several seconds in silence. Then, quietly you say, "You keep touching me."
He freezes. Actually freezes.
Looks down at his hands like he's only just now realizing what they're doing. One is still holding yours, fingers intertwined. The other—his thumb is brushing your cheekbone again, that same gentle sweep he's done at least a dozen times in the last minute.
"I know." His voice comes out rough. Almost helpless. "I don't know how to stop."
The silence that follows is heavy. You can see something like panic flickering in his eyes—not fear of you, but fear of himself. Of what this means.
"I shouldn't want this," he says quietly. "But I can't stop." His voice breaks on the last word. He laughs once. Quietly, defeated. His eyes search yours like he's looking for absolution he knows he doesn't deserve.
The worst part? It wasn't the kiss. It wasn't bringing you in here. It wasn't even letting himself hope. It was this. His hands. They kept finding you. Your cheek. Your hair. Your wrist. Your fingers. Every time he thought they'd finally gone still, they moved again—reaching for you like his body had forgotten how to exist without touching you.
Eighty-three years of discipline had disappeared so quietly he hadn't even noticed it happening. And standing here with you looking back at him… He couldn't find it in himself to want it back.
"So," you say, leaning back against the sink. "Are you going to tell me what that was about?"
He should explain. Should tell you that he's not normally like this, that getting close to him is dangerous.
He doesn't.
"I kept telling myself to leave you alone," he says instead, and his voice comes out quieter now. Darker. He takes a step closer. "Kept telling myself this was a bad idea."
"What was?"
"You." Another step. He's close enough now to see the way your pulse jumps in your throat, close enough to catch your scent—something clean and sharp that makes him want to bury his face in your neck and just breathe. "Wanting you. Needing you."
His hand comes up, cups your jaw without hesitation.
"You don't even know me," you point out, but your voice has gone softer.
"Going to." The words come out like a promise. Like a threat. "Going to know everything. Your name. What you're afraid of. Why everyone out there treats you like you're made of glass." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can feel the barely restrained hunger in the touch. "Going to know what makes you gasp. What makes you beg. What you look like when you come undone."
"That's—"
"Mine." His other hand finds your waist, pulls you flush against him. "You're mine now. You know that, right?"
It should sound insane. Should make you pull away, should trigger every self-preservation instinct you have.
It doesn't.
"I was going to say presumptuous," you murmur, but your hands come up to rest against his chest anyway.
The touch makes something feral spark in his eyes.
"You have no idea what you've been doing to me all night." The confession spills out raw and honest and completely lacking any pretense of control. "I saw you across that room and something just—" He breaks off, his grip on your waist tightening. "I looked at you and knew."
"Knew what?"
His forehead drops to rest against yours. "That I wasn't letting you go. That I was going to keep you. That everyone else in that room could fuck off because you were already mine."
"I know it's selfish," he continues, voice dropping lower. "I know keeping you is dangerous. I know proximity to me gets people killed."
He pauses. Lets the weight of that sink in.
"Don't care."
The words are simple. Final.
His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, possessive and certain. "I'm going to keep you. I'm going to learn every inch of you. I'm going to take everything you'll give me and then take more."
You're quiet for a long moment, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes. Waiting to see if you'll try to run. Knowing he won't let you even if you do.
"What's your name?" you ask instead.
The question catches him off guard. Of all the things you could have said, all the ways you could have responded, you're asking for his name.
"Yuji," he manages. "Yuji Itadori."
"Yuji," you repeat, and the sound of his name in your voice does something catastrophic to his chest.
He kisses you before you can say anything else. It's not soft or sweet. His hands tangle in your hair, angling your head so he can deepen the kiss, and when you gasp against his mouth he swallows the sound like he's claiming it.
You kiss him back just as desperately, your hands fisting in his shirt, and the response makes something primal roar to life in his chest. Mine, mine, mine.
It's selfish. It's dangerous. It's the most honest thing he's felt in decades.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. Your lips are swollen, your hair mussed from his hands, and you're looking at him like you understand exactly what you've just agreed to.
"I need to know your name," he says, and his voice comes out wrecked. "Need to know what to call you when you're underneath me."
You tell him.
And when you do, he commits it to memory like it's the most important thing he's ever learned. Like maybe if he holds onto it tightly enough, you won't slip away like everyone else.
"Say it again," he demands, his hands still framing your face.
You do. And then again when he asks. And again.
His thumb traces your cheekbone. Then your jaw. Then back to your cheek. He's not thinking about it anymore. His hands just move. Your name sits on his tongue like something he's tasting for the first time.
He says it once more. Quiet. Almost to himself. His grip doesn't loosen.
Tomorrow he'll face what this costs. Tomorrow he'll deal with the consequences of wanting to keep you.
But his hands are still on your face, and your pulse is still racing under his touch, and somewhere in the last hour the decision stopped being a choice.
“Megumi Fushiguro has survived curses, near-death experiences, and Gojo’s teaching methods. Turns out none of those prepared him for you saying his name every thirty seconds.”
♡ summary:
Megumi is trying to study. You are trying to get one kiss. Forty minutes, one broken pen, one very tested boyfriend, and approximately eighty interruptions later, studying is no longer the priority.
♡ pairing:
Fushiguro Megumi × fem!reader
♡ content warnings:
MDNI. established relationship, suggestive teasing, brat!reader, patient-but-not-really!Megumi, library sex, semi-public sex/public risk, fingering, vaginal sex (p in v), creampie, multiple orgasms, praise, dirty talk, possessive language, rough sex, overstimulation, orgasm denial/delay, lovesick!Megumi, soft aftercare, fluff with smut.
♡ author’s note:
Megumi saying “no” eighty times while actively losing the fight is so personal to me. Also yes, the pen was doomed from the start.
The library is quiet except for the sound of pages turning and Megumi's pen scratching across paper. You've been sitting across from him for exactly twelve minutes, pretending to read the same paragraph over and over while watching the way his dark hair falls across his forehead when he concentrates.
Thirty seconds pass.
"Megumi."
"Mm." He doesn't look up.
"I need something."
"Then get it."
You wait exactly thirty more seconds.
"Megumi."
"What." Still not looking up.
"Kiss."
His pen pauses for half a second before continuing. "No."
"Why not?"
"Studying."
You count to thirty in your head, watching the way his jaw tenses when he's focused.
"Megumi."
"What now."
"Please?"
"No."
"Just one?"
"..."
He's ignoring you now, which somehow makes it more fun. You lean forward on your elbows, resting your chin in your hands.
"Megumi."
"I'm not answering anymore."
"One kiss. That's all."
"You said that last time and we didn't study for two hours."
"That was different."
"How."
"I'll behave this time."
He finally looks up, one eyebrow raised, and god, even that expression makes your stomach flip. Seven months of dating and he still affects you like this.
"You never behave."
"I could start."
"No." He returns to his textbook.
Thirty seconds.
"Megumi."
A muscle in his jaw twitches.
"Baby."
"Don't."
"Please?"
"No."
"I miss you."
"I'm right here."
"You know what I mean."
He exhales through his nose but doesn't respond. You wait, counting down.
"Megumi."
"Stop."
"One kiss and I'll leave you alone for an hour."
"You said thirty minutes last time and lasted four."
"I have better self-control now."
"Clearly." His tone is dry, but you catch the slight curve at the corner of his mouth.
That's promising. You file that away.
Thirty seconds.
"Megumi."
His pen stops moving. For one, two, three seconds. Then it starts again, but slower.
"Megumi Fushiguro.”
"Using my full name won't help."
"Please? Pretty please?"
"..."
"I'll do anything."
"Study quietly."
"Anything but that."
He shifts in his seat. Just slightly, but you notice. You're always noticing.
Another thirty seconds. You're relentless.
"Megumi."
"What." There's an edge to his voice now.
"Kiss me."
"No."
"Touch me?"
His eyes flash up to meet yours, darker than before, and this time they stay there for a full three seconds. "Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything. Just asking."
"You're always starting something."
"Is it working?"
"No."
But his grip on the pen has tightened, and you notice he hasn't actually written anything in the last minute. The same sentence, half-finished, sits on his page.
Thirty seconds.
"Megumi."
Silence.
"Megumi, I—"
"If you say my name one more time—"
"What?" You lean forward more, deliberately letting your shirt slip lower. "What will you do?"
His eyes drop to your neckline for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your face. But this time, they linger on your lips first. "Don't test me."
"I'm just sitting here."
"You're being a brat."
"I'm being patient. Very patient. It's been almost fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen minutes isn't—" He cuts himself off, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
You watch his chest rise and fall. Once, twice. When he opens his eyes again, there's a warning in them.
You wait exactly thirty seconds, studying him. His knuckles are white around the pen. There's a small crease between his eyebrows that only appears when he's really frustrated.
"You look tense."
"I wonder why."
"I could help with that."
"You could be quiet."
"Where's the fun in that?"
His jaw works. He doesn't respond.
Thirty seconds.
"Megumi."
"Stop."
"I just think—"
"I don't care what you think right now."
"That's mean."
"You're being impossible."
"I'm being affectionate."
"You're being—" He stops himself, pressing his lips together in a thin line.
You tilt your head, watching him. "What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Didn't sound like nothing."
"Drop it."
But you can see it—the way his shoulders are tense, the way he's gripping that pen like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. You're getting to him.
Thirty seconds.
"Baby."
His pen stops. Doesn't move for five full seconds this time.
"Please?"
"No." But his voice is rougher now.
"I need you."
His eyes close again. His free hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You need to study."
"I need you more."
"That's not—" He opens his eyes, and the look he gives you makes your stomach flip. Dark. Intense. Barely controlled. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"You know exactly what."
"I'm just asking for a kiss."
"You're never just asking for anything."
You smile, sweet and innocent. "I don't know what you mean."
He stares at you for a long moment, and you can see him fighting something internal. He starts to say something, then stops. Tries again. Gives up.
Then he looks back down at his textbook with visible effort.
Victory is close. You can taste it.
Thirty seconds.
"Megumi."
"No."
"I didn't even ask anything yet."
"The answer is still no."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"Doesn't matter."
"What if it was important?"
"It's not."
"How do you know?"
He doesn't answer. But his pen has stopped moving again, and this time it doesn't start back up.
Thirty seconds.
"I'm cold."
"There's a jacket in my bag."
"I'd rather you warm me up."
His grip on the pen tightens even more. You're surprised it hasn't broken yet.
"Please?"
"No."
"Just—"
"No."
You wait, watching him pretend to read. His eyes aren't moving across the page. He's just staring at the same spot, jaw working, clearly trying to outlast you through sheer stubbornness.
Thirty seconds.
"You know what I was thinking about?"
"I don't want to know."
"That time in your room last week—"
"Stop."
"When you had me against the wall—"
"I said stop."
"And you told me to be quiet but I couldn't—"
His eyes snap up to yours, and there's heat there now, unmistakable. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"Am I winning?"
"No."
But his voice has dropped lower, and you can see the way his throat works when he swallows.
Thirty seconds.
"Megumi."
He takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly.
"Baby."
Another breath. His eyes close.
"Please?"
"You're—" He stops. Opens his eyes. The control is fracturing; you can see the cracks. "You're impossible."
"I just want your attention."
"You have my attention."
"Not the kind I want."
"Too bad."
But he's lying. You both know it. His textbook might as well not exist at this point.
Thirty seconds.
You stretch, deliberately arching your back, and watch his eyes track the movement before he catches himself and looks away. But not before you see his jaw clench again.
"Megumi."
"What." It comes out almost as a growl.
"I love you."
That makes him pause. His expression softens for just a moment, and you think maybe you've found a different angle. "I love you too. Which is why you need to let me study."
"But I love you right now."
"You'll love me in an hour too."
"Not the same."
"It's exactly the same."
"No," you say, leaning forward again. "Right now I want to show you how much I love you."
His pen stops. He doesn't move. "You're—"
"What?"
"Nothing." But his voice is strained.
Thirty seconds.
"Remember this morning?"
"Don't."
"When you kissed me before I was even awake?"
"I'm warning you—"
"And your hands were in my hair, and you were so gentle—"
"Stop talking."
"I want that again. Want you gentle. Or rough. I don't care. Just want you."
He's staring at the same spot on the page, not reading it.
"Please, Megumi."
He doesn't respond. Can't, maybe. You can see his chest rising and falling faster now.
Thirty seconds.
"What if I came over there?"
"Don't."
"What if I sat in your lap?"
"You won't."
"What if I did?"
"Then you'd be in trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
His eyes meet yours, and the look in them makes heat pool low in your stomach. "The kind where we don't study for the rest of the day."
"That doesn't sound like trouble."
"It should."
"But it doesn't."
He closes his eyes again, and you can see him counting in his head, trying to find patience he doesn't have anymore.
Thirty seconds.
"I'm wearing that bra you like."
His eyes snap open.
"The black lacy one."
"Stop."
"The one you couldn't stop touching last time."
"I'm serious—"
"Want to see?"
He's quiet, which is worse than if he'd answered. The pen is shaking in his grip.
"Just a peek?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
But he doesn't sound sure. He sounds wrecked.
Thirty seconds.
"Megumi."
Silence.
"Baby."
He's wound so tight you're afraid something's going to snap.
"Please?"
"..."
"I need you."
"You're—" His voice breaks slightly. He clears his throat. "You're killing me."
"Is it working?"
"You know it is."
"Then why are you still studying?"
"Because—" He stops. Stares at his textbook like it has the answers. "Because I have to."
"No you don't."
"Yes, I do."
"You want to kiss me."
"That's not—"
"You do. I can tell."
"It doesn't matter what I want."
"It's the only thing that matters."
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you can see how close he is to breaking. His control is hanging by a thread.
Thirty seconds.
"One kiss."
"No."
"One touch."
"No."
"Anything. I'll take anything."
His hand flexes around the pen. Once. Twice.
"Please, Megumi. I'm begging."
"You're always begging."
"Because you never give in."
"I give in all the time."
"Not enough."
"Too much."
"Never too much."
Thirty seconds.
You stand up slowly, and his eyes track the movement. You walk around the table, and he watches you approach like you're something dangerous.
"What are you doing?"
"Coming to you."
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He swallows hard as you stop right next to his chair. "Because if you get any closer, I won't be able to stop myself."
"Good."
"That's not good."
"Sounds good to me."
You reach out, just barely brushing your fingers through his hair, and he actually shudders.
"Please," you whisper. "Just one kiss. That's all I'm asking."
His eyes close. His free hand comes up and catches your wrist, but he doesn't push you away. Just holds you there, thumb pressing against your pulse point.
"You're not going to stop," he says quietly. "Are you."
"Not until you give in."
"That's what I thought."
He opens his eyes, and the look in them makes your breath catch. Dark. Hungry. Barely restrained.
"One kiss," you try again.
"It's never just one kiss with you."
"I promise—"
"You promised last time too."
"This time is different."
"How."
"Because—" You lean down, bringing your lips close to his ear. "Because I want you so badly I can barely think straight, and I know you want me too, and we're both just sitting here pretending we don't."
His grip on your wrist tightens. The pen trembles.
"Please, baby. Please."
For a moment, you think he's going to give in. His eyes drop to your lips. He swallows hard, like he's physically fighting something. The hand holding your wrist pulls you slightly closer.
Then he lets go and turns back to his textbook with visible effort.
"No."
You stare at him in disbelief. "Megumi—"
"I said no."
But his voice is shaking now, and the pen is trembling so badly he can barely hold it.
You step back, returning to your seat, and watch him try to focus on studying. He's not even pretending anymore—his eyes are just fixed on the page, unseeing, while he fights for control.
Thirty seconds.
"You're so stubborn."
"I have to be. With you."
"Is it worth it?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"..."
He doesn't answer. Can't, maybe.
Thirty seconds.
"Megumi."
The pen stops moving.
"I love you."
His jaw works.
"I need you."
His breathing changes.
"Please."
His eyes close.
"Baby, please."
The pen snaps.
Not breaks—snaps, clean in half between his fingers. Ink bleeds across his palm as he slowly sets both pieces down on the table. When he looks up at you, your breath catches.
"You," he says quietly, voice low and controlled in a way that makes heat pool in your stomach, "have been testing my patience for the last forty minutes."
"I was just—"
"Every thirty seconds." He stands up, and you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "Like clockwork. Like you were trying to drive me insane."
Then he's kissing you, hard and demanding, swallowing your gasp as his other hand tangles in your hair.
Then he's kissing you, hard and demanding, swallowing your gasp as his other hand tangles in your hair. It's not gentle—it's seven months of knowing exactly how you like it, exactly how to make you melt against him.
You reach for him but he catches your wrists, pinning them against the table behind you without breaking the kiss. His tongue slides against yours and you moan into his mouth, already feeling yourself getting wet from just this.
"Megumi—"
"Quiet." He bites your lower lip, not quite hard enough to hurt. "You wanted my attention? You have it. All of it."
He releases your wrists only to grab your hips, lifting you onto the table and stepping between your legs in one smooth motion. Books and papers scatter but neither of you care. His mouth moves to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
"Fuck," you breathe, tilting your head back to give him better access. "Yes—"
"Couldn't even let me finish one page." His teeth graze your pulse point. "Couldn't wait until we got back to the dorm."
"Didn't want to wait."
"You never want to wait." His hands slide under your shirt, palms hot against your skin. "Always interrupting. Always pushing until I break."
The words make you clench around nothing. "Megumi—"
He pulls back to look at you, pupils blown wide. "Wanted to see how far you could push me before I snapped?"
"Yes," you whimper. "Please—"
"Please." He laughs, low and dark. "Now you're polite. Where was this attitude twenty minutes ago?"
"I'm sorry—"
"No, you're not." His hands move to your thighs, spreading them wider. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
He's right and you both know it. You'd wanted this—wanted to push him until he snapped, until the careful control he always maintains finally broke.
"Stay still," he orders, his voice low and commanding.
You freeze, watching as his hands move to your skirt. He hikes it up slowly, deliberately, until it's bunched around your waist. Your underwear is exposed, and you feel heat flood your cheeks at being so openly displayed in the middle of the library.
His thumb hooks under the waistband of your underwear, not pulling them off—just holding you open for his gaze. The restraint in the gesture is somehow more intense than if he'd simply removed them. He's keeping you partially dressed, keeping you vulnerable but contained.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his eyes dark as they travel over the exposed skin. "Half-dressed on this table. Anyone could walk by."
You're still wearing his oversized sweater, slightly pushed up at the chest. The partial undress is somehow more intimate than complete nakedness—the contrast makes you feel impossibly vulnerable. Sitting on the library table half-dressed while he remains fully clothed, every layer of fabric between you a reminder that you're in public. Anyone could walk by. The risk makes you throb.
He just looks at you for a long moment.
Doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
His eyes travel over your body slowly, deliberately, like he's trying to memorize every detail. The silence stretches between you, heavy with tension, and you watch his jaw work as he fights for composure.
"Megumi?"
"…Give me a second."
His hands are clenched at his sides. You can see the visible effort it takes for him to just stand there, to not immediately touch you. It's the same restraint he'd been clinging to all evening, except now there's nothing left to hide behind. No textbook. No pretense of studying.
Just him, looking at you like he's drowning.
"You're—" He stops. Closes his eyes. Takes a breath. "Fuck."
When he opens them again, something has shifted. The last thread of control snapping.
His hands are on you immediately, one cupping your breast while the other slides between your legs. You gasp when his fingers find how wet you already are.
"Already soaked." He circles your clit slowly, teasingly. "I barely touched you."
"Been—ah—been thinking about this," you manage.
"While I was trying to study?" Two fingers slide inside you easily and you moan, hips bucking into his hand. "While I was trying to focus, you were sitting there getting wet?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
He pumps his fingers slowly, curling them just right. "Wanted to drive me crazy."
Then he stops.
Withdraws his fingers completely, leaving you empty and aching.
"Megumi—"
"I should—" His voice is strained. "I should make you wait. Make you feel what I felt."
But even as he says it, his eyes are fixed between your legs, watching you clench around nothing. He's trying not to touch you. The hand that's not touching you is gripping the edge of the table hard enough that his knuckles are white.
"Please," you whimper.
"…You're going to be the death of me."
His fingers slide back inside, and this time there's no teasing. He pumps them steadily, adding a third when you moan his name. His thumb finds your clit and you cry out.
His fingers curl right and your head falls back.
"Megumi, please—"
"Please what?" His voice is rough. "Tell me."
"Please fuck me—please—"
"After interrupting me every thirty seconds?" His fingers curl just right and your head falls back.
"Yes—yes—please—"
"I don't know." But his rhythm is faltering, his control slipping with every sound you make. "Maybe I should just make you come like this. Make you come on my fingers over and over until you can't remember your own name."
"No—want you—please—"
He withdraws his fingers abruptly, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean while maintaining eye contact. "You taste like you planned this."
You watch as he finally undoes his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with deliberate slowness. His hands are shaking slightly as he unzips his pants, but he doesn't remove them—just enough to free himself, hard and leaking against his shirt.
"Megumi—"
"Patience," he says, but his voice is strained, barely steady.
"That's not fair—"
"You got what you wanted though, didn't you?"
You reach for him but he catches your hand, bringing it to his length and wrapping your fingers around him. Your fingers brush against the fabric of his shirt, and you can feel the hard muscle underneath. "Feel what you do to me? How hard you make me?"
"Yes," you breathe, stroking him slowly, your other hand sliding under his shirt to feel his chest. His skin is warm, his heartbeat racing under your palm. "Want it—want you—"
His eyes close for a second, and when they open again, there's something raw in them. Something vulnerable.
He looks down at where his hand rests on your skin, like he's still surprised he's allowed to touch you. His jaw clenches, releases.
"Megumi—"
"Lie back," he commands, and you do, the table cool against your overheated skin.
He pulls you to the edge, hooking your legs over his shoulders, pushes your panties to the side and then he's pushing inside in one long, slow thrust that has you both groaning.
"Fuck," Megumi grits out, and he stops, buried completely inside you.
You can feel the desperation in every movement, the way he can barely pace himself as he fights for control. When he opens his eyes again, they're dark and desperate.
"You feel—" He stops, looks down at where he's buried inside you, and something in his expression breaks. "Fuck—"
"Move," you beg. "Please, Megumi, move—"
He pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a brutal pace that has the table creaking beneath you. Your hands scramble for purchase, finally gripping the edge above your head.
"Yes—yes—fuck—Megumi—"
"Thirty seconds and you couldn't help yourself." His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise.
"Yes—yes—just like that—"
"Yeah?" He angles his hips, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "This what you wanted? Wanted me to fuck you on this table where anyone could walk in?"
The thought makes you clench around him and he groans. "You like that idea. Like the thought of someone seeing you spread out for me."
"Megumi—oh god—"
"No one else gets to see this though." His pace somehow increases, each thrust driving you up the table. "No one else is getting you like this.”
"Only you," you gasp. "Only ever you—"
One of his hands moves between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing tight circles. The dual stimulation is overwhelming.
"Megumi—I'm—I'm close—"
He slows immediately. Not stopping, but pulling back from that brutal pace to something more controlled. Deliberate.
For a moment, he just breathes. Eyes closed. Like he's recalibrating.
"Already?" His voice is strained, and you can see the effort it takes to maintain this slower rhythm. "I've barely started with you."
"Please—please let me come—"
"Not yet." His thumb stills and you whine in frustration.
"That's not—ah—not fair—"
"This is what you get for pushing me." He leans down, changing the angle so he's hitting even deeper, and his control fractures. The slow pace breaks. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget why you thought interrupting my studying was a good idea."
His mouth finds yours, and every sound you make is his to keep as he continues the relentless pace. You can feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your core, but you force yourself to hold back, knowing he'll make it even better if you wait.
Then he pulls back from the kiss, breathing hard.
For a moment he just looks at you—really looks at you—and something in his expression shifts. Softens. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek.
"You're—" He stops. Swallows. "Fuck, you're everything."
The tenderness in his voice makes your chest tight.
Then he's kissing you again, and there's no more room for tenderness.
His fingers return to your clit, moving in quick circles. "You're falling apart for me."
"Please—"
"Say it again." His voice is rough, strained, barely holding on. "Say you need me."
"Please—please Megumi—I need—" You're trembling.
His hand flexes around your waist, the only sign of how close he is to losing it—
"Come," he orders, but his voice breaks on the word. "Come for me. Now."
Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, pleasure crashing through you so intensely you can't even scream. Your back arches off the table, legs shaking as you clench rhythmically around him.
"Fuck—yes—that's it—" Megumi's voice sounds far away as you ride out the waves. "That's what I wanted to see—"
He doesn't stop moving, fucking you through it until the pleasure borders on too much. You're gasping, trembling, oversensitive, but he just adjusts his grip and keeps going.
"Megumi—I can't—"
"Yes, you can." His rhythm becomes erratic, desperate. "Again—" His voice breaks on the word.
Your fingers find your clit, and you cry out. The second orgasm builds impossibly fast, cresting before you can even warn him.
"Megumi—oh god—yes—"
"Fuck—yes—“
Your fingers move faster, matching his brutal pace. You can feel him swelling inside you, know he's close too.
"Gonna come," you gasp. "Gonna—fuck—Megumi—"
"Do it. Come for me again."
This orgasm is somehow even more intense than the first, pleasure radiating through your entire body. You're vaguely aware of yourself screaming his name, of your legs giving out completely so he has to hold you up.
"Fuck—yes—so good—" Megumi's rhythm falters.
He groans, low and guttural, and then he's coming, hips stuttering as he fills you. You can feel the warmth spreading, can feel him pulsing inside you, and it triggers another small aftershock that has you whimpering.
For a long moment, neither of you move, both trying to catch your breath. Then Megumi carefully pulls out, pulling you against his chest.
"You okay?" His voice is soft now, concerned.
"More than okay." You look up at him with a satisfied smile. "That was—"
"Overdue." He kisses your forehead. "You've been driving me crazy all day."
"Just today?"
"Fair point." He helps you sit back on the table, wincing at the mess you've made. "We should probably clean this up before someone comes in."
"Probably." But neither of you move yet, content to stay wrapped in each other.
"So…" you say after a moment, "does this mean we're done studying for today?"
He lets out a dry laugh. "We were done the moment you said my name the first time."
You grin. "I knew it."
"…You absolutely did."
He helps you straighten your clothes, his movements careful and deliberate. His fingers brush against your skin as he adjusts your shirt, then he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb comes up to your cheek, wiping away a small smudge of ink—probably from when he'd touched your face earlier with his stained hand.
The gesture is so gentle, so quietly domestic, that it makes your chest ache.
"You know you can't say no to me, right?" you say softly.
He closes his eyes for a second. "…I really should be able to."
"But?"
He sighs. "…Not with you."
"So much for all those no's."
"…I meant them."
"No, you didn't."
Another sigh, longer this time. "…No."
You slide into his lap almost automatically, like you've done a hundred times before. He doesn't complain. One arm settles around your waist. The other comes up to the back of your head, fingers slipping gently into your hair.
"Brat."
"Your brat."
"…Yeah."
He lets out one quiet, defeated breath.
His arm tightens around your waist, and he pulls you closer, pressing a slow kiss to your temple, lingering there just a little longer than necessary. His eyes squeeze shut for a brief second.
“Yuji Itadori has survived curses, death, and Sukuna. Turns out none of those prepared him for you wearing his hoodie while making dinner.”
♡ summary:
Yuji and Megumi are halfway through a gaming session when Yuji makes the mistake of looking toward the kitchen. Twenty minutes, sixteen in-game deaths, one very judgmental Megumi, and one abandoned match later, dinner is the least of your concerns.
♡ author’s note:
Yuji being completely, unapologetically whipped is one of my favorite character dynamics to write. Megumi absolutely tells everyone about the gaming disaster afterward.
The sounds of gunfire and explosions filled Yuji's headset as he mashed buttons on his controller, his character on screen taking heavy damage from an enemy he should have seen coming three seconds ago.
"Itadori, what the hell was that?" Megumi's voice crackled through the headset, flat and unimpressed. "That's the third time you've died in the last ten minutes. Are you even paying attention?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm paying attention!" Yuji protested, respawning and trying to refocus on the screen. But even as he said it, his eyes drifted away from the TV, pulled like a magnet toward the kitchen.
You were standing at the stove, completely absorbed in whatever you were cooking, and Yuji felt his mouth go dry. His hoodie—the black one with the faded logo that he'd been looking for all week—hung off your frame, the oversized fabric falling to mid-thigh. Every time you reached for something or stirred the pot, the hem would ride up just enough to reveal the black thong underneath, the thin straps sitting high on your hips.
"Itadori!"
"Huh?" Yuji jerked his attention back to the screen just in time to watch his character get sniped. "Shit!"
"Dude, seriously, what is going on with you?" Megumi sounded more curious now than annoyed. "You're playing like garbage."
Yuji felt heat creeping up his neck. He tried to focus on the game, he really did, but you chose that exact moment to bend over slightly to check something in the oven, and the hoodie rode up even higher. The curve of your ass was right there, barely covered by that scrap of black fabric, and Yuji's controller nearly slipped from his suddenly sweaty palms.
"I'm fine," he managed, his voice coming out slightly strained. "Just... distracted."
"Distracted by what?"
Yuji respawned again, trying desperately to concentrate on the objective marker on his screen. He made it approximately fifteen seconds before his gaze wandered back to the kitchen. You were humming now, swaying slightly to whatever song was in your head, and the movement made the hoodie shift and slide against your body in ways that were absolutely not helping his situation.
The thing was, you weren't even trying to be distracting. You were just cooking dinner in comfortable clothes—well, his clothes—completely unaware that you were destroying his ability to function. That somehow made it worse. Or better. Yuji wasn't entirely sure which.
"Itadori, you just ran directly into enemy fire."
"I know!" Yuji groaned, dragging a hand down his face. His character was dead again. He was pretty sure he'd died more times in this one match than in his entire gaming session last week.
You turned slightly, reaching for something on the counter, and the movement made the hoodie slip off one shoulder. Yuji could see the smooth line of your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. He remembered kissing that exact spot this morning, the little sound you'd made when he'd—
"Okay, seriously." Megumi's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp with disbelief. "What the hell is actually going on? You just stood there and let three guys shoot you."
