synopsis . Simple touches you make that finally cause them to snap after having them on sex ban for heavens know how long. pairings (separate) . Sukuna x f!reader, Gojo x f!reader, Nanami x f!reader, Toji x f!reader, Choso x f!reader, Geto x f!reader.
content . afab!reader, premature ejec, established relationship(s), heavy breeding, pussy slapping, hints of perversion, dirty talk, pathetic men, rough sex, fluff if you squint, begging, nipple play, filth, praise, gojo’s an idiot, oral sex (f!receiving), finger sucking, masturbation (m!receiving), cum play, manhandling, they’re all downbad, spit, overstim, degrading, creampies, biting, pet names, etc.
word count . 7.2k || author's note: newjeans never what? banner art from “Kubitsuri Danshi to Nikushoku Joshi” (this is a reworked repost btw)
☆ Sukuna Ryomen — The back of his neck
"Mmgh! 'Kunaa," You're moaning from a widely gaping mouth, "S'too muuch," Eyes puffed with blissful tears streaming out of them as he drives his bulky cock deep inside you like he were afraid you'd run away from him any second now or something.
Your husband merely tips his head to the side, and lets his hand fall down over the fact of your ass to smack! meanly, "You continued to tempt me," He claims, albeit a clear lie, "I'm only giving you what you wanted now."
He was pretending to be far too casual about what was taking place now as if his plump balls weren't actively kissing your clit with the rudest meetings, soft plp plp plps echoing out from each connection. Sukuna's way of acting like the most mundane thing didn't lead the two of you to this very position was truly astounding to you.
"This is what you wanted," You argue back the moment you manage to capture your breath back into your lungs. Brows all furrowed and hips bouncing back against his sharp pelvis, "N-Not me—mmfph, fuck..."
You couldn't see it but he did break out a knowing smile as if you were wrong, "Yet you've made quite the mess around my cock already," Sukuna points out. His lusting red eyes dive downwards and he unintentionally begins to fuck harder the moment he catches sight of your mixed cum dripping off his balls and leaving a mess onto the living room floor. "It must be so difficult to tell lies like that when you've such an honest pussy," He comments.
You swear you hate the way that has your cunt sucking him in more, gushing squelches left trickling out of your hole each time he came forward with yet another hauling thrust of his achy cock, "Ohmygod."
Just a few minutes ago, he had the grumpiest pout weighing his bottom lip down and his eyes were glaring over at you all meanly, cursing you extensively within the safety of his mind but never daring to utter any of said curses to you.
Why?
Because he felt himself growing throbbingly erect after you'd done nothing more than graze the back of his neck with the tips of your fingers as you'd walked by.
After years of marriage, you'd think he'd have gotten used to you and your loving little touches but…
"Hear that? Hear how she always tells me the truth? Perhaps you should take notes," He's groaning now with you bent over the living room couch in the most debauched way imaginable. It's the same place he was sitting moments ago, the same place he felt a deft tent begin to make itself present against his sweatpants—which are now somewhere on the floor—and the same place he felt as though he needed to give you what you were, allegedly, asking for.
How exactly was the playful gesture of you trailing your fingertips against the back of his neck as you walked behind him a sign of you tempting him? You haven't a clue, really.
"S'not m-my fault you're-, ah! Sensitive," You moan, teeth occasionally clasping onto the pillow you have your face resting against as you feel your legs grow temporarily numb with his every other thrust.
You didn't realize the affect an entire month of no sex would have on the two of you until now. Hell, you can barely remember what made you place the ban in the first place with the way he's plowing into you now.
"Oh but it is your fault. Only your fingers against my neck invoke such reactions from me," Sukuna says to you, as if this were commonly acknowledged information shared between the two of you prior to this, "You know that."
Feeling the way air exits your lips along with another moan of his name, "N-No I don't." you just barely get out to him. His cock is quite busy readjusting your inner honeyed walls to its size with rather barbarically frantic slotting.
"Yeah?" He smiles at that, "Well, let's see if my girl down here does, hm?" Sukuna's hand shifts beneath you and then feels up against your perky clit just to catch how it tremors to every touch, "Oooh, look at that, she knows exactly what she does to me, unlike you—apparently." He scoffs.
You think your legs almost give out for a second due to the pleasure thrumming all throughout your body but you still force yourself to throw a defiant, "Shut up." his way.
Head cocking back as if offended, "What was that, brat?" He doesn't give you a second to reply properly because he's driving his other hand into your hair and then grabbing onto it and tugging the upper half of your body up up up! until his lips can run against your ear, "I couldn't quite hear you, speak up when you're talking to me."
You're mumbling even quieter now and your words seem to break off somewhere through their exit of your throat, "S-Shut up..."
"One more time, wife." He taunts purposefully as his head angles down into your neck and his mouth opens so that he could let his teeth sink into your skin.
You don’t know if you’re going insane by simply being married to the man but you swear the meaner you are to him, the rougher he gets during sex. Either that or the more desperate he gets for something you’re not quite sure of yet.
With drool starting to slip out the corner of your lips, "Sukuna, hahhh-, I-I can't... fuuuck, I didn't mean to-"
"Awhh, yes you did," He cuts off. The heavy tip of his cock was now sandwiched clean against your sweet-spot and he was intentionally not letting up on you, leaving your body a trembly mess against his just so he could talk all soft against your skin, "S'okay, I just wanna hear you say it again for me. I like it when you try to be mean to me."
"S-Shut up," You finally manage. This time though, there wasn’t an ounce of malice detected in your voice, which overall meant that he’d gotten exactly what he wanted from you: obedience.
Kissing over the recent bite mark he’d made, "See? Was that so hard?" Sukuna hums. You wish the laugh you wanted to release actually left you but unfortunately you’re caught off guard by his loud groan as his voice dips down an octave and something fervent and milky sloshes out into your cunt, "Such a dramatic slut…”
☆ Geto Suguru — Fingers in his hair
You always run your fingers through Geto's long dark tresses of hair, telling him how affectionately jealous you are of its length, and complimenting him on it time and time again. Right now was no different, of course.
Except for the fact that his dick was hard enough for him to be uncomfortable where he sat. He was barely hearing what you were saying and all his attention landed on the way your fingertips felt grazing his scalp. You'd avoided doing that these past few days because you knew how it got him, but now that the short-lived ban of yours was over, you had returned to your previous gestures.
So, surely, you expected to have him in between your thighs within the hour?
Truth be told, he begged to eat you out at least three times within the past few days just for the hell of it, but each time it got more and more torturous since he had to stop himself from cumming in reaction to earning that gorgeous little glare of yours.
But now nothing was holding him back from slobbering in between your juicy cunt, "Mmgh, missed this pretty pussy s'much," Geto practically gurgles against you, a real nasty spread of your slick left slathered all over the lower half of his face. His slim purple eyes were trained especially up onto your expression so he could truly drink up your every reaction, "I finally get to-, agh, mwahh.." He pauses to kiss at you, "Taste you again-, fuuck."
"S-Sugu, slow down-, hahh," You end up smiling halfway through your warnings because you honestly missed how depraved he got while eating you out. You never said anything because you didn't want him to feel bad but he definitely was not slobbering against you like this the last time he ate you out. Which, of course, was to be expected... but still. "M'not going anywhere!"
Geto grunts as if pissed off that you'd even suggest him taking his time with you right now, "Don't care." Then he pushes your legs apart impossibly wider and suckles your clit in between his slippery lips, "Need you-, need this..." He moans prettily.
There's a shimmery gloss of something pussydrunken resting in his eyes that just refuse to stray away from you but, you try not to pay too much attention to it. Even though that proves to be quite difficult when he lets his looong tongue slither back in between your weepy folds to lick up every drop you had to offer him, "Hnngh, Suguru!"
"So fuckin' sweet," He moans again with watery eyes. Geto only tugs away a few centimeters to leave spit 'n drenched kisses against your pussy, "Cum on my tongue baby, lemme taste it."
"Fuuck," Your back arches up away from the bed at that gorgeous angle he can never get enough of and that seems to make him all the more feral.
Now pulling at your clit with his lips, very much using the tip of his tongue to swirl around the quavery bud in a way that leaves you twitching, "Look at 'er, she missed me eatin' her out just as much," He slurs out in between his perfected oral movements, "My poor baby, you were probably dealin' with half-assed orgasms for all those days jus' cause I'd been selfish..." Geto coos softly as if you weren't absolutely losing it right now and clinging onto the sheets to stop yourself from squirting right onto his face. "M'sorry, gorgeous. Pwah," He spits again, "Won't happen again."
And by selfish, he only means that you banned him from sex in response to coming home and seeing him getting off without you. It was a harmless thing, really. But so was the few-day ban, in your opinion...
There's nothing but the sound of wet lil' claps coming from his mouth whenever he draws it away from you and licks at the rest of your taste sitting on his lips. You never thought you'd find yourself with a guy like Geto who literally cums as soon as you start pulling on his hair again. It's a phenomenon you can hardly ever wrap your mind around but, it happens every single time.
While you're whimpering out his name all prettily, "Suguru!" he's busy grinding his fat cock against the soaked sheets below that have a small pool of cum sitting there just from eating you out.
Then you hear him grunt again and his hand leaves your thigh just to slap your throbbing cunt and listen to the sound of the wettened contact. "Give me a few minutes and-, fuck, m'cumming inside you," Geto hums softly before patting your cunt a couple more times like the reaction it caused was some type of response to his words. "Cute lil' thing, you like the sound of that, don't you? Well..."
Geto trails off for just a moment to move his hand down in between his legs and gather some of his own cum up onto his fingertips before bringing them back up to your spread and then smearing the mess all over it. You think you manage to make a new expression in reaction but you find it hard to think when he shoves those same cum-coated fingers into you.
"This should work for now, right?" He asks softly-, almost innocently like he wasn't currently doing the nastiest thing you've ever seen him do before. "I think if I get inside you now, I'll pass out," Geto admits before planting one last chaste kiss against your cunt and then looking up at you again, "Later though, okay?"