"I was—" Yuji started, but he didn't have a good excuse.
"You were what? Admiring the scenery? It's a warehouse level, Itadori. There's nothing to look at."
Yuji shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of how his sweatpants were fitting. "I'm just having an off day."
"An off day?" Megumi's tone was incredulous. "You've died fourteen times. Fourteen. I've been counting."
"You've been counting?"
"Someone has to document this tragedy." There was a pause, then: "Wait. Are you even looking at the screen right now?"
"Yes!" Yuji lied, his eyes still fixed on the kitchen where you were now stretching up on your tiptoes to reach something on a high shelf. The hoodie rode up, exposing the curve of your ass, the black thong straps, the smooth expanse of your thighs—
His character died again.
"FIFTEEN!" Megumi announced. "That's a new record. I think you just died faster than the actual respawn timer."
"Okay, okay, I get it—"
"No, I don't think you do. We're supposed to be doing a stealth mission. Stealth. You just ran into the middle of an enemy patrol doing what I can only describe as interpretive dance."
Despite everything, Yuji laughed. "I did not—"
"You absolutely did. Your character was spinning in circles. Were you having a seizure? Should I call someone?"
"Fushiguro—"
"Because if you're having a medical emergency, I need to know. I'll feel bad about all the trash talk."
"I'm not having a medical emergency!" Yuji protested, but his eyes had already drifted back to the kitchen. You were bending over now, checking something in the oven, and the view was—
"Oh my god, you're doing it again." Megumi's voice was flat. "I can literally hear you not paying attention. What is so interesting that you can't focus for five consecutive seconds?"
"Nothing! I'm focused!"
"You're literally not even moving. Your character is just standing in the open. You're about to die again."
"I'm—shit!" Yuji frantically mashed buttons, but it was too late. Death number sixteen.
"Okay, that's it." Megumi's voice took on a different quality—the tone of someone who'd just figured something out. "What's she doing?"
Yuji's brain short-circuited. "What?"
"Your girlfriend. She's there, isn't she?"
"I don't—how did you—"
"Itadori. We've been friends for how long? You think I don't know what 'distracted by a pretty girl' sounds like?" Megumi paused. "Also you just confirmed it by not denying it immediately."
"Fuck," Yuji muttered.
"So what's she doing that's so distracting you can't even play a video game? Is she doing a striptease in the background? Juggling? On fire?"
"She's cooking dinner," Yuji admitted, his face burning.
There was a long pause. Then: "She's... cooking dinner."
"Yeah."
"Just regular cooking. Like, with pots and pans and stuff."
"...Yeah."
"And this is so distracting that you've forgotten how to use a controller."
"Look, you don't understand—"
"Oh, I understand perfectly," Megumi said, and Yuji could hear the grin in his voice. "Let me guess. She's wearing something cute. Maybe one of your hoodies?"
Yuji said nothing, which was apparently answer enough.
"Oh my god, she is! And let me guess—not much else?"
"Fushiguro—"
"I'm right, aren't I? She's walking around in your clothes looking adorable and domestic and you've completely lost the ability to function as a human being."
"It's not—" Yuji tried, but Megumi was on a roll now.
"This is amazing. This is the best thing that's happened all week. Yuji Itadori, the guy who can literally fight curses without breaking a sweat, completely destroyed by his girlfriend making dinner."
"Are you done?" Yuji asked, but he was smiling despite himself.
"Not even close. I'm going to tell everyone about this. Nobara's going to lose her mind. Maki's going to give you so much shit—"
"You're not telling anyone!"
"I'm absolutely telling everyone. This is peak comedy. You're so whipped you can't even—wait, are you even listening to me right now?"
Yuji wasn't. You had just turned around, leaning back against the counter, and the way the hoodie draped over your body, the way you were smiling at something on your phone, completely unaware of what you were doing to him—
"You're not listening," Megumi said flatly. "Unbelievable. I'm having a whole conversation with myself."
"I'm listening!"
"What did I just say?"
"Uh..."
"Exactly." Megumi sighed, but it sounded more amused than annoyed. "You know what? I'm not even mad. This is too entertaining. How long have you been like this?"
"Like what?"
"Completely useless. How long has she been cooking?"
Yuji glanced at the time. "Maybe... twenty minutes?"
"Twenty minutes," Megumi repeated. "You've been dying repeatedly for twenty minutes because your girlfriend is cooking dinner in your hoodie."
"When you say it like that—"
"It sounds exactly as pathetic as it is? Yeah." There was a pause, then Megumi's voice softened slightly. "But also kind of cute, I guess. In a really, really sad way."
"Thanks," Yuji said dryly.
"So are you going to actually play, or should I just quit now and save us both the embarrassment?"
Yuji watched as you started humming again, doing a little dance as you stirred something on the stove. The hoodie shifted with your movement, and he could see the black thong straps against your hips, the curve of your waist, the way your hair fell over your shoulder—
"I gotta go," Yuji said abruptly.
"What? We're in the middle of a—"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry, but I really gotta go—"
"Itadori—"
"I'll make it up to you! We'll play tomorrow, I promise—"
"You're seriously ditching me right now? In the middle of a mission?"
"Yeah," Yuji said, already pulling off his headset. "Yeah, I really am."
"Unbelievable. You're so pussy-whipped it's actually embarrassing."
Yuji paused, the headset halfway off, and grinned. "You know what, Fushiguro? You're absolutely right."
"Wait, what?"
"You're damn right I'm pussy-whipped. And I don't care even a little bit." He yanked the headset off completely, cutting off whatever Megumi was about to say, and tossed it onto the couch.
He could deal with the shit he'd get for that later. Right now, he had much more important things to focus on.
He stood up from the couch, his sweatpants doing absolutely nothing to hide his arousal at this point, and started toward the kitchen. You were still at the stove, stirring something that smelled amazing, completely oblivious to the effect you were having on him.
Or maybe not completely oblivious, he thought, because as he got closer, he could see the slight curve of your smile, the way you were very deliberately not looking at him even though you definitely knew he was there.
The kitchen was warm from the cooking, and it smelled incredible—garlic and herbs and something savory that made his mouth water. But Yuji was far more interested in you than in whatever was in the pots on the stove.
"Hey," he said softly, coming up behind you.
"Hey yourself," you replied, still focused on the stove. "How's the game going?"
"It's not." Yuji stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body. "I quit."
"Oh?" You glanced back at him, and there was definitely mischief in your eyes. "Why's that?"
"You know why."
"I really don't." But you were smiling now, that teasing smile that drove him crazy. "I'm just cooking dinner. In comfortable clothes."
"Comfortable clothes," Yuji repeated, his eyes trailing down your body. "Is that what we're calling this?"
"What else would we call it?" You turned back to the stove, giving the pot another stir. "It's your hoodie. You wear it all the time."
"Yeah, but when I wear it, I usually have pants on underneath."
"I have pants on."
"That—" Yuji gestured vaguely at your lower half, "—is not pants. That's barely even underwear."
You laughed, the sound bright and warm. "It's a thong, Yuji. Pretty standard underwear, actually."
"Not when you're wearing it in my kitchen," he muttered, and he saw your shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.
"Your kitchen? I thought this was our apartment."
"It is, but—that's not the point." Yuji ran a hand through his hair, feeling flustered and aroused and slightly ridiculous all at once. "You're distracting me."
"I'm cooking."
"You're torturing me."
"Dramatic much?" But you were definitely smiling now, clearly enjoying his predicament.
Yuji made a decision. He closed the remaining distance between you, his chest pressing against your back, and wrapped his arms around your waist. You made a small sound of surprise, but you didn't pull away.
"Yuji—"
"Shh," he murmured, dipping his head to press a kiss to the side of your neck. Your skin was warm and soft, and you smelled like the jasmine body wash you always used mixed with the savory scents from the stove. "Just let me..."
He kissed your neck again, slower this time, and felt you shiver in his arms. His hands splayed across your stomach, feeling the soft fabric of his hoodie and the warmth of your body underneath.
"Yuji, I'm trying to cook," you protested, but your voice had gone breathy, and you tilted your head slightly to give him better access.
"Mmm," he hummed against your skin, kissing a trail up to the spot just below your ear that always made you gasp. "Cook faster then."
"That's not—oh—" Your words cut off as he found that sensitive spot and sucked gently. The wooden spoon in your hand clattered against the side of the pot.
"Not what?" Yuji murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. His hands had started moving, sliding up your sides, feeling the way the hoodie bunched and shifted under his palms.
"Not how cooking works," you managed, but you were leaning back against him now, your body soft and pliant in his arms.
"Then maybe you should turn off the stove." He punctuated the suggestion with another kiss to your neck, this time letting his teeth graze your skin just slightly.
"Yuji!" You tried to sound stern, but it came out more like a moan. "The food is going to burn!"
"I'll order us pizza later," he said, grinning against your neck. "I promise."
"You're impossible," you breathed, but you were already reaching for the stove knobs, turning down the heat.
"Impossibly charming?" Yuji suggested, his hands sliding higher. "Impossibly handsome? Impossibly good at distracting you?"
You laughed, the sound turning into a soft gasp as his thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts through the thick fabric. "Impossibly full of yourself."
"You love it," he said confidently, and the way you melted back against him told him he was right.
His hands were everywhere now, feeling the curves of your body underneath. One hand splayed across your stomach, holding you back against him so you could feel exactly how hard he was. The other slid up to cup your breast, his thumb finding your nipple through the fabric and circling slowly.
"Yuji," you gasped, and the way you said his name—breathy and wanting—sent a jolt of heat straight through him.
"Yeah, baby?" He kissed your shoulder, then bit down gently, and you arched back against him with a whimper.
"You're really not going to let me finish cooking, are you?"
"Not a chance." He turned you around in his arms, and the sight of you took his breath away. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips parted, your eyes dark with desire. The hoodie had slipped off one shoulder. "Hi."
"Hi," you breathed, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was deep and hungry, all the want that had been building while he watched you from the couch pouring out. His hands cupped your face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you made a small, needy sound that went straight to his dick.
Your hands fisted in his t-shirt, pulling him closer, and Yuji went willingly, pressing you back against the counter. He kissed you like he was starving for it, his tongue sliding against yours, swallowing every little gasp and moan you made.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. Your lips were swollen, your eyes glazed, and Yuji couldn't help but grin at how wrecked you looked already.
"I love you," he said, the words tumbling out without thought.
"I love you too," you replied, smiling up at him. "Even when you're being a distraction."
"I'm the distraction?" Yuji laughed, his hands sliding down to your hips. "Baby, you've been driving me crazy for the last twenty minutes."
"I was just cooking!"
"In my hoodie and a thong." His hands slid lower, cupping your ass and pulling you flush against him. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
"Maybe," you admitted with a grin, and Yuji laughed again, the sound bright and happy.
"You're trouble," he said, but he was smiling as he kissed you again, softer this time.
"Your trouble," you corrected against his lips.
"Damn right." He kissed along your jaw, his hands kneading your ass through the thin fabric. "All mine."
You hummed in agreement, your hands sliding up into his hair, and Yuji took that as permission to continue his exploration. He kissed down your neck, finding that spot that always made you gasp, and sucked hard enough to leave a mark.
"Yuji!" you gasped, but you were pulling him closer, not pushing him away.
"What?" he murmured innocently against your skin. "Just marking what's mine."
"Possessive much?"
"When it comes to you? Absolutely." He kissed the mark he'd just made, then moved to your shoulder, pushing the hoodie aside. "Is that a problem?"
"Not even a little bit," you breathed, and Yuji grinned against your skin.
He kissed and sucked at your neck and shoulders, leaving a trail of marks that would definitely be visible tomorrow. The thought sent a possessive thrill through him—you, marked by him, wearing his clothes, in the apartment you shared. His.
"You know what?" Yuji said suddenly, pulling back to look at you.
"What?" you asked, slightly dazed.
"Megumi called me pussy-whipped."
You blinked, then laughed. "Did he now?"
"Yep. Said I was completely useless because of you." Yuji's grin widened. "And you know what? He's absolutely right."
"Is that so?"
"Completely right. I am totally, completely, one hundred percent pussy-whipped." He punctuated each word with a kiss—your lips, your jaw, your neck. "And I don't care even a little bit."
You were laughing now, the sound bright and joyful, and Yuji felt his chest swell with affection. God, he loved making you laugh.
"You're ridiculous," you said, but your eyes were soft.
"Ridiculously in love with you," he corrected, and kissed you again before you could respond.
This kiss was different—still heated, still wanting, but with an undercurrent of tenderness that made your breath catch. Yuji poured everything he felt into it, all the love and desire and joy that you brought into his life.
When he pulled back, you were looking at him with such affection that it made his heart skip a beat.
"So," you said softly, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "What are you going to do about this pussy-whipped situation?"
Yuji's grin turned wicked. "Well, I was thinking..." He bent down suddenly, and before you could react, he'd lifted you up, his hands gripping your thighs.
You squeaked in surprise, your arms automatically wrapping around his neck. "Yuji!"
"I was thinking," he continued, as if you hadn't just made the most adorable sound, "that if I'm going to be pussy-whipped, I might as well earn it."
"Oh my god," you laughed, but you were already wrapping your legs around his waist. "You're impossible."
"You keep saying that," Yuji said, walking you backward toward the counter. "But you're still here."
"Where else would I be?"
"Good point." He set you down on the counter, the cool surface making you gasp. "Now, where were we?"
"You were being distracting," you said, but you were pulling him closer, your legs tightening around his waist.
"Right. Being distracting." Yuji kissed you again, his hands sliding up under the hoodie. "I'm very good at that."
"Too good," you murmured against his lips.
His hands found bare skin, and he groaned at the contact. You were so warm, so soft, and the way you arched into his touch made him want to touch every inch of you.
"This needs to come off," he said, tugging at the hoodie.
"Impatient," you teased, but you were already lifting your arms.
Yuji pulled the hoodie up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking. And there you were, sitting on his kitchen counter in nothing but that tiny black thong, your skin flushed, your chest heaving, your eyes dark with want.
"Fuck," he breathed, just looking at you. "You're so beautiful."
"Yuji—" you started, but he was already kissing you again, his hands sliding up your sides.
He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his hands exploring every inch of newly exposed skin. When his thumbs brushed over your nipples, you gasped into his mouth, and Yuji grinned against your lips.
"Sensitive?" he murmured.
"You know I am," you breathed.
He kissed down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, taking his time. When he reached your breast, he looked up at you, maintaining eye contact as he took your nipple into his mouth.
"Oh fuck," you gasped, your hands flying to his hair.
Yuji hummed in satisfaction, his tongue circling and flicking, and your grip on his hair tightened. He gave your other breast the same attention, his hand kneading and squeezing, and the sounds you were making were absolutely incredible.
Yuji's fingers hooked under the waistband of your thong and slid it down your legs in one smooth motion. He kissed you as his hand found its way between your thighs, and when his fingers brushed against your wet heat, you both groaned.
"So wet already," he murmured against your lips.
"Your fault," you gasped, your hips rolling against his hand.
"Yeah?" Yuji grinned, his fingers sliding through your folds. "You like it when I get all possessive?"
"Yes," you admitted breathlessly. "I love it when you—oh!—when you can't keep your hands off me—"
"Good," Yuji said, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow circles. "Because I can never keep my hands off you."
You moaned, your head falling back, and Yuji took advantage of the exposed skin to kiss and bite at your neck. His fingers kept moving, steady and sure, and he could feel you getting wetter under his touch.
"That feel good?" he asked, even though your moans were answer enough.
"So good," you gasped. "Don't stop—"
"Never," he promised, and slid one finger inside you.
You cried out, your inner walls clenching around him, and Yuji groaned at how tight you were.
"Fuck, baby," he breathed, starting to move his finger. "You feel amazing."
"More," you whimpered. "I need more—"
He added a second finger, stretching you, and your back arched off the counter. "Like this?"
"Yes! Oh god, yes—"
Yuji set a steady rhythm, his fingers curling inside you to hit that spot that always made you see stars. His thumb found your clit, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts, and the dual stimulation had you writhing on the counter.
"Look at you," he murmured, watching your face as pleasure washed over it. "So fucking pretty like this."
"Yuji," you gasped, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the counter. "Yuji, I'm close—"
He grinned against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "Yeah? Gonna fall apart for me right here on our kitchen counter?"
He increased his pace, his fingers moving faster, pressing harder against that perfect spot with every thrust. Your whole body went taut, every muscle tensing as the pressure built and built. Your breathing came in short, desperate gasps, and you could feel it—that edge getting closer, closer—
"Yuji!" Your voice was high and desperate. "Oh fuck, I'm—"
Your orgasm hit you hard, your whole body shaking as pleasure crashed through you. You cried out his name, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers, and Yuji worked you through it, his movements never faltering.
He groaned low in his throat, feeling you pulse around his fingers. "There you go—fuck, I can feel you squeezing me," he murmured, kissing your neck and jaw. "So good, baby. You're so good."
When the waves finally subsided, you slumped back against the counter, breathing hard. Your eyes were glazed, your skin flushed, and you looked absolutely wrecked in the best possible way.
"Holy shit," you breathed.
Yuji grinned, slowly withdrawing his fingers. "We're not done yet."
"Give me a second," you laughed breathlessly. "You just melted my brain."
"Take all the time you need," he said, but he was already pushing down his sweatpants and boxers, his cock springing free.
Your eyes went wide. "Okay, maybe I don't need that much time."
Yuji laughed, the sound bright and happy. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you said, reaching for him. "Come here."
He stepped between your legs, and you wrapped your hand around his length, stroking slowly. Yuji groaned, his hips jerking into your touch.
"Fuck, that feels good," he breathed.
"You're so hard," you murmured, your thumb swiping over the tip. Yuji groaned, his hips bucking forward. "Shit, baby, you're gonna make me lose it before I even get inside you," he said, grinning despite the desperation in his voice. "Don't test me."
You bit your lip, amused, and guided him toward your entrance.
He pushed forward slowly, watching your face as he entered you. Your mouth fell open, your eyes fluttering closed, and the low moan you made went straight to his cock.
"Fuck," he groaned as he sank into you inch by inch. "Baby, you feel so good."
"Harder," you gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Yuji, fuck—harder."
He pushed deeper, and deeper still, until he was fully seated inside you. You were so tight, so wet, so perfect around him that Yuji had to pause for a moment, his forehead resting against yours.
"You okay?" you asked softly.
"Yeah," he managed, grinning despite how overwhelmed he felt. "Just trying not to come immediately because you feel too fucking good."
You laughed, the sound turning into a moan as your inner walls clenched around him. "Take your time."
"You're not making it easy," he said, but he was smiling as he started to move.
He pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in, slow and deep, and you gasped with each thrust. Yuji set a steady rhythm, his hands gripping your hips, and the sounds you were making were driving him crazy.
"Shit, so tight," he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "You're squeezing me so hard."
"Because you feel sooo good" you gasped, your nails digging into his back.
The words sent a surge of heat through him, and Yuji's thrusts became harder, deeper. He angled his hips, searching for that spot inside you, and when you nearly screamed, he knew he'd found it.
"Right there!" you cried out. "Fuck, right there—"
He focused all his attention on hitting that spot with every thrust, and your moans were getting louder, more desperate. Yuji could feel you starting to tighten around him again already.
"You gonna come again?" he asked, his voice rough. "Gonna come on my dick, baby?"
"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, I'm so close—"
One of your hands slipped between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and Yuji groaned at the sight.
Your fingers moved in fast circles, and Yuji could feel you getting tighter, could see the pleasure building on your face.
Your second orgasm hit you even harder than the first. Your whole body went rigid, your back arching off the counter as you cried out his name. Your inner walls clamped down around him, pulsing and fluttering, and Yuji groaned at the sensation.
"Fuck, baby," he breathed, slowing his movements to help you ride it out. "You're so hot.”
You were trembling, gasping for breath, and Yuji leaned down to kiss you softly.
"Still with me?" he murmured against your lips.
"Barely," you laughed breathlessly. "You're going to kill me."
"What a way to go though," he teased, and you laughed again.
"You haven't come yet," you pointed out.
"No," he agreed, his hips starting to move again. "But I'm going to."
"Good," you breathed, your legs tightening around his waist.
Yuji's control was slipping. His thrusts became faster, more erratic, chasing his own release now. The pressure was building at the base of his spine, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.
"Fuck," he groaned. "Baby, I'm close—"
"Come, baby.” you said, your hands sliding up into his hair. "I want you to come "
His orgasm hit him like a freight train, pleasure exploding through every nerve ending. "Fuuuuck, baby," he groaned, his hips stuttering. "I'm coming, fuuuuck—"
His hips kept moving, slower now but deeper, thrusting into you as he came. Each movement pumped hot spurts of cum inside you, his cock pulsing with every thrust. He couldn't stop, didn't want to stop, riding out wave after wave of pleasure as he filled you.
"Fuuuuuuck," he gasped when he could finally breathe again, collapsing against you. "That was—"
"Incredible," you finished, your arms wrapping around him. "That was incredible."
Yuji carefully pulled out, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and immediately pulled you into his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and buried your face in his shoulder.
"I love you," he murmured, pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, anywhere he could reach. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," you said, pulling back to look at him with a soft smile. "Even when you interrupt my cooking."
He kissed you softly, then just held you for a moment, content to stay wrapped up in each other. Neither of you moved, the rest of the world forgotten as you stayed tangled together on the counter.
After a few more minutes, Yuji finally set you down gently, steadying you when your legs wobbled. "You okay?"
"My legs feel like jelly," you admitted with a laugh. "But yeah, I'm great."
"Good." Yuji grabbed his hoodie from where it had fallen on the floor and helped you put it back on. "Because I'm definitely going to want to do that again after dinner."
"Oh really?" You raised an eyebrow, but you were smiling. "That confident in your recovery time?"
"Baby, for you?" Yuji pulled you close, kissing you thoroughly. "Always."
You laughed against his mouth, and Yuji thought that this—you in his arms, in his clothes, in his kitchen, in his life—was everything he'd ever wanted.
"Come on," you said, pulling away reluctantly. "Let's check on the food."
You turned to the stove, and immediately your face fell. Smoke was still rising from the pots, and when you lifted the lids, the smell hit you both at the same time— burnt.
"Oh no," you groaned, staring at the blackened remains of what was supposed to be dinner. "Oh my god, it's completely ruined."
Yuji peered over your shoulder, taking in the charred mess, and then he started laughing. Not mean-spirited, but genuine and warm, the kind of laugh that came from finding the whole situation ridiculous.
"What?" you asked, turning to look at him with a mix of embarrassment and amusement.
"This is my fault," he said, still grinning. "I literally distracted you so much that you forgot about dinner."
"Our dinner," you corrected, but you were smiling despite yourself. "WE forgot about dinner."
"Though to be fair," Yuji laughed, his eyes bright with mischief, "you were the one who decided to cook in just my hoodie and a thong."
"Fair," you said.
Yuji wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both stared at the burnt pots. "Well, I have a solution."
"What's that?"
"Pizza," he said simply. "I'm ordering pizza. Your choice—whatever you want."
You turned in his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Just like that? You're not going to try to sale vage this?"
"Baby, I think that ship has sailed." He gestured at the blackened food. "Besides, I'm starving, and I'd rather spend time with you than spend an hour trying to cook something else."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You're crazy."
"But you love me anyway," Yuji said with a grin.
"Unfortunately, yes." You grabbed your phone from the counter. "Okay, let's order pizza. And maybe some breadsticks. And wings."
"Now you're speaking my language." Yuji pulled out his own phone. "I'm already looking up the place. What do you want on it?"
Twenty minutes later, you were both settled on the couch, waiting for the delivery. Yuji had turned on some mindless TV show, and you were curled up against his side, your legs tucked underneath you. His arm was around your shoulders, and you had your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Hey," Yuji said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
"Hmm?" You tilted your head up to look at him.
"Thanks for cooking. Even if it did get burnt."
You smiled, reaching up to ruffle his hair. "Thanks for ordering pizza instead of making me feel bad about it."
"Never," he said, and kissed you again, soft and sweet. "Besides, this is better. I get to spend time with you, and I don't have to eat something that tastes like charcoal."
You laughed and settled back against his chest, and you stayed like that—comfortable and content—until the pizza arrived.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table, probably Megumi texting him shit about bailing on the game, but Yuji ignored it. He had everything he needed right here.
genre ♡ established relationship • domestic fluff • comedy • smut • clingy boyfriend gojo • slice of life
warnings ♡ 18+ • mdni • explicit sexual content • established relationship • oral (f receiving) • vaginal sex • multiple orgasms • dirty talk • praise • teasing • begging • overstimulation • aftercare • language • gojo abusing limitless for attention
summary ♡ all you wanted to do was finish the laundry. all gojo wanted was your attention. unfortunately for you, the strongest sorcerer alive has access to limitless, absolutely zero patience, and no shame when it comes to interrupting household chores.
author’s note ♡ stayed up until 2 a.m. writing this because the mental image of gojo throwing a tantrum over laundry wouldn’t leave me alone. domestic menace gojo might genuinely be my favorite version of him. i support his commitment to being the clingiest man alive.
now playing ♡ ♪ Snooze — SZA
The apartment is quiet except for the rhythmic hum of the washing machine and your occasional sighs as you sort through the laundry basket. It's a rare lazy Sunday afternoon, the kind where sunlight filters through the curtains in golden strips and the world outside feels distant and unimportant.
You're focused—or trying to be—on separating the darks from the lights, but you can feel him before you see him.
Satoru Gojo, your boyfriend of just under a year, leans against the doorframe of the laundry room with his arms crossed and the most pathetic pout you've ever seen on a grown man's face.
"You know," he starts, voice dripping with theatrical melancholy, "I'm starting to think you love that washing machine more than you love me."
You don't even look up. "That's ridiculous, Satoru."
"Is it though?" He pushes off the doorframe, white hair catching the afternoon light. "You've been doing chores for three hours."
"It's been forty-five minutes."
"Forty-five minutes too long." He's right behind you now, hands finding your hips. "I'm withering away here, baby. Dying of neglect."
You reach for the laundry basket.
It doesn't move.
You pull harder. Still nothing.
"Satoru." You turn to glare at him. "Turn it off."
His grin is absolutely shit-eating. "Turn what off?"
"Infinity. I know you're—" You tug at the basket again. It's like trying to move a brick wall.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." He examines his nails with exaggerated innocence. "Maybe the basket's just really heavy. You should let me help."
"You're impossible."
"And you're mean." He deactivates the technique, and you nearly stumble as the basket suddenly moves freely. "See? You need me."
"I need you to stop being a child."
"Ouch." He clutches his chest like you've shot him. "The strongest sorcerer alive, defeated by his girlfriend's cruel words."
You turn back to sorting, determined to finish. A sock disappears from your hand mid-fold.
Then another.
"Satoru!"
He's across the room now, leaning against the dryer, casually tossing one of your socks in the air and catching it. "What? I'm helping. Redistributing the laundry."
"That's the opposite of helping!"
"Call it redistribution of household items," he grins, and another sock vanishes from the basket. "And you know what would make this genuinely go faster? Stop fighting it. You know I'll just keep doing this until you surrender."
"You're literally making it take longer!"
"Am I?" He tilts his head, and you feel it—that pull of Blue, gentle but insistent, drawing you a step closer to him. "Seems like you're coming around to my way of thinking."
You plant your feet, resisting. "Stop that."
"Stop what?" Another subtle pull. You slide forward another few inches, and he's laughing now, bright and delighted. "I'm just standing here, baby. Very innocently."
"You're cheating."
"I'm conquering." He deactivates Blue, but only so he can close the distance himself, arms wrapping around your waist from behind. "Five minutes. That's all I need. I'll even help with the laundry after."
"You're literally sabotaging the laundry right now."
"Semantics." His lips find your neck, pressing soft kisses that make your breath hitch. "I miss you. Even though you're right here."
You try to focus, but it's difficult when he's plastered against your back like this. "If I don't finish, it'll pile up."
"So let it pile up." His voice drops lower, mouth against your ear. "I'm much more important than laundry."
"Your ego is showing."
"It's part of my charm." He nips at your earlobe, and you feel him smile. "Also, you're thinking about giving in. You're already soaking for me."
You freeze. "You can't—"
"I'm memorizing this," he murmurs against your ear, hands sliding up your sides. "Every sound you make, every way your body reacts. You're the most interesting thing in this apartment right now."
"That's basically torture."
"It's called motivation," he grins, spinning you around to face him. His eyes are bright with mischief, and he looks absurdly pleased with himself. "And honestly? I'd do way worse."
Despite yourself, you laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm in love," he corrects, grinning. "And I'm being neglected. It's tragic."
"Tragic," you repeat, shaking your head. But you're smiling now, and he knows he's winning.
"Devastating," he agrees, then releases you with obvious reluctance. "Fine. Finish your very important laundry. I'll just be over here. Withering."
He slumps against the wall with such dramatic flair that you actually laugh out loud.
"You're such a baby."
"Your baby," he corrects, and winks.
You turn back to the washing machine, shaking your head but unable to stop smiling. The machine is front-loading, which means you have to bend pretty far to reach the clothes at the back of the drum. You're half-folded over, ass in the air, one hand braced on the edge of the machine while the other reaches deep inside to grab a stray sock.
You hear him move behind you.
"Don't even think about—"
"Too late." His voice is right there, low and hungry. "I'm thinking about it."
That's when you feel it.
His hands on your hips, firm and possessive, pulling you back slightly. And then—
"Satoru, what are you—oh!"
His fingers hook into the waistband of your leggings and panties, and in one smooth motion, he yanks them down to your thighs.
"Getting the attention I deserve," he says, voice dropping an octave. "Since you won't give it to me willingly."
Before you can respond, before you can even process what's happening, you feel his breath against you, hot and deliberate.
And then his tongue.
"Oh my god—" Your hand slaps against the inside of the washing machine, the wet clothes forgotten as he licks a long, slow stripe up your slit from behind.
"Mm," he hums against you, the vibration making your thighs tremble. "Now this is multitasking."
"Satoru!" Your voice comes out strangled, caught between shock and the sudden spike of pleasure that shoots up your spine.