You're somewhere in between another orgasm and overstimulation so your eyes are completely hazed on his, "U-Uhuh, whenever you-, mmgh, want, Sugu..."
He starts french-kissing your cunt in something that looks 'n feels like slow motion before whispering, "S'sweet to me."
☆ Gojo Satoru — A hug from behind
"Shh, shhh, jus' take it for me, my love. P-Please," He's groaning desperately, hips bucking up in tandem with the half-broken words flopping out his mouth, "I missed stuffin' you like this-, hahh, fuck... Gotta' make sure it takes, e-every fuckin' drop."
You'd think after going a whole twooo days without being inside you, the last thing that'd get him like this would be a mere hug. Yet, there the two of you were just a few minutes after you'd made the mistake of pressing into him for an embrace and Gojo's blushing tip had started to drool creamy slick against his boxers.
You don't know if it was the warmth that exuded from your body that got him like this, or perhaps the soft curve of your breast pressing into his back muscles through the thin top you had on while his torso was left bare but, now you're on top of him.
He's watching your ass slam down on the hard length of his cock whilst his hands smooth over your tits—grabbing and squeezing at whatever he can as you whine, "Toru! I-I can't-"
After the forty-eight hour span of hell he just went through, your whines of not being able to take him were going straight through one ear and right out the other, "You ha-hahh, you have to, sweetheart. S'not fair if you don't..."
"Not fair?" You gasp as his slim fingers pinch your perked nipples, making your cunt spasm around the rest of his dick buried deep inside you, "Satoru, you're the one who-, fuck! watched that episode without me! I told you no sex for a week 'n here you are two days later."
Gojo's lips are hot 'n messy against your neck as you bounce up and down his cock, the filthy mess of cum at his tip busy kissing your cervix lovingly despite how needy and rough he was being. "Mmgh, that's not true," He argues, hands slipping down to hold your waist now, "You said it was okay beforehand."
Now he’s got a mean grip on the thick of your hips, letting his ears tune into the sound of your honeyed walls salivating around every inch of his length instead of your words, "That's only 'cause you asked me—fuck, right there—while I was half asleep."
His eyes roll elsewhere before he’s hauling his tongue out to lap against the side of your neck, slightly tickling you with it as he smirks and then whispers, "Well, I apologized like ten times and rewatched it all with you, didn't I?"
"Satoru-"
Pulling back before you can finish, Gojo presses his fingertips into your spine to make you arch further and then his eyes trail down, "God, what a fuckin' mess..." He comments as if majority of said mess wasn’t his seed. Letting his hips lazily roll up again, "Stop acting like you actually care, you just wanted a reason to be upset with me so I could make it up to you like this."
You have to swallow down the next dewy moan that threatens to spill past your lips, voice airy, "Make it up to me how?"
"Like thissss, baby," Your boyfriend emphasizes with yet another lazy, yet eager, roll of his hips. It’s as though he longed for you to feel every ridge ‘n edge of his cock stretching you open whenever he started moving slow like this. Then his arm snakes further around your frame and his fingers meet your clit with welcoming rubs.
Lips to your ear all of a sudden whilst his free hand keeps your body anchored to his so that you couldn’t pull away like you so desperately ached to, "Me rubbing right against here," Gojo explains, "Right where you need me.”
The combination of his cock just resting inside you all languidly—leaving globby streaks of cum against the stretch of your walls—and his fingertips now spelling his initials out against your clit like you’d forgotten who it belongs that short, but torturous amount of time, is all enough to have your eyes fluttering back.
Stammering something stupid in denial, "I-I didn't…”
"Oh yeah?” His lips twitch further up before his teeth clasp the edge of your ear in between them, “You didn't miss me inside you like this?" Gojo taunts, knowing he can—quite literally—feel the answer to that.
"N-Nope," You manage to chuckle, body squirming to pull yourself up so he’s not leaving you overly stuffed for a second long enough to catch your lost breath.
He leans allll the way back and cocks a thin white brow, "Heh, you're a horrible liar," Then he uses those large palms of his to spread your cheeks apart enough to get a whorish view of your puffy folds still struggling to swallow the entirety of his cock up. Clicking his tongue at the sight, "You're drooling all over the place, slutty girl."
Your pussy clamps around him just as he points that out, "That's because-"
"Ohh, wait, wait, I know." He cuts off impatiently. It’s almost like he wasn’t even listening to you right now. “That's because you want me to breed you, right?" He says randomly.
You blink and then angle your head back to look at him, "W-What?"
Despite your confusion, your body merely betrays you again. To which he bites his lower—also drooling—lip, "Mmngh, you just got tighter… I think I'm right." Gojo claims as he finally lets you lift yourself up a little, revealing a few of his cum-slathered inches that stick up to your skin in gorgeous strings of filth like glue. "What do you think, 'Toru Jr.?"
You halt exactly where you are and your expression of struggle falls flat, "Stop calling your cock that stupid nickname, please." You whine out to your lover for the nth time in your life.
"Hush, m'not talking to you right now," He scoffs annoyingly, blue eyes gleaming at the pretty sight of his cum all mixed around and nasty where the two of you are so soakingly connected. "But you, my prettiest girl, what do you think, hm?" Gojo asks your cunt instead of you.
You hate the way your body responds before you can get any more displeased whines out to him, the next clench from your pussy leading to yet another spumy sliiick of release trickle downwards and gather around his heavy base. His bright happy trail was just as wet 'n sleek as everything else between the two of you was by this point.
Whispering now as if to somehow leave you out of the conversation, "Do you agree with 'Toru Jr.?" Gojo continues, his thumb drawing over to tug one of your lips apart so he could feel the next little twitch his words invoke against the pad of it, "'Think you wanna be bred?"
When you unintentionally whine at the thought of feeling yet another slosh of his cum slot itself into you, his response is practically immediate, "Yeahhh? Well, who am I to deny such a nice girl," he finishes off with a sly wink sent your way.
Your brows furrow more and a great many curses build up on your tongue in reaction to his ridiculousness, “You’re so fucking—“
Before you could get another syllable out past your lips, he's maneuvering the two of you and next thing you know, your face is meeting the bedsheets below. Whatever verbal rudeness you were about to throw at him gets muffled and sandwiched into the bed but you don't get enough time to grow upset at that when Gojo picks right back up where he'd left off.
One hand holding your face down against the sheets, the other using your hip to tug your body back as his hips thrusted forward with a sudden quickness, and a stupidly smug smile stretched out across his slightly saliva-glossed lips, “Quiet while I stuff my favorite girl, yeah?"
Your eyes shoot open all wide-like and you force your head to turn to the side, causing his palm to press against your cheek and your gaze to peek through the space in between his fingers. The very second the two of you make eye contact, you could almost swear you saw little hearts in his eyes, as if your annoyance was exactly what turned him on.
Midway through the way his cock glissades at a new angle into your cunt, you manage a short gasp of, “Excuse me?”
To which your boyfriend begins to spill yet another load inside you—like your little huff was precisely what did it for him—and then lets out a snort in between his rather orgasmic grunts, “Whaaat? We-, hahh, we both know you were never really mad at me to begin with. So shut up 'n let me stuff you properly.”
☆ Nanami Kento — Holding his hand
Something about the way your palm fits against his makes his cock throb in a way that's so utterly dizzying he can't help but feel pathetic.
The two of you have been together long enough for this kind of thing not to faze him anymore but for some reason, whenever you grab his hand just to walk by his side, resting your head against his sturdy shoulder and rambling on about fuck knows what, all that harmless physical contact has blood rushing straight in between his legs.
This is the last thing he expected to set him off after the sex ban that managed to last four weeks but, here he is now, holding that same hand of yours tightly while he fucks you into the mattress a mere few hours after you both got home.
"When was the last time I felt you, hm?” He asks soothingly. You’ve never seen his face twist up in so many different colors of pleasure as it was now, as if he’d never been inside you before or something. Breath ragged and almost virgin-like, “F-Feels like it's been years…” Nanami moans.
You smile prettily enough for his hips to clasp forward a bit harder, leading you to stammer with your reply, "K-Kento, it's only a few weeks!" you remind the poor man.
His blonde brows knit up tightly at the center and the fingers tucked in between yours seem to squeeze, "No, no, surely it's been longer than that…” He whispers more so to himself than to you. Then his usually softened fawn eyes seem to narrow on you before shooting down. Lower lip pushing out to frown, “Awh, she can barely take me now, look at her," He notices.
You decide to look down as well and catch the way the lips of your pussy are quivering around just the half of his thick cock that’s easing its way into you, a particularly glossed-up vein of his catching your eye under the dim lighting of your shared bedroom.
“Poor thing's struggling to wrap around me,” Nanami coos, feeling his balls grow heavier with the need to pump you full of everything he’s not been able to release for weeks.
You’re left to moan as he pushes forward a little more, "Ah, maybe you just got-, mmgh, fuck... bigger!"
"Ohhh, don't say that," He grunts out all in one breath. The rest of his dick slides into you with one firm ‘n mean thrust to follow, "Unless you really mean it...” Nanami adds, plump cockhead caressing a new spot inside you all of a sudden, “Does it feel like I've gotten bigger, honey?"
You're nodding more than you are actually processing his words or even the very idea of his cock having grown within the time it's been unable to enter you. A sexdrunk babble of, "Mhm, y-yes, Ken!" spilling over your lips before he slumps even more of his body weight down against you so you could really feel every inch of the man you'd avoided physical contact with for all thirty days of November.
His hunky chest presses firmly against yours and the smooth slicks of sweat between the two of you mix just as evenly as your breaths do when he begins to whisper against your lips, "Do you like it? Y'like how big I've gotten?"
You only nod again, lashes fluttering with the way your gaze falls onto his lips that are far too close for him not to be kissing you right now. "Uhuhh, I love it," you whine before forcing a pout.