"What?" He sounds so innocent, like he's not currently on his knees behind you with his face buried between your legs. "Multitasking. You wanted to get through the laundry, I'm making sure you're very thoroughly... motivated."
His tongue finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision, and your knees nearly buckle.
"This is—fuck—this is not helping," you gasp, but you're already arching back into him, body betraying your weak protests.
"No?" He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath ghosting over your slick flesh. "Feels like you're pretty into it, though. You're already soaking for me."
He spreads you open with his thumbs, exposing you completely, and the vulnerable position makes heat flood through your entire body. You're bent over the washing machine, pants around your thighs, completely at his mercy.
"Fuck," he breathes, and you can hear genuine awe creeping into his voice. "Look at you. Already dripping for me? Honestly, I'd feel bad about ruining your productivity if I wasn't so pleased with myself right now."
"No," you lie, but it comes out shaky and unconvincing.
"Liar." His tongue is back, licking into you with obscene enthusiasm. The sounds are filthy, echoing in the small laundry room, mixing with your increasingly desperate whimpers.
"You're—ah—you're so full of yourself—"
"Only for you, baby." He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and you nearly scream.
"I wanted—fuck—I wanted to finish the laundry—"
He pulls back, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "Yeah? How's that going for you?"
"I hate you."
"No you don't." His tongue dips inside you, fucking into you in shallow thrusts that make your toes curl.
Your hand scrambles for purchase against the smooth interior of the washing machine, the other gripping the edge so hard your knuckles turn white. He's relentless, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on your clit, responding to every sound you make like it's his personal favorite song.
"Damn. Could do this all day," he murmurs against your skin. "Make it my whole personality, honestly."
"Satoru—"
"The way you pretend you don't want this," he says, voice muffled against you. "Meanwhile your body's basically begging me. It's cute, honestly."
"Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for.
"Please what?" He pulls back, and you nearly sob at the loss. "Tell me what you need."
"More—I need more—"
"More of my tongue?" He licks you again, slow and deliberate. "Or more of these?" He pushes two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you cry out.
"Both—fuck—both, please—"
"So demanding," he teases, but he gives you what you want, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, building a rhythm that has you shaking. "But I like it. Like when you stop being polite and just tell me what you want."
His fingers stroke that spot that drives you wild while his tongue flicks your clit—it's devastating. You can feel the pleasure building, coiling tight in your belly, your thighs trembling with the effort of holding yourself up.
"Satoru—I'm—I'm close—"
"Already?" He sounds delighted, smug. "But I just started, baby. Can't have you finishing yet. I'm having too much fun."
And then, the absolute bastard, he slows down.
"No—no, please—" You're not above begging, not when you're this close, not when he's got you bent over and desperate.
"Patience," he murmurs, pressing kisses to your inner thigh. "You made me wait all afternoon. Now it's your turn."
"That's not—fuck—that's not the same thing—"
"Isn't it?" His fingers continue their slow, torturous rhythm, keeping you right on the edge but not quite pushing you over. "I think it's perfectly fair."
"You're evil."
He laughs again, warm and wicked, pressing his face back against you.
"Satoru, please—"
"Not yet." His tongue laps at you lazily, like he's savoring every second of your frustration. "Beg me properly first."
"I am begging—"
"Not convincingly enough." He curls his fingers harder, and you nearly scream. "That's it. Show me how much you want it."
"Please—please, Satoru, I need it—need to come—please—"
"Hmm." He pretends to consider it, even as his tongue speeds up fractionally. "I don't know. You were pretty mean to me earlier. Choosing laundry over me."
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I'll never do laundry again—"
That makes him laugh, a genuine burst of amusement that vibrates through you. "Never again? That's a bold promise."
"I mean it—please—just let me come—"
"Fuck." His composure cracks, voice going rough. "Okay, okay. Let go for me. Wanna feel you fall apart."
He seals his lips around your clit and sucks hard, fingers pumping faster, and the orgasm that's been building finally crashes over you like a wave.
"Oh fuck—Satoru—yes—yes—"
Your whole body goes taut, thighs clamping around his head as pleasure whites out your vision. He works you through it, tongue and fingers relentless, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive and pushing weakly at his head.
"Too much—too much—"
He pulls back with a final, obscene kiss to your core, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "There we go. That's what I wanted."
You're still catching your breath, forehead pressed against the cool metal of the washing machine, when you feel him stand up behind you. His hands are gentle now as they pull your leggings and panties back up, smoothing them over your hips.
"Come on," he says softly, turning you around. Your legs are jelly, and he catches you easily, one arm around your waist. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable."
You blink up at him, dazed and flushed. His lips are wet and swollen, his eyes dark with want, and there's a very obvious bulge straining against his sweatpants.
"Satoru—"
"Bedroom," he says firmly, and then he's lifting you, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back. "I'm nowhere near done with you yet."
You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face against his shoulder as he carries you down the hallway. "You're insane."
"And you wouldn't have it any other way," he counters, and you can hear the grin in his voice.
He kicks the bedroom door open and lays you down on the bed with surprising gentleness, following you down to capture your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it makes heat pool in your belly all over again.
"Missed you today," he murmurs against your lips, hands already working your shirt up and over your head. "Couldn't stop thinking about getting you like this."
"I was literally in the next room," you point out breathlessly as he unhooks your bra with practiced ease.
"Too far." He tosses your bra aside and immediately lowers his head to your breast, tongue circling your nipple. "Should've been right here. In my arms."
"Clingy," you tease, threading your fingers through his soft hair.
He lifts his head, grinning. "Obsessed.. that’s different. I literally plan my entire day around you. When you wake up, when you get home, what we're having for dinner—it all revolves around you."
"That's actually kind of cute," you admit.
"It's strategic," he corrects with a grin. "And also cute."
You laugh against his mouth. "You're ridiculous. You literally sabotaged my laundry."
"And it worked perfectly," he grins, pulling back to look at you. "Best day of my life, honestly. Favorite Tuesday ever."
"It's Sunday."
"Even better. See, this is why I need you—you keep me grounded." He kisses your forehead. "Also you're incredibly hot when you're annoyed."
"Unfortunately," you say, but your voice is fond.
He pulls back to look at you, eyes bright with mischief and something deeper. "Unfortunately?"
"You heard me."
"Wow." He shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Here I am, about to rock your world, and you're being mean to me."
"Rock my world?" You raise an eyebrow. "That's what we're calling it?"
"Would you prefer 'fuck you senseless'?" He grins at your expression. "Yeah, thought so."
"Off," you tug at his shirt, and he pulls back just long enough to yank it over his head before returning to you.
His skin is warm against yours, all lean muscle and smooth planes. He rolls against you, and the friction makes you both groan—his body moving with the kind of easy confidence that makes it hard to think.
"Never washing this shirt again," he mutters against your neck. "You're permanently imprinted on it, and honestly? I'm not complaining."
"Forever's a long time."
"Not long enough." His fingers hook into the waistband of your leggings and panties, sliding them down your legs completely this time. "Gonna need at least three lifetimes with you. Minimum."
"Three?"
"I'm being conservative." He settles between your thighs, and the heat of his gaze makes you want to close your legs. But he holds them open, hands firm on your inner thighs, just looking at you. The possessive intensity in his gaze is almost too much.
"You're staring."
"For good reason." He lowers his head, pressing a kiss to your hip bone. "Okay, this is definitely my favorite part of Sunday now."
"You say that like you haven't memorized every inch of me by now.”
"Doesn't matter. Still impressive every time." He kisses lower, breath ghosting over your slick flesh. "And trust me, the view from down here? Honestly, nothing compares."
"Cheater," you accuse, but it comes out breathy “Guilty as charged," he grins up at you. "But you're not complaining."
Before you can think of a reply he lowers his head, and this time there's no teasing, no slow buildup. He eats you out like a man starved, tongue and lips and the occasional graze of teeth that makes you yelp and tug at his hair.
"Fuck—Satoru—oh my god—"
"Fuck, yes," he groans against your skin between licks. "Everyone in this building is gonna know exactly what I'm doing to you."
His fingers join his mouth again, two sliding inside you easily, your body still open and slick from the first orgasm. He pumps them slowly, curling them on every thrust, while his tongue works your clit with devastating precision.
"Already ready for more," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Greedy. I like it."
The filthy words combined with the relentless pleasure have you writhing on the bed, hips bucking up into his face. He holds you down with one hand splayed across your lower belly, keeping you in place while he devours you.
"Please—please, I need—"
"What do you need?" He adds a third finger, the stretch making you gasp. "Tell me."
"Your cock—fuck—need you inside me—"
"Not yet." He scissors his fingers, opening you up, and the sensation is almost too much. "Wanna make you come like this first. Wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue again."
"Satoru—"
"Say my name like that again." His voice is rough, possessive. "Only my name. That's all you need to remember right now."
"Cocky bastard—"
He laughs against you, the vibration making you gasp. "Good. I like you mouthy. Means you're not thinking too hard." He curls his fingers deliberately. "Just feeling."
"I'm always—oh fuck—"
His tongue flattens against your clit, licking in broad strokes while his fingers fuck into you faster. The wet sounds are obscene, mixing with your moans and his groans, and you can feel another orgasm building, different from the first—deeper, more intense.
"The way your whole body's shaking," he murmurs against your skin. "Gets me off almost as much as you do."
"Don't stop—"
"Wasn't planning on it." He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and you nearly scream. "I can feel it building. Give it to me."
The orgasm builds and builds, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. Your thighs start to shake, and he notices immediately, holding you open with firm hands.
“That's it. Right there. I can feel it building—you're so close—“
"Satoru—Satoru—"
"Yeah, just like that. Say my name when you come. Want to hear it."
It's building too fast, too intense, and you're not sure you can handle it. Your hands fist in the sheets, back arching, and he doesn't let up, tongue and fingers working in sync.
"Oh fuck—oh fuck—I'm—"
"Do it. Come for me. Come all over my face."
The orgasm crashes over you like a wave, sharp and electric, your whole body going taut as pleasure whites out your vision. You're vaguely aware that you're crying out his name, loud enough that the neighbors definitely heard, but you can't bring yourself to care.
He works you through it, tongue gentler now but still moving, drawing out every last aftershock until you're sobbing and pushing at his head.
"No more—can't—too sensitive—"
He finally relents, pressing one last kiss to your inner thigh before crawling up your body. His face is wet, his eyes wild, and when he kisses you, it's desperate and claiming.
"Yeah, just like that," he says against your lips. "Again. Do that again."
You can feel his cock pressing against your thigh, hard and hot even through his sweatpants, and you reach down to palm him through the fabric. He hisses, hips jerking into your touch.
"Need you," you whisper. "Need you inside me."
"Fuck." He's already pushing his sweatpants down, kicking them off along with his boxers. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and your mouth waters at the sight. "Been dying to be inside you. All fucking day."
He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance, and you both groan at the contact. You're so wet that he slides in easily, but the stretch is still intense, your body struggling to accommodate his size.
"Oh god—" Your nails dig into his shoulders as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch. "You're so big—"
"And you fit me exactly right," he grits out, jaw clenched with the effort of going slow. "Every single time. Like we were made for this."
When he's fully seated inside you, you both pause, breathing hard. He's so deep you can feel him everywhere, filling you completely, and the fullness is almost overwhelming.
"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.
"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, I'm okay. You can move."
He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then snaps his hips forward. The force of it punches a moan out of you, and he does it again, setting a rhythm that's deep and hard and perfect.
"Fuck—" His forehead drops to yours, breath hot against your lips. "And you're clenching around me like I'm the best thing that's happened to you all week."
"Satoru—" You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle, and he hits even deeper. "Oh fuck—right there—"
"Here?" He does it again, and your vision blurs. "Yeah, okay. I'm never leaving this position."
"Show off.” You manage to moan out.
He laughs breathlessly. "Damn right I am. And it's all for you."
His pace increases, hips snapping against yours with bruising force. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard knocking against the wall, and you don't care. All you care about is the feeling of him inside you, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
"Touch yourself," he commands, voice rough. "Want to feel you come around my cock."
You slide a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you clench around him. He groans, long and low, hips stuttering.
"Fuck—just like that—"
You circle your clit in time with his thrusts, pleasure building again despite the two orgasms you've already had. He's relentless, and somewhere in the middle of it all, he laughs—actually laughs—into your neck. "You know what? Fuck the laundry. Best Sunday I've had in years. Maybe ever."
"Can't—I can't—it's too much—"
"Yes, you can." He shifts, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder, and the new angle makes you cry out. "You can take it. You're doing so good for me."
"You're—ah—you're enjoying this too much—"
"Damn right I am." He grins down at you, cocky and breathless. "Getting to watch you fall apart? Best thing in the world."
"Arrogant—"
"Confident," he corrects. "And I have six eyes. Pretty sure I know every way to make you lose it at this point."
The praise mixed with the intense pleasure is almost too much to bear. You feel tears prick at your eyes, overwhelmed in the best way, and he notices immediately.
"Hey, hey." He slows fractionally, one hand coming up to cup your face. "You okay? Need me to stop?"
"No—don't stop—please don't stop—" You're babbling now, incoherent. "Just feels so good—love you so much—"
"I love you too." He kisses you, tender despite the way he's still moving inside you. "And I love that you're stuck with me. Permanently." He punctuates it with a particularly deep thrust that makes you gasp.
He picks up the pace again, and you rub your clit faster, chasing that third orgasm that seems impossible but is somehow building anyway. Your whole body is oversensitive, every nerve ending on fire, and when he reaches down to replace your fingers with his own, you nearly scream.
"Let go," he murmurs against your lips. "I've got you. Just let go."
"Satoru—Satoru—oh god—"
"Right here with you." His fingers work your clit in tight circles while his cock pounds into you. "Just let it happen."
The pressure builds and builds, coiling tighter in your belly. You're so close, teetering on the edge, and then he angles his hips just right and hits that perfect spot deep inside you.
"Oh fuck—"
"There it is," he breathes. "Now. Give it to me."
His fingers speed up, circling your clit with exactly the right pressure, and the combination finally pushes you over the edge. This orgasm is different—slower, deeper, rolling through you in waves that seem to go on forever. You're vaguely aware that you're crying, tears streaming down your temples, but it feels so good you can't bring yourself to care.
The waves keep coming, each one pulling you deeper, and you cling to him like he's the only solid thing in the world. He keeps moving, keeps touching you, drawing it out until you're shaking and sobbing his name.
"Fuck—baby—you're squeezing me so tight—gonna make me come—"
"Please—" You don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Satoru—"
"Yeah—yeah, okay—fuck—"
His rhythm falters, becoming erratic, and then he's coming with a guttural groan, hips pressed flush against yours as he fills you. You can feel the warmth of it, the pulse of his cock as he empties inside you, and it triggers another small aftershock that makes you whimper.
"Holy shit," he breathes, collapsing on top of you. His weight is comforting, grounding. "I'm never letting you out of bed again."
You can't form words yet, so you just hum in agreement, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. He's still inside you, softening slowly, and neither of you makes a move to separate.
After a long moment, he lifts his head to look at you, brushing away the tear tracks on your cheeks with his thumb. "You okay?"
"More than okay," you manage, voice hoarse.
"Yeah?" He grins, pleased. "Even though I ambushed you in the laundry room?"
You laugh, breathless. "Especially because you ambushed me in the laundry room."
He kisses you, slow and deep, then finally pulls out. Both of you wince at the sensitivity. "Stay here. I'll get something to clean you up."
He's back in less than a minute with a warm washcloth, and he cleans you up quickly before tossing it aside and pulling you into his arms, your back to his chest.
"Better?" he murmurs against your hair.
"Much better." You lace your fingers with his. The room is quiet except for your synchronized breathing, the afternoon light still filtering through the curtains in golden strips.
His hand slides up to rest over your heart, feeling it slow.
After a moment, he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "You're stuck with me," he says quietly, like it's a promise.
"Good," you murmur, already feeling sleep tugging at you.
"Love you."
"Love you too, baby."
You fall asleep in his arms, warm and comfortable and completely spent.
thanks for reading! ♡ likes, reblogs, comments, and screaming in the tags always make my day.
genre ♡ smut • friends with benefits • mutual pining • jealousy • possessive megumi • college AU • arranged marriage AU • comfort • angst with a happy ending
warnings ♡ 18+ MINORS DNI • explicit sexual content • rough sex • dom!megumi • possessive behavior • praise • spanking • jealousy • phone interruption • implied arranged marriage • emotional vulnerability • aftercare • all characters are 18+
summary ♡ It was never supposed to mean anything—just late nights, locked doors, and Megumi’s hands on you. But now someone else wants your name, and your phone won’t stop ringing.
now playing ♡
♪ After Dark — Mr.Kitty
author’s note ♡
this was written somewhere between chaos and caffeine during a twelve hour er shift so if it feels a little unhinged… no it doesn’t. anyway please enjoy megumi being quietly possessive and making it everyone’s problem.
"M-megumi—"
Your name is a whimper on your lips, a prayer to the dark-haired boy currently rearranging your insides with his cock. His fingers dig into your hips, hard enough to bruise, and you welcome the pain. It’s a grounding point, a reminder that this is real, that you’re here, in Megumi Fushiguro’s bed, getting fucked within an inch of your life while your phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand.
"That’s right," he growls, his voice a low, rumbling thing that vibrates straight up your spine. He thrusts into you, deep and hard, a punishing rhythm that has your toes curling. "Say my name again."
"Fuck, Megumi!" you cry out, your hands fisting in his sheets. Your back is arched, presented to him like an offering, and he takes it. He takes everything.
His hands slide from your hips to your ass, spreading you open wider. The new angle has him hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Who do you belong to?" he asks, landing a sharp smack on your right cheek. The sting is exquisite, a fleeting pain that melts into a molten heat that pools in your core.
"You…. Fuck, Megumi!" you moan, pushing back against him, silently begging for more.
He rewards you with another thrust, even deeper this time. "Damn right," he grunts. "This pussy is mine. This ass is mine. All of you is mine."
Your phone buzzes again. You ignore it, lost in the haze of pleasure. Naoya can wait. His texts can wait. This entire arranged marriage disaster can wait. Right now, all that matters is the feeling of Megumi filling you up, claiming you, making you forget your own name.
"Please," you whimper, your face pressed into the mattress. You're so close, teetering on the edge of a mind-shattering orgasm.
"You think you deserve it?" he questions, leaning over you, his chest pressed against your back. His breath is hot against your ear. "After ignoring me all day, pretending you don't want this?"
He's right. You had been avoiding him, trying to be good, trying to honor your family's wishes. But you're weak. You're weak for him, for the way he looks at you.
"I'm sorry," you cry, your body trembling with need. "I want you so bad."
"I know," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck. He straightens up, his hands returning to your hips, and resumes his brutal pace. "Go on then. Come for me."
His permission is all you need. The dam breaks, and a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashes over you. Your vision whites out, your body convulses, and you scream his name until your throat is raw.
"Fuuuck, Megumi!"
Megumi groans as your walls clamp down on him, the rhythmic pulsing of your orgasm milking him for all he's worth. He slows his thrusts, letting you ride out your high, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't pull out. He's not done with you yet. Not even close.
You're a boneless, panting mess, but you can feel him, still hard inside you, still wanting more. The thought sends a fresh jolt of arousal through you.
"I'm not done," he says, a hint of a smile in his voice. "We're done when I say we're done."
And then he starts to move again, slower this time, more deliberate. He's drawing it out, prolonging the pleasure, and you know, with a certainty that both terrifies and exhilarates you, that you're not going anywhere.
Your phone buzzes again, this time with a particularly angry-sounding vibration. Then again. And again. A relentless, annoying reminder of the life you're supposed to be living. A life that doesn't include being fucked senseless by Megumi Fushiguro in his dorm room.
Megumi stills, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His jaw tightens as he glances at the nightstand, watching the phone light up with each insistent buzz.
"You're not going to get that?" he asks, his tone dangerously casual.
You shake your head, your face still buried in the pillow. "No. Let him wait."
Megumi chuckles, a dark, possessive sound. "Good girl."
He starts to move again, but slower this time. He's drawing out each stroke, a slow, torturous glide that has you squirming beneath him. "Tell me how much you want it," he commands, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place.
"So bad," you whine, pushing back against him, trying to get him to move faster, deeper. "Please, Megumi. I want it so bad."
"Show me," he grunts, his control slipping. "Show me how bad you want it."
You respond by arching your back even further, presenting yourself to him completely. "Please, Megumi," you beg, your voice a desperate, breathy thing. "Fuck me. Use me."
That's all it takes. He snaps, his control shattering into a million pieces. He pulls out almost completely, then slams back into you, a powerful thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. He sets a punishing pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts.
"Mine," he growls, his words punctuated by his thrusts. "You're. Fucking. Mine."
"Yours!" you cry, your hands scrambling for purchase on the slick sheets. "I'm yours, Megumi!”
With a frustrated snarl, Megumi stops, leaving you empty and aching. "For fuck's sake," he mutters, reaching over you to grab the phone. His chest is pressed against your back, his warmth seeping into your skin.
You look over your shoulder, your eyes wide as he glances at the screen. Naoya's name flashes on the display, along with a string of increasingly angry texts.
Megumi's jaw tightens. He answers the call, putting it on speaker.
"What?" Megumi growls into the phone, his voice dangerously low. Without warning, he slams into you hard, once, twice, three times, each thrust punching a cry from your throat.
"Ah! Megumi! Oh god—!" you moan, your fingers clutching desperately at the sheets as your body trembles from the sudden, intense pleasure-pain.
Megumi doesn't stop, maintaining a brutal rhythm that has you seeing stars, all while keeping the phone pressed to his ear. His other hand grips your hip, holding you in place for his punishing thrusts, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room between your desperate cries and his labored breathing.
You can hear Naoya's sputtering on the other end of the line, but you're not really listening. You're too focused on the feel of Megumi's hard length pressing against your ass, the promise of what's to come.
“What the fuck is this? Who is this? Where is she?”
"She's a little busy right now," Megumi says, his eyes locked on yours. He reaches down with his free hand, teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock.
Megumi's smirk is pure sin, a flash of white in the dim light of his room. He holds the buzzing phone, the connection still live, right next to your ear. Naoya's tinny, furious voice is a distant, irrelevant buzz.
"Tell him how busy you are, baby," Megumi whispers, his voice a dark promise against your cheek. "Tell him what's keeping you."
You can barely form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence, your mind already foggy with pleasure. "H-he... Megumi, don't..."
He chuckles, a low, predatory sound. "Don't what? Don't do this?" He lines himself up and, in one swift, merciless thrust, buries himself fully inside you.
A strangled cry tears from your throat. "Oh god!" you gasp, your entire body arching off the bed as he immediately sets a brutal, unforgiving pace. The sound of your moans fills the room, a raw, desperate symphony of pleasure that you know is being broadcast directly to Naoya Zenin.
"That's it," Megumi grunts, his rhythm never faltering. "Let him hear you. Let him know who you belong to."
You're lost. Your body is a live wire, every nerve ending alight with sensation. You can feel Megumi everywhere—inside you, around you, his scent filling your lungs, his voice in your ear. The phone is a heavy, intrusive presence, a tangible link to the world you're supposed to be a part of, but it's slipping from your grasp.
"Megumi... I..." you gasp, your fingers clawing at the sheets. Your grip on the phone loosens, and it clatters onto the mattress, forgotten.
Megumi tosses it aside, not bothering to hang up. Naoya can listen. Let him. He grabs your hips with both hands, his grip bruisingly tight, and fucks you harder, deeper, faster. The room spins, the world narrowing to the feel of him moving inside you, the sound of his ragged breathing, the overwhelming pleasure building in your core, threatening to consume you whole.
Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, a blinding, soul-shattering wave of pleasure that leaves you gasping for breath. Your vision whites out, your body convulses, and you scream his name, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
Megumi follows you over the edge with a guttural groan, his own release pulsing deep inside you. He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor in the aftermath of your shared storm.
For a long moment, you lie there, a tangled, panting mess of limbs and sweat. The sheets beneath you are damp and twisted, cool against your overheated skin. Your heart hammers against your ribs so hard you can feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, everywhere. The only sounds in the room are your ragged breaths—his deeper, slower, gradually evening out—and the faint, tinny sound of Naoya's frantic voice still coming from the discarded phone, distant and irrelevant.
Megumi's weight pins you to the mattress, solid and grounding. You can feel his chest rising and falling against your back, the rapid thud of his heartbeat matching your own. His breath is hot against the nape of your neck, each exhale sending shivers down your spine despite the warmth radiating from his body.
Slowly, carefully, he lifts himself just enough to ease the pressure, and you feel the loss of his heat immediately. But then his lips find your shoulder—soft, surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to everything that came before. The kiss lingers, tender and deliberate, and something in your chest clenches.
He rolls off you, and for a moment the cool air rushes over your sweat-slicked skin, making you shiver. But he's back almost immediately, his hands already reaching for you, pulling you into his arms with a gentleness that makes your throat tight. He tucks your head under his chin, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other hand coming up to brush the damp hair away from your face.
You nestle closer, your cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat is steady and strong beneath your ear, soothing something raw inside you. His hand traces lazy circles on your back, each pass sending little sparks of sensation through you—not arousal this time, but something softer.
"You're okay," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair. It's not a question. It's a reassurance, for both of you.
You nod against his chest, too drained to speak. A small, contented sigh escapes your lips, and you feel his arms tighten around you in response.
The room has settled into a hushed stillness, the frantic energy dissipated. Megumi's fingers find their way into your hair, combing through the tangled strands with infinite patience, then trace the shell of your ear, the curve of your jaw—mapping you like he's memorizing every detail.
You tilt your head back to look at him, and his dark eyes meet yours. There's something different in them now, something vulnerable and unguarded that he rarely lets anyone see. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, catching a tear you didn't realize had fallen.
"Megumi..." you whisper, your voice hoarse and broken.
He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he leans down and presses his forehead to yours, his eyes closing, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you. You stay like that for a long moment, just breathing together, existing in this quiet bubble where nothing else matters.
Finally, he reaches over you, his arm extending toward the nightstand. His fingers find the phone, and for a second you tense, but he doesn't look at it. He doesn't even glance at the screen. He simply ends the call with a decisive tap, then silences the phone completely before tossing it onto the floor where it lands with a muted thud against the carpet.
His arm wraps around you again immediately, pulling you even closer, as if those few seconds of separation were too much. His hand splays across your back, warm and possessive, holding you against him like he's afraid you might disappear.
"He can have your name," Megumi says, his voice quiet but firm, each word deliberate. "He can have the arranged marriage. But he doesn't get you. Not like this."
The words settle over you like a blanket, heavy with meaning. Your heart swells with an emotion so overwhelming it almost hurts, a mixture of relief and longing and something that feels dangerously close to love.
"Megumi..."
He looks down at you, and his eyes—usually so dark and guarded, so carefully controlled—are soft now, vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch. There's a question in them, and a promise, and a plea all at once.
"You're mine," he says, and this time, it's not a command. It's not a demand or a claim made in the heat of passion. It's a statement of fact. A truth. A promise.
You lean up and kiss him, slow and deep, pouring everything you can't say into the press of your lips against his. It tastes of sweat and desperation and something else, something new and terrifying and wonderful. His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead against his again, your eyes closed.
"I'm yours," you whisper against his lips, the words barely audible but weighted with certainty. "Always."
You settle back against his chest, your body molding perfectly to his, and he pulls the sheet up over both of you. The fabric is soft and cool against your heated skin, and you sigh contentedly as his hand resumes its lazy path up and down your spine.
The silence that fills the room now is different from before. It's not empty or waiting. It's full—full of unspoken words and shared understanding and the quiet certainty of two people who have found something worth holding onto.
And in the quiet darkness of his room, with the world outside waiting to tear you apart, you believe it. You really do.
warnings ♡ 18+ mdni • explicit sexual content • established relationship • dirty talk • power dynamics • oral (f receiving) • multiple orgasms • praise • overstimulation • light spanking • lingerie • texting while at work • nicotine mention • kusakabe being a menace • all characters are 18+
summary ♡ You spend the afternoon seeing how far you can push Atsuya Kusakabe. He spends the afternoon proving he should’ve ignored his phone.
author’s note ♡ I fear I’ve become one of those people who thinks Kusakabe is ridiculously attractive. Lazy? Absolutely. Complaining the whole time? Without question. Still somehow the strongest sorcerer available? Every single time. I had way too much fun writing this one. ♡ Hope you all enjoy my favorite old man. ♡
now playing ♡ ♪ ♪ “Talk” — Hozier
The classroom hummed with the kind of oppressive quiet that settled in the late afternoon at Jujutsu High. Atsuya Kusakabe leaned back in his chair, the worn wood creaking ominously under his weight, feet propped up on a nearby desk in a way that screamed "I don't care." He idly twirled a cherry lollipop between his lips, the artificial sweetness a poor substitute for the familiar, grounding burn of a cigarette he was trying to quit. Again. He was supposed to be explaining cursed technique matchups after a recent mission, going over reports with Yuta and Maki, but really, he was just counting the minutes until he could go home. To you.
"—so the key is recognizing when your opponent is forcing you into their rhythm," he drawled, the lollipop clicking softly against his teeth. "You can't just react. You have to anticipate. Like this..." He gestured vaguely at the whiteboard, where he'd drawn some half-assed diagrams that probably made less sense than his explanation.
A familiar vibration in his pocket shattered the lazy peace. He ignored it. Probably spam. Or Ijichi with another headache. He continued pointing at the board. "See how the curse's movements become predictable after the third exchange? That's when you—"
Buzz.
Another vibration.
"—counter." He finished his sentence, his jaw clenching slightly. Maki raised an eyebrow, pencil pausing over her notebook. Yuta glanced up from his notes, sensing the shift in the room's energy.
"Something wrong, Sensei?" Yuta asked, that earnest puppy-dog look on his face that always made Atsuya feel vaguely guilty for being such a slacker.
"No. Just thinking." He forced himself to continue. "Where was I? Right. Counter. The key is not getting caught up in their flow. You maintain your own—"
Buzz. Buzz. Two in quick succession this time.