The little gesture in your lips doesn't go unnoticed by him so, of course he captures them up with his own within the next second, swallowing up every moan that exits your throat. His body rolls and humps down against you, the one grip he has on your thigh tightening harshly enough for his fingerprints to be noticed much later.
His thrusts get sloppy before he even realizes it, cock slipping out of you long enough to invoke a whine out of your lungs. To which he accidentally lets his florid shaft glide up over your clit in tauntingly pleasureful waves before craning back to angle himself into you properly.
Nanami is normally focused during sex, all intent on getting you to your high before he's anywhere near his because that's what's important to him but now...
"Hold onto me tighter, darling," He's huffing, balls plap plap plaping! against your skin as he prepares you to receive the very thick load of cum that was already starting to spill out of his mushroomy tip. His hand to yours with an ever-presently strong grip, "Squeeze me," he husks gently, fighting back a smile when you do exactly that, "There you go, perfect."
Your fingers wiggle in between his and he could see the bliss coating your delicate face just as your jaw began to dangle open. "Kentoo, m'gonna cum," You uttered in his most favored pitch.
Nanami doesn't even remember to respond for a second because he's too busy fucking you to that point and not realizing he's already pouring velvety ropes of his cum into you. It saps all against your walls and makes the filthiest sound ring out around the room but he could care less.
Especially not with the way he continues with his thrusts and leans up—face all focused, despite being every but—and then tugs your hand up to his lips. You're a mess below him by the time he takes your ring and middle finger past his lips before sucking on the two digits as if to muffle the purely pathetic sounds flinging out of him.
You're sure you've seen Nanami feral like this before but you almost forgot what a sight it as to see after four weeks.
He quickly goes from sucking on your fingers to plucking them out of his mouth and then kissing every inch his lips could possibly meet, searing his words into your skin as if to tattoo them there, "Cum for me then, cum for your husband," he whines. Then his eyes flick over to you and you feel yourself do exactly that whilst he grins and adds a tender, "Make me proud."
It was almost funny the way he'd acted like this, as if he wasn't the one who initiated the sex ban after he forgot to pick up something you'd specifically requested from the store.
What a man.
☆ Choso Kamo — Holding his face
He always loved it when you took his face into your hands, running your thumbs under his tired shaded eyes and talking all softly about how much you missed him throughout the day. But, something about today in particular was making it especially difficult to think.
He would've never held the door open for that blonde chick if he'd known you'd do this to him—restrict him from all things sexual with you for a tormentingly long five days. Now that the torturous banning of intimacy has finally come to an end, your boyfriend is acutely aware of the fact that he's allowed to cum inside you now.
Poor Choso doesn’t think he’s ever gotten hard so fast. You’re sitting in his lap yapping away about your day—like you always do—and he’s supposed to be listening but your palms are just so warm against his face. Something deep inside him aches for you to slip your hands down and wrap those same pretty fingers of your around his throat.
Oh God, the thought alone made his cock jump up and leave a snugging bulge against you. That’s probably why he ended up pushing the two of you over and shutting you and your rambling up with a heated kiss, groaning into your mouth about how you could tell him about your day later.
You know your boyfriend could get needy sometimes but this was something else entirely. He practically tore your shorts and panties clean off, letting his dick slap against your softly soaking folds shortly after whilst telling you he needed to fuck you before he lost his mind.
"Cho," You’re choking out now, arms loosely hanging around his neck as he plows his cock into you and grunts against your lips as if possessed.
He’s hardly uttering anything coherent with you anymore, nothing but slippy hums of, "Mhmmm.” exiting him between the way his cock got caught against the especially tight crevices of your pussy.
Your boyfriend isn’t allowing you any space to think, much less speak to him outside of the distant croaks of, "Choso! Ngh-, fuck… C-Can’t breathe-," you let out.
"Don't need to," He heaves right into your lips, tongue practically drawing the words out against the center of yours, "Lemme be your oxygen."
Oh, he’d lost it entirely. But, he wasn't exactly incorrect in his words. He was being your oxygen in the moment with the way he'd inhale every time you exhaled and the same vise versa. It was a fucked out tangle of breathy moans and groans between your equally kiss-swollen lips whilst the sticky tip of his cock bobbed sinfully against that doughy sweet spot of yours.
Muttering, "See?" in between his thrusts before he sliiiiiid his hips forward and let his dick oh-so-smoothly coast into your quenching walls, "In," Then he's doing the exact opposite motion and draaaaging it right back out, "And out, jus' like that, princess."
Your eyes were barely open but, as he sweet-talked you and had you a soaking mess under him, he also managed to maneuver your hands to his face so that you could focus entirely on him and the expressions he made against your palms while he fucked you. The dark strands of his hair dangled around you and he almost looked like he wanted to cry from how good he felt.
"Mmgh, right there," You gasp as soon as his cock mashes against that erogenous place within you again.
Choso turns his face into your hand a little and then kisses your palm, "Yeahh, that's my favorite spot inside you," He admits before his eyes seem to darken, "Look at me while I fuck it."
He feels your saturated cunt seem to get wetter the moment he says that but what really makes his hips snap forwards a little harder is the way you so keenly follow his instructions and keep your eyes directly on his.
"There she is, hey baby," Choso praises tentatively, "G-Gonna cum soon," He says in between a particularly loose swat of his tongue over his lower lip, "Y'ready for it?"
You use your grip on his face to tug him down for another sloppy connection of lips and as soon as your tongue filters its way up into his mouth, he's letting out something throaty and then letting clumps 'n clumps of his raw cum bloom out into your warm cunt.
Drunkenly murmuring a low, "S'all yours. Saved it just for you these last few days. Shiiit, never opening a door for another girl again. I p-promise."
"Huh?" You gape, batting your lashes rapidly as he plucks his lips away from yours for a split second, "Choso, it wasn't about the-, ah. It wasn't about you holding the door open. It's cause you flirted with her!"
"O-Oh." His eyes get impossibly droopier before he frowns deeply. Then he's tucking his face down into the crook of your neck, nuzzling into your skin rather puppy-like. "M'sorry. I didn't mean to."
You wanted to accept his apology, honestly. But with the way he starts smirking against you...
"You didn't mean to say her ass looks nice in those jeans she was wearing?" You huff, trying to ignore the pleasure for a moment to remind yourself why you'd banned him from sex in the first place.
Choso chuckles softly before angling his lips up so he can lick at your neck. Then he drools against you, "You said it first. All I did was agree." Oh, you understood where he was going with this now. Especially with the way he leans up to meet eyes with you again, "And I did that on purpose cause I wanted to see you mad at me."
An easy roll of your eyes is prompted right them, even as your cunt clamps around the curve of his cock, "That's kinda toxic, Choso. What if I put you on sex ban for a month?"
He pauses for only half a second. Then he frowns again, "I'd die."
You scoff playfully, "Loser."
Aaaand with that, he's cumming inside you with a strangled grunt bumping out of his throat. "Y-Your loser, yeahh.."
☆ Toji Fushiguro — Rubbing his thigh
"F-Fuuuck," You finally have your hand wrapped around the stupidly thick base of his cock, stroking upwards with great fervor that has him groaning all shamefully like some idiot, "Mmgh, I needed this."
Cooing, "Aw, did you?" in that tone you know he can't stand just to tease him some more for letting a very "innocent" run of your hand over his thigh lead to this.
In your head you just wanted to touch your boyfriend a bit while the two of you watched some movie but apparently that was too much for him to handle after two months of nothing. By the time you just-so-happened to look over, his head was tossed back and it was taking every muscle in his body not to start grinding up against your palm and working his cock over so you could rub your hand over that instead of his thigh.
Luckily for Toji, you're the sweetest girl on the planet so of course you tugged his cock out for him and started jerking him off like he so desperately needed you to.
But, that was thirty minutes ago and for some reason, he's hard again. You've both lost track of how many times he came in your hand but you don't think you mind it much since now he's too high off his own orgasms to mind the way your silky tongue is lapping around his sensitive nipple.
"Don't tease me," He huffs, jaw taut with tension like he didn't do all this to himself, "Agh-, not when I'm like this..."
You suck on the flushed bud against your tongue a little more before pulling away and kissing around the swollen area, "Like what? A mess in my hands?" You plant another kiss in between your words and your hand jerks at the heavy shaft against your palm a little faster, "A mess against my tongue?"
"Fuck," He groans like it hurts (in a good way), and then his hips thrust up to meet your hand some more and encourage your mouth against his nipple.
Usually, he tries everything in his power to avoid letting you do all this to him but he couldn't care less today since he's been more than eager to cum lately. There's a slop of white trickling all in between every crack and crevice of your hand by now—a feeling of which he's sure would be a sensory nightmare in any other situation—but he just can't stop thrusting into the curve of your palm.
"S'okay, Toji," You whisper way to lovingly for him not to continue to lose his mind, "I missed having you like this too, y'know."
A crooked smile spreads out against his scarred lips and he's trying his best to get ahold of his panting, "Did ya'?"
He felt like some puddled mess under your touch and he wasn't sure if he hated every second of it or secretly wanted more 'n more. The latter quickly proves to be true when you start humming, "Mhmm," as you take his nipple back into your mouth.
The vibrations against it, paired with your thumb caressing the underside of his most tender vein as you glide upwards with your touch, and then swirl the pad of your thumb around his plump head and then in between the slit of it to push at the silky cum spilling out leave him to moan. The pillow on his other side that he's mindlessly holding onto looks almost lifeless due to his current grip.
"W-Why?" He stammers, cursing himself for it as soon as the hoarse tone leaves him. Then Toji's pouty-like eyes flock onto your body and how pretty you look sitting beside him and pleasing him as if you didn't even care about getting yourself off right now, "'Cause you like seein' me make a fool of myself?"
"Yeahh," You whisper honestly, smiling and then leaving a trail of kisses upwards until you meet his neck and then his tense jawline, "You always get soooo grumpy as if you didn't bring this on yourself," Your voice is too much of a purr and it makes his balls feel impossibly heavier like you haven't almost milked him dry already.
So, of course he takes the annoyed approach and scoffs, "Shut up 'n keep makin' me feel good," Toji tells you.
With a mean squeeze to his cock, you hear his breath tangle up in his throat and the way his entire muscular body tenses up and reacts to the motion, "A whole two months you haven't been able to fuck me and now you wanna be a brat when I finally give you some attention?" You tut, no longer moving your hand and only leaving it to squeeze at his hefty shaft to prevent him from cumming again.
Toji's eyes roll all the way into the back of his skull and his hips jerk upwards in a pathetic attempt at getting his cock to slip upwards within your grasp and give him some more movement 'n friction against it. "O-Ohh fuck-, doll... m'sorry," He spews out instantly, "F-Fuuck.. Please don't-"
"Should've been nicer to me," You cut off as you take your hand off of his dick and watch it wave in the air helplessly.
Technically speaking, he could've taken matters into his own hands (literally) at any given moment now but that couldn't possibly compare to the feeling of having your touch wrapped around him.
The man almost whines as he reaches a shaky hand over to your wrists and urges you back to his weighty cock to start touching it again, "Don't stop, please. P-Please, doll, m'right there."
You roll your eyes and merely keep your hand in an O-shape so that he could fit himself back into your touch, "Do it yourself then." You instruct with a nod of your head. "C'mon, put on a little show for me, Toji."
He didn't need to be told twice. Toji steadies himself on the couch and instantly begins to fuck his cock up into your hand without you moving a single inch. His breath is uneven and all over the fuckin' place as he gets off on just using your hand without your help.
He's never felt so helpless and pathetic like this before that it's quickly beginning to make his head spin. To make matters worse, you move your lips over to his neck again and start kissing him to encourage what he's doing as if he doesn't look stupid with what he's doing right now.
"S'this what you wanted? Huh?" He heaves out, nostrils flaring and voice frayed.
You smile into his skin and nod, "Uhuh, this is exactly what I wanted."
To which Toji rolls his eyes and lets his hips get sloppier with their thrusts, his cock occasionally slipping out of the little hole you've created for him, "Yeah, I bet it is. Fuckin' perv..."
You snicker and look back down at how cute his dick looks missing the very simple hole he desperately aches to fit into, "I could always move my hand, y'know."
"I fuckin' dare you," Your boyfriend challenges.
As if you'd ever been one to back down from such a thing...
The very second you take your hand away again, that submissive 'n pathetic side of his snaps and you're only given a moment to blink before he's got you on top of him within the next second.
Scoffing like everything is your fault, "Such a fuckin' brat... Always makin' me work for what I need."
You quickly feel his bobbling tip kissing up against your pussy lips with swabby slicks of wet cum, "T-Toji, what are you-"
"Shut up 'n sit," He orders like he wasn't a whiny mess a total of six minutes ago.
So, naturally, you fold your arms and keep yourself hovering over his dick, "Say please."
"Fuck that," He breathes, hands at your hips abruptly giving your body a swift pull downwards as if you were the lightest thing on the planet (to him, you were), "Don't you feel how hard I am f'you?"
"Toji-," You're cut off by your own gasp as his wide-set cockhead slips up into you with a loud 'n wetly ringing pop!
"Always a sloppy whore f'me, aren't ya?" Toji asks, eyes glued to the drip and drips of sleek arousal drooling out of your cunt. Then he finally cocks his head to the side and looks back up at you with a look in his eyes that says he already knows the answer to the question he's about to ask, "So are you gonna sit now or do I have to make you do that too?"
"Fine. But if you fall asleep like you did two months ago, I'm makin' you wait five before you even get to touch me again." You explain.
Toji shudders, his hands holding onto you for dear life whilst his eyes widen a fraction as if to prove he'll never make the same mistake again.
Deep down inside he'd realized you may be the craziest chick he's ever been with—banning him from sex just cause he fell asleep during it one time—but he'd be lying if he said he didn't love that about you.
The wooden door of the hotel room clicked shut, sealing out the muted hum of the city outside. Nanami let out a long, slow sigh, the sound scraping against the quiet air as he set his briefcase down by the desk. He reached up, loosening the knot of his tie with a sharp tug before pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the arm of the single chair.
Before he could even take off his suit jacket, his phone vibrated in his palm. The caller ID brought a sudden, subtle shift to the tight line of Nanami's jaw. He slid the screen open, pressing the phone to his ear as he leaned back against the desk. "Hey, love," he murmured. His voice was lower than usual, roughened by hours of corporate small talk, but laced with a quiet, easy warmth reserved only for you.
"Hey," your voice came through the speaker, instantly cutting through the lingering tension in Nanami's shoulders. "How was your day today?"
"It wasn't too bad," Nanami replied, his eyes drifting down to his leather shoes as he kicked them off. "Still exhausting, though. I just made it back to the hotel. Have you eaten dinner yet?"
"Mhm, had some takeaway," you said. There was a brief pause on the line, the kind of quiet that carried the weight of the distance between you. "I miss you."
The words hit him right in the chest, a sharp pang of longing making Nanami close his eyes. "I miss you, too," he said softly, meaning every syllable. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, pushing the strands back. "Alright... I'm going to have a shower."
"Okay," you hummed, a yawn clipping the edge of your words. "Call me back when you're done. I love you."
"I love you. Speak soon."
Nanami waited for the line to go dead before lowering the phone, the sudden silence of the room feeling twice as heavy now. He stepped over to the bed, reaching out to click on the bedside lamp. The small knob turned, instantly bathing the crisp white sheets in a warm, low glow.
Standing in the newly lit space, Nanami finally shed his suit jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. Reaching into the inside breast pocket of the jacket—the secure spot where he always kept his most important items—his calloused fingers brushed against the familiar, stiff edge of a photo.
He pulled it out, intending to just set it on the nightstand before his shower. But as he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped down to his dark blue boxers, leaving his tailored clothes in a rare, disorganized pile, Nanami’s gaze locked onto the small square of film.
In the dim, sterile glare of the lamp he had just switched on, the polaroid felt like a visual hallucination. The lighting in the photo was golden and overexposed, radiating a warmth that this room desperately lacked. There you were, caught mid-laugh on that beach in Malaysia from your last trip together. The ocean breeze was catching the hem of your white sundress, a single strap slipping carelessly off your shoulder. You looked bright, carefree, and entirely alive in the heat of the coast.
The shower was forgotten.
Nanami moved away from the chair, the weight of his exhaustion swallowed by a throbbing, pulsing ache. He sank onto the edge of the mattress and shifted his large frame back against the pillows. As he settled, his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose—blurring the rest of the room and leaving nothing but you in sharp focus.
Squinting through the shadows, his eyes traced the deep, low dip of the white sundress in the polaroid—the way it beautifully revealed your cleavage made his throat go completely dry.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away. His breathing hitched, a sudden, punishing ache tightening in his groin as his gaze lingered on your cleavage. Your skin still gleamed in the photograph from where he had slowly rubbed sunscreen over your body, his palms smoothing the lotion down the slope of your breasts until you were glistening in the sun—deliberately slipping his thumbs under the fabric of your dress to tease your nipples until they were hard under his touch.
The dark blue fabric of his boxers was already beginning to strain, his length thickening painfully against the cotton from the sheer force of the visual. Hearing your voice just moments ago had been no comfort, but seeing you like this now, with his skin still burning from the memory and the distance between you feeling like an ocean, it was an agonizing temptation.
His mind instantly raced back to that night in Malaysia. He remembered taking you back into the villa, his fingers catching on the fabric of your sundress to slide the straps down your arms. Burying his face in the crook of your neck—his tongue licking a wet trail up your throat, sucking greedily at your skin until you whimpered beneath him. His broad, calloused palms clamped around your breasts, kneading the soft flesh.
Nanami could still feel the exact sensation of sliding his thick, leaking cock between them, using the tight, sweltering cleavage of your chest to ruthlessly pump his length—watching your tits hug his slick shaft while he rasped how badly he wanted to stretch you wide open. The memory was so loud, so violently clear, that his restraint completely dissolved.
Low and frustrated, he groaned under his breath, finally reaching down to cup the heavy bulge straining against his boxers. His hand moved downward past that golden line of hair—the faint blonde happy trail disappearing beneath the dark blue cotton—his gaze locked entirely on the curve of your waist in the photo.
A ragged, breathless sound escaped his throat as he grazed his thumb over his throbbing tip through the fabric—making his stomach muscles flex tightly as the first slick beads of pre began to dampen the material. Unable to handle the restriction for another second, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and finally released his aching cock.
As the veiny, heavy weight sprang free, Nanami's calloused hand wrapped around it desperately—fisting the pre-cum up and down his hard length, his thumb deliberately smearing the wetness over the sensitive head to begin a slow, torturous stroke. Nanami was a man who prided himself on absolute control, but right now, every ounce of usual discipline was utterly gone, burned away by the raw ache of missing you.
He dragged his palm down to the very base of his shaft, knuckles brushing against his thighs before wrapping tightly to pull all the way back up to that leaking head. The slick pre coated his skin, creating a wet, sliding friction that had him closing his eyes just to focus on the sensation.
His brow furrowed deeply, sweat beginning to bead along his hairline and dampen his blonde strands. He kept his eyes wide—refusing to blink, his gaze entirely captivated by your carefree smile, the thin fabric of the sundress hugging your tits, and your warm, shiny skin glowing in the polaroid.
In the sudden heat of illusion, the sterile white noise of the hotel AC unit transformed into the distant crash of ocean waves. He wasn’t in this lonely room anymore. He was back in that villa, pinning you down into the mattress, pressing his lips to the sensitive column of your throat and breathing in the intoxicating scent of salt air and perfume, burying himself balls deep inside you.
Nanami’s hips twitched against the sheets as a large hand clamped around his length, pumping his fist up and down his shaft. Eyes shuttered tight, the memory consumed him entirely—imagining the slick drag of his cock against your wet, parted lips, the crushing friction of being squeezed tight between your tits, and the maddening sensation of driving deep inside your cunt. The urge to hammer into you over and over until you were stretched wide, stuffed completely full of hot seed, almost made him cum right there.