Dammit. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright. Five-minute break. Stretch. Whatever."
Once the students were distracted, he discreetly angled his phone beneath the desk, shielded by his body. The screen lit up, and the first message made his throat go dry.
You:
Still teaching?
He felt a twitch in his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth threatening to twitch into a smile before he caught himself. Of course she was. Always pushing, always testing. He quickly typed back:
What does it look like? Don't you have anything better to do?
The reply came almost immediately:
Not really.
He could practically hear the petulant tone through the screen. Then:
Thinking of you.
Damn her. He pocketed the phone, forcing his expression back into its usual state of mild boredom. "Alright. Break's over. Back to work."
He managed to get through another five minutes of explaining cursed energy flow before his phone buzzed again. He ignored it, his voice growing tighter as he continued the lesson. "The residual effect of a domain expansion can linger for hours after the initial collapse, which is why thorough analysis is—"
Buzz.
"—important." His eyes flickered to his pocket. He could feel Maki's gaze on him now, sharp and analytical. She noticed everything. It was annoying.
"Sensei?" Yuta piped up again. "You stopped talking."
"I know I stopped," Atsuya grunted, rubbing his temples. "I'm trying to remember the technical term. It's... complex."
"More complex than you usually bother with," Maki muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear.
He shot her a look. "What was that, Zenin?"
"Nothing. Just taking notes." She gave him an innocent look that fooled exactly no one.
His phone buzzed again. This time, he couldn't resist. He glanced down, and his breath caught in his throat.
It was a mirror selfie. You, wearing something black and lacy that barely covered anything at all. The lighting caught the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. But it was your eyes that did him in—a direct, challenging stare that seemed to cut through the screen and pin him in place.
Then another picture came through. A close-up this time. Your fingers teasing the strap of the lingerie, a smirk playing on your lips. The accompanying text made his blood run hot.
I bought something.
He zoomed in, his thumb moving almost involuntarily. Oh, he saw what you bought. And it was going to be the death of him. He immediately locked his phone and popped the lollipop back into his mouth before anyone noticed what he was looking at. The candy clicked against his teeth while he stared at the whiteboard, trying very, very hard to remember what the hell he was supposed to be teaching these kids.
Maki watched him for a solid ten seconds. "Are you okay, Sensei?"
"Fine," he grunted, the word distorted by the lollipop. "Just... processing a complex theoretical scenario." He tapped the whiteboard with a marker, his mind completely blank on what he was supposed to be writing.
Buzz.
He didn't even look. His knuckles were white where he gripped the marker.
"Sensei, your hand is shaking," Yuta observed quietly, and damn the kid for being so observant.
"Side effect of intense concentration," Atsuya shot back, his voice strained. He cleared his throat. "Right. So, when dealing with domain-based curses, the most important factor is..."
His phone buzzed again. And again. A rapid succession that made his jaw clench around the lollipop.
He finally gave in, angling the phone down under the pretense of checking the time.
You:
You're ignoring me.
Atsuya slammed out a response:
I'M TEACHING A CLASS.
You:
Is the class more important than me?
He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple.
You:
Guess not.
Then the next picture came through. It was darker, more intimate. Your hand disappeared between your thighs, the black lace of your new lingerie barely visible. The focus was on the glistening wetness on your fingers, the way they moved against your skin. His breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
The text that followed made his vision blur slightly.
You:
Missing something.
He had to physically restrain himself from groaning out loud. He typed back with shaking fingers:
You're trying to get me fired.
You:
Maybe. Would make more time for this though.
Then, another picture. Your face this time, head thrown back, mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed. Eyes half-lidded and looking directly into the camera as if you knew he was watching.
You:
Poor old man. Can't handle it?
He felt a surge of something—frustration, desire, a primal urge to shut that smart mouth of yours in the most effective way possible. His reply was almost instinctive:
I'm going to fuck the brat out of you when I get home.
He watched as the three dots appeared and disappeared, indicating your typing. Then the final message came through, making his entire body tense with a mixture of annoyance and an intense, burning need.
You:
Okay old man. By the time you get home you'll be ready for bed.
He could feel his control slipping, the professional mask he maintained cracking under the weight of pure, unadulterated lust. His eyes scanned the room. Maki was pretending to read, but he could feel her curiosity. Yuta was scribbling something in his notebook, completely oblivious.
That was it. He couldn't take it anymore.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Both students looked up in surprise.
"Class is dismissed early today," he announced, his voice rougher than usual. "I... have a sudden emergency mission briefing."
Yuta looked concerned. "Is everything okay, Sensei?"
"Everything's fine," Atsuya said, grabbing his jacket and phone from the desk. "Just... remember what I said about anticipating your opponent's moves. Study the diagrams. There'll be a test."
He didn't wait for a response, already halfway to the door. Once outside, he leaned against the wall, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He opened his phone to the last photo you sent—the one of your face, flushed with pleasure—and zoomed in on your eyes, on the parted lips.
You were insane. Absolutely, certifiably insane. And he was going to go home and show you exactly what that kind of insanity earned you.
He shoved the phone into his pocket, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and headed for the faculty parking lot without another word.
The only coherent thought left in his head was that you were absolutely impossible. And somehow, against all better judgment… He couldn’t wait to get home.
***
The apartment was almost unnervingly quiet. You stood in front of the bedroom mirror with your arms crossed, staring at yourself.
“…Too much?”
You turned sideways. Then back. Then sighed.
“No. Definitely enough.”
The black lingerie had looked intimidating on the mannequin. On you? It looked dangerous. Exactly what you’d been hoping for. A slow grin spread across your face.
“He’s going to lose his mind.”
You grabbed your phone from the dresser and opened the camera.
Click.
Too serious.
Delete.
Click.
Eyes closed.
Delete.
Click.
Too blurry.
Delete.
You tried leaning against the headboard.
No.
Sitting cross-legged.
No.
Lying on your side.
Better.
You snapped another. And another. Then another. By the time you finished, your camera roll had nearly thirty new photos. You flopped backward onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.
“…There’s no way I’m sending all of these.”
One by one, you deleted them.
Too awkward.
Delete.
Too obvious.
Delete.
Too much smiling.
Delete.
Your thumb paused over one. You were stretched lazily across the bed, looking directly into the camera with that tiny, challenging smirk that always got under Atsuya’s skin. Not overly posed. Not trying too hard. Just enough.
“Oh…”
You smiled to yourself.
“There you are.”
Send.
You watched the little “Delivered” appear. Nothing.
“…He’s teaching.”
You waited. Still nothing. A grin tugged at your lips.
You typed another message.
Still teaching?
Send.
You tossed the phone beside you and rolled onto your stomach, kicking your feet lazily behind you.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Buzz.
You snatched the phone up so quickly you nearly dropped it.
You are insane. I’m at work. You’re trying to kill me.
Your grin only widened.
“Yep.”
You giggled quietly to yourself before opening the camera again.
“If we’re doing this…”
Another picture. This time a little closer. Still tasteful. Still leaving plenty to the imagination. But definitely enough to make him look twice. You stared at it for a moment before hitting send.
Then, just to make things worse—
Fine. I guess I’ll just take care of myself then.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing.
“…He’s going to hate that.”
Your phone vibrated almost instantly.
You didn’t even have to open it to know he’d taken the bait. The reply made you laugh out loud.
“Oh my God…”
You covered your mouth, shaking your head.
“So dramatic.”
You could practically hear him saying every word through gritted teeth.
You set your phone down and wandered into the kitchen. Maybe he’d be another hour. Maybe longer. There was plenty of time.
You poured yourself a glass of wine, wandered back into the bedroom, and glanced out the living room window toward the parking lot below. No familiar car. You checked the time. He should still be stuck at school.
Satisfied, you returned to the bedroom and changed into one of his oversized T-shirts, leaving the new lingerie underneath.
Your phone buzzed again. You smiled before even looking.
Another short reply. Definitely annoyed. Definitely flustered. Mission accomplished.
You laughed softly, typing back without thinking.
Getting distracted?
The three little typing dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared again. Stopped again. You could practically picture him deleting whatever he really wanted to say.
“You’re adorable.”
Another message arrived. Short. Grumpy. Very Atsuya.
You sent nothing but a laughing emoji in return. That would irritate him more than any paragraph could.
The apartment settled into silence again. You wandered into the living room, curled up on the couch for a few minutes, then found yourself pacing instead.
You checked the window again. Still nothing.
“Hm.”
Maybe you had pushed him a little too far. Not in a bad way just enough that he’d actually ignore you for the rest of the afternoon.
“…Maybe I should apologize.”
***
The moment Atsuya slid behind the wheel, he knew the drive home was going to be torture.
Rush hour. Of course.
The line of brake lights stretching down the road glowed an accusing red as he pulled out of the school parking lot. Cars crawled forward at a pace that made him seriously consider whether walking would’ve been faster.
The cherry lollipop clicked impatiently against his teeth.
Click.
Click.
Click.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder. He didn’t look. Another buzz.
“…You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.
He made it almost thirty seconds before grabbing the phone at the next red light.
You:
Still teaching?
He snorted.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
Yes.
Delete.
I’m driving.
Delete.
You’re lucky I couldn’t leave sooner.
Delete.
He sighed dramatically before finally typing:
You’re lucky I can’t leave yet.
The light turned green. He tossed the phone back into the cup holder and pulled away.
Click.
The lollipop tapped against his teeth faster. Traffic slowed to another stop less than a block later.
Buzz.
He glanced down.
A single laughing emoji.
Then another message appeared almost immediately.
You:
You sound grumpy.
“I am grumpy.”
The driver in front of him didn’t move when the light changed.
“…Come on…”
Nothing. He gave the steering wheel one impatient tap. Still nothing.
“…Seriously?”
The car finally lurched forward. Atsuya exhaled through his nose and accelerated. Three intersections later the familiar cherry flavor had disappeared entirely. He sighed, fished another lollipop from the center console, and unwrapped it one-handed while stopped at another red light. The wrapper crinkled loudly in the quiet car.
Pop.
Fresh cherry. Better. For about ten seconds.
Buzz.
He looked. Another picture.
Just you, kneeling on the bed with your back arched slightly, the black lace of your lingerie clinging to your curves beneath the worn cotton of his oversized T-shirt. The shirt hung loose on your frame, one shoulder slipped down to reveal the thin strap of your bra, the fabric pooling around your waist to expose the high-cut panties. Your hair was damp from a shower, strands curling against your flushed skin and collarbones. One hand rested casually on your hip, drawing attention to the delicate strapping there, while the other toyed with the hem of his shirt, your fingers barely brushing against the lace beneath. You were looking directly at the camera, lips parted in a teasing smile, your eyes dark with mischief and desire.
The caption underneath read:
Thinking about changing. His jaw tightened.
“…Don’t.”
No response.
The light turned green again. He dropped the phone and forced himself to pay attention to the road. Five minutes. Two more stoplights. Another traffic jam. Another buzz.
This time he didn’t even pretend to ignore it.
You:
Getting distracted?
He laughed once, a short, disbelieving sound. His thumbs moved over the keyboard.
Absolutely not.
Delete.
Keep pushing.
Delete.
You’re making this drive feel three hours long.
Delete.
He finally settled on:
Keep texting me and you’re making your own funeral arrangements.
He stared at it.
Deleted it.
Too dramatic.
Another sigh.
He typed again.
You’re lucky I have self-control.
Send.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then, a laughing emoji. Nothing else.
“…Brat.”
He leaned his head back against the seat as another red light caught him. The lollipop clicked steadily against his teeth.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Halfway through the wait he realized he’d already finished it.
“…Seriously?”
He pulled another from the glove compartment. Cherry again. He always bought the same flavor. The second wrapper joined the first in the passenger seat.
By the time he finally turned into your apartment complex nearly forty minutes later, the third white paper stick landed beside the other two. Three lollipops. One traffic jam. Eight red lights. Far too many text messages.
He parked, shut off the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at your latest message.
You:
What’s taking you so long, old man?
A slow grin spread across his face.
“…You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He slipped the phone into his pocket, grabbed his keys, and climbed out of the car. The walk to the apartment suddenly felt much too long.
***
The apartment was quiet when he unlocked the door, the scent of your vanilla and sandalwood perfume hanging in the air like a challenge. He dropped his keys in the bowl with a loud clatter, a deliberate signal. I'm home.
He found you in the bedroom, just as he'd pictured. You were on your stomach on the bed, scrolling through your phone, that same scrap of black lace barely covering your ass. You didn't even look up.
"Took you long enough," you murmured, the picture of casual defiance. "Was about to fall asleep."
Atsuya didn't say a word. He shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He crossed the room in three long strides, the bed dipping with his weight as he knelt behind you. His hands, warm and calloused, gripped your ankles.
"Old man, huh?" he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your skin as he slid his hands up your calves, over the sensitive skin behind your knees, to finally rest on the back of your thighs. "We'll see about that."
You shivered, a gasp catching in your throat as his fingers hooked into the flimsy lace of your panties. He didn't pull them off. He just held the fabric taut, letting you feel the tension.
"You thought you could send me pictures like that while I'm trying to teach a class?" He leaned down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "You thought I wouldn't drop everything and come right back here to remind you who's in charge?"
"Maybe," you managed, your voice betraying the slight tremor of anticipation. "Was hoping you would."
He laughed, a dark, gravelly sound that vibrated through your entire body. "Oh, I know you were." With one sharp tug, he ripped the delicate lace. The sound of tearing fabric was followed by your sharp intake of breath.
"Atsuya! You tore my underwear.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “You’ll survive.” His hand slid up your inner thigh, thumb ghosting over the damp fabric that was now clinging to you.
“It was expensive.”
“I’ll buy you another pair.” His tongue darted out, tracing the delicate curve just below your earlobe, making you shiver.
“I liked those.”
“I’ll buy ten.” He nibbled gently at your shoulder, his teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp.
“You don’t even know where I bought them.”
“I’ll figure it out.” His hand moved higher, his fingers finally finding the heat between your legs, pressing lightly through what remained of your panties.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your skin, as he pressed a lingering kiss to the nape of your neck.
“…No.” The word was barely a whisper, lost as his lips found yours in a bruising kiss.
Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a lollipop, pops it into his mouth, and looks at you for a long beat.
“…You gonna keep talking, or are you done?”
He tossed the ruined scrap aside, his large hands spreading you open, exposing you completely to his gaze. "Look at that," he growled, appreciatively. "Already so wet for me. And you were going to 'take care of yourself'? As if you ever could."
Before you could formulate a bratty retort, he leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue over your slick folds, a slow, deliberate swipe that stole the air from your lungs.
"Oh, fuck!" you cried out, your back arching instinctively.
"Language," he chided, though there was a smug satisfaction in his tone. He did it again, slower this time, tracing every inch of you before settling on your clit. He didn't rush. He applied a firm, steady pressure, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue, listening to the way your breath hitched, to the small, desperate sounds you were trying to bite back.
"Stop... holding back," he ordered, pulling away just enough to speak. "I want to hear you."
"A-Atsuya, please," you whimpered, pushing your hips back against him, seeking more friction.
"Please what?" he taunted, hovering just over your clit, letting you feel the warmth of his breath. "You were so fucking brave with your little text messages. Use your words."
"Please... make me come," you begged, the words tearing from your throat.
"Since you asked so nicely." He finally gave you what you wanted, sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking, hard.
The pleasure was immediate and overwhelming, a white-hot jolt that shot straight up your spine. He held you down, one firm hand on the small of your back as you writhed against the sheets, your fingers fisting in the bedding. His tongue was relentless, alternating between firm, focused pressure and quick, flicking motions that kept you guessing, kept you climbing higher and higher.
"You taste so fucking good," he groaned against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through you. "All this for me?"
"Yes! All for you, oh god, don't stop, please don't stop!" You were babbling now, completely lost to the sensation. The coil in your belly was winding tighter and tighter, your thighs beginning to shake.
He could feel it. He could feel every twitch, every ragged breath. Just as you were teetering on the edge, right as you were about to tumble over into bliss, he pulled away.
A frustrated, desperate cry tore from your lips. "No! Atsuya, you asshole!"
He huffed a laugh, then he flipped you over onto your back with an effortless strength that made your head spin. He loomed over you, his eyes dark and predatory, a smirk playing on his lips.
"What did you call me?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
"You heard me," you shot back, panting, your body still thrumming with denied release. "You're an asshole."
“Keep talking," he said, and then he was on you. He captured your wrists in one of his large hands, pinning them above your head. His other hand snaked down between your bodies, his fingers finding your slick entrance. He circled it once, twice, teasingly, before sliding two long fingers inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust.
Your back bowed off the bed, a choked gasp escaping you. He curled his fingers just so, finding that spot inside you that made you see stars, and began to pump them in and out, building a rhythm that was maddeningly, perfectly slow.
"This," he said, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low growl, "is mine. You don't get to come until I say so. And you," he added, scissoring his fingers slightly, stretching you, "don't get to touch yourself. Ever. Not when I'm not here. Not when I am here. Only me."
"Atsuya," you whined, pulling against his grip on your wrists. "Please... I'm so close."
"Too bad," he said. He picked up the pace, fucking you with his fingers faster, harder, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with every thrust. The room was filled with the obscene, wet sounds of his fingers driving into you, mixed with your ragged moans and his own heavy breathing.
"Look at you," he murmured, his dark eyes fixed on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure. "Such a mess. All because of me. You love this, don't you? Love it when I take control."
"Yes!" you cried out, your head thrashing against the pillows. "Yes, I love it!"
"Say it."
"I love it when you take control! Please, Atsuya, let me come! I need to come!"
He finally, mercifully, lowered his head, taking one of your nipples into his mouth and biting down gently, just enough to send a sharp pang of pleasure-pain through you. That was all it took. The combined sensations pushed you over the edge, and you shattered.
"Atsuya!" you screamed his name as your orgasm crashed over you, a tidal wave of pure sensation. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your body arching and trembling as wave after wave of pleasure washed through you. He worked you through it, his fingers never stopping, drawing out your climax until you were a whimpering, boneless mess beneath him.
He finally withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips and licking them clean. "Sweet," he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours. "But I want more."
He sat back on his heels, a lazy, predatory smirk on his face. He reached into his discarded jacket pocket, the crinkle of a wrapper loud in the stillness of the room. Another lollipop. Cherry. He unwrapped it slowly, deliberately, the sound making your thighs clench in anticipation.
"Open up," he commanded.
You obeyed without question, parting your lips. He slid the hard candy into your mouth, the sweet, artificial cherry flavor flooding your senses. He watched you for a moment, his eyes dark as you tentatively sucked on it.
"Now, hold that there for me," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Don't drop it."
He then lowered himself back between your legs, positioning himself so he was propped on one elbow. He looked up at you, a challenging glint in his eyes, before leaning down and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your inner thigh. His stubble scraped against your sensitive skin, sending a shiver through you. He did the same to the other thigh, his movements unhurried, torturous.
"You're being so quiet," he murmured against your skin. "Where'd all that attitude from earlier go?"
You tried to answer around the lollipop, but it came out as a muffled garble. He chuckled, the vibrations traveling straight to your core.
"Can't talk? That's a shame." He finally, mercifully, leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue over your clit. The sensation was electric, making you gasp around the candy in your mouth. He did it again, slower this time, savoring your taste.
Then, he brought the lollipop he’d been sucking on down between your legs. You flinched, expecting it to be cold, but it was warm from his mouth, slick with his saliva. He traced the smooth, hard surface of the candy over your slick folds, a completely alien, intensely arousing sensation.
"Oh my god," you whimpered, the lollipop in your own mouth nearly falling out.
"Careful," he warned, his eyes fixed on what he was doing. He circled your clit with the tip of the candy, the sweet, sticky sensation mingling with your own wetness. It was bizarre and incredible all at once. "Keep that in your mouth. You drop it, and I stop."
He watched you, mesmerized, as he continued to torment you with the lollipop. He pressed it against your clit, rubbing it in slow, maddening circles. Your hips bucked off the bed, a desperate moan escaping your lips.
"So sensitive," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. "You like that? Like having something sweet against you while I watch?"
You nodded frantically, your eyes squeezed shut. He grinned.
Then, he set the lollipop aside on the nightstand, and leaned in, replacing the candy with his tongue. The difference was staggering—the warm, wet, pliant muscle of his tongue against your most sensitive skin. He lapped at you, cleaning the sticky sweetness from your folds, before focusing all his attention on your clit.
He sucked it into his mouth, hard, and your back bowed off the bed, a strangled cry escaping your lips. He held you down, one firm hand on your stomach, as he devoured you, his tongue relentless, his movements precise and devastating.
He slid two fingers back inside you, curling them expertly to hit that perfect spot deep within you. The dual stimulation was almost too much. His mouth on your clit, his fingers inside you, the phantom memory of the lollipop's sweet slickness.
"Atsuya... Atsuya, please," you begged, the words muffled by the candy. "I'm so close... I'm gonna..."
"Not yet," he commanded, pulling away just enough to speak, his fingers still moving inside you, slowing to a teasing pace. "Not until I say so."
You whined in frustration, pulling against his grip. "Please... I can't..."
"You can," he said, his voice firm. "And you will." He leaned back in, his tongue finding your clit again, and this time, he didn't hold back. He sucked and licked and nibbled, driving you wild with a desperate, frantic need.
The pressure was building again, a storm gathering in your core, your muscles tensing, your breath hitching in ragged gasps. He could feel it. He could feel you trembling on the verge of collapse.
"Come for me," he growled against you, the vibration finally pushing you over the edge. "Now."
And you did. You came with a scream, your body convulsing, your walls clenching around his fingers, wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure washing over you. It was so much, too much, perfect. He worked you through it, his tongue and fingers never stopping, drawing out your climax until you were a sobbing, trembling mess.
He flipped you onto your stomach and grabbed a pillow and shoved it under your hips, raising your ass into the air. He knelt behind you, and you heard the distinct sound of him unbuckling his belt, the metallic clang loud in the now-silent room. The rustle of his pants followed, and then you felt the hot, heavy weight of him settle over your back.
"You still think I'm an old man?" he growled, his lips grazing the nape of your neck. He ground his hard, clothed erection against your bare ass, a teasing promise of what was to come.
"No," you whimpered, pushing back against him. "No, I'm sorry."
"You will be," he promised darkly. He shifted, and then you felt the blunt head of his cock, hot and bare, pressing against your entrance. He teased you, sliding it through your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, nudging your clit with each pass.
"Please," you begged, desperation lacing your tone. "Please, Atsuya, fuck me."
"Patience," he chided, though you could hear the strain in his own voice. He was losing control, too. "I'm savoring this."
"Savor it faster," you shot back, a flash of your former brattiness returning.
He ginned. “Still got some fight in you, huh? Good." With one swift, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside you to the hilt.
The sudden, fullness made you cry out, a strangled moan of pure ecstasy. He gave you a moment to adjust, his body a heavy, grounding weight on top of yours, his breath hot and ragged in your ear. He started to move, slow and deep at first, setting a punishing rhythm that had you seeing stars.
"You feel so fucking good," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he drove into you again and again. "So tight, so wet... all for me."
"All for you," you echoed, your fingers clutching at the sheets. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, the head of his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl.
He wrapped a hand in your hair, fisting it gently but firmly. He used the leverage to pull your head back, forcing your arch to deepen. "Tell me who you belong to," he demanded, his voice a low growl.
“…You’re… so… annoying.” You said in between moans.
He laughed quietly. “Answer the question.”
You huffed. “…You” You rolled your eyes.“Happy?”
"Very," he grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a raw, primal rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart. "And don't you forget it."
He released your hair, only to snake a hand around your front, his fingers finding your clit. He began to rub it in tight, firm circles, matching the pace of his thrusts.
"Oh, god! Atsuya! I'm... I'm gonna come again!" you screamed, your whole body trembling.
"Then come for me," he commanded. "Come all over my cock."
His words were your undoing. Your second orgasm ripped through you, even more intense than the first. Your walls clenched around him, a series of high-pitched cries tearing from your throat as your body convulsed with pleasure. He didn't stop, fucking you through it, prolonging your climax until you were sure you would pass out.
When you finally came down, you were limp, boneless, your body humming with a residual pleasure that made you feel like you were floating. But Atsuya wasn't done with you yet.
He pulled out, and you whimpered at the sudden loss. He flipped you over onto your back, moving to kneel over your chest. His cock, glistening with your arousal, was hard and flushed, standing proud. He gripped the base, pointing it toward your lips.
"Open up," he ordered, his voice husky with desire. "Taste yourself on me."
You obeyed, parting your lips. He slid into your mouth, slow and deliberate, letting you get used to his size. You wrapped your lips around him, your tongue swirling around the head, tasting the mix of your own essence and his salty skin.
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his head falling back. "Just like that. Take all of me."
You relaxed your throat, letting him push deeper, until he was fully sheathed in your mouth. You looked up at him, watching the play of emotions on his face, the raw pleasure, the control, the possessiveness. It was the most incredible thing you'd ever seen.
He began to move, slowly at first, fucking your mouth with a deep, steady rhythm. You could feel his control starting to slip, his thrusts becoming a little more erratic, a little more desperate.
"You're so good at this," he praised, his voice strained. "So fucking good."
You moaned around him, the vibrations making him curse. His hands came down to rest on the headboard, caging you in. He was getting close, you could feel it in the tensing of his muscles, in the way his breath hitched.
But then, just as he was on the verge, he pulled out, leaving you both panting and wanting.
"Not yet," he said, his chest heaving. "I'm not done with you."
He flipped you over onto your stomach again, pulling your hips up so you were on your hands and knees. He knelt behind you, and without any warning, he thrust back into you.
"Oh!" you cried out, your arms giving out. You fell face-first into the pillows, your ass still high in the air.
He gripped your hips, holding you in place as he started to move, a slow, deep rhythm that had you seeing stars. This angle was incredible, allowing him to hit that spot inside you that made you see stars with every thrust.
"Jesus Christ," he grunted, his grip tightening on your hips, "I must've sold my soul to deserve something as tight and sweet as you."
"And I must've made a deal with the devil," you retorted, your voice muffled by the pillows, "to find an old man who knows exactly how to ruin me like this."
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your skin. He brought a hand down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap. The unexpected pain mingled with the pleasure, sending a dizzying jolt through you that made your head spin.
"What was that?" he growled, his fingers digging into your hips.
"You heard me," you retorted, a smirk playing on your lips. "Old. Man."
He spanked you again, harder this time. The skin of your ass tingled, a delicious, stinging heat that spread through your entire body.
"I'll show you old," he promised, his voice a low growl. He picked up the pace, fucking you with a newfound intensity, a punishing rhythm that stole the breath from your lungs. The bed was creaking loudly now, the headboard banging against the wall, but you didn't care. All you could focus on was the overwhelming pleasure, the feeling of him filling you, owning you, completely.
"You're a fucking brat, you know that?" he grunted, wrapping a hand in your hair and pulling your head back. The stretch in your neck was exquisite, a delicious ache that only added to the pleasure.
“Mmmm you love it.” You moaned out between thrusts and your own whimpers.
He didn't deny it. He just fucked you harder, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control finally shattering once more. He was close, you could feel it in the tensing of his muscles, in the way his breath hitched.
"Mmmphh fuck yeah I do.. my fucking brat.” He moaned into your ear.
He let go of your hair, only to grip your hips with both hands, pulling you back to meet his powerful thrusts. The room was filled with the raw, primal sounds of your lovemaking, a symphony of skin slapping against skin, of desperate cries and deep, guttural groans.
"Atsuya..." you gasped, your fingers fisting in the sheets. "I'm... I'm..."
"Me too," he grunted. "Fuck, me too baby.”
He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in tight, firm circles. That was all it took. With a final, powerful thrust, you shattered. Your sixth orgasm was blinding. Your whole body convulsed as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. Your walls clenched around him like a vise, pulling him over the edge with you.
With a loud, raw groan of your name, he came. You felt the hot, thick pulse of his release as he spilled into you, filling you up, marking you as his from the inside out. He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest heaving against your back.
He rolled off of you, pulling you into his arms and tucking you against his chest. You lay there in comfortable silence, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. His hand stroked your hair, a slow, rhythmic motion that was lulling you to sleep.
"You know," he said after a while, his voice gruff in the quiet room, "I was actually planning on getting some sleep tonight."
You looked up at him, a mischievous glint in your eye. "Oh, were you now?"
"Yeah," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "But this was way better."
His mouth claimed yours again, deeper this time, more possessive. The taste of your pleasure lingered on his tongue—a sweet, musky reminder of what he'd done to you.
For a while you just lay there, entangled in a mess of sweat and satisfaction. The frantic drumming of your own pulse gradually slowed to match the steady thump of his heart against your back. When he finally stirred, it was to press a gentle kiss to the nape of your neck, a soft contrast to the roughness that had come before.
"You okay?" he murmured, his voice hoarse.
You managed a weak, breathless laugh. "I'm... I don't know. I think I might be dead."
He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through your entire body. "Nope. Very much alive." He carefully rolled off of you, pulling you into his arms and tucking you against his chest. "And you're all mine."
You cuddled closer, burying your face in his chest. He smelled of sweat and sex and something uniquely him, a scent that was more comforting than anything else in the world. His hand stroked your hair, a slow, rhythmic motion that was lulling you to sleep.
"Still think I'm an old man?" he asked, his voice husky.
You managed a weak, breathless laugh. "Yes.. my old man.”
He chuckled, leaning down to press a soft, surprisingly gentle kiss to your lips. "Damn right," he murmured. "You know I’ll have to do extra time tomorrow after ending class early today?”
“Liar. You would have ended early even if I didn’t send that picture… that just got you home faster.” You bit back.
He just snorted. He was right, and you knew it. But you'd never admit it. "You're a menace," he said, but there was no heat in it. He was just stating a fact.
"And you love it," you shot back, a sleepy, satisfied smile on your face.
He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Yeah," he murmured against your skin. "I really, really do."
You were drifting, floating in a hazy, post-coital bliss, when you felt him shift. He reached over to the nightstand, fumbling in the pocket of his discarded jacket. He pulled out a fresh lollipop, the crinkle of the wrapper loud in the quiet room. He unwrapped it with practiced ease, the scent of artificial cherry filling the air.