"Ah... fuck," he breathed out. The wire rimmed glasses slid further down his nose, utterly forgotten as his grip tightened. A faster, desperate pace took over, driven by the pleasure coiling tight and demanding inside his lower belly. Here was a man completely stripped of his carefully constructed rules—entirely at the mercy of a single polaroid of you.
His chest heaved, the stark white hotel sheets bunching beneath his massive frame as the rhythm fractured. Keeping a slow pace was no longer an option. Nanami’s knuckles went white, his rough hand fisting his veiny, engorged shaft with a punishing, frantic speed.
The sound of wet squelches filled the quiet room, his jaw locking as his thumb smeared slick over the rigid edge of his head. He brought the polaroid closer to his face, vision blurring with sweat as his eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your waist, and the soft smile he missed so dearly.
“So beautiful... ah,” he choked out, his voice dropping roughly into a low, rumbling groan. “You're so fucking beautiful, sweetheart...'"
The praise was a desperate murmur, breathed directly into the empty air of the hotel room—as if you were right there beneath him to hear it. His hips jerked upward, mimicking the exact rhythm of driving into your cunt. His thumb swept over his leaking pink tip sending a jolt straight to his groin. The coiled tension in his lower belly tightened into a hard, inescapable knot—his balls tightening. He was right on the edge, completely consumed by the ghost of your touch.
Nanami choked out your name—a ragged, breathless prayer against the quiet room as he finally came. He ruined his hand as the first hot bursts of cum shot straight past his fingers, splashing against his lower stomach before the rest of the thick, heavy load spilled over his knuckles and flooded the blonde patch of hair at his groin.
“F-fuck, I miss you so much,” he groaned, his voice completely undone. Desperate fingers refused to stop, milking his length dry, forcing the oversensitive shaft through those last few strokes while thick, hot cream continued to drip down his twitching cock and palm.
He stayed frozen like that for a few seconds, his chest heaving, his fingers trembling where they still gripped his settling length. The lingering echo of the Malaysian surf dissolved back into the sterile, humming silence of the hotel room.
Slowly, the drugged fog of pleasure began to recede, leaving behind an aching exhaustion. Nanami let out a long, unsteady breath that trembled past his lips. He let his head sink back into the pillows, his glasses sitting crookedly on his nose. With slow movement, he used his clean hand to lift the polaroid back up to his face.
In the dim, warm light of the bedside lamp, you were still there—smiling, carefree, and beautifully out of reach. He stroked a thumb over the glossy surface of the photo—as if he were truly touching you—before setting it gently on the nightstand.
He forced his heavy limbs to move, sitting up on the edge of the bed to clean himself up. The cold reality of the business trip settled back over his shoulders like a lead weight, but as he looked back at the small square of film under the lamp, the lingering warmth in his chest reminded him exactly what he was working so hard to return to.
Nanami reached to grab a few tissues from the nightstand, his fingers still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of the release. But just as his hand brushed the box, his phone buzzed loudly right beside it. He paused, a drop of sweat rolled down his jaw as he looked down at the bright screen.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ husband!nanami and the alluring things he does
tags. suggestive. nsfw. smut (not explicit?). married life. established relationship. soft!nanami. domestic bliss. gentle. ⋮ author's note. went from 'attractive things he does' to 'alluring things he does' and although i think i kind of like this i can't reread it again because i'm genuinely going to cringe, i've never written anything like this before LMAO, it's SO out of my comfort zone oh my days ⋮ word count. 1.0k
Husband!Nanami who always, time and time again, makes sure to get your consent in a verbal way before continuing whatever he's started. It doesn't matter to him if he's been married to you for half a decade or that he knows you'll constantly say yes to certain things.
It’s a husky, “Tell me to slow down and I will, honey,” here. And a firm, “Are you all right?” there. It’s his eyes flickering up to catch the expressions on your face, especially when something new is involved, and if he catches even a trace of doubt, he’ll stop.
Husband!Nanami who, despite trying his best to stay composed, always looks like a complete mess after a make-out session. Bottom lip shining with the slightest hint of saliva on it—or your lip gloss, you're not entirely sure, and neither is he—until he swipes his tongue over it.
Blond hair messy, the short strands disorganised and dishevelled because you've been running your fingers through it for the last fifteen minutes. Hazel eyes focused on your face with a horrifying type of intensity, pupils slowly dilating, chest rising and falling in a restless, uneven pace, meanwhile his fingers twitch from where they're holding onto your waist.
Husband!Nanami who can't help but place a mirror near your shared bed and make love to you in front of it. His devoted eyes stay entirely focused on yours, never wavering, not even thinking about glancing away in case he might miss a single facial expression you make. One hand stays entwined with yours, squeezing when it gets too much, kisses being placed on the smooth skin of your shoulders, and the hairs on the back of your neck shooting up straight.
A fun fact about Nanami? He doesn't boss you around, but the one thing he wants you to do during intimate moments is to tell him the things you find pretty about yourself. Nothing more, nothing less, (something about seeing yourself the way he sees you, which is nothing short of perfect).
Husband!Nanami who lets his warm, gentle hands which wouldn't dare lay a finger on you, wander over every part of your body. Every dip and curve is thoroughly touched by his finger pads, promising and adoring, even the parts you dislike about yourself. Those are the ones he's most fond of—the soft indent of your waist, the faint violet tracks on your breasts, the flesh-toned and sunken stretch marks on your hips that spread all the way to the skin of your butt—and he intentionally spends extra time worshipping them.
Husband!Nanami who places a lingering, wet kiss on your throat, hot breath fanning the skin, while your pulse immediately quickens due to the feeling. And then he's fisting his hands in your hair, tugging your head back the slightest bit so his lips are able to move up to your jawline, and he continues to pepper kisses all over the skin there, too. “You’re incredibly gorgeous,” he’ll whisper, breathy and completely undone. “So beautiful, darling.”
Husband!Nanami who takes off his belt, purposefully slowing down the action, while keeping eye contact with you. The first time he did it, in the early stages of your relationship, where everything was still new and nerve-wracking, you had flushed a pretty red colour while you bit down on your bottom lip, and back then, in that specific moment, he decided that he wanted that look to be reserved for him and him only for a long time yet to come.
Husband!Nanami whose lips follow wherever his hands go. He’ll start by unhurriedly taking off your shirt and unclasping your bra, and once those are thrown to the other side of the room, he’ll press kisses to the bare flesh in front of him. From your collarbone to the valley of your breasts, hands lightly holding down on your hips since you tend to squirm when he reaches the softness of your belly, and so on.
There's nothing better than having him keep eye contact with you from where he's kneeling between your legs, your thighs almost making him suffocate—although he secretly thinks it’d be an incredible way to go—whilst he presses fleeting kisses to your inner thighs.
Husband!Nanami who’s become awfully skilled at lowering his voice, hazel eyes softening while his hand never lets go of yours. “I know, darling, I know.” His lips brushing the shell of your ear, they’re mere whispers in a husky voice, yet it’s the only thing you're able to hold onto. “Oh, my love.”
With each groan that escapes his lips, you’re arching your back into him more. “You’re doing so good for me, so perfect.” Foreheads pressed together, and even if the only thing you do is roll your hips, the praise just keeps coming. “You’re such a good girl for me, baby.”
Husband!Nanami who kisses your sweaty forehead afterwards, nose pressing against your hairline for a simple second before he gets a damp cloth from the bathroom. Within seconds, the material is pressed against you, cleaning up the sticky mess that's left staining your inner thighs. “Feeling all right, honey?” he asks in a low tone, steady and peaceful, despite still trying to catch his breath.
He's aware you're too tired to move, that's why he makes sure to clean you up as thoroughly as possible, and ushers, more like practically carries, you to the bathroom so you can use the toilet before fully dozing off.
Husband!Nanami who pulls you flat on top of his body right before you fall asleep. Your leg thrown over his hip, face nuzzled deeply into the crook of his neck, the smell of his cologne, mixed with the slight remnants of sweat and a scent that smells an awful lot like dark musk making its way into your nostrils, whilst your hair tickles his chin with each movement you make.
He easily slips one warm hand under your sleeping shirt and runs the tips of his fingers up and down your spine, ignoring the goosebumps he leaves in its wake.
fwb higuruma is jealous of your growing relationship with nanami.
higuruma knows he has no right to feel jealous. he was the one to set the terms when you first got together, to ensure you both stayed just on the right side of casual. you’re not dating, you’re not committed, you’re not anything more than friends that fuck occasionally. it’s all he’d allow himself. it’s all he thought he needed from you, until nanami kento came into the picture.
the shift occurs seemingly overnight. one day, you’re fucking casually and laughing together right after. you stay the night, you have breakfast together, and he leaves for work with the evidence of your exploits carved into his back while his passion blooms across your skin. the next, you’re leaving as soon as you’ve come.
the first time it happens, he feels like he could be sick. you’ve just hooked up after a stressful day at work, and he finally can relax. finally, because he doesn’t realise quite how relaxing your presence is until you’re immediately sitting up, shaking your legs and arching your back on a long stretch.
“same time next week?” you ask conversationally. he stares, startled, and only thinks to nod as he watches you dress quickly. you’re not usually so quick to dress—most of the time, you both lounge naked in bed until the sun rises.
“got somewhere to be?” hiromi replies after a moment, brows furrowed in confusion.
you flash him a grin. “yeah. i have a date with that guy i told you about—nanami kento?”
nanami kento. the name quickly becomes the bane of his existence. more than the righteous anger of his job, more than the minor annoyances of daily inconveniences, that name pisses him off. it’s like a two-word trigger to ruining his day. the name nanami kento escapes your beautiful lips, and he’s forced to seethe in anger until the next time he gets you in his bed.
nanami kento takes over your life. higuruma learns about him slowly through quick asides and brief mentions. nanami is your age, he’s blonde, a business man that still makes time for you, a gentleman that always pays for you on dates. he buys you flowers, he opens the door for you, he lends you his jacket at the slightest shiver. he’s the picture-perfect boyfriend, and he’s clearly trying to get his teeth on you.
nanami kento drags you out of hiromi’s bed before the sun rises. he encroaches on your time together. you’ll be with hiromi, ranting about something that interests you, just to be interrupted by a text from nanami kento. you’ll be mid makeout and be called by nanami kento. you’ll be freshly fucked, breathless and lazy, then pick up your phone because you have plans with kento for dinner.
your time together is coming to a close. he knows it is. this nanami kento may be perfect, but there’s no world in which he’d be okay with you staying so close to a hook up. even when you both insist you’re just friends with benefits, he knows you’ve always toyed the line of something more. you’re too open, too vulnerable. twice a week, you fall into bed together. you fuck, you calm down with a leisurely make out and slow conversation, then you spend the night spooned in his arms. you wake together in the morning, share a quiet breakfast, and kiss each other on your way out his door to begin your commute to work together. you’re all but dating already.
so hiromi knows that sooner or later, he’ll be left behind in favour of a brighter prospect. why wouldn’t you? nanami kento is actually willing to commit, to give you more than vague promises of a potential future.
(but you keep going back to bed with him. what does it mean? how do you wake up in bed with him, spend your day with the perfect kento, then return home—no, not home, never home—to hiromi once more?)
he knows it’s his fault. wasn’t higuruma the one to set the terms of your arrangement? didn’t he say he wasn’t looking for anything serious? he knows he only has himself to blame. these are the consequences of his own actions.
yet, he watches as nanami kento visits you at work. he looks at you pulling nanami kento into a hug as you greet him, arms looping around the man’s neck as his hands rest respectfully on your waist, and he thinks: that should be me.
thinking about people assuming nanami is always the dominant one in the relationship given his character and his build and both of you knowing that’s nowhere close to the truth.
thinking about pulling nanami by his tie to tease him, but instead of him putting you in your place he falls to his knees and presses his head against your thighs, staring up at you with watery eyes.
thinking about nanami plopping his head into your lap when you’re watching tv, making approving noises as you play with his hair; somewhat akin to a pleased cat.
thinking about getting ready on a saturday morning while nanami watches you, still in bed. being able to feel his gaze and practically see the hearts in his eyes via the reflection of the mirror you’re stood in front of.
thinking about nanami getting you an expensive outfit for one of your anniversaries, making you keep it on later that night while he’s completely bare, his dick throbbing in your hand. him getting off on the idea of providing for you. that, and simply how good you look in the outfit.
thinking about bathing with nanami afterwards, peppering kisses all over his neck, making sure not to leave any hickeys. you wouldn’t want to break the illusion he gives off, right? it’s more fun when it’s a secret between the two of you.
thinking about nanami making you breakfast the next morning as a ‘thank you’ for taking care of him. (shirtless with an apron on, of course)
୨୧ — Imagine Nanami cradling his newborn daughter tenderly. His blonde locks that were once neatly slicked back now messily frame his face- serving as playthings for tiny, curious hands. The infant giggles, gripping and curling her fingers, attempting to grab at her father's hair with pure delight. Nanami's heart swelled, a genuine smile appearing across his face.
"Ya know... Fatherhood really suits you, you know that?" You murmured, resting your head against his arm.
Nanami looked down at you, his eyes- always so tired from the cruelties of the world and working far too much, were now soft with affection, "I never thought I would have a life like this... I always felt it was far out of my reach..."
"Kento..."
He brought his daughter up to his face, his lips pressing a kiss to her forehead. His voice was a low whisper, yet you still managed to hear his words, "I love you. Both of you. More than anything in the world."
You could see it, not only in his smile, but his eyes as well... they held some fear. Afraid of the life he led, afraid of it coming to take the family he had so lovingly built away from him. Nanami had seen much in his time as a sorcerer. The loss of people dear to him- their deaths never failing to haunt him... He was scared... Scared of leaving you both behind, scared of the what-ifs...
"Kento, you worry far too much. I promise we'll be here, right by your side. Always and forever, okay? You're always going to awaken to me in your strong arms." You give his bicep a soft squeeze, "no way anyone could get past these bad boys."
A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, holding his baby girl in one arm, he used the one you squeezed to bring you into a loving embrace, drawing you even closer to his body. Drawing you closer into his world, a world he once thought would be forever in solitude. This was all a simple moment, but Nanami felt the full weight of this newfound joy- the joy of being a father and a loving husband to you. No could've prepared him for this profound privilege.
You were his home. And for the first time, he allowed himself to relax and trust in your words... that everything would be alright...
THOUGHT YOU WERE MAD AT THEM. YOUR PUSSY DISAGREED — various jjk men.
★ SUMMARY : leaving them for a few hours after you had a heated argument, just to see them waiting for you and fucking it into your brain that they want you.
★ NOTE : not proof read i was rushin for u guyss 🥹 THANK YOU FOR 1.5KKK
★ SATURO GOJO
“mmmfgh— baby, don’t do that shit again.” he mumbles it right into the crook of your neck, voice all gravel and wrecked, hot breath fanning over the bite mark he just sucked into your skin.
the bedroom smells like sex and the faint citrus of his shampoo you stole earlier. sheets are already twisted under your knees, headboard knocking the wall every time you drop down hard on his cock.
“you can’t just— fuck— leave after an argument like that,” gojo groans, long fingers digging bruises into your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear again if he lets go. “had me losin my damn mind waitin’ for you.”
you moan out softly; just a roll your hips slower this time, deliberate, feeling every thick inch stretch you open again. his head tips back against the pillows, throat bobbing, pretty lashes fluttering like he’s about to cry or come or both.
“shit— yeah, just like that,” he hisses. one hand slides up your spine, tangles in your hair, yanks your mouth down to his so he can lick into you messy and desperate. “thought you were really gone this time… left me here achin’ f’ you.”
his other palm cracks against your ass— not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you clench around him. you gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down, tongue curling, whining low in his throat when your walls flutter.
“fuck, baby— tight— s’ like you’re tryna milk me dry,” he pants against your lips. hips jerk up to meet your next grind, sloppy wet sounds filling the dark room. “missed this pussy so bad… missed you ridin me stupid.”
you drag your nails down his chest, catch on the pale pink scratches you left earlier when you first shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top. he shudders under you, cock twitching deep inside.
“gonna— gonna fill you up,” he starts babbling now, filter gone, voice cracking on every other word. “gonna stuff this little cunt full till it’s drippin down your thighs— till you can’t walk tomorrow without feelin me. you hear me?”
you sink down harder just to shut him up. his eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, fingers flexing on your waist like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“m’ sorry— fuck— m’ sorry i yelled,” he chokes out suddenly, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “shouldn’t have— shouldn’t have let you storm out— never again, promise— fuck— baby please…”
he flips you so fast your back hits the mattress, knees shoved up to your chest in one smooth motion. the new angle has him slamming in deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every brutal thrust. you cry out, nails raking his shoulders, legs shaking.
“look at me,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his white hair onto your cheek. blue eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the irises. “look at me while i fuck my apology into you.”
and that’s all you did. can’t look away even if you wanted to. he’s wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, that cocky smirk long gone. just raw need staring back at you.
“g’nna— g’nna cum inside,” he whimpers, pace turning erratic, hips slamming so hard the bed creaks. “g’nna breed this pussy— make sure you feel me for days— fuck— c-can’t stop— can’t— baby—”
his whole body locks up. a broken moan tears out of him as he buries himself, his cock making-out with your cervix, pulsing hot and thick inside you. you feel every spurt, every twitch, walls fluttering around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper.
he keeps grinding through it, overstimming himself, babbling nonsense against your throat. “love you— fuck— love you s’ much— don’t leave again— please— m’ gonna be good— swear—”
he collapses on top of you after, still twitching, still leaking, arms caging you in like he’ll never let go. nose buried in your hair, shaky breaths fanning your ear. “stay,” he whispers, voice small now. cracked. “just… stay.”
you card fingers through damp white strands. feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. “of course, ‘toru.”
he exhales like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders. then a quiet, almost shy, “round two when you’re ready?”
you laugh. he grins against your skin.
possessive fucker.
★ TOJI FUSHIGURO
we all know toji would absolutely haaate you coming home late and try to play it off. he’d be looming over the counter, his facial expression showing all kinds of pissed-the-fawk off but as soon as he sees you he can’t even stay away for more than 5 minutes.
He’d be balls deep making you have your third orgasm scolding you like the naughty girl you are.
“thought you could just stroll in whenever the fuck you want, huh?” his voice is low, right against the shell of your ear while he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter. dishes still in the sink. your coat half-shucked onto the floor. keys somewhere under the table. doesn’t matter. none of it does.
one thick forearm banded across your stomach, pinning you flush so your ass can’t escape the brutal snap of his hips. the other hand’s fisted in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make your spine arch pretty for him.
“late again. no text. no call.” each word punched out with a mean thrust that makes your toes scrape the tile. “had me sittin’ here like some worried bitch waitin’ on his girl.”
“toji—“ you try to moan an apology but it comes out fumbled—muffled against the crook of your own arm.
he’s so deep the head of his cock’s bullying that gummy spot that turns your brain to static. your thighs are already trembling from the first two times he made you come—once on his fingers while he growled about how soaked you were just from hearing his voice on the phone earlier, once more when he shoved you face-down on the couch the second the door clicked shut.
now this. third round. no warmup. no mercy.
“look at you,” he mutters, breath hot on your neck. scarred lips brushing skin. “actin’ all innocent walkin’ in here smellin’ like that bitchy vanilla scent… but this pussy’s still grippin’ me like she missed daddy’s dick.”
he punctuates it with a slow grind—rolling his hips so the fat base drags over your swollen clit. your knees buckle. he catches you easily, hauling you higher onto your toes.