"Man," he sighed, popping the candy into his mouth. He clicked it against his teeth, a familiar, comforting sound. "Sex is great and all, but it makes the nicotine cravings twice as bad."
You cracked an eye open, looking up at him. He was leaning against the headboard, the lollipop stick poking from between his lips, a picture of lazy, post-sex contentment.
“I fucking love you so much Atsuya.” You said.
His eyes softened, a rare, genuine smile playing on his lips. He reached down, pulling you up and into his lap. You settled against him, your head on his shoulder, your legs tangled with his.
"Love you too, brat," he murmured, his arm wrapping around your waist, holding you close.
You lay there in comfortable silence, the only sounds the gentle click of the lollipop against his teeth and the soft hum of the city outside. You were sore, exhausted, and completely, utterly satisfied. You had pushed him, tested his limits, and he had met you at every turn, pushing you right back, taking you to heights you'd never reached before.
"You know," he said after a while, his voice a low rumble, "next time you pull a stunt like that, I'm not going to be so nice."
You looked up at him, a mischievous glint in your eye. "Promise?"
He just laughed, a deep, genuine sound that vibrated through your entire body. "Get some sleep," he said, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. "You're going to need it."
genre ♡ established relationship • domestic smut • playful banter • aftercare • “the strongest” comes home soft
warnings ♡ mdni • 18+ only • explicit smut • oral sex • multiple orgasms • blindfold use • teasing • possessive language • creampie • bath aftercare • soft gojo • all characters are adults
summary ♡
Satoru comes home from a long mission expecting to find you waiting for him. Instead, he finds you in front of the bedroom mirror wearing his blindfold. It was supposed to be harmless. Unfortunately, your boyfriend disagrees.
now playing ♡ ♪ Die For You — The Weeknd
author’s note ♡
This started as a silly little thought about stealing Gojo’s blindfold and somehow turned into… this. Established relationship Gojo just hits different. He’s annoying, dramatic, completely unserious, and so painfully in love it makes him stupid. Enjoy the hostage situation.
The latch of the front door clicked shut, the sound swallowed by the expectant quiet of the apartment. Satoru’s shoes hit the floor with two dull, definitive thuds, one after the other, the simple act of unlacing them feeling like a great effort. He shrugged out of his jacket, the expensive fabric whispering as it pooled over the back of the couch, a dark shape in the dimly lit living room. A long, drawn-out sigh escaped him, a sound that pulled the very air from his lungs.
The exhaustion of the last—a quick mental tally, fourteen, maybe fifteen—hour mission had settled deep in his bones, a weariness that went beyond the physical. It was the kind of soul deep fatigue that only came from dealing with the worst of humanity. He toed off his socks, leaving them in a crumpled, sad little heap by the door. A terrible habit you nagged him about constantly, one he secretly delighted in because it always, always made you smile when you picked them up, shaking your head in fond exasperation.
“…Babe?”
Only the low, constant hum of the refrigerator answered, a sound that was usually a backdrop to your presence, not the sole occupant of the silence. A prickle of unease, sharp and unwelcome, traced its way up his spine. It wasn't like you to be silent, not when you knew he was due back. You were usually a whirlwind of welcome, a bright spot in the doorway, a warm body to collapse into.
He moved further inside, his bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor. The living room was a still life in muted grays, the television a dead, black screen, no sign of your presence. He turned the corner into the short hallway and stopped dead.
You were there, standing in front of the full-length mirror he’d mounted on the wall for you last month. And you were wearing his blindfold.
It was a complete and utter mess. The strip of black silk was crooked, sitting higher on one side of your face, the knot at the back of your head a lumpy, tangled disaster zone. You were tilting your head, a small, focused frown knitting your brow, squinting at your own distorted reflection as if trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle.
A soft, breathy giggle escaped you as you wobbled slightly on your feet, the world narrowed to a fuzzy, indistinct sliver. You took a wobbly step to the left, then a hesitant step to the right, trying to find your balance in the sudden, self-inflicted darkness.
“…You know…” The words were low, a rough scrape of sound in the quiet. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath.
You jumped, spinning toward the source of the noise. The sudden movement made the blindfold slip further, obscuring one eye completely and leaving the other peering out through a hazy gap.
“…Satoru! You scared me.” Your voice was breathless, a little high-pitched and flustered.
“What?”
“I didn't hear you come in.” Your free hand came up to rest on your chest, right over your racing heart.
“I noticed.” He took a slow step forward, then another, eating up the distance between you with a predatory grace that was at odds with the exhaustion clinging to him. He stopped directly behind you, a solid wall of warmth at your back.
The scent of him—faint, clean laundry, a metallic tang from the mission, something that was just Satoru, enveloped you, immediately grounding you. “I don't think you're allowed to do that.”
“Do what?” You laughed, reaching back to fumble with the knot at the nape of your neck, your fingers clumsy and ineffectual against the tangled silk.
“Wear my blindfold.” His hands settled on your hips, the touch light yet full of an unmistakable, possessive warmth. A shiver traced a path down your spine, and you found yourself leaning back into the solid heat of him without thinking.
“Why?”
“Because…” He dipped his head, his breath a warm puff against the shell of your ear. “Now I have a problem.”
You craned your neck, trying to see him over your shoulder. The movement twisted the blindfold even more, plunging you into complete, velvety darkness. “What problem?”
His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you flush against him. You could feel him, the firm, insistent line of his cock already pressing against the thin fabric of your sweatpants.
“…You’re cute.”
“…Satoru.” Your own voice was a whisper, barely there, a puff of air.
“I'm serious.” His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below your ear, a touch that was both a promise and a threat. “You're wearing my blindfold.”
“So?”
“So it's my thing,” he murmured, his mouth tracing a slow, deliberate path up the column of your neck to your earlobe, which he captured gently between his teeth.
“You’re jealous?” you teased, a smile evident in your voice despite the shiver that ran through you.
He chuckled, the sound a deep, pleasant vibration that resonated through your entire body, from your back pressed against his chest all the way down to your toes. “...A little.”
Then he was moving. His fingers, warm and sure, brushed against yours as he deftly undid the messy knot at the back of your head. You felt the familiar, rough calluses on his fingertips, the same ones that could wield cursed energy with lethal expertise, now gently adjusting the silk until it sat perfectly, sealing you in absolute, sensory-deprived blackness.
“...There.”
“...Better?” You asked.
“...No.” His voice had dropped, a low growl that held a dark, hungry edge. “Much, much worse.”
“Why?”
“...Now you're even prettier.” His hands slid from your hips, splaying across your stomach, thumbs tracing idle circles just above the waistband of your pants. The simple touch was electrifying in the silent dark. “You couldn’t have just stolen one of my hoodies like a normal girlfriend?”
A wave of heat washed over you, intense and immediate. “Satoru…” you breathed, your own hands coming up to cover his on your stomach, your fingers lacing through his.
“Shhh.” His lips found the spot behind your ear that always made your knees weak. “Just let me look at you for a second.”
The world behind the blindfold was a silent, velvety void. Your other senses sharpened, drinking everything in. The clean, familiar scent of him, tinged with something metallic and distant. The low hum of the apartment. The frantic, fluttering beat of your own heart. His fingers began to move again, tracing idle patterns over your shirt, a slow, torturous exploration that made your skin pebble with goosebumps. He was touching you with a reverence that felt at odds with the hardness pressed insistently against your backside.
“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That’s a problem.”
Before you could form a question, he was moving. One arm hooked around your waist, the other swept behind your knees, and suddenly your feet were leaving the floor. A startled gasp escaped you as he lifted you with impossible ease, as if you weighed nothing at all. Your arms automatically wrapped around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him.
“Satoru! Put me down!” You laughed, but there was no fight in it, only delight.
“Nope,” he said, popping the 'p'. “I’ve decided. This is a hostage situation.”
“A hostage situation? For what?”
He paused at the foot of the bed, lowering you until your feet touched the plush carpet. His hands didn't leave your waist. “For my sanity,” he said, and then he was kissing you.
It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry, desperate crash of lips and teeth that stole the air from your lungs and made your head spin. He walked you backward until your legs hit the mattress, and you tumbled down, pulling him with you. He settled over you, caging you in with his arms, the kiss deepening, becoming something even more commanding. His tongue swept against yours, tasting, exploring, a slow, deliberate dance that left you breathless and wanting more.
His hands moved with a familiar, desperate urgency, tugging your sleep shirt up and over your head. The cool air kissed your heated skin, followed immediately by the warmth of his palms as they cupped your breasts. His thumbs brushed over your already pebbled nipples, and you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips.
“Fuck, I missed these,” he groaned, the words vibrating against your skin. He dipped his head, taking one sensitive peak into his mouth. He didn't tease. He suckled hard, a deliberate, wet pull that sent a jolt straight to your core, before laving the bud with his tongue. He grazed it lightly with his teeth, a sharp, pleasurable sting that made you gasp, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in the soft white strands.
He gave your other breast the same thorough, worshipful attention, leaving you a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him. You were completely blind, the world behind the blindfold a velvet void that amplified every sensation, the wet heat of his mouth, the rough scrape of his teeth, the demanding, solid weight of his body pinning you to the bed.
“Satoru, please,” you begged, the words broken, breathy.
“Please what?” he lifted his head, and you could hear the smug, self-satisfied grin in his voice. “Please touch you? Please taste you? Please finish this hostage negotiation with a satisfactory conclusion for all parties involved?”
“God, you’re the worst,” you laughed, the sound dissolving into a moan as your hips rocked up against him, seeking friction. “You can't even be serious during a… a…”
“Total disaster?” he supplied cheerfully. “An outright catastrophe? A memorable night?”
You groaned, a mix of pure annoyance and undeniable delight. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your sternum. He started to slide down your body, the rough fabric of his shirt a delicious friction against your sensitized skin. “You love me. You love my blindfold. You love this whole situation. Admit it.”
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your sweatpants and panties, pulling them down together in one smooth, deliberate motion. He tossed them aside, and the cool air hit your heated core, making you shiver. You could feel him shifting, settling between your legs, the mattress dipping with his weight.
“Alright, let's see the damages,” he said, his tone a ridiculous, professional-sounding appraisal that made you snort. “Hmmm. Yup. Looks like a severe case of…” He paused, and you could practically feel him wiggling his eyebrows. “Me.”
“Satoru, I swear to god—”
Your threat was cut short by a hot, wet stripe up your slit. The sensation was electric, a bolt of pure pleasure that made your hips buck off the bed. His hands gripped your thighs, strong and sure, holding you open for him as he settled in.
“Careful,” he chuckled, the vibration sending shivers through you. “This is a delicate operation. One false move and the whole thing could… explode.” He punctuated the word with a deliberate, swirling flick of his tongue around your clit.
Your head fell back against the pillows, a long, breathless moan tearing from your throat. “F—fu—fuck, Sat—toru.”
He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d spent a year learning every inch of you, every secret that made you gasp and writhe. He knew the exact pressure, the exact rhythm that drove you to the brink of madness, and he was using that knowledge against you with merciless precision.
He alternated between broad, lapping strokes that coated you in his saliva and focused, pointed flicks against your most sensitive spot, until you were a trembling, whimpering mess. You were so close, teetering on the sharp edge of release, when he suddenly stopped.
“What?” you panted, lifting your head from the pillows. “Why’d you stop?”
“Just admiring the view,” he said, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. “You look really good like this. All… blindfolded. And messy. It’s a good combination.”
“Oh my god, are you taking notes?”
“Maybe,” he laughed, a warm, happy sound. “For my memoirs. Chapter seven: The Blindfold Incident.” He leaned back down, and you felt his breath ghost over your ear. “Spoiler alert: it ends well for everyone.”
He slid two fingers into your tight heat, the intrusion a welcome, delicious relief that made you gasp against the sudden fullness. His long, calloused digits felt impossibly thick as they stretched you, your walls clenching around them instinctively. He curled them immediately, a deliberate, knowing motion that hit that secret bundle of nerves inside you with unerring accuracy. The sensation was so intense it made your toes curl, your legs trembling as pleasure shot up your spine, clouding your vision even further behind the confining silk. You cried out, a raw, broken sound of pure need, your back arching off the bed as he began to pump them in and out, establishing a slow, torturous rhythm that had you gasping for air. Each stroke was deliberate, dragging against your inner walls, making you ache with a need for more.
His mouth returned to your clit, his tongue flicking against the sensitive nub with devastating precision. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a perfect storm of pleasure that had you writhing beneath him, your hands gripping the sheets so tightly your knuckles turned white. He was methodical, relentless, his fingers curling on every other thrust, hitting that spot again and again while his tongue worked circles around your clit, occasionally sucking it into his mouth with a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the quiet room. You were completely at his mercy, a willing captive in this sensual hostage situation, your body trembling with each deliberate touch, each calculated stroke pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion.
“Sa—toru… ungph.. I’m so—oo close,” you warned, your voice ragged, strained.
“Good,” he murmured, the word a possessive command against your sensitive flesh. “I want to see how many times I can make you come before you remember how to use your words.”
His fingers crooked inside you, hitting that spot that made your whole body lock up.The coil that had been tightening low in your belly for what felt like an eternity finally snapped. A white-hot burst of pleasure exploded outward from your core, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that crashed over you, stealing your breath and your thoughts in one fell swoop. Your entire body went rigid, your back arching sharply off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from your throat as the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of sensations. Your thighs clamped around his head, trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of intense, pleasure washed through you, each one more powerful than the last. He didn't let up, his fingers continuing to pump into you with steady, rhythmical precision, his tongue swirling around your oversensitive clit, pushing you higher, drawing out your orgasm until you were a sobbing, writhing mess beneath him.
You could feel the slickness of your own arousal coating his fingers, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room, mingling with your desperate, broken moans. "Oh my—fuck— God.. Satoruuu!" His name was a choked, breathless prayer on your lips, the only coherent word you could manage as the pleasure continued to peak, an overwhelming force that left you trembling and spent in its wake.
He didn't stop until you were completely spent, your body limp and trembling against the sheets, your chest heaving with ragged, shallow breaths. He pressed a soft, final kiss to your clit before pulling back, a smug, predatory grin spreading across his face. You could feel the intensity of his gaze even through the blindfold, a palpable heat that made your skin tingle.
“One,” he said, like he was ticking a box on a checklist, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. “How are we feeling? Ready to surrender yet?”
“Never,” you managed to gasp, a weak but defiant smile touching your lips despite the bone-deep exhaustion that was starting to set in.
“That’s my girl,” he chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent a fresh wave of desire through you despite your recent orgasm. He crawled back up your body, the heat of him searing through your skin. He captured your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, a heady, intimate flavor that made your head spin. He kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he wanted to breathe you in, to absorb you into his very being, to mark you as his in the most primal of ways. His mouth was hot and demanding against yours, his tongue sweeping inside to claim every corner, leaving no part of you untouched by his presence. The taste of your own arousal was musky and intoxicating, mingling with the faint mint of his own flavor, creating a potent cocktail that made your body thrum with renewed desire.
One of his hands tangled in your hair, gripping the strands at the nape of your neck with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth, tilting your head to the side to deepen the kiss further. His other hand roamed your body, mapping your curves with possessive intent, fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your sides, digging into the soft flesh of your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. You were drowning in him, in the overwhelming sensory experience of his kiss, his touch, his scent that now clung to you, mingling with your own.
The blindfold had transformed the kiss into something else entirely, magnifying every sensation until it was all-consuming, until there was nothing in the world but the wet slide of his tongue against yours, the delicious pressure of his lips, the sharp nip of his teeth against your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue, a deliberate, possessive gesture that made you whimper with need. He was marking you, inside and out, leaving no doubt that you belonged to him, that this was his territory, his to explore, his to cherish, his to claim in the most intimate of ways.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your chests heaving, your lips swollen and tingling.
He settled over you, the rough fabric of his uniform pants rubbing against your oversensitive skin, a delicious friction that made you ache for more. You reached down, your fingers fumbling with the button and zipper, desperate to feel him inside you, to fill the aching emptiness he’d created.
He chuckled, a low, wicked sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Ah, ah, ah. Hostages don’t get to make demands.” He sat back on his heels, his movements fluid and graceful even in the throes of passion.
He pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside to join the growing pile of clothes on the floor. The faint moonlight filtering through the window illuminated his chest, highlighting the lean, sculpted muscles, the pale skin that seemed to glow in the dim light. You could feel the heat radiating from him, a palpable energy that made your body hum with anticipation.
“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, even as you wished you could see him, to trace the lines of his chest with your eyes, to watch the way his muscles flexed as he moved.
“Ridiculously turned on,” he corrected, a smug grin in his voice. He finally shed his pants and boxers, the sound of rustling fabric filling the quiet room. His cock sprang free, long and thick, flushed a deep, angry pink, the head already glistening with pre-cum. “You see what you do to me? I leave for one mission and come home to this.” He gestured vaguely in your direction, and you could hear the smirk in his voice, the self-satisfied amusement that was so uniquely him.
“My fault? You’re the one who declared a hostage situation!” you retorted, a playful pout on your lips.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he shrugged, a wicked grin evident in his tone. He positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, swollen entrance. The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through you, a sharp, delicious spark that made you gasp, your body arching instinctively toward him. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his muscles tensed with restrained anticipation, his breath coming in shallow pants against your neck.
“Now, are you going to cooperate, or do I need to resort to more… persuasive tactics?” He didn't give you a chance to respond, just slid the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you both with deliberate, agonizing slowness. The velvety head of him nudged against your clit, sending a fresh wave of desire through you, making your hips buck in response, a silent plea for more. You could feel his smirk even through the blindfold, the way he relished your desperation, the control he held in this moment. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he continued his torturous exploration, tracing circles around your entrance without ever quite giving you the satisfaction you craved.
“Fuck… Baby, you feel so fucking good even just like this,” he groaned, his voice ragged and breathless. The sound was so intimate, so raw that it made your body tremble with need. “Goddamn… so fucking wet for me already. Mmmph, you’re killing me here.” The air grew thick with unspoken tension, the sound of your ragged breathing mingling with his low, appreciative chuckles and throaty moans, a symphony of want and denial that left you trembling beneath him.
“Shit… the way you’re clenching around nothing… fff—fuck, I want to be inside you so bad right now.” He punctuated his words with another slow, deliberate drag of his cock against your clit, making you cry out, your hands twisting in the sheets as you fought to maintain some semblance of control, a losing battle from the start.
“Satoru,” you whined, your hips lifting, trying to take him in, your movements clumsy and desperate in the darkness. “Please… I need… I need you.”
“‘Satoru,’ what?” he teased, rubbing against your clit with a little more pressure, eliciting a sharp gasp from you. “That’s not a complete sentence. Use your words, hostage. Tell me what you need.”
“You’re the absolute worst,” you gasped, your hands twisting in the sheets, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. “And I want you inside me. Now.”
He let out a dramatic, relieved sigh, a theatrical display that was so quintessentially him that it made you want to laugh and scream in equal measure. “See? Was that so hard?” With one smooth, powerful thrust, he was buried to the hilt, stretching you open in a way that was both familiar and overwhelmingly, breathtakingly new every single time. The sudden, full feeling sent sparks dancing behind your eyelids, a blinding flash of pleasure that made your toes curl, a choked cry tearing from your throat as your body struggled to accommodate the sudden, intense intrusion.
“Fuck!” you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into the skin of his back as you tried to anchor yourself to something, anything, in a sea of sensation. The stretch was exquisite, a delicious ache that made your body hum with pleasure, your walls clenching around him instinctively as you adjusted to his size, to the feeling of being utterly filled by him.“Satoru… oh my god… you’re so… so deep…”
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he held himself still, letting you adjust to every thick, hard inch stretching you. His frantic heartbeat hammered against your chest, matching your own wild rhythm—a raw pulse of desire between you. A guttural groan rumbled through his chest. "Fuck... that's it," he breathed, his voice shredded with pleasure. "You're taking me so well, baby. God... the way you're squeezing me..." His fingers drifted up to adjust the blindfold, tracing the silk line across your cheekbones—a caress that made you shiver. "Perfect," he murmured, his voice dropping to husky velvet. "All mine. And fuck... you feel incredible."
"Can't have you peeking," he murmured, more to himself, his voice a rumble that vibrated through you. "This is a private showing. Just for me."
Then he moved. And the world shattered.
He pulled out almost all the way, leaving just the tip inside, a torturous emptiness that made you whimper, your body arching up to follow him, desperate for the return of that fullness. Then he slammed back in, a powerful, deliberate thrust that stole your breath, a sharp, satisfying punch of pleasure deep in your core that made you see stars. He set a punishing pace from the start, each thrust deep and hard, hitting that spot deep inside you that made your toes curl and your vision sparkle, a rhythm that had you gasping for air, your mind going blank with pleasure.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place for his powerful thrusts, his fingers digging into your flesh with enough force to leave bruises, marks that you knew would be there tomorrow, a tangible reminder of this night, of his possession. “That’s where I belong. Right here, buried in this perfect little pussy. Hostage situation’s looking pretty good from here, huh?”
“You’re… enjoying this… way too much,” you panted, the words breaking apart with each snap of his hips, each powerful thrust that drove the air from your lungs and sent waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails in their wake, a silent plea for more, for him to never stop, to take you harder, faster, to completely and utterly consume you.
“What can I say?” he chuckled, the sound a low, wicked rumble that vibrated through your entire body, a counterpoint to the rhythmic slap of skin against skin that filled the room. “I’m a natural negotiator.” One of his hands left your hip, snaking between your bodies to find your clit. He rubbed tight, desperate circles, the added stimulation sending you hurtling toward the edge once more, the coil of pleasure tightening in your belly, winding tighter and tighter with each pass of his fingers, each powerful thrust of his hips.
“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, his voice a low, hypnotic rasp against your ear, his breath hot and ragged, scorching the sensitive skin behind your earlobe. His scent was intoxicating—a heady mix of sweat, the faint hint of his cologne, and something uniquely him that made your head spin. “Give me another one. I want to feel you squeezing my cock when you come. Consider it a goodwill gesture.”
His words were your undoing, a final push over the edge into oblivion, a command that bypassed your conscious mind and spoke directly to your body’s desperate need for release. With a sharp cry that was half his name, half a guttural moan, you shattered, your orgasm ripping through you with an intensity that bordered on pain, a white-hot, blinding force that stole everything. Your back arched off the bed, a beautiful, taut bow of desperate pleasure, your body locking up as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you, stealing your thoughts and your breath, leaving you trembling and gasping for air, a mindless, writhing mess beneath him, completely and utterly his.
He fucked you through it, his thrusts never slowing, prolonging your pleasure until it was almost too much, until you were a sobbing, whimpering mess, your body oversensitive to the point of exquisite agony, every touch, every movement a fresh wave of sensation that had you crying out his name, a broken, desperate prayer on your lips. Your walls clenched around him, a rhythmic, desperate fluttering, and he groaned, a deep, primal sound of pure satisfaction, a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body, a testament to the power you held over him, even in this position of complete submission. He stilled for a moment, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
"That's two," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple—a tenderness so out of place with how he'd just wrecked you that it made your heart ache. "We're making excellent progress," he added, that smug bastard tone in his voice telling you he was nowhere near finished with you. This wasn't even the main event, just the warm-up to the symphony of destruction he had planned for your body, leaving you both breathless and tangled in a mess of limbs and sweat and absolute bliss. But he was far from done.
Without pulling out, without breaking the intimate connection that bound you together, he rolled you over with a strength that never failed to make you ache with want, a fluid, powerful motion that left you breathless. You found yourself on your stomach, the soft sheets cool against your heated, flushed skin. He grabbed a pillow, shoving it under your hips with a deliberate, rough motion that made you gasp, "Ah—!" a sharp intake of breath.
He angled you up perfectly for him, presenting yourself to him in the most vulnerable of positions, a silent offering that he accepted with a low, appreciative groan, "Mmmph, fuck..."
The new position allowed him to hit even deeper, a fresh, mind-blowing angle that made you moan into the sheets, "Ohhh, god, Satoru..." a long, drawn-out sound of pure pleasure as he slid back in, a smooth, perfect glide that filled you completely, stretching you in a way that was both familiar and overwhelming.
“Ass up, baby,” he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly growl that sent shivers down your spine. He gave your ass a playful smack that stung in the most delicious way, a sharp, delicious heat that spread through your body, making you clench around him involuntarily. You complied, your arms trembling as you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, the muscles in your back and shoulders protesting the effort, but the pleasure was too intense to care. He started to move again, and this time, there was no teasing. Only raw, unrestrained need.
His hips snapped against yours, each thrust a powerful, deliberate stroke that sent jolts of pleasure through your entire body, a rhythm that left you gasping for air, your mind going blank with pure, unadulterated ecstasy. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his lips trailing a hot, wet path down your spine. Each touch was electric, a spark that ignited a fire deep within you, a hunger that only he could satisfy. He was everywhere, his hands on your hips, pulling you back to meet each thrust, his breath hot against your ear, his teeth nipping at your shoulder blade, a sharp, pleasurable sting that made you cry out, a raw, desperate sound that was swallowed by the pillows.
The world had shrunk to this, to the feel of him inside you, the sound of his ragged breathing, the obscene, wet sounds of your bodies coming together, a pleasure that was so intense it was almost painful. You could feel yourself getting close again, the coil tightening in your belly, a familiar tension that wound tighter and tighter with each powerful thrust, each touch, each whispered word of praise and encouragement that spilled from his lips, a litany of "fuck... you feel so good... taking me so well, baby..." that made your head spin and your body tremble with need.
The room filled with raw, unfiltered sounds—the rhythmic creak of the bedframe, the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, your own breathless cries and desperate pleas, and his deep, guttural groans of pleasure, "Fuck... yes... just like that... squeeze me, baby..." a raw, primal soundtrack to your shared ecstasy. His hands were everywhere, one tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose the sensitive skin of your neck, which he proceeded to worship with hot, open-mouthed kisses, leaving a trail of red marks in his wake, a visual claim that you would wear for days. His other hand snaked around your body, finding your clit again, rubbing tight, desperate circles that sent you hurtling toward the edge, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable crescendo, a tidal wave of sensation that threatened to consume you whole.
He was a force of nature, a god of pleasure and destruction, and you were his willing sacrifice, his devoted worshipper, lost in the intensity of his touch, his presence, his very being. You were completely his, body and soul, and in this moment, there was nowhere else you would rather be.
“Satoru… Satoru, I’m… oh god… I’m gonna…” you gasped, your words a jumbled mess of breathless pleas and desperate cries, your body trembling uncontrollably, your muscles tensing as you teetered on the precipice of oblivion.
“I know, baby, I know,” he urged, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control finally starting to slip, the raw, unbridled need in him taking over. “Let go. Come for me. I want to feel you lose yourself on my cock.” His words were a command, a growl that sent a fresh wave of desire through you, pushing you over the edge into a blinding, shattering orgasm that ripped through you with the force of a hurricane. Your entire body convulsed, a series of powerful, rhythmic contractions that milked his cock, your inner walls clamping down on him like a vise, a desperate, instinctual attempt to pull him deeper, to keep him inside you forever.
A strangled cry tore from your throat, a raw, primal sound of pure ecstasy as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, each one more intense than the last, a blinding, all-consuming force that stole your thoughts, your breath, your very soul. Your vision went white, the world dissolving into just colors and sensations, the only thing real the feel of him inside you, the sound of his name on your lips, a desperate, broken prayer that echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of your own mind. You were floating, weightless, adrift in a sea of pure pleasure, your body a vessel for the all-consuming force of your release.
He followed you over the edge with a guttural groan that sounded like it was torn from the very depths of his soul, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated bliss. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his cock twitching as he spilled into you, a hot, intimate rush that filled you, a final act of possession that made you moan again, a low, satisfied sound that was half-sob, half-sigh. You could feel the warmth of his cum spreading through you, a tangible reminder of his presence, of this shared moment of intense, unparalleled intimacy.
He collapsed on top of you, a dead weight, his breathing ragged and uneven, his heart hammering against your back in a wild, frantic rhythm that matched your own. You were both sticky, sweaty, and utterly spent, a tangled mess of limbs and discarded clothes, a beautiful, chaotic masterpiece of passion and desire. The room was silent save for the sound of your slowing breaths, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something that was just… Satoru.
After a long moment, he pushed himself up, his soft cock slipping out of you in a gush of wetness that made you blush, a shy, post-coital reaction that always made him chuckle. He looked down at you, a lazy, satisfied grin on his face, his blue eyes soft in the dim light, a look of deep, abiding affection in their depths that made your heart ache with a love so profound it was almost painful.
“Three,” he said, like he was ticking a box on a checklist, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. “I think we’ve reached a satisfactory conclusion to this negotiation.”
You could only manage a weak nod, your body boneless and spent, your muscles trembling with the aftershocks of your intense orgasms. You felt utterly wrung out, a delicious, pleasant exhaustion that settled deep in your bones, a feeling of complete and utter satisfaction that you knew only he could give you. He chuckled, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder, his lips a gentle, warm caress against your sensitized skin.
"Hold that thought," he murmured, then he was up and off the bed in one fluid, graceful motion. You listened to the sounds of him moving around the room, the quiet thud of his feet on the floor, the distant sound of water running, the opening and closing of cabinet doors. You were too tired to move, content to just lie there, a mess of tangled limbs and tangled sheets, a lazy smile on your face. You could feel a pleasant ache between your legs, a tangible reminder of the intensity of your lovemaking, a reminder of his possession, a feeling of being well and truly fucked in the best possible way.
He returned moments later, lifting you effortlessly into his arms, your body weight nothing to him. The scent of steam and lavender followed as he carried you toward the bathroom, the air growing warmer with each step. He carefully lowered you into the bathtub, the water a perfect, enveloping heat that made you sigh as it eased the delicious ache in your muscles. You settled back against his chest as he slid in behind you, his arms coming around to hold you close. The water lapped gently at your skin, steam rising in fragrant clouds around you both.
His fingers stroked through your hair, slow and soothing, before working your favorite shampoo into a rich lather. The gentle massage of his fingertips against your scalp had you melting against him with a quiet hum of contentment. Warm water cascaded over your hair as he rinsed away the suds, one hand steady around your waist to keep you tucked securely against his chest.