“stay up. you’re gonna take every inch while i remind you who the fuck you belong to.” his free hand cracks down on your ass—once, twice. sharp enough to sting, leaving blooming heat. you clench hard around him on instinct making him hiss through his teeth.
“fuck— there it is. greedy little thing. squeezin’ like you’re tryna apologize with your pussy.”
you’re dripping down your thighs. sticky trails cooling on your skin. the wet slap of his balls against your cunt making you cry out in the quiet kitchen. fridge humming. clock ticking. your pulse hammering in your ears louder than both.
“toji—‘m sorry—”
“sorry ain’t cuttin’ it, doll.” he yanks your head back farther, forces you to look at the dark window—reflection of you two like some filthy portrait. his broad frame swallowing yours. muscles flexing under scarred skin every time he bottoms out. your mouth slack, eyes glassy, mascara smudged from earlier tears of pleasure and pain. that same lewd expression he adores most.
“you see that?” he growls. “see how fuckin’ wrecked you look already? and you still got the nerve to come home late like i won’t do somethin’ about it.” he shifts—hooks one of your knees up onto the counter ledge, spreading you wider. new angle has him carving deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every punishing stroke. your nails scrape uselessly at the granite.
“gonna make this pussy remember,” he rasps. voice cracking just a little now—tell-tale sign he’s losing the cool he pretends to have. “gonna fuck you till you can’t walk straight tomorrow. till every step reminds you who waited up.”
his rhythm stutters when you flutter around him again—walls spasming, trying to pull him under. he curses low, filthy.
“shit— already? you’re comin’ again?” he chuckles.
you can’t answer. can only whimper high, broken—while the coil snaps for the third time. thighs shaking violently. gush of slick coating his cock, dripping onto the floor. he doesn’t slow down. fucks you through it meaner. harder.
“that’s it— give it to me— fuckin’ soak me— good girl— my nasty little slut.” his grip tightens. hips slamming erratic now. balls drawing up tight.
“gonna fill this cunt up,” he starts whining, filter now gone, voice wrecked. “gonna stuff you so full you’ll be leakin’ me all night— gonna make sure you smell like me tomorrow— fuck—”
you reach back, nails digging into his thigh. “inside— please— toji~”
that does it.
he slams home one last time deep inside, groaning long and low like it hurts. cock pulsing, swelling, flooding you with heat. thick ropes painting your walls. so much it spills out around his base, creamy white streaking down your thighs even while he’s still grinding through the aftershocks.
“fuck— take it— take every drop— mine— fuckin’ mine—”
he keeps rolling his hips—shallow, needy—milking himself empty while you tremble under him. overstimulated. his chest heaves against your back. scarred arms caging you in like he’ll never let go.
“don’t do that shit again,” he mutters. quieter now. almost soft. “hated waitin’. hated not knowin’ if you were okay.”
you reach back, thread fingers through dark strands. feel him shiver. “i really am sorry, toji.”
he huffs. kisses the nape of your neck—open-mouthed, lingering. “yeah. you will be.”
then—after another slow grind that makes you both hiss, “shower. now. ‘fore i decide round four happens right here.”
you laugh—breathless. he smirks against your skin. finally slips out with a wet sound that makes you clench around nothing. cum trickles down your thigh. he swipes two fingers through it, brings them to your lips.
“clean up your mess, baby.” you suck obediently. taste salt and him. his eyes darken again.
“good girl.” he scoops you up—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the bathroom. your legs dangle. thighs sticky. heart still racing.
“next time you’re late,” he murmurs against your temple, “i’m tyin’ you to the bed before you even think about leavin’.”
you roll your eyes then nuzzle yourself on his chest.
★ KAMO CHOSO
choso would absolutely be the last person you'd expect to corner you against the front door the second you walked in.
we all know choso — sweet, a little awkward, the man who asks "is this okay?" before he even touches your hair, who goes pink behind the ears when you call him pretty, who avoids eye contact for ten full minutes after you catch him staring too long. that's your choso.
and then you stay out three hours past when you said you'd be back, phone halfway dead, still pissed from the argument you'd storm out of, and now you begrundgingly walk through the door to find him sitting very, very still on the couch.
he doesn't yell. that's the thing that gets you first. you were braced for it, shoulders up, already rehearsing your half of the fight, and instead there's just silence.
his hands are folded between his knees, dark hair loose and hanging around his face, and his looking at you with those heavy-lidded eyes drowned in violet like he's been doing nothing but looking at the door for three hours. which, you didn't think about that part.
you open your mouth; an apology, excuse, something, and he's already standing up, you forget what you were going to say because he's so much bigger than you. he's always been tall, but right now crossing the room toward you he fills up all the space in a way that makes your heartbeat do something stupid.
he stops close. too close, not touching, the air between you smelling like him and whatever he'd been drinking trying to wait you out, and he just — looks at you. searching your face, his jaw tight.
"why didn't you pick up?" he asks, and his voice is still quiet, still careful, but there's something unsteady threading through it. not anger, exactly. something worse than anger. "i called you four times, baby."
baby. he only does that when he's upset. your stomach does a full rotation.
"choso, i—" but he cuts you off by reaching up and touching your face. just cupping your jaw with one big hand, thumb tracing your cheekbone, and you can feel that his fingers aren't fully steady.
"you scared me," he says softly, like it costs him something. "you left mad and then you just— you didn't—" he stops. his adam apple bobs. "why would you do that."
it's not even a question, really. it comes out like something he's been turning over in his hands for hours, worn smooth, and the look on his face is so sincere and so quietly devastated that something in your chest caves a little.
you say his name again, softer this time, and you watch his jaw tighten. he only warning you get before he leans down and kisses you, sudden and slow, and it's not gentle exactly, it's— it has weight to it. the kind of kiss that means don't do that again.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are darker now, something shifting behind them that sends heat straight down to your tummy. "i'm still mad at you," he says quietly, and his hand is still at your jaw, tilting you up. "y'know that."
"yeah," you manage, "i know—"
"good." and then his other hand finds your waist and he walks you backward toward the bedroom with this unbearable, focused patience, like he has a plan and he's going to follow it all the way through, and every time your back bumps something — doorframe, wall — he catches you with that big warm grip and keeps you moving, keeps you steady, keeps his eyes on your face the entire time like he's cataloguing every flicker of expression. does he know he's doing that. probably not. probably just choso, just how he looks when he's paying attention, which is somehow more devastating than anything else he could do.
"choso, wait—" you try, half a laugh, half something else entirely, and he pauses in the dark of the hallway, head ducking slightly.
"i'm not yelling at you," he says, like that's clarification. "i'm not— i don't want to yell. i just—" and here he swallows, something flickering across his face, almost embarrassed but not quite. "i need you to let me. okay? let me—" his hands tighten the smallest amount at your waist. "please."
the please ruins you. because it's still him, it's still choso who asks for things softly, who would never just take, and somehow that makes it worse — makes the heat travel from your tummy to you pussy, making it hard to remember why you were mad in the first place or what you'd been so stubborn about three hours ago.
"okay," you say, barely sound, and he exhales like he'd been holding that in, too.
he takes his time. that's the thing you weren't prepared for — this slow, deliberate patience layered over something that keeps slipping through, this tremble in his hands when he pulls your shirt over your head that he tries to steady and can't quite, his breath gone a little uneven despite himself.
"you're so—" he starts, voice hushed, and then stops himself, frowning faintly, this small frustrated furrow between his brows like he resents that you exist and are right in front of him and he doesn't have words for whatever's stuck in his chest. he settles for touching instead. spreads one big palm flat over your ribs, fingers spanning so wide it knocks the air out of you.
"choso," you breathe, and he makes this low sound, involuntary, and his jaw tightens.
"you s-scared me," he says again, quieter, like it keeps escaping him. "i kept thinking— i didn't know if you were—" he doesn't finish it. instead he puts his mouth on your throat and stays there, just breathing for a second, warm and still, and the gesture is so tender and so completely at odds with the size of him that your eyes sting a little. oh no. "i hate when you're gone," he murmurs into your skin. "hate it. even when i'm mad. still hate it."
getting him inside you takes time too... because he goes careful, this trembling careful that he's clearly fighting against, hissing low through his teeth as you stretch and your walls flutter helplessly around him and his whole body goes rigid.
"wait—" he grits out, and you're not sure if he's talking to you or himself, hips stilled, forehead pressed somewhere between your shoulder and the pillow. "wait." you can feel how much that costs him. can feel the tension humming through every muscle where he's pressed against you, thick and filling you so full your thoughts are already liquefying at the edges.
"'m okay," you manage, arching slightly, and he makes a noise like you've broken something.
"i know you are," he breathes. "i just— need a second. you feel—" and then he stops talking, which might be a first for this whole gentle careful thing, and starts moving instead.
slow. devastatingly slow. rolling his hips in this deep, grinding drag that hits something inside you that makes your toes curl and your back bow up off the mattress and a sound come out of your mouth you hadn't planned.
his breathing goes immediately ragged, plp plp plp of his hips meeting yours filling up the quiet of the room, and his hands find your thighs and hitch you up, adjusting the angle, and— fuck. your hands scramble for something to grip, sheet, his arm, anything, and he watches you, watches your face with this expression that's raw in a way that makes it hard to look at directly.
"there you are," he breathes, low and shaky. "that— yeah, that's—" and then he does it again, same drag, same deep roll, and your head drops back.
he gets meaner about it slowly. not aggressive, not cruel — just focused, this quiet intensity that keeps building, the pace still unhurried but heavier, deeper, and his grip on your thighs tightening until you know he's leaving prints and you don't care, can't care, not with how full you are and how the drag of him hits that sweet spot every time like he's learning you, memorizing you the same way he'd been reading your face in the hallway.
"you were gone so long," he says, almost conversational except for the slight crack in it, and his hips roll and you gasp. "why'd you stay out so long." it's not really a question. or it is, it's still a question, still that same wondering hurt from earlier, but now his voice has this low fraying quality like a wire pulled too tight. "why?"