“There we go,” he murmured against your hair. “All clean.”
You sighed, letting your head fall back against his shoulder as the warmth of the bath and the steady beat of his heart slowly unraveled the last knots of tension in your body.
“You know…” he said casually, rinsing the last of the shampoo away. “I think I need to file a formal complaint.”
“What?” you mumbled sleepily.
“My hostage displayed shockingly poor restraint.” His tone was completely serious despite the grin you could hear. “Multiple unauthorized releases of… tension. And the begging? Honestly, it was a complete breakdown of negotiations.”
You laughed quietly. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m your idiot,” he corrected without missing a beat.
He reached for a soft washcloth, gently wiping your face before brushing damp strands of hair behind your ear. His touch was impossibly gentle, a complete contrast to the intensity of only minutes before.
“And I have to say,” he continued, “for a first-time offender, your performance was… compelling. Very convincing whimpers. A-plus on the begging. We’ll make a hostage-taker out of you yet.”
“Can’t wait for the training,” you mumbled, barely coherent.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating warmly through his chest. “Me neither.”
Silence settled comfortably between you for a few moments, broken only by the quiet splash of the bathwater.
Then he spoke again. “You know… I think we need a system. For future incidents.”
You cracked one eye open. “Future incidents of you kidnapping me because you’re jealous of your own blindfold?”
“Exactly.” His answer came without hesitation. “We need a safe word. Something subtle. Something that screams, ‘I’m being held against my will by an insatiable white-haired menace, but I’m actually kind of enjoying it, so maybe don’t stop too soon.’”
You stared at him for a second. “…Satoru, the safe word for that is ‘yes.’”
He blinked thoughtfully. “Huh.” Another pause. “You’re right. That’s surprisingly efficient. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He laughed again, unable to help himself. “I have to debrief this whole operation, though.” His fingers traced lazy circles across your arm. “Overall? Commendable performance. Excellent resilience under interrogation. Very believable whimpers. Five stars.”
“You are literally impossible.”
“And yet,” he said proudly, “you still agreed to date me.”
“I question that decision daily.”
“Liar.”
“…Maybe.”
He kissed your temple. “Alright, sleepy hostage. Bed.”
He stood, lifting you effortlessly from the bath. Water streamed from both of you as he wrapped you in an oversized towel, drying you with slow, careful movements before carrying you back into the bedroom.
He settled you onto the mattress as though you were something precious, pulling the comforter over you before climbing in beside you. You instinctively rolled into him, tucking your face against his chest as his arms circled your waist.
“Go to sleep, baby,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss into your hair. “I’ll be here in the morning.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you mumbled.
“I know.”
He lay awake for a long time, holding you, watching the soft play of moonlight on your face in the quiet darkness. He smoothed the hair back from your forehead, his touch impossibly gentle. He traced the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips, the delicate shell of your ear. He’s committing you to memory, like he always does after he’s been away.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against the black strip of cloth now hanging from the headboard. His fingers ran along the frayed edges, a small, fond smile playing on his lips.
“God,” he whispered into the silence, the word a raw, ragged breath. “How did I get so lucky?”
He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek. Then to the corner of your mouth. They’re not kisses of desire, but of pure, unadulterated affection. They’re promises.
“I love you,” he murmured, the words a quiet, fierce declaration against your skin. “So much.” He smiled to himself, pulled you a little closer, and rested his cheek against the top of your head.
Here, with you in his arms, he wasn’t the Strongest. He wasn’t Gojo Satoru, the weapon, the anomaly, the man the world depended on. He was simply Satoru. And he was home.
He continued to stroke your back in slow, soothing sweeps. He rubbed your arm, your shoulder, any part of you he can reach.
“You’re my whole world, you know that?” he whispered, knowing you can’t hear him, needing to say it anyway. “Would burn it all down for you. Happily.”
He pressed one last, soft kiss to your hair, then settles back, content to just hold you, to listen to you breathe, to feel the steady beat of your heart against his. The exhaustion finally pulls him under, but it’s a peaceful, welcome descent, because he knows when he wakes up, you’ll be right there beside him.
♡ cw: mdni • 18+ • explicit sexual content • nipple piercings • unprotected sex • praise • rough/soft dynamics • multiple orgasms • friends to lovers • language • aged up yuta •
♡ currently playing: I Wanna Be Yours — Arctic Monkeys
♡ summary:
A late night sparring session with Yuta turns into something neither of you planned when an unexpected distraction shatters his composure. One rainstorm, years of unspoken feelings, and a single impulsive kiss are enough to change everything.
The sky over the Tokyo Jujutsu Technical College training grounds had the bruised, heavy look of a storm about to break. Fat, gray clouds hung low, pregnant with unshed rain, and the air was thick enough to taste, heavy with the scent of damp earth and impending downpour. Yuta stood opposite you, his practice sword—a simple wooden bokken—held in a loose, ready grip. His dark hair, slightly longer now, was already starting to plaster to his forehead with the humidity.
“Ready?” he called out, his voice a low murmur that was almost swallowed by the oppressive silence. There was no one else around. The grounds were empty, the other students having finished their drills hours ago, driven inside by the threatening weather. But you’d both lingered, drawn to the raw, untamed energy of the coming storm.
You nodded, settling into your own stance, your bokken held parallel to the ground. The thin, white cotton t-shirt you wore stuck to your skin in the humidity, a simple, practical choice for training. You wore only a pair of black, loose-fitting sweatpants for your bottoms, your feet bare against the cool, damp dirt.
“Don’t go easy on me, Yuta,” you warned, a small smirk playing on your lips. “I’m not the same person I was six months ago.”
His lips curved into a genuine, easy smile that reached his dark eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He took a small step forward, the movement fluid and economical, a predator’s shift in weight. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
And then, it began.
The first clash of wood on wood was sharp, a loud crack that echoed in the stillness. You met his initial strike perfectly, your arms absorbing the shock, your muscles coiling. You pushed back, forcing him to disengage, and immediately followed up with a series of quick, probing attacks—a high cut to the head, a low sweep to the legs, a thrust to the chest. He blocked them all, his movements a blur of controlled grace, his bokken an extension of his will.
It was a dance. A violent, beautiful dance. You moved together across the training grounds, your feet finding purchase on the damp earth, your bodies weaving a complex tapestry of attack and defense. The humidity made your skin slick with sweat, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. You could feel the burn in your shoulders, the ache starting to build in your thighs, but you pushed it down, focusing only on him, on the rhythm of your spar, on the way his eyes tracked your every move.
“You’re faster,” he grunted, parrying a particularly aggressive thrust and sidestepping to circle you. “And your form is cleaner.”
“You’re stronger,” you retorted, spinning to meet his renewed assault. The wood of your bokken felt like an extension of your arm, the vibrations of each impact traveling up your arm, a thrumming reminder of the raw power you were both channeling. “And you’re not telegraphing your moves as much.”
He chuckled, a low, breathy sound. “Maki would have my head if I did.”
As you spoke, the first drop of rain fell. It landed on your cheek, a cool, shocking kiss against your overheated skin. Then another, and another. Soon, a steady drizzle began to fall, misting the air, clinging to your eyelashes, dotting the dark fabric of Yuta’s shirt. The world softened at the edges, the sharp lines of the trees and buildings blurring into a watercolor wash of greens and grays.
But the spar didn’t stop. If anything, it intensified.
The rain slicked the handles of your bokkens, making your grips more precarious, forcing you to tighten your hold, to channel more cursed energy into your hands to maintain control. The wet ground became treacherous, each step a calculated risk. The sound of your movements changed, the sharp cracks of wood on wood were now accompanied by the soft thwump of bare feet on mud, the squelch of displaced earth, the constant patter of rain against your bodies and the ground.
Yuta’s shirt, once a dark, solid black, was now soaked through, clinging to the lean, wiry muscles of his chest and abdomen. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead and neck, water streaming down his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. He looked like some kind of wild, beautiful creature born of the storm, his eyes glowing with a fierce, focused light. He was breathtaking.
And you? You were a mess. A glorious, exhilarating mess.
Your white t-shirt, once so practical, was now completely saturated. It was no longer a shirt but a second skin, translucent and clinging, revealing every curve, every contour of your torso. The cold rain had done its work, your nipples hardening into tight, prominent points against the thin, wet fabric. And through that fabric, the glint of metal was undeniable. The small, delicate barbells of your nipple piercings were clearly visible, twin silver moons against the pale canvas of skin.
You were so lost in the rhythm, in the burn of your muscles and the exhilaration of the match, that you hadn't even noticed. All your focus was on him. But Yuta… Yuta noticed.
It happened in an instant. A beat in the dance where he disengaged, taking a step back to circle you, to reassess. For a fraction of a second, his eyes, which had been locked on yours, dipped. They flickered down, a quick, involuntary glance. And they stopped.
His rhythm faltered. His focus shattered.
The bokken in his hand felt suddenly heavier, more awkward. He saw it all. The way the wet cotton clung to the soft swell of your breasts. The dark, tight buds of your nipples. And the flash of silver piercing through them. He saw it, and the image seared itself into his brain, a brand of pure, unadulterated lust.
“Yuta?”
Your voice, sharp with concern, cut through the sudden, roaring static in his head. He’d frozen. Mid-circle, his body poised, but his mind was a million miles away, lost in the intoxicating, unexpected vision. He blinked, the rain blurring his vision, and when he looked back at your face, his expression was raw, unguarded. A mixture of shock, surprise, and something else. Something dark and hungry that made your breath catch in your throat.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, lowering your bokken slightly. The fight was gone from his eyes, replaced by a swirling tempest you couldn’t read.
He shook his head, a slow, jerky motion, as if trying to physically dislodge the image from his mind. But it was no use. It was burned there. “Nothing,” he managed, but the word was a lie, thick and clumsy on his tongue. He cleared his throat, trying to regain control, to find the calm center that was usually so natural to him. But it was gone, swallowed by the storm both in the sky and in his blood. “It’s… nothing. Let’s… let’s continue.”
But he couldn’t. The spar was over. It was a pretense now.
You raised your bokken, and he met your strike, but it was clumsy. Off balance. His strength was there, but his precision was gone. He was fighting a battle on two fronts, and the one in his own body was winning. Every move you made, every flex of your muscles, every shift of your body beneath that soaked, transparent shirt, was a fresh assault on his senses. The raindrops that clung to your skin, tracing paths down your chest, seemed to mock him.
He saw the glint of the piercings again with every parry, every twist of your torso. He imagined the feel of that cold metal against your warm skin. Imagined taking one of those tight buds into his mouth, feeling the hard ball of the barbell against his tongue. A wave of heat, sharp and intense, washed over him, completely at odds with the cool rain plastering his clothes to his skin. His cock, which had been dormant, stirred in his pants, thickening with a speed that was alarming.
He needed to end this. Now.
He made a mistake. A deliberate, clumsy one. He overcommitted on a high strike, putting too much weight on his front foot on the slippery, muddy ground. His foot slid out from under him. He went down with a grunt, not in a graceful martial arts roll, but in an awkward, uncontrolled fall. He landed hard on his side, the bokken flying from his grasp and splashing into a puddle a few feet away.
“Yuta!” You rushed to his side, your own bokken forgotten, dropping to your knees beside him in the mud. “Are you okay? That was a bad fall.”
He was lying on his side, face partially pressed into the wet earth. He kept his head turned away from you, his breathing ragged and uneven. “I’m fine,” he gritted out, the words muffled by the mud. “Just… slipped.”
You reached out, your hand hovering over his shoulder. “Let me see. Did you twist your ankle?”
“No,” he said, a little too forcefully. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, but he still wouldn’t look at you. “I’m fine. Really.” He was a mess of contradictions, a storm of conflicting urges. Part of him wanted to get up and run, to put as much distance between himself and this… this vision as possible. But another, more primal part of him wanted to stay, to look, to absorb every detail until it was all he could think about.
You were confused, your brow furrowed with concern. He wasn’t acting like himself. He was… flustered. Unhinged. The cool, composed Yuta Okkotsu was nowhere to be seen. In his place was a man on the verge of breaking. The rain was still falling, a steady, relentless curtain, plastering your shirt to your skin, making the situation, for him, almost unbearable.
“Hey,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the drumming of the rain. You reached out and gently touched his shoulder, turning him towards you. “Look at me. What’s wrong?”
He had no choice. He let you turn him. He was still on his knees, and you were kneeling beside him, your faces inches apart. And then he looked. And the world stopped.
He saw you, truly saw you, for the first time. Not just as a sparring partner, not just as a friend. He saw the rain dripping from your eyelashes, the way your wet hair clung to your cheeks. He saw your lips, slightly parted, full and glistening. And he saw your chest. He saw the way the wet fabric was almost nonexistent, the dark circles of your areolae visible through the white cotton, the silver bars of the piercings glinting like tiny, wicked stars. His gaze traced the line of your collarbones, the smooth column of your neck. He wanted to taste the rainwater there.
He couldn’t breathe. The air was thick, heavy, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with the storm overhead. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, desperate beat.
You saw the shift in his eyes. The concern was still there, but it was being swallowed by something else. Something hot and intense and terrifyingly familiar. You’d seen that look before, but never directed at you. It was a look of pure, unadulterated want. It was a predator’s gaze. And it was all for you.
A shiver, entirely unrelated to the cold rain, traced a path down your spine. This was Yuta. Your Yuta. Your best friend. The man who got flustered if you so much as hugged him for a second too long. But this wasn't that man. This was someone else. Someone new. Someone dangerous.
“Yuta…” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the rain. It was a question, a warning, a plea all at once.
He didn’t answer. Not with words. He moved.
His hand, which had been resting on his knee, came up to cup your cheek. His fingers were cold from the rain, but his touch was electric, sending a jolt straight through you. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, a slow, deliberate stroke that made your breath hitch. His eyes, those deep, dark eyes, were locked on yours, and they were burning.
“You’re cold,” he said, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated through your entire body.
“So are you,” you managed to reply, your own voice trembling.
He leaned in closer, so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He smelled of rain, and damp earth, and something else, something uniquely him. The space between you crackled with an energy that was more potent than any cursed technique.
“I should… we should get inside,” he said, but he didn’t move. He didn’t pull away. He was mesmerized, trapped in the moment, trapped by you.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “We should.”
But neither of you made a move to get up. The world had shrunk to this small, muddy patch of ground, to the inches of space separating your bodies. The rain continued to fall, a relentless percussion, but it was just background noise now. All you could hear was the frantic thumping of your own heart, all you could feel was the heat of his gaze, the press of his thumb against your lip.
Then, he did something that shattered the last of your composure. He leaned in and, so gently you almost thought you’d imagined it, he pressed his lips to yours.
It wasn't a kiss of passion, not yet. It was a kiss of exploration. A question. His lips were soft, tentative, tasting of rain. He lingered for a moment, a breath, a heartbeat, then pulled back just enough to look at you, to gauge your reaction.
Your eyes were wide, your lips parted in a silent gasp. You were frozen, caught between shock and a sudden, overwhelming wave of desire.
Seeing no refusal, only shock, he leaned in again. This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss deepened. His lips moved against yours with a newfound confidence, a hungry urgency. His other hand came up to tangle in your wet hair, holding you in place, tilting your head to deepen the angle. You responded instinctively, your lips parting, your tongue meeting his.
A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. The kiss became a devouring. It was messy, and wet, and desperate. It was years of unspoken feelings, of suppressed desires, all boiling over in a torrent of raw emotion. He tasted you, claimed you, his tongue exploring your mouth with a possessive intensity that made your head spin. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into the soaked fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, impossibly closer.
The cold rain was a stark contrast to the heat blooming between you, a fire that threatened to consume you both. The muddy ground was forgotten, the discarded bokkens were forgotten. There was only him. Only the feel of his lips on yours, the taste of him, the desperate, needy sounds he was making in the back of his throat.
He pulled back suddenly, both of you gasping for air. His chest was heaving, his dark eyes blown wide with a dizzying mix of lust and disbelief. He looked at you, truly looked at you, and the sheer force of his want was staggering. It was a palpable thing, a physical presence in the air between you.
“Yuta…” you whispered again, but this time it wasn’t a question. It was a surrender.
“God,” he breathed, his voice hoarse. He looked down, his gaze raking over your body, lingering once again on the transparent fabric of your shirt. “You’re… you have no idea.”
He shook his head, as if to clear it, then pushed himself to his feet. He held out a hand to you, his grip strong and steady as he pulled you up. You stood there for a moment, face to face, the rain still pouring down, plastering your clothes to your bodies, washing the mud from your skin. The unspoken question hung in the air, heavy and charged.
Then, without another word, he bent down, scooped you up into his arms, and started walking. You let out a small yelp of surprise, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.
“Yuta! What are you doing? I can walk!” you protested, but your protest was weak, half-hearted.
He didn’t answer. He just kept walking, his jaw set, his gaze fixed on the path leading back to the dormitories. He moved with a singular purpose, his strides long and determined. He carried you through the rain, a strange, beautiful tableau of raw, unfiltered emotion. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady, frantic rhythm of his heart, feeling the warmth of his body seeping through your wet clothes. You didn’t protest again. You didn’t want to.
The journey to the dorms was a blur of rain and motion. He didn’t put you down until you were safely inside, out of the downpour, dripping water onto the polished floor of the empty hallway. He set you down gently, your feet making soft, wet sounds on the hardwood. You were both drenched, shivering, your clothes clinging uncomfortably.
He looked at you, his dark hair dripping, water streaming down his face. His shirt was stuck to him like a second skin, outlining every lean muscle. He looked like a drowned god, wild and beautiful and utterly, terrifyingly focused on you.
“My room,” he said, his voice a low command. It wasn’t a question.
You just nodded, your throat too tight to speak. You followed him down the hall, your bare feet leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floor. He unlocked his door and pushed it open, ushering you inside before closing it with a soft, decisive click.
The silence that followed was deafening. The only sound was the drip, drip, drip of water from your clothes onto the floor. His room was neat, orderly, just like him. A single bed with a dark comforter, a desk piled high with textbooks, a sword stand in the corner. It was a space that was entirely his, and you had never been in it alone with him before.
He turned to face you, and the charged atmosphere from the training grounds returned, amplified tenfold by the privacy of the room. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the sheer, overwhelming force of what had just happened, and what was about to happen.
“You’re shivering,” he observed, his voice quiet but intense.
“It’s… the cold,” you managed to say, though you knew it was only partially true. You were shivering from anticipation, from the look in his eyes.
“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” he said. It was a statement of fact, not a suggestion, but the way he said it made it sound like the most intimate proposition in the world.
He stepped closer, closing the small distance between you. He reached for the hem of your soaked white t-shirt, his fingers brushing against your stomach. The touch was electric, a jolt of pure heat that made you gasp. He paused, his eyes searching yours, asking for permission one last time.
You gave it. You lifted your arms over your head in a silent gesture.
Slowly, reverently, he peeled the wet fabric up and over your head. He dropped it to the floor with a soft, wet plop. And there you were. Half-naked. Exposed.
The cool air of the room hit your skin, making your nipples tighten even more. The silver barbells of your piercings seemed to glint in the dim light, tiny, defiant points of light.
His breath hitched. A raw, primal sound. His gaze was a physical weight, searing, possessive. He drank in the sight of you, his eyes darkening to an almost black, a storm of their own. He reached out, his hand hovering just above your breast, not quite touching, as if he were afraid he might break you, or be burned by your heat.
“You’re… so beautiful,” he whispered, the words choked with emotion. “I’ve… I’ve imagined this. But I never…” He trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words, a rare occurrence for the usually articulate man.
Then, he closed the distance. His thumb, still cold from the rain, brushed over the peak of your breast, tracing the hard nub of your nipple, then circling the cool metal of the piercing. The sensation was exquisite, a sharp, aching pleasure that shot straight to your core.
You let out a soft moan, your head falling back. Your hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through the soaked fabric of his shirt.
“Yuta…”
“God, I love the way you say my name,” he groaned. He leaned in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your neck. His other hand came up to cup your other breast, mimicking the movements of his thumb, teasing and tormenting the sensitive flesh. His mouth was a brand against your skin, hot and demanding. He nibbled and sucked, marking you, claiming you.
You could feel the hard, thick ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach through the layers of wet clothing, a blatant, undeniable proof of his desire. It made your own ache intensify, a deep, throbbing emptiness that demanded to be filled.
“Yuta, please,” you begged, not even sure what you were begging for. More? Less? For this to never end?
He seemed to understand. He pulled back just enough to yank his own shirt over his head, revealing the lean, defined planes of his chest and abdomen. A constellation of faint scars mapped his skin, a testament to the life he lived. You reached out, your fingers tracing one of the newer-looking ones just above his heart. He shuddered under your touch, his muscles tensing.
He captured your hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your palm. Then, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants, pushing them down over your hips. They pooled around your ankles, and you stepped out of them, kicking them aside. Now you were completely bare before him, exposed in the dim light of his room, the water from the rain glistening on your skin.
His eyes raked over you, from the hollow of your throat to the curve of your hips, to the dark triangle of hair between your thighs. He looked at you like you were a masterpiece, a religious icon, something to be worshipped.
“Lie down,” he commanded, his voice a low growl.
You didn’t hesitate. You backed up until your knees hit the edge of his bed, then you lay down on the dark comforter, the fabric a cool, soft caress against your overheated skin. You watched him, your breath held tight in your chest, as he knelt on the bed beside you.
He didn’t touch you at first. He just looked. His gaze was a slow, deliberate exploration, a physical touch in its own right. He took in the rise and fall of your breasts, the hard peaks of your nipples topped with their silver jewelry, the smooth skin of your stomach, the way your legs were slightly parted, a silent invitation.
“So fucking perfect,” he breathed, the words a reverent whisper. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your stomach, just above your navel. His lips were warm, a stark contrast to the cool air. He began a trail of kisses, moving upward, each one a deliberate brand. He kissed the underside of your breast, then the soft swell. His tongue darted out, tracing a circle around your areola, deliberately avoiding the aching peak.
You whimpered, arching your back, silently begging for more. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. He was enjoying this, enjoying the power he held, the way he could make you writhe with just a look, a touch.
“Patience,” he murmured against your skin. Then he finally, finally took one of your nipples into his mouth.
The sensation was overwhelming. The warm, wet heat of his mouth, the rough glide of his tongue, the feel of the cold metal of the piercing against his tongue. He sucked, hard, creating a tight, pulling pleasure that made your toes curl. His hand came up to toy with your other breast, rolling and pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.
“Oh god, Yuta,” you cried out, your hands fisting in the sheets.
He switched sides, giving your other breast the same lavish attention, while his free hand began a slow, torturous journey down your body. His fingers traced the curve of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, coming so close to where you needed him most, but never quite touching.
“Please,” you begged, your hips lifting off the bed in a silent plea. “Please, Yuta.”
“Please what, baby?” he asked, his voice muffled against your breast. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want… I want you to touch me.”
“Where?” he teased, his fingers ghosting over your slick folds. “Here?”
“Yes… there… please..”
He finally relented. He parted your folds with his fingers, a soft gasp escaping him as he felt how wet you were. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned. He circled your entrance with one finger, gathering your slickness before slowly, so slowly, pushing inside.
You moaned, your head falling back against the pillows. It was a relief, a blissful, temporary reprieve from the ache that had been building inside you. He began to move, his finger sliding in and out of your tight heat, the slick, wet sounds filling the quiet room.
“You’re doing so good,” he praised, his eyes glued to where his finger disappeared inside you. He added a second finger, stretching you, scissoring them inside you, preparing you for him. His thumb found your clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles, and you saw stars. The dual stimulation was almost too much, a pleasure so intense it was on the verge of pain.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, his voice a low, seductive rumble. “Is this how you imagined it?”
“Yes,” you gasped. “God, yes. But… I want more.”
He smiled, a slow, predatory smirk. “I know, baby. I know.” He pulled his fingers out, and you whimpered at the loss. But before you could protest, he was moving down your body, kissing a trail down your stomach.
He settled between your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He looked up at you, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. He looked like a man about to feast, a starving man presented with a banquet.
“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “So many times. I’ve woken up thinking about the way you’d taste.”
Then, he leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe up your slit.
The world tilted on its axis.
It was a revelation. A revelation of heat and wetness and pure, unadulterated pleasure. His tongue was firm, confident, mapping out your most intimate folds with a reverence that was almost heartbreaking. He tasted you, really tasted you, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.
“Fuck… you taste even better than I imagined,” he groaned, the words lost against your skin. He dived back in, his tongue delving deeper, exploring your entrance, fucking you with it in slow, deliberate thrusts.
Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the dark, damp strands, holding him to you. You couldn’t help it. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave that was threatening to pull you under.
He took his time, worshipping you with his mouth. He was thorough, meticulous, exploring every inch of you, learning what made you gasp, what made you whimper, what made you cry out his name. He found your clit, the hard, sensitive bundle of nerves, and he sucked it into his mouth, lashing at it with the tip of his tongue.
Your back arched off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from your throat. The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a white hot flash that coursed through your entire body. You could feel your orgasm building, a tight coil of tension deep in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every pass of his tongue.
“Yuta… I’m… I’m close,” you warned, your hips rocking against his face, riding the waves of pleasure.
He didn’t stop. If anything, he increased his efforts, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. He slid two fingers back inside you, curling them upward to find that spongy, sensitive spot deep within, the spot that made you see stars. He pumped them in and out in rhythm with the strokes of his tongue, a relentless, intoxicating assault on your senses.
“Let go for me, baby,” he urged, his voice a husky command. “I want to taste you. Come on my tongue.”
And you did. The coil inside you snapped, releasing a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost violent. Your entire body convulsed, your thighs clamping around his head, your heels digging into his back. You cried out his name, a broken, sobbing sound, as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over you, leaving you shaking and breathless.
He didn’t stop. He drank you down, his tongue lapping at your release, prolonging your orgasm, drawing every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body. It was too much, it was perfect, it was agony and ecstasy all rolled into one.
When you finally came back to yourself, he was still there, kneeling between your thighs, his face slick with your essence. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. His dark eyes were shining with a possessive, triumphant light.
“You’re so fucking beautiful when you come,” he said, his voice a low, satisfied purr.
You could only whimper in response, your body too wrung out to form words. He crawled up your body, kissing a trail up your stomach, your chest, your neck, until he was hovering over you, his face inches from yours. You could taste yourself on his lips when he kissed you, a deep, possessive kiss that was a brand and a promise.
He pulled back, his gaze softening. “Are you okay?” he asked, his thumb gently stroking your cheek.
You nodded, a small, tired smile touching your lips. “More than okay.”
“Good,” he said, a ghost of a smile playing on his own lips. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
He stood up, quickly shedding the remainder of his wet clothes. His pants and boxers joined the growing pile of discarded fabric on the floor. And then he was naked before you, in all his glory. He was lean and wiry, every muscle defined, a map of his life etched onto his skin. And he was hard. So hard. His cock jutted out from a nest of dark curls, thick and long, the tip flushed a deep, angry red, already beading with pre-cum.
Your breath hitched. You’d seen him without a shirt before, but you’d never… you’d never seen this. He was a work of art, a study in controlled power and raw, masculine beauty. And he was all yours.
He knelt on the bed again, crawling over you, caging you in with his arms on either side of your head. He lowered his body onto yours, the skin-to-skin contact a jolt of pure electricity. His weight was a comforting pressure, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the cool air of the room.
He kissed you again, a slow, deep kiss that was full of unspoken emotion. You could feel the hard, hot length of him pressing against your thigh, a constant, throbbing reminder of what was to come.
“Yuta…” you breathed against his lips.
“I know, baby,” he murmured, nipping at your lower lip. “I need you too.”
He shifted, settling his hips between your thighs. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance, and you both gasped at the contact. He held himself there, teasing you, torturing you, letting you feel the heat and the hardness of him.
“Please,” you begged, your hips lifting, trying to take him in. “Yuta, please.”
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice a low growl against your ear. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”
“I want you to fuck me,” you cried, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. “Please, Yuta. I want you inside me.”
That was all the encouragement he needed.
He pushed forward, the head of his cock breaching your entrance in a slow, deliberate stretch. It was a burn, a delicious, aching fullness that stole your breath. He was big, bigger than you’d imagined, and the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, was almost too much to bear.
He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. “You okay?” he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.
You nodded, unable to speak. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, silently begging for more.
He took the hint. He pushed forward, sinking into you in one long, slow, inexorable slide until he was buried to the hilt. He filled you completely, a perfect, aching fullness that made you feel whole. You could feel him throbbing inside you, a deep, primal pulse that echoed your own frantic heartbeat.
“Fuck,” he groaned, the word torn from his throat. “You feel… incredible. So tight, so warm…”
He stayed there for a moment, buried deep inside you, letting you both savor the feeling. It was a moment of pure connection, a silent acknowledgment of the shift in your relationship. You were no longer just friends, no longer just sparring partners. You were something more. Something deeper.
Then, he began to move.
He started with slow, shallow thrusts, a gentle rocking motion that was designed to drive you mad with desire. He pulled out almost all the way, then slid back in, a slow, torturous glide that hit every nerve ending. His control was incredible, a testament to his discipline and training.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his dark eyes locked on yours. He watched your face, cataloging every expression, every gasp, every moan. “So beautiful taking my cock like this.”
His words were as potent as his actions, a verbal caress that sent shivers down your spine. You’d never heard him talk like this, never seen this side of him. This raw, unfiltered, possessive Yuta was a revelation, and it was the most intoxicating thing you’d ever experienced.
“Faster,” you begged, your hips rising to meet his thrusts. “Please, Yuta, faster.”
“Whatever you want, baby.” he whispered, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face.
And then he let go.
His control shattered. The slow, gentle rhythm became a frantic, pounding tempo. He withdrew and slammed back into you, again and again, his hips pistoning with a force that stole the air from your lungs. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a vulgar, primal rhythm that was the soundtrack to your undoing.
He was relentless. He shifted his angle, and with one particularly deep thrust, he hit that spot deep inside you, the one he’d found with his fingers. It was a direct hit, a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure that made you cry out, your back arching off the bed.
“There? Right there?” he asked, his voice a rough, triumphant growl. He aimed for it again, and again, and again, a series of brutal thrusts that had you seeing stars.
“Yes! God, Yuta, right there!” you screamed, your nails raking down his back, leaving angry red trails in their wake. You were completely lost, consumed by the pleasure he was giving you, a vessel for the ecstasy he was wielding so expertly.
He grabbed your legs, pushing them up and back, spreading you wider, changing the angle again so he could drive even deeper. The new position allowed him to hit your cervix with every thrust, a sharp, aching pleasure that was almost too much to bear.
“You like that? You like it deep?” he grunted, his muscles straining with the effort of his pounding rhythm. “You like it when I fuck you hard?”
“Yes! Yes! Don’t stop!” you sobbed, completely at his mercy. You were close, so close, that familiar coil of tension tightening in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every powerful thrust of his hips.
He reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. He rubbed it in tight, fast circles, in perfect sync with the pounding of his cock.
“Come for me, baby,” he commanded, his voice a husky demand. “Come all over my cock. I want to feel you squeeze me.”
That was all it took. The coil inside you snapped, and you shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, convulsive wave of pleasure that left you gasping and shaking. Your inner walls clamped down around him, a series of rhythmic spasms that milked his length. You cried out his name, a broken, desperate sound, as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over you, leaving you breathless and boneless.
He groaned, a long, low sound of pure, masculine satisfaction as he felt you come around him. He slowed his pace, riding out your orgasm, his thrusts becoming long, deep, and deliberate, drawing out every last drop of your pleasure until you were a quivering, whimpering mess beneath him.
He didn’t stop. As the tremors of your climax subsided, he kept moving, a slow, steady rhythm that was designed to stoke the fires again, to build you up from the ashes. You were oversensitive, every touch a jolt of almost painful pleasure, but he was relentless.
“Yuta… I can’t… I can’t again,” you whimpered, your hands weakly pushing against his chest. It was too much, an overload of sensation.
“Yes, you can,” he murmured, his voice a low, seductive purr. He captured your hands, pinning them above your head with one of his, his grip firm but not painful. “I know you can. Give me another one, baby.”
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep, possessive kiss, swallowing your protests. His tongue invaded your mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his hips, a slow, deliberate conquest. He was everywhere, surrounding you, filling you, consuming you.
He shifted again, rolling you over with him until you were straddling his lap, his cock still buried deep inside you. The change in position was disorienting, a sudden shift in power. Now you were on top, in control, but you knew it was an illusion. He was still the one driving this, the one setting the pace.
“Ride me,” he commanded, his hands coming to rest on your hips, his grip a silent guide. “Show me how much you want it.”
Your legs were trembling, your body weak from the force of your orgasm, but you obeyed. You placed your hands on his chest for balance and began to move. It was a slow, awkward rhythm at first, your body still recovering, but he was patient, his hands guiding you, helping you find the motion.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his dark eyes burning up at you. “Just like that. You look so fucking good like this.”
You found your rhythm, a slow, grinding roll of your hips that had him groaning your name. You looked down at him, at the sweat beading on his brow, at the way his lips were parted in a silent gasp, at the raw, undisguised need in his eyes. The power shift, even if it was an illusion, was intoxicating. You were the one making him fall apart.
You leaned forward, changing the angle, and the new position allowed you to grind your clit against his pubic bone with every roll of your hips. The friction was delicious, a slow, building heat that had your breath catching in your throat.
“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hands tightening on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. He was trying to let you set the pace, to let you be in control, but you could feel the tension in his body, the barely leashed coiled energy thrumming just beneath the surface. He was holding back, and you wanted to break that control.
You began to move faster, bouncing on his cock, the wet, slapping sounds growing louder, more urgent. You were chasing that feeling again, that peak, that blinding white-out of pleasure.
His control snapped.
He sat up, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you in place, and began to thrust up into you. He met your downward motions with powerful, upward strokes, fucking into you with a force that made your teeth rattle. The new angle was devastating, allowing him to hit that deep, sensitive spot inside you with every thrust.
“Oh god! Yuta! Right there!” you cried out, your head falling back, your nails digging into his shoulders. You were completely lost, a ragdoll in his arms, impaled on his cock, taking everything he was giving you.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning against your skin. “You feel so fucking good,” he growled, the words a raw, guttural sound. “So tight… so wet… all for me.”
He reached up with his free hand, tangling it in your hair, and pulled your head to the side, exposing the sensitive column of your throat. He bit down, hard, a sharp, stinging pain that was immediately followed by the soothing glide of his tongue. He was marking you, claiming you, leaving a physical reminder of this encounter on your skin.
The mix of pleasure and pain was your undoing. That familiar coil in your stomach tightened, winding impossibly fast. The world narrowed to the feel of him inside you, the grip of his hand on your hip, the sting of his teeth on your neck.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” you gasped, your body tensing, preparing for the fall.
“Come for me, baby,” he commanded, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “Come with me. Now.”
His words were the final push. You shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, a blinding, all-consuming wave of ecstasy. You cried out, a broken, sobbing sound, as your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down around him in a series of rhythmic, milking spasms.
And this time, he let go.
With a loud, guttural groan that was your name, he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he came, spilling himself into you in long, hot spurts. You could feel it, the heat of him, the sheer force of his release, a final, primal claim.
You collapsed against him, both of you gasping for air, your bodies slick with sweat and trembling with the aftershocks of your shared climax. He held you tight, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your hair. For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the pounding of your hearts, a frantic, slowing duet.
The world slowly came back into focus. The dim light of his room. The cool air on your skin. The feeling of him, still inside you, still semi-hard, a warm, heavy presence. You were a mess of tangled limbs and discarded clothes, a beautiful, chaotic disaster.
He was the first to move. He shifted, gently rolling you off of him and onto the bed. He pulled out slowly, and you couldn't help the soft whimper that escaped you at the sudden emptiness. He immediately pulled you into his arms, tucking you against his side, pulling the comforter over your cooling bodies.
You lay there in silence for a long while, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. You could feel the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his skin, the comforting weight of his arm around you. It was quiet, peaceful, a stark contrast to the frantic, passionate storm that had just passed.
You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? That you’d just had the most mind blowing sex of your life with your best friend? That the way he looked at you made you feel more seen, more wanted, than you ever had before? That the sight of your wet t shirt had been the catalyst for a complete and utter shift in your reality?
He seemed to be having the same struggle. He was quiet, stroking your hair slowly, thoughtfully, as if trying to process what had just happened, what it meant.
Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, hesitant murmur. “I… I didn’t plan that.”
A small, huff of laughter escaped you. “I should hope not. It was a bit spontaneous.”
“No, I mean…” he paused, searching for the words. “I’ve thought about it. God, I’ve thought about it so much. But I never… I never thought it would happen. Not like that.” He tightened his arm around you. “Not when I thought I was going to lose my mind just looking at you in the rain.”
You lifted your head to look at him. His dark eyes were serious, full of a vulnerability that took your breath away. The raw, predatory lover was gone, replaced by the sweet, earnest man you knew so well.
“I didn’t know,” you admitted softly. “I had no idea you felt that way.”
“How could you not?” he asked, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. “I’ve been terrible at hiding it. I just… I didn’t know how to say it. You’re my best friend. I was so scared of ruining that.”
“So was I,” you whispered. “But I don’t feel ruined.”
“Me neither,” he said, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “I feel… right. Like this is how it’s supposed to be.”
He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, sweet kiss that was a world away from the desperate, devouring kisses from before. This one was full of promise, of tenderness, of a future that was suddenly, thrillingly unknown.
When he pulled back, he looked at you, a thoughtful expression on his face. His gaze drifted down, lingering on your breasts, on the silver barbells that had started this all.
“Can I… can I ask you something?” he asked, his voice hesitant.
You nodded.
“Why… why did you get them?” he asked, his fingers gently tracing the outline of one of the piercings. “The piercings.”
You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, a strange reaction considering what you had just done. “I don’t know. It was a spur of the moment thing. I was with some friends, we were bored, and it just… felt like something I needed to do. A little secret for myself, I guess.” You smiled a little. “I didn’t exactly think about the consequences of sparring in the rain with you.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, lighting up his dark eyes. “I’m glad you did.” He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the silver barbell. “I’m very, very glad you did.”
You shivered at the contact, a fresh wave of arousal washing over you. You were exhausted, your body a delicious, well-used ache, but the feel of his lips on your skin, the possessive glint in his eyes, was enough to stir the embers of desire again.
He seemed to feel it too. He shifted beside you, and you could feel him hardening against your thigh, a slow, steady rise. He looked at you, a question in his eyes.
“Again?” you asked, a note of disbelief in your voice.
“Is that… is that okay?” he asked, a flicker of that old hesitation returning.
You answered him by rolling onto your back, a silent invitation. You spread your legs, a wanton, unashamed gesture that made his breath hitch.
He didn’t need any more encouragement. He moved over you, settling between your thighs. He entered you in one slow, smooth slide, and you both moaned at the feeling. You were still sensitive, still slick with his release, and the feeling of him filling you again was exquisite.
He started with a slow, gentle rhythm, a deep, grinding pace that was designed to stoke the fires slowly, to build you up gradually. He supported himself on his elbows, his body close to yours, his lips finding yours in a series of deep, drugging kisses.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist. You met his thrusts, a slow, sensual dance that was a world away from the frantic, desperate coupling from before. This was slower, more deliberate, more intimate.
“You feel so good like this,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a low, husky whisper. “So warm and wet, taking me so deep.”
He shifted slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts, and you gasped as he hit that sensitive spot deep inside you. He was a master of your body now, knowing exactly where to touch, exactly how to move to draw the maximum pleasure from you.
“You like that, don’t you?” he asked, a smug, self-satisfied tone to his voice. “You like it when I fuck you deep.”
All you could do was moan in response, your hips rising to meet his, urging him on.
He increased his pace slightly, his thrusts becoming a little harder, a little deeper. He was still in control, still holding back, but you could feel the tension in his body, the coiled energy thrumming just beneath the surface.
Then, he did something that surprised you. He pulled away from the kiss, a slow, deliberate withdrawal. He looked down at you, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath catch. He placed one hand on the small of your back, and the other on the back of your thigh, just below your knee.
“Lift for me, baby,” he commanded, his voice a low growl.
But he didn't wait for you to comply. He took control.
With a smooth, confident motion, he hooked both of his arms under your knees.
And then he lifted.
He used his strength to pull your lower body up and towards him, your legs draping over his forearms, your ass and hips lifting off the bed. Your back was still against the mattress, but the rest of your body was suspended in the air, completely open and vulnerable to him. He was kneeling between your thighs, holding you in this exposed, elevated position, a study in controlled power. The shift in angle was immediate, and devastating.
“Oh my god!” you cried out, your hands flying to grip the sheets above your head. The new position was incredible, allowing him to hit your cervix with every deep, powerful stroke. The feeling was intense, a sharp, aching pleasure that bordered on pain.
He held you there, your body weight supported by his arms, his muscles straining with the effort. He looked down at you, his expression one of pure, unadulterated masculine triumph.
“There it is,” he breathed, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? Right there.”
He began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that was designed to drive you insane. He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back into you, a deep, punishing thrust that stole the air from your lungs. He was in complete control, the master of your pleasure, and he knew it.
“You look so fucking good like this,” he praised, his dark eyes raking over your exposed body. “All spread out for me, taking my cock so deep.”
His words were as potent as his actions, a verbal caress that sent shivers down your spine. You were completely at his mercy, a willing captive to the pleasure he was wielding so expertly.
“Yuta… please,” you begged, your hips bucking against him, trying to take him even deeper.
“Please what, baby?” he asked, his voice a low, seductive rumble. “Tell me what you need.”
“You.. fuck… please..” You babbled.
“Fuck baby… you’re such a good girl.” He purred. His pace quickened, the hard, punishing thrusts becoming faster, more erratic. He was chasing his own release now, but he was determined to take you with him.
He shifted one of his hands, releasing your leg to reach down between your bodies. His thumb found your clit, and he rubbed it in tight, fast circles, in perfect sync with the pounding of his cock.
That was your undoing. The dual stimulation was too much, a perfect storm of pleasure that sent you over the edge.
“Yuta! I’m— I’m..” you screamed, your back arching, your body convulsing in the throes of a powerful orgasm. Your inner walls clamped down around him, a series of rhythmic, milking spasms that had him groaning your name.
He didn’t stop. He rode out your climax, his thrusts becoming harder, more desperate. He was on the verge, his control fraying, his movements losing their rhythm.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a rough, guttural growl. “I want to see you when I fill you up.”
You forced your eyes open, your vision blurry with tears of pleasure. You looked up at him, at the sweat beading on his brow, at the way his jaw was clenched with effort, at the raw, undisguised need in his dark eyes.
That was all it took.
With a loud, guttural groan that was your name, he came. He buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilled himself into you in long, hot spurts. You could feel it, the heat of him, the sheer force of his release, a final, primal claim.
He collapsed on top of you, both of you gasping for air, your bodies slick with sweat and trembling with the aftershocks of your shared climax. He held you tight, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his body a heavy, comforting weight.
You lay there in silence for a long while, your limbs tangled, your hearts beating in a frantic, slowing duet. The world slowly came back into focus. The dim light of his room. The feel of him, still inside you. The sticky, sweaty mess you had made of his bed.
It was perfect.
He was the first to move, his movements slow, reluctant. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder, then to the mark he’d left on your neck, before gently pulling out of you. You whimpered at the loss, a sudden, hollow ache.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, rolling off you and pulling you into his arms. He tucked you against his side, pulling the comforter over your bodies, creating a small, warm cocoon in the aftermath of your storm.
You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. You were boneless, exhausted, a pleasant, well fucked ache settling into your muscles. You had never felt so content, so sated in your entire life.
He stroked your hair slowly, thoughtfully, his fingers tracing the curve of your scalp in a soothing rhythm. He was quiet, and you could feel the wheels turning in his mind, the questions he was trying to formulate.
Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, hesitant murmur. “Are you okay?”
You shifted, propping your chin on his chest to look up at him. His dark eyes were full of a concern that was so purely Yuta it made your heart ache. “I’m more than okay,” you said, a soft smile playing on your lips. “I’m spectacular.”
A small, relieved smile touched his own lips. “Good. I… I wasn’t too rough? At the end… when I…”
“No,” you said, cutting him off. You reached up and gently traced the line of his jaw. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”
He seemed to relax at that, the tension in his shoulders easing. He captured your hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your palm. “I just… I got a little carried away,” he admitted, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “I’ve never… it’s never been like that for me before.”
“Me neither,” you confessed softly.
He continued to stroke your hair, his touch gentle, reverent. He looked at you, his dark eyes soft and open, full of an emotion that was so much more than just lust. It was tenderness, and affection, and a deep, abiding warmth that made your chest feel tight.
“You know,” he started, then paused, a flicker of that old hesitation returning. He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “This… this was amazing. Better than amazing. But I don’t want it to be just… this.”
He looked away for a moment, a rare show of vulnerability from the normally confident man. Then he looked back at you, his gaze steady and sincere.
“I want more,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I want to take you out. On a date. A real date. I want to hold your hand in the hallway and not feel like I have to let go. I want to wake up with you in the morning and not have it be a secret.”
He paused, searching your face, waiting for your reaction. “I want to be with you. Not just like this, but… properly. If you want to, that is.”
You felt a wave of warmth, a rush of pure, unadulterated happiness that was so overwhelming it made your eyes sting. You’d been so caught up in the physical, in the mind-blowing pleasure, that you hadn’t dared to hope for this. But this… this was what you truly wanted.
“I want to,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I really, really want to.”
A slow, brilliant smile spread across his face, lighting up his dark eyes. He looked genuinely, unreservedly happy, a rare and beautiful sight. He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, sweet kiss that was full of promise and hope.
“Good,” he murmured against your lips. “Because I was going to be very disappointed if you said no.”
He settled back against the pillows, pulling you with him, tucking you securely into his arms. You lay there in comfortable silence, the events of the day catching up with you. The exhaustion was a pleasant, heavy blanket, and you could feel yourself drifting off, lulled by the steady beat of his heart and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.
Just as you were about to fall asleep, you felt him press a soft kiss to the top of your head.
“Get some sleep,” he whispered. “We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”
And with that, you let go, sinking into a deep, peaceful sleep, held securely in the arms of the boy who had been your best friend, and who, you now knew, was going to be so much more.
author’s note: ♡
i reread jjk 0 recently and… yeah, yuta has been living in my head rent free ever since 😭 i couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of a rainy training session turning into something a little more than either of them expected.
thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed it, likes, reblogs, comments, and screaming in the tags always make my day. i read every single one of them. 🤍
tags: smut, 18+, mdni, coworkers to lovers, teacher!reader, teacher!nanami, english literature professor!reader, jujutsu high college au, slow burn-ish, first time together, office sex, praise, possessive nanami, soft aftercare, domestic fluff, established attraction, oral (f receiving), oral (m receiving), protected by plot, multiple orgasms, creampie, kissing, cuddling, coffee dates, baking mention, lots of feelings, nanami is down catastrophically, not proofread at all
summary:
Your first week teaching English Literature at Jujutsu High wasn’t supposed to end with Kento Nanami bringing you coffee after hours. It definitely wasn’t supposed to end with him kissing you in your office. Somewhere between Shakespeare, grading papers, and one very ill advised shoulder massage, both of you lose whatever self control you thought you had.
author’s note:
i’ve been thinking about teacher nanami for DAYS and this somehow spiraled into… all of this 😭 please remember these are consenting adults in a college AU where both reader and nanami are faculty. i fear i may never recover from this man.
The autumn sun slanted through the windows of Classroom 3-A, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, indifferent sprites. Outside, the crisp breeze rattled the leaves of the ginkgo trees, painting the campus in shades of burnished gold and fiery orange. Inside, however, the atmosphere was a peculiar blend of mundane teenage apathy and a hum of latent, extraordinary power.
You stood at the front of the room, a stark and arresting figure against the worn chalkboard. The traditional teacher's attire you'd been provided—a conservative pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse—seemed almost a challenge to the vibrant, untamable energy you exuded. Your long, dark hair was swept back from your face, revealing features that could have been carved from marble by a master craftsman who understood beauty not as mere prettiness, but as a form of power itself. Eyes the color of rich, dark coffee scanned the room, taking in the assembled students with an unnerving, almost electric intensity.
This was Jujutsu High, a place where children learned to weaponize their very souls to combat malevolent spirits. And you, a sorcerer of considerable renown with a technique that could crack the very sky with violet lightning, were tasked with teaching them English Literature.
"Alright, settle down," your voice cut through the low murmur of chatter. It was a melody of smooth alto, with an undercurrent of something sharp and bright, like the warning hum before a storm. "For the last time, Fushiguro, put the manga away. Unless 'Chainsaw Man' has suddenly been added to the syllabus for its piercing commentary on post-industrial societal decay, it has no place on my desk."
Megumi Fushiguro, a boy with dark hair and an perpetually serious expression that belied his sixteen years, slowly slid the volume into his bag. He offered a silent, barely perceptible nod. His seatmate, Yuji Itadori, the pink-haired vessel of Sukuna, gave you a wide, apologetic grin that showcased the earnestness that made him both a powerful weapon and a constant headache for the administration.
"Sorry, miss! He was just showing me this one panel where—"
"I'm sure it was a work of profound artistic merit, Itadori-kun," you interrupted, a ghost of a smile playing on your lips. "Nevertheless, save the analysis for later. We have Shakespeare to dissect."
Nobara Kugisaki, perched on the other side of Yuji, sighed dramatically, twirling a strand of her auburn hair. "Shakespeare? Seriously? I kill curses for a living. What do I need to know about some dead English guy for?"
You arched a perfect eyebrow, a gesture that seemed to silence the room more effectively than a shouted command. You leaned forward slightly, resting your palms on the cool wood of the lectern. "An excellent question, Kugisaki-san. Why study history, or literature, or any of the mundane arts, when you could be out there, punching a Grade 1 Cursed Spirit into next week?"
You pushed off the lectern, beginning to pace slowly at the front of the classroom. The heels of your shoes clicked a steady, hypnotic rhythm on the polished floor. "Because the monsters you fight are not just physical entities, are they? They are born of humanity's deepest, oldest fears. Regret. Spite. Greed. Love that curdles into obsession." You paused, your gaze sweeping over them. "To understand the enemy, you must understand the source. Shakespeare wrote about all of it. He wrote about ambition that eats a man from the inside out, about grief that drives a person mad, about love that leads to ruin. He was cataloging the very same negative emotions that fuel Cursed Energy, centuries before the jujutsu world even had a name for it."
You stopped at the window, looking out at the training grounds in the distance. "Your techniques give you the how. These books give you the why. Now, open your texts to Act One, Scene One of 'Macbeth'. We're starting with three witches on a blasted heath. Sound familiar?"
A grudging silence settled over the class as they fumbled for their textbooks. You were an enigma to them. A sorcerer so powerful your presence crackled in the air like static, yet here you were, forcing them to analyze iambic pentameter. The senior sorcerers found you just as perplexing. Gojo Satoru, the "Strongest," treated you with a kind of giddy, professional curiosity, often popping into your class unannounced to offer his... unique... perspective on historical events. The students found you intimidating yet strangely compelling; your beauty was a given, a simple fact like the sky being blue, but it was your mind, the razor-sharp intellect hidden behind that flawless face, that truly commanded the room.
And then there was Nanami.
Kento Nanami had observed your first week from a careful distance. As a fellow alumnus who had recently returned to teach, he understood the delicate balance of this place better than most. He saw the way the students, even the most recalcitrant, were gradually drawn into your orbit. He heard the snippets of your lectures as he passed in the hallway, the clear, incisive way you connected their brutal reality to the dusty annals of history and literature.
At 28, he was a man carved from necessity and principle. His life was a series of straight lines and right angles: get the job done, minimize the collateral, protect those who couldn't protect themselves, and do it all by 6 PM so you could have a decent life. He found Gojo's antics exhausting and the weight of the world, more often than not, profoundly depressing.
And then you had arrived.
It wasn't just your appearance, though that was impossible to ignore. It was the effortless way you commanded a room, the low thrum of power that was a constant, almost subliminal presence around you. It was in the way you spoke, not just to the students but to the staff—with a calm, unshakeable self-possession that was neither arrogant nor distant. You were simply… complete.
He found himself passing by your classroom more often than was strictly necessary during his patrol routes. He told himself it was to ensure the new teacher was settling in, that the students weren't being too unruly. But he lingered a moment too long, just to hear the cadence of your voice explaining the socio-political ramifications of the French Revolution to a classroom of future warriors. He watched you from the faculty room, noticing the small, almost unnoticeable things: the way you would tap a single, elegant finger against your lip when thinking, the specific scent that followed you, something clean and sharp like a coming thunderstorm.
This particular afternoon, he was walking past the main building when a wave of Cursed Energy, immense and violent, erupted from the training grounds. It was raw, unfocused, the tell-tale signature of a Grade 1-level Special Grade Curse that had been unleashed for a training exercise. Most likely Gojo's idea of a "fun Friday activity."
Nanami was already turning, ready to intervene if necessary, when he saw you emerge from the school's main entrance. You weren't running. You were walking, with a steady, purposeful stride that ate up the ground. You had a book tucked under one arm, completely unconcerned by the maelstrom of power erupting a few hundred meters away.
You stopped near the perimeter fence, your head tilting slightly as you observed the clash of energies—Gojo's Limitless, the students' techniques, and the roiling darkness of the curse. The sunlight caught the side of your face, and for a second, Nanami forgot how to breathe. You were so intensely alive, a focal point of calm in the center of chaos. It was then he noticed it. A faint, almost invisible corona of violet light shimmering around your fingertips. It wasn't an aggressive flare of power; it was instinctive, a body's unconscious response to a potential threat, a predator's muscles tensing before the pounce. You were a coiled spring of immense potential, a beautiful, deadly predator in a pencil skirt and heels.
As if sensing his gaze, you turned. Your dark eyes found his across the distance. There was no surprise in them. You simply held his gaze for a long moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. A faint, enigmatic smile touched your lips before you turned back to the "spectacle," tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
Nanami's throat felt dry. He adjusted his glasses, a nervous habit he thought he'd long since conquered. He knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like a deep chill, that you were more dangerous than anyone here gave you credit for. And far, far more captivating.
That evening, the faculty room was nearly deserted. Most teachers had retired to their quarters, but a mountain of grading kept you tethered to your desk. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the stacks of essays on "The Symbolism of the Supernatural in Hamlet."
You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. The day had been long, the students' apathy a heavy blanket to fight through. A shadow fell over your desk, and you looked up to find Nanami standing there, holding two steaming mugs. He was out of his suit jacket, the sleeves of his pale blue shirt rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong, capable hands. He looked less like a corporate dropout sorcerer and more like a man carved from solid oak.
"Coffee," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. "I assumed you might need it. Your English Literature essays seem to be a formidable opponent."
A genuine smile broke across your face, softening the sharp angles into something warm and breathtaking. "You have no idea. I think Kugisaki compared Macbeth to a 'whiny little bitch who got what was coming to him.' She's not entirely wrong, but the phrasing needs work."
He placed the mug on your desk, his fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second.
His touch was electric, a jolt that shot straight up your arm. You didn't pull away. "Thank you, Nanami-san," you said, your voice softer than you intended. "That's surprisingly thoughtful."
"Kento," he corrected, a faint flush coloring the tops of his cheekbones. "We're colleagues. Please."
"Kento," you repeated, the name feeling strange and intimate on your tongue. You took a sip of the coffee; it was perfect, dark and bitter with just a hint of sugar. "You're a lifesaver."
He lingered for a moment, his gaze drifting to the papers on your desk, then back to you. He noticed the way you were still rubbing your neck, a subtle, unconscious gesture of pain. "Tension headache?" he asked, his tone laced with a disarming directness.
You let out a weary sigh, nodding. "The usual. My shoulders feel like they've been carved from granite. It's been a long week."
For a moment, he said nothing. He simply stood there, his brow furrowed in thought. Then, he walked around your chair, standing behind you. Your breath hitched. The air crackled with an unspoken tension that had nothing to do with Cursed Energy.
"May I?" he asked, his voice close to your ear, a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body.
You hesitated for only a second. You were a sorcerer who could face down Special Grade Curses without flinching, yet this simple offer of comfort from this man felt more perilous, more significant. You found yourself nodding, a silent, almost imperceptible dip of your chin.
His hands settled on your shoulders, and you almost gasped. His touch was firm, warm, and impossibly steady. He wasn't tentative. He knew exactly what he was doing. His thumbs found the knots of muscle at the base of your neck, and he began to apply a slow, methodical pressure.
"God," you breathed out, the word a whisper of pure, unadulterated relief. The pain was exquisite, a sweet ache as his expert hands worked to dissolve the tension that had plagued you for hours. You let your head fall forward, giving him better access, a gesture of complete and utter trust.
You couldn't stop the small, involuntary sounds that escaped your lips. A soft sigh here, a quiet moan there. Each one was a testament to his skill, to the way he seemed to know exactly where you hurt, exactly how to make it better.
"Mmm... right there," you murmured, as he pressed a particularly stubborn knot. The sound was low, husky, and entirely unintentional. It was the sound of a woman unwinding, of her carefully constructed control beginning to fray.
And it was that sound that did something to him.
You felt it in the sudden stillness of his hands, the fractional pause before he continued. The pressure of his thumbs changed, became deeper, more possessive. The massage was no longer just about alleviating pain; it had become something else entirely. Something exploratory.
His hands slid from your shoulders down to your upper arms, his grip firm, grounding you. He leaned in closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against the sensitive skin of your nape.
"You carry so much tension here," he murmured, his voice a rough, gravelly whisper. "All this stress. You need to let it go."
His hands returned to your neck, but now his fingers were splayed wide, mapping the delicate curve of your throat. His touch was both gentle and commanding, a heady contradiction that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated arousal straight to your core. You were acutely aware of every point of contact, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of your blouse, the slight roughness of his calloused fingertips against your smooth skin.
You let out another soft moan, this one less about relief and more about pleasure. The sound seemed to hang in the sterile air of the faculty room, a flagrant act of intimacy in a place of work.
"You're making it very difficult to behave," he growled, the words a low vibration against your ear. His hands tightened on your shoulders, a clear signal of his waning control. "These sounds you're making... Christ, you have no idea what they do to me."
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. You should stop this. You should pull away, thank him politely for the coffee and the impromptu massage, and retreat to the safety of your own room. But you couldn't. You were mesmerized, captivated by the raw, unfiltered need in his voice.
You turned your head slowly, your cheek brushing against the back of his hand. You looked up at him, your dark eyes meeting his intense, stormy gaze. The fluorescent lights glinted off his glasses, but you could see the fire burning behind them, a fire that mirrored the sudden, desperate ache building inside you.
"I told you," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "It's been a long week." It was a flimsy excuse, and you both knew it.
He saw the invitation in your eyes, the silent surrender. With a low, guttural groan, he gave in to the impulse that had been threatening to consume him since the moment he'd laid hands on you. He leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.
It was a collision, a meeting of two forces held back for too long. His lips were firm, demanding, tasting of coffee and a raw, masculine hunger that made your knees weak. One of his hands tangled in your hair, his fingers wrapping around the strands at the nape of your neck, holding you in place. He wasn't asking for permission; he was taking, and you were giving, opening up to him with a desperate eagerness that both shocked and thrilled you.
His other hand slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before coming to rest on your hip, pulling you from the chair. You stumbled slightly, your hands bracing against his solid chest. The kiss deepened, growing more frantic, more possessive. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, tasting, exploring with a thoroughness that left you breathless. You could feel the hard, rigid length of him pressing against your stomach, a blatant declaration of his desire, and it sent a fresh wave of liquid heat flooding your center.
"Kento," you gasped against his lips, the name a breathy plea. "We're in the faculty room."
"Then we'll go to your office," he commanded, his voice rough with arousal. He didn't wait for a reply. He took your hand, his grip firm and unyielding, and practically dragged you out of the faculty room and down the empty hallway. The world narrowed to the space between you, the frantic click-clack of your shoes on the linoleum, the pounding of your own blood in your ears.
Your office was a small, private space tucked away at the end of the English department corridor. You fumbled with the key, your trembling hands making the simple task almost impossible. Nanami stood behind you, a solid, imposing presence. He crowded you against the door, his body flush against yours, his lips nipping at the sensitive skin just below your ear.
"Hurry," he growled, the word a hot puff of air against your skin. "I've been wanting to do this since the moment I saw you."
The lock finally clicked open. You practically fell into the darkened room, Nanami kicking the door shut behind him. The click of the latch was deafening in the sudden silence, sealing you in. He flipped the light switch, bathing the small space in a warm, golden glow. It wasn't a sterile office; it was yours. Books were stacked in precarious towers on every available surface, a cozy armchair was nestled in the corner, and the scent of old paper and your unique, thunderstorm perfume hung in the air.
He took it all in with a sweeping glance before his gaze settled back on you, dark and intense. "Turn around," he ordered softly.
Your body obeyed before your mind could process the command. You faced the door, your hands flat against the cool wood, your heart racing in anticipation. You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he removed his tie, the gentle clink of his belt buckle. The sounds were infinitely intimate, more arousing than any touch.
His hands were on you again, this time sliding around your waist from behind, splaying across your stomach. He pulled you back against him, and you could feel every hard, defined plane of his chest. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your cheek.
"You have no idea," he murmured, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "No fucking idea what you do to me. Walking around here, looking like that, so smart and so completely untouchable. All I've thought about for a week is touching you. Like this."
His hands began to move, slowly, deliberately. One roamed upwards, cupping the weight of your breast through your blouse, his thumb finding your nipple and circling it until it pebbled into a tight, aching point. The other slid downwards, over the fabric of your skirt, to rest possessively on the curve of your hip. He rocked his hips against you, letting you feel the hard, thick evidence of his desire.
"Kento..." you whimpered, pressing back against him, a silent plea for more.
"Shhh," he hushed you. "I'll take care of you."
His fingers were deft, making quick work of the buttons on your blouse. He pushed the fabric open, revealing the simple black lace bra beneath. He made a low, appreciative sound in the back of his throat before unhooking it with a practiced flick of his wrist. The cups fell away, and your breasts spilled into his waiting hands. The feeling of his warm, calloused skin on your bare flesh was intoxicating. He kneaded them gently, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, pulling soft cries from your lips.
"Perfect," he breathed. "Absolutely fucking perfect."
He turned you around to face him, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. It was a look of pure, unadulterated hunger, but there was something else there too, a reverence that made your chest ache. He looked at you as if you were a masterpiece he had waited a lifetime to see.
He dipped his head, capturing one of your nipples in his hot, wet mouth. The sensation was a bolt of lightning, arcing from your breast straight to your clit. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, holding him to you. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive peak, sucking and nipping with just the right amount of pressure, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. He gave the other breast the same lavish attention, leaving you trembling and breathless, a desperate, aching need pooling between your thighs.
He kissed you again, a slow, deep, possessive kiss that tasted of your own arousal. His hands were everywhere, mapping your body, learning your curves. He unzipped your skirt, letting it pool around your ankles. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, slowly, torturously, pulling them down your legs. You stood before him, completely bare, while he remained fully dressed in his shirt and slacks. The vulnerability of the position sent a thrill through you that was equal parts fear and excitement.
He guided you back until your legs hit the plush armchair. He sat down, pulling you down onto his lap. His erection was a hard, demanding pressure against your bare core. You rocked your hips, seeking friction, a desperate, mindless motion.
"So impatient," he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through you. He grabbed your hips, stilling your movements. "Not yet. I want to taste you first."
The words hung in the air, a dark, delicious promise. He lifted you effortlessly, laying you down on the deep pile rug that covered the floor. He knelt between your thighs, pushing them wide open. You were completely exposed to him, your glistening folds on display. He groaned, the sound raw and primal.
"Look at you," he murmured, his eyes darkening as he stared at your most intimate place. "So wet for me. So beautiful."
He leaned down, and you felt the hot puff of his breath against your sensitive flesh a second before his tongue made contact. The touch was electric, a jolt of pure pleasure that made you arch off the floor. He licked a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit, and you saw stars.
"Oh God," you cried out, your hands fisting in the thick pile of the rug.
He chuckled, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through you. "God has nothing to do with this."
He set to work with a focused, intense concentration that was both arousing and humbling. This wasn't a man who was simply going through the motions. This was a man who was savoring, who was determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your body. He explored every fold, every ridge, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan, what made you writhe.
His tongue circled your clit, teasing, tormenting, before he finally took the sensitive nub into his mouth and sucked. Hard. The pressure was exquisite, a perfect blend of pleasure and pain that sent you spiraling towards the edge. You could feel the tension coiling in your belly, a tight, hot knot that was about to snap.
"Kento, please," you begged, your voice a ragged sob. "Please, I'm so close."
"Not yet," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. He pulled back slightly, denying you your release. "You're not coming until I say so."
You whimpered in frustration, but the sound turned into a sharp cry of pleasure as he slid two long, thick fingers inside you. He curled them upwards, finding that magical spot deep inside that made your vision blur. He began to pump them in and out, his tongue returning to your clit, licking and sucking in a relentless, driving rhythm.
The dual stimulation was almost too much to bear. You could feel your control slipping, your body taking over, a mindless, desperate thing chasing its own pleasure. The knot in your belly tightened, impossibly so, the pressure building until you thought you would explode.
"Now," he growled against your clit. "Come for me. Now."
The command was all it took. The world shattered into a million brilliant pieces. Your back arched, a silent scream tearing from your throat as wave after wave of intense, soul-shattering pleasure washed over you. It went on and on, your inner muscles clamping down on his fingers, milking them as you rode out the orgasm. He didn't stop, his tongue and fingers working you through every last contraction, drawing out your pleasure until you were a limp, quivering mess.
As the tremors subsided, he placed a soft, gentle kiss on your inner thigh before looking up at you. His face was glistening with your arousal, a look of pure, masculine satisfaction in his eyes.
He looked at you, a predator sated for the moment, but with the clear promise of more to come. "Again," he murmured, the word not a question but a statement of intent.
Before you could even form a coherent thought, his mouth was back on you. There was no gentleness this time, only a raw, insistent hunger. He devoured you, his tongue lapping at your folds with a fierce intensity, as if he couldn't get enough of your taste. His fingers resumed their assault, pumping into you with a steady, punishing rhythm.
You were already so sensitive, every nerve ending raw and exposed. The pleasure was almost painful in its intensity. Your hips bucked wildly, trying to escape and seeking more of the exquisite torture all at once. He locked an arm over your hips, holding you down, forcing you to take everything he was giving you.
"You can take it," he grunted, his voice a deep, commanding vibration against your core. "Give me another one."
He sucked your clit back into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves in a rapid, staccato rhythm while his fingers curled and twisted inside you, stroking that spot with unerring accuracy. The pressure built again, faster this time, a desperate, frantic climb towards oblivion. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on the rug, your body arching, a taut bow of pure sensation.
"Oh God, Kento, fuck, right there, don't stop, please don't stop," you babbled, the words pouring out of you in a desperate, incoherent stream. The world dissolved into a haze of blinding white light and overwhelming sensation. The second orgasm hit you even harder than the first, a violent, convulsive wave that ripped a scream from your lungs. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, your body shaking with the force of your release. He continued to lick you gently, easing you down from the peak as you lay panting and boneless on the floor.
After a long moment, he rose to his knees, towering over you. He looked magnificent, his shirt rumpled, his hair disheveled, a dark, triumphant glint in his eyes. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers, pushing them down just enough to free himself.
Your breath hitched. He was magnificent. Hard, thick, and impressively long, curving slightly upwards from a nest of dark blond hair. The head was flushed a deep, angry red, a bead of pearly fluid glistening at the tip.
"Look at what you do to me," he said, his voice a low growl. He wrapped a hand around his thick shaft, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "I've been hard for you all week. Thinking about this smart mouth, wondering what it would look like wrapped around my cock."
He knelt beside your head, bringing his length to your lips. The musky, masculine scent of him filled your senses, intoxicating and utterly male. "Open your mouth," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You obeyed, parting your lips willingly. He guided the head of his cock inside, the velvety skin sliding over your tongue. You moaned at the taste of him, salty and clean. He was so big, stretching your lips, filling your mouth completely.
"Fuck," he breathed, his head falling back. "That's it. Take it."
He began to move, slowly at first, letting you get used to his size. He rocked his hips, sliding his cock in and out of your mouth in a shallow, gentle rhythm. You swirled your tongue around the head, flicking it against the sensitive underside, savoring the way his breath hitched in response.
"You like that, don't you?" he rasped, looking down at you, his eyes dark with lust. "You like having my cock in your mouth. You like the taste of me." He pushed a little deeper, the head of his cock nudging the back of your throat. You gagged slightly, tears springing to your eyes, but you didn't pull away. You relaxed your throat, taking him deeper.
"Christ," he groaned. "Look at you. So fucking beautiful like this. Your lips stretched around my dick, tears in your eyes. You're a goddamn vision."
His movements became more assertive, more demanding. He fisted a hand in your hair, holding your head in place as he began to thrust in earnest. He set a punishing pace, fucking your mouth with deep, powerful strokes. The sounds were obscene, the wet, slurping noises of your mouth on his flesh, the guttural grunts and groans that tore from his throat.
"Take it," he growled, his voice rough with command. "Take all of it. You're going to swallow me whole."
You reached up, cupping his heavy balls in your hand, rolling them gently. He let out a sharp hiss of pleasure, his hips stuttering for a moment.
"You're a dirty girl, aren't you?" he said, a dark, possessive note in his voice. "You know exactly what to do to drive a man wild. Were you thinking about this in class today? While you were talking about Shakespeare? Were you thinking about me bending you over your desk and fucking you until you couldn't remember your own name?"
The words sent a fresh jolt of arousal through you. You moaned around his cock, the vibrations traveling up his length and making him curse.
"Answer me," he demanded, pulling back just enough for you to speak.
"Yes," you gasped, your voice hoarse. "I was thinking about it."
A triumphant smirk touched his lips. "I knew it. I knew you wanted this as much as I did."
He pushed back into your mouth, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. He was close, you could feel it in the tensing of his muscles, in the way his thrusts became more erratic. But just as you felt him begin to swell, he pulled out completely, leaving you feeling empty and aching.
"Not yet," he panted, chest heaving. "I'm not coming in that pretty mouth. Not the first time. The first time, I'm coming inside you."
He stood up, pulling you to your feet. He spun you around, bending you over the large, mahogany desk that dominated one corner of your office. You felt the cool, smooth wood against your bare breasts as he kicked your feet apart, positioning you just how he wanted you.
"Brace yourself," he warned, a second before he drove into you.
The sudden, full invasion stole your breath. He was so big, so thick, stretching you to your limits. It was a delicious, borderline painful stretch, a feeling of being completely and utterly possessed. For a moment, he just stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust to his size. Then he began to move.
He started with slow, deep, grinding strokes, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, inch by agonizing inch. Each stroke was a deliberate act of possession, a claim being staked. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you in place as he set a rhythm that was both torturous and utterly intoxicating.
"God, you feel incredible," he groaned, his voice a raw, ragged sound. "So tight, so wet. You're perfect for me, do you know that? This perfect little cunt was made for my cock."
His words were a dark, delicious poison, seeping into your veins and making you burn. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, silently begging for more. He understood. He obliged. The slow, measured strokes gave way to a faster, more powerful rhythm. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal, percussive beat that underscored your own cries of pleasure.
He reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, demanding circles against the sensitive nub. The additional stimulation was your undoing. The third orgasm crashed through you, a blinding, violent wave that left you gasping for air, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick surface of the desk.
He didn't stop. He continued to thrust into you through your climax, drawing out the pleasure until you were a sobbing, writhing mess. Only then did he pull out, turning you around to face him.
Your legs were trembling, barely able to support you. He lifted you effortlessly, seating you on the edge of the desk. He stepped between your thighs, pushing them wide. He was still fully clothed from the waist up, the crisp fabric of his shirt a stark contrast to your complete nudity. He looked down at you, his gaze raking over your body.
"So beautiful," he murmured, his hands coming up to cup your face. He kissed you, a slow, deep kiss that was surprisingly tender. "I could look at you all day."
But the tenderness was fleeting. He pulled back, his eyes darkening again. He ripped open your blouse the rest of the way, sending the remaining buttons scattering across the floor. He pulled the lace bra from your body, tossing it aside.
Your breasts were bared to him, flushed and swollen from his earlier attention. He leaned down, taking one in his mouth, his tongue laving the nipple before he bit down gently. The sharp, sweet pain made you cry out, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
"Your turn," you panted, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You needed to see him, to feel his skin against yours. You finally managed to undo them, pushing the shirt open.
He was magnificent. His chest was broad and well-defined, a dusting of blond hair sprinkled across hard muscle. His shoulders were powerful, his arms corded with strength. You ran your hands over his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart under your palm.
He shuddered at your touch, a low groan rumbling in his chest. He captured your hands, pinning them above your head with one of his. With his other hand, he guided himself back to your entrance.
He pushed into you slowly, watching your face as he filled you. This position was different, more intimate. You could see every flicker of emotion on his face, every trace of desire and possession. He began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each thrust was a deep, claiming stroke that hit you in just the right spot.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on. His free hand roamed your body, squeezing your breast, tracing your collarbone, wrapping around your throat. He didn't apply pressure, but the possessive gesture was enough to make your head spin. He was marking you, claiming every part of you.
"You're mine," he growled, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. "Say it."
"Yours," you gasped, the word torn from you. "I'm yours, Kento."
"Fuck," he groaned, his control finally shattering. He released your hands, and you immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a searing kiss. The kiss was a clash of teeth and tongues, a messy, desperate affirmation of your mutual need.
He pounded into you, the desk rocking beneath you with the force of his thrusts. The angle was perfect, the friction against your clit a delicious, maddening pressure. You could feel another orgasm building, a slow, inexorable tide that threatened to pull you under.
He wrapped one arm around your waist, lifting you slightly, changing the angle. The new position sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through you. The coil in your belly tightened, a hot, heavy knot of need.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a rough, demanding rasp. "I want to see you when you come."
You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. He was so close, you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, see the raw, unfiltered emotion shining there. He was right there with you, hovering on the same precipice.
"I'm close," you whimpered, your body trembling.
"Me too," he grunted. "Come with me. Now."
The command was your undoing. The world exploded in a kaleidoscope of color and sensation. A scream tore from your throat as your body convulsed, your inner muscles clamping down on him in a series of powerful, rhythmic spasms. You felt him swell inside you, and then he was joining you, his own release a hot, powerful flood that filled you completely. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself into you.
For a long moment, you stayed like that, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breathing ragged and uneven. The only sounds in the room were the pounding of your own hearts and the soft tick of the clock on the wall, marking the passage of a world that had ceased to exist for you both.
He collapsed against you, his full weight a welcome, comforting pressure. You held him, your hands stroking his sweat-dampened hair, your body still quivering with the aftershocks of your shared release.
"Holy shit," you finally managed to breathe, the words a weak, breathless whisper.
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. "I believe that's my line."
He lifted his head, looking down at you. His glasses were askew, his hair a mess, and there was a lazy, sated smile on his face that transformed him, softening the harsh angles and making him look years younger. He looked... happy. And the sight sent a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the post-coital haze.
He gently withdrew from you, the loss of his presence an immediate, aching void. He helped you down from the desk, your legs feeling like overcooked noodles. He scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you to the plush armchair in the corner. He sat down, settling you on his lap, wrapping his arms around you and pulling a nearby throw blanket over your intertwined bodies.
You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady, soothing beat of his heart. The silence that followed wasn't awkward or empty; it was comfortable, intimate, filled with a thousand unspoken words.
You didn't know how long you sat there, wrapped in his arms, a boneless, contented heap. The world outside your small office seemed a distant, irrelevant dream. Here, in the warm, golden light, with the scent of sex and him clinging to your skin, there was only the two of you.
He was the one to break the silence, his voice a soft, hesitant murmur against your hair. "I'm... not usually like this."
You tilted your head back to look at him. "Like what? A mind-blowingly talented lover who also happens to be a gentleman? I think that's a rather winning combination."
A faint flush colored his cheeks. "No. I mean... impulsive. Uncontrolled. I have a very structured life. Rules. A nine-to-five. This..." He gestured vaguely at the disarray of your office, at your state of undress. "This is a significant deviation from the plan."
You smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertip. "Maybe your plan was due for a revision."
His gaze softened, a look of such intense tenderness in his eyes that it made your breath catch. "I think," he said slowly, as if testing the words, "you were the revision I never knew I needed."
He leaned down and kissed you, a soft, gentle, lingering kiss that was a world away from the frantic, desperate passion from before. It was a kiss that spoke of promises, of beginnings, of something real and terrifying and wonderful.
When he pulled back, he was serious again. "I want to take you out to dinner."
You blinked. "Dinner?"
"Yes. A proper date. Not... this." He gestured again. "I want to know you. Not just the brilliant teacher or the incredibly powerful sorcerer. I want to know what your favorite food is, what you do on your days off, what book you're reading that isn't for class."
You laughed, a bright, genuine sound that filled the small space. "You want to take the woman you just defiled on her own desk out on a proper date?"
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. "Especially that woman. I have a feeling she's full of surprises."
"Oh, you have no idea," you purred. "But I should warn you. If we're talking domestic skills, you're barking up the wrong tree. I could probably burn water. I once tried to make instant ramen and set off the smoke alarm."
He chuckled, the sound a deep, pleasant vibration against your side. "A culinary disaster, hm? I'll keep that in mind. I'll handle the cooking."
"But," you added, a sly smile touching your lips, "I can bake. Very, very well. Cakes, pies, bread... anything that requires precise measurements and following instructions, I'm your girl. Give me a recipe, and I'll give you something that could make a grown man weep."
His eyes lit up, a look of such genuine, unadulterated interest that it was almost comical. "You can bake? Bread?"
"The kind with a crispy crust and a soft, chewy interior," you confirmed. "Sourdough, challah, focaccia... you name it."
He groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. "You're trying to kill me." He tightened his arms around you. "A beautiful, brilliant woman who can fuck like a goddess and bake artisanal bread. It's not fair. It's just not fair to the rest of humanity."
You buried your face in his chest, laughing. "Well, when you put it like that..."
"I am taking you out to dinner," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Tomorrow. There's a small Italian place in a quiet district of Tokyo. They have the best osso buco I've ever tasted. And then," he added, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, "you're going to come back to my place. And you are going to bake for me."
You looked up at him, your heart doing a strange, little flip in your chest. "Is that an order?"
"It's a fervent, desperate plea," he corrected, his eyes solemn. "My apartment is sorely lacking in homemade bread."
The image that flashed through your mind—Nanami in a domestic setting, in an apartment that smelled of coffee and him—was so potent it almost hurt. "It's a date," you whispered.
He kissed you again, a sealing of the pact. It was slow and sweet, a promise of things to come. But when he pulled back, reality began to seep back into the room. The clock on your desk read well past midnight. The adrenaline and endorphins that had been carrying you were beginning to fade, leaving a pleasant, bone-deep exhaustion in their wake.
"We should probably... get dressed," you murmured, though you made no move to leave the warm circle of his arms.
"Five more minutes," he countered, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling deeply. "I like the way you smell."
You smelled like him now, too. Like sex and sweat and a shared, explosive intimacy. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. This was supposed to be a simple job, a new chapter in a life that had already been too complicated. But this man, with his straight lines and right angles and the wild, untamed passion he kept so carefully leashed, was a complication you hadn't foreseen. A complication you suddenly found yourself wanting, more than you'd wanted anything in a very long time.
Reluctantly, you began to disentangle yourself. The cool night air hit your skin, and you shivered. Nanami was immediately on his feet, retrieving your discarded clothing. He handed you your blouse, a look of chagrin on his face as he took in the scattered, ripped-off buttons.
"I'll buy you a new one," he said, running a hand through his already messy hair.
"Don't worry about it," you replied, slipping the fabric on. It hung open, a testament to the evening's activities. "It was worth it."
He watched you dress, his gaze unreadable but intense. When you were both presentable, if somewhat rumpled, he stood before you. He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek.
"I'll walk you to the gates," he said, his tone firm. "It's late."
You wanted to argue that you were more than capable of taking care of yourself, that you could probably reduce a mugger to a smoldering pile of ashes with a thought, but you stopped yourself. This wasn't about your capability. It was about him. It was about him wanting to ensure you were safe, a small, almost old-fashioned gesture of care that you found impossibly sweet.
"Alright," you agreed softly.
The walk through the silent, sleeping campus was surreal. The ginkgo trees cast long, skeletal shadows on the path, and the moon hung heavy and silver in the sky. Nanami's hand found yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a firm, possessive grip. It felt natural, right, as if they were always meant to be there.
"Ijichi usually drives me," you said into the quiet, your own voice sounding strangely loud. "But he's probably long gone by now. I'll just grab the subway."
Nanami stopped, turning to face you. "Absolutely not. It's the middle of the night. I'm taking you home."
"You don't have to do that. It's out of your way."
"I'm not taking you home because I have to," he said, his eyes boring into yours. "I'm taking you home because I want to. End of discussion."
There was that tone again. The one that was so unyielding, so utterly... Kento. And you found you had no desire to argue. The thought of sitting next to him in a quiet train car, of him seeing where you lived, of him walking you to your door, was a potent, intoxicating prospect.
The train ride was a quiet affair, but not an uncomfortable one. You sat shoulder to shoulder, the warmth of his body a steady, comforting presence. The city lights blurred past the window, a smear of neon and darkness. You found yourself telling him about your apartment—a small, rented place in a quiet neighborhood, filled with books and the comforting scent of cinnamon and vanilla from your latest baking project. He listened with an rapt attention, as if you were revealing the secrets of the universe.
Your building was a modest four-story walk-up, old but well-kept. He walked you to your door, his presence a comforting shadow in the dimly lit hallway. You fumbled for your keys, your hands trembling slightly. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him, expecting him to say goodnight.
Instead, he followed you inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The click of the lock echoed in the small entryway. The apartment was exactly as you'd described it. Cozy. Lived-in. The scent of baked apples and cinnamon wrapped around you both.
He took it all in with a sweeping glance before his gaze returned to you. And just like that, the quiet intimacy of the train ride evaporated, replaced by the same raw, primal hunger that had consumed you in your office.
"I was wrong," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "One taste wasn't enough."
He was on you in an instant, crowding you against the door, his body pinning yours. His hands framed your face, and then he was kissing you, a desperate, hungry kiss that stole the air from your lungs. This wasn't the sweet, tender kiss from the armchair. This was a claiming. A possession.
You responded with a matching ferocity, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. You wanted to crawl inside him, to merge with him until there was no telling where he ended and you began. His hands were everywhere, tearing at your clothes, desperate for skin. He ripped your blouse open again, the sound of fabric tearing a vulgar, thrilling song in the quiet apartment.
"Fuck the buttons," he growled against your lips, before hoisting you into his arms.
You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you through the small living room and into your bedroom. He deposited you on the bed, a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing. He stood over you, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
He stripped off his own shirt, tossing it aside, and you took your fill of him. The moonlight filtering through your window cast him in silver and shadow, highlighting the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the powerful muscles of his arms. He was a sculpture of male perfection, a warrior god, and he was looking at you as if you were the only thing in his universe.
He knelt on the bed, crawling over you, caging you in with his body. He didn't kiss you right away. Instead, he just looked. His gaze was a physical thing, a caress that burned everywhere it touched. It traced the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips.
"You're a goddamn masterpiece," he breathed, his voice thick with awe. "And I'm going to ruin you."
He lowered his head, but not to your lips. He kissed the delicate skin of your throat, his tongue darting out to taste your pulse. He bit down gently, a possessive sting that made you gasp. He worked his way down, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses and sharp, little bites across your collarbones. He was marking you, laying claim to every inch of your skin.
He paused at your breasts, taking a moment to simply admire them. "I dreamt about these," he confessed, his voice a rough murmur. "All week."
He took one in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the nipple before he sucked hard. The sensation was a direct line to your clit, and you arched your back, a silent cry of pleasure escaping your lips. He lavished the same attention on the other, his hands kneading the soft flesh, his teeth nipping and scraping until you were a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him.
"Kento, please," you begged, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
"Please what?" he demanded, lifting his head, his eyes dark and demanding. "Tell me what you want."
"You. Inside me. Now."
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "As you wish."
He positioned himself between your thighs, but instead of entering you, he lowered his head. His breath was a hot promise against your slick, sensitive folds before he dove in. His technique was merciless, a masterclass in pleasure. He used his tongue, his lips, his teeth, driving you to the brink of insanity with a relentless, focused intensity. He knew exactly how to touch you, how to lick you, how to suck your clit until your vision blurred and your body bucked uncontrollably.
"Come on," he coaxed, his voice a dark, seductive whisper against your flesh. "I want to feel you come on my tongue. Give it to me."
His words were the final push. The orgasm tore through you, a violent, convulsive wave that left you screaming his name. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your body trembling with the force of your release. He lapped at you gently, easing you down, before kissing his way back up your body.
He hovered over you, his face glistening with your arousal, a look of pure, masculine triumph in his eyes. He entered you then, a single, powerful thrust that buried him to the hilt. The sudden, full invasion made you cry out, a mix of pleasure and pain. He filled you completely, stretching you, possessing you.
He started to move, his strokes long and deep, a steady, punishing rhythm that pushed you higher and higher. He braced himself on his forearms, his body covering yours, creating a world that contained only the two of you. The sounds of your coupling, the slick slide of skin on skin, the guttural groans and desperate cries, were the only music.
He changed his angle, hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars. You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, a desperate, mindless dance of mutual need. The pressure built again, a hot, heavy coil of tension in your belly.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a rough, demanding rasp. "I want to see your face when you come around my cock."
You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. The raw emotion you saw there—possession, desire, and something deeper, something that looked terrifyingly like tenderness—was your undoing.
"That's it," he grunted, his thrusts becoming faster, more erratic. "Come for me. Now."
Your body obeyed, shattering into a million pieces. Your inner muscles clamped down on him, a series of powerful, rhythmic spasms that milked him for all he was worth. You felt him swell inside you, but he held back, his body trembling with the effort of restraining his own release.
He rolled you over, positioning you on your hands and knees without ever breaking their connection. He grabbed your hips, pulling you back against him as he drove into you with a renewed, desperate energy. This new position was raw, primal, allowing him to hit even deeper.
He wrapped a hand around your hair, pulling your head back slightly, forcing your back into a deep arch. The possessive gesture sent a fresh thrill through you. "You feel so fucking good," he growled, his strokes becoming harder, more demanding. "This perfect, tight little cunt. It's mine now. Do you understand? Mine."
"Yours," you sobbed, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the headboard. "All yours."
The words seemed to unleash something in him. He pounded into you, the bed rocking with the force of his thrusts. He reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, demanding circles. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you towards your third orgasm of the night.
"Please, Kento, I can't," you whimpered, your body trembling with overstimulation.
"Yes, you can," he commanded, his voice rough. "One more. Give me one more."
And you did. The climax ripped through you, a blinding, all-consuming wave that left you gasping for air, your body shaking with the force of it.
This time, he let go. With a deep, guttural groan, he buried himself deep inside you, his own release a hot, powerful flood that triggered a final, smaller orgasm in you. You collapsed onto the bed, a boneless, quivering mess, and he followed you down, his full weight a welcome, comforting pressure on your back.
For a long while, you lay there, tangled together, the only sounds in the room your ragged breaths and the frantic beating of your own heart. You felt as if you'd been turned inside out, every defense stripped away, leaving you raw and exposed.
He finally stirred, rolling off you and pulling you into his arms. He tucked you against his side, your head resting on his chest. He was still trembling slightly. You could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart under your ear, a grounding rhythm in the aftermath of the storm.
You lay in silence for a long time, just listening to him breathe. You expected the awkwardness to set in, the post-sex clarity that often brought with it a wave of regret. But it didn't come. Instead, there was only a profound sense of peace, of rightness, as if you had finally found a piece of yourself you hadn't even realized was missing.
His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. "I'm never letting you go," he murmured, the words a raw, aching confession against your skin.
Your heart did a strange, painful lurch in your chest. It wasn't a threat; it was a promise. A declaration of intent that both thrilled and terrified you. You had spent your life building walls, cultivating a carefully constructed fortress of self-reliance. This man, in the space of a few hours, had not only scaled those walls but had torn them down to their foundations.
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Instead, you pressed a soft kiss against his chest, a silent acceptance of everything he was, everything he offered.
He began to rub your back, a slow, soothing motion that traced the curve of your spine. His touch was gentle, almost reverent. You could feel yourself drifting, the exhaustion of the day and the intensity of the night finally catching up with you. As you hovered on the edge of sleep, you felt him press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
It was such a simple, tender gesture, yet it felt more intimate than anything you had done together. It was a gesture of care, of protection, of something that went far beyond the raw, physical passion you had just shared.
You fell asleep with the scent of him in your hair, the warmth of his body wrapped around yours, and the feeling of his lips still tingling on your skin.
And as you slept, Kento Nanami lay awake, holding you. He watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way the moonlight softened the sharp angles of your face, making you look impossibly young and vulnerable. He thought about the sterile, empty orderliness of his own apartment, the nine-to-five life he had so carefully constructed to keep the chaos at bay. He thought about the darkness of his work, the constant weight of death and duty.
And then he looked at you, a chaotic, brilliant, powerful force of nature who had turned his carefully constructed world on its axis. He thought about your sharp wit, the fierce intelligence in your eyes, the way you had looked at him in your office, a silent dare that he had been unable to resist.
He thought about what he had ever done to deserve this. To deserve you. He didn't have an answer. All he knew was that he wasn't a man who believed in fate or destiny. He was a man of action, of choices. And he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones, that choosing you was the best decision he had ever made. He pulled you closer, a silent vow to protect this fragile, precious thing he had found in the darkness.