"i don't— i wasn't—" you're already losing the thread of it, hips rolling up to chase him without your permission, and he notices, eyes dropping down to where you're joined and going briefly, almost comically blank.
"you're doing that," he says. faintly accusatory. faintly wrecked.
"why?" he asks again, later, when he's got you folded up and he's properly losing his mind about it, forehead pressed to yours, hair escaped from its tie and hanging around both of you, and the controlled thing has fully slipped now — hips snapping into something erratic that makes the wet slap of it embarrassingly loud and your voice keep breaking on his name. "why'd y-you—" and he stops because his voice cracks too, right down the middle, and he squeezes his eyes shut and makes this low broken sound and you feel him pulse inside you and
"choso—"
"m' sorry," he breathes, "m' sorry, i—" but he doesn't stop, can't, hips still working even as his whole body shakes and his breath comes in ragged little pulls. "baby." and god he sounds— he sounds completely undone, you've never heard him like this, this is new, this is the version of choso that three hours of sitting on the couch waiting for you made, and something about that makes you clench around him and he makes a sound that's almost pained.
"please," you hear yourself say, "please~"
"yeah," he gets out, barely, "yeah— i've got you— you're—" and then the words slip away entirely and he fucks you through it properly, stuttering and shaking and whispering things into your hair that might be your name or might be please or might be both.
overstimulation is a thing that happens to you after, when you're limp and wrung out and certain that you couldn't possibly, and choso is still moving — slowed to something deep and lazy, still filling you and refusing to pull out with this look on his face like he hasn't fully come back to himself yet.
"choso," you try, thighs twitching, "h-hey— i can't, i'm—"
"just," he says. stops. swallows. "just a little more. please. please, baby." and there's the question again, the soft asking even now, even like this, even with you already a destroyed mess underneath him. "you feel so good. can i— just a little more, okay? jus'—"
"mmgfh, choso~"
his face twists. "s-sorry," he starts, "i'm sorry, i'll stop, you just—" and then you clench, involuntary, body giving him the answer that your mouth hadn't gotten around to yet, and his eyes flutter and he exhales, "oh," very small. and keeps going.
★ HIROMI HIGURAMA
hiromi higuruma would absolutely find you still hunched over his desk at eleven-forty-seven at night, lamp cutting a yellow circle across a stack of files you've been reorganizing since he hung up on you four hours ago; you had nowhere else to go with how angry you were, and his office was right there, and spite has its own kind of logic.
we all know higuruma. composed. methodical. the man who won arguments with prosecutors using a single eyebrow raise and twenty seconds of silence. you didn't think he'd come back tonight. you should have thought about it more.
the door opens quiet. he doesn't announce himself, doesn't say your name — you just feel the shift in the room, the way the air changes when someone large and very still enters it, and your shoulders go up before your brain catches up with why. the click of the lock behind him is the loudest thing that's happened in hours.
you don't turn around. pride, mostly. also you're not done being mad, and you need at least another thirty seconds to build the wall back up before you look at him. you hear him set something down; keys, probably, the small ceramic bowl by the door making its little sound and then nothing. just the awareness of him behind you, standing there in that way he has, the way that makes rooms feel smaller without being threatening about it. his suit jacket is still on. he's been somewhere, then. or he sat with it on in the car for a while deciding whether to come in.
"you're still here," he says. low, even. not a question exactly.
"i work here," you say, turning a page you're not reading.
a beat of quiet that has weight to it, the kind higuruma deploys the way other people use words. then you hear him move, unhurried, the soft drag of dress shoes across the floor, and he rounds the desk and you still don't look up and his hand comes down over yours on the file folder — not gripping, just covering, warm and very deliberate. stopping you. "look at me," he pleads.
you do. because you can't not, when he uses that voice. he's close, closer than you'd registered, and his face is doing the thing where it's not giving much away but his eyes are — tired, a little, and something underneath the tired that's been sitting there all day working itself into a knot.
his expression is still unreadable. his tie is loosened exactly one button's worth. "you've been here this whole time," he questions, and it's not what you expect him to lead with, the what and the how of you sitting in his office reorganizing case files out of spite at eleven pm, and something about that catches in your chest.
"i wasn't going to go home while i was still—" you start.
"i know," he states. not dismissive. like he actually does know, like he turned it over the whole drive here and arrived at the same place you did. his thumb moves across the back of your hand, small slow arc. "i shouldn't have hung up."
oh. you blink. you'd been ready for the second half of the argument, had it half-loaded, and now it's just — sitting there unspent and awkward. "higuruma, i—"
"i know," he says again, softer, and then he takes the folder out of your hand and sets it aside and the edge of a brief that took someone three hours to assemble crumples under it and neither of you mentions it. his hands find your face, thumbs at your jaw, tilting you up the way he does when he wants your full attention, which you were already giving him, but that's not really the point of it. the point is the holding. "i'm sorry," he says, looking straight at you, and higuruma doesn't say that lightly, you know that, you've known that for a while now.
you open your mouth and he kisses you before you can finish the thought.
it's not rushed. that's his whole thing, always has been measured, intentional, like he's building a case for something with every action and the verdict is going to land whether you're ready or not. his hands stay at your face while his mouth works yours slow and thorough, and you're already melting by the time he pulls back, lips a little swollen, eyes darker than they were, and he looks at you for a second like he's checking something off an internal list. then he drops to his knees.
oh— "higuruma, wait—"
"sit on the desk," he says, already pushing your chair back.
"the— the papers—"
"sit on the desk." same tone he uses to deliver a closing argument. you sit on the desk. several documents that probably mattered crinkle underneath you and you can't bring yourself to care because he's parting your knees with both hands, slow and very matter-of-fact about it, and looking up at you from the floor of his own office with his tie loose and his glasses catching the lamplight, and the sight of him like that does something genuinely unreasonable to your brain chemistry.
he takes his time working you open through the fabric first. thumb pressing, tracing, watching your face for every twitch while you try very hard to look like you're not immediately losing the thread of every thought you'd had tonight.
god. "higuruma—" his name comes out embarrassingly soft and something in his expression shifts, the composure still there but thinned, something hotter running underneath it. he pushes the fabric aside and puts his mouth on you without preamble and you grab the edge of the desk hard enough that the stapler rattles off onto the floor.
he eats you out the way he does everything — thorough, unhurried, with this awful focused precision that doesn't allow for shortcuts or mercy, his tongue working your folds open before settling flat and heavy over your clit and just staying there, slow pulsing pressure, and you're already slick and aching from nothing but the last twenty minutes of him and the sound that comes out of your mouth is not dignified.
a stack of briefs slides off the corner of the desk. neither of you looks at them. his hands grip your thighs and keep you spread and still while you squirm and he hums against you, low, disapproving, and the vibration of it makes your hips stutter up helplessly.
"higuruma," you breathe, thighs trembling, "please, i need—"
he pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, and his eyes are very dark and very attentive behind the glasses. "come here," he says, rough at the edges now, and he maneuvers you. hands at your hips, repositioning, implacable until you're kneeling up on the desk above him, thighs on either side of his face, and you realize what he's doing half a second before he pulls you down onto his nose and mouth and —
the sound that comes out of you bounces off the walls. his nose presses against your clit and his mouth opens beneath you, tongue finding your entrance, and your whole body goes rigid with how good it is, too good, embarrassingly immediate, your hips rolling forward before you've even consciously decided to and he lets you, hands spread warm on your ass just guiding, keeping you steady, while you grind down onto his face in the lamplight of his own office with important legal documents crumpling under your knees.
oh my god. the wet sounds are filthy and specific and you can feel your face heating even as you can't stop chasing, hips rolling, riding the flat of his tongue and the pressure of his nose against that swollen knot of nerves until you're shaking and saying his name too many times and your thighs are clamping around his ears.
he doesn't stop when you cum. that's the thing. he slows, gentles, lets you ride it out — and then keeps going, tongue lapping patient and thorough while you twitch and gasp and try to pull back and his hands don't let you move far. "too much—" you manage, "higuru— i'm—"
"mm— i know," he groans into you, muffled, and then does something with his tongue that makes your vision go briefly static.
he gets you off twice on his face before he stands up. unhurried. glasses fogged at the edges, mouth and chin devastatingly wet, and he looks at you, completely fucked-out and wobbling on his desk amid the wreckage of the filing system with this expression that's almost quiet satisfaction except for how his chest is moving, how his hands go immediately to his belt with a precision that belies how controlled he's trying to look. there it is. "lie back," he says.
"the papers—"
"i'll reprint them." and he means it, the way he means everything, and something about the casual certainty of it makes you laugh, breathless, and you lie back in the papers.
the press of him in is slow, measured at first, and then your walls flutter around the thick stretch of him and his breath leaves him in a rush. "ah—" undignified, unplanned, and he stops for a second with his eyes shut and his jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk on either side of your hips, and you watch something in his face come loose. "you're—" he starts. stops. swallows. the glasses have slid down his nose and he doesn't fix them. "you feel—"
"hah," you moan, soft, and he opens his eyes and looks at you, and there it is; the thing under the composure, the thing that made him drive back here at midnight, the thing that'd been in his voice even when he was angry on the phone.
he starts moving and stops being careful about it within about thirty seconds.
the desk rocks. something else falls off it; a pen cup, the sound of pens scattering across the floor and you're scrambling to hold onto the edge while he fucks you into it, papers crumpling and tearing under your back, his thrusts rolling into something relentless and deep that punches the air out of you in little broken increments.
his glasses are properly crooked now and he doesn't spare a hand to fix them, both gripping your hips, and his voice when it comes out is low: "you stayed," he says, hips snapping, and it takes your brain a second to parse that he means tonight, means the office, means you sat in his space and reorganized his files instead of going somewhere he couldn't find you. "you stayed here—"
"w-what—" your voice breaks on it.
"don't do that again," he says, not a request, and his hips drive in and you keen, walls clenching, and he makes this rough sound in the back of his throat like it's punishing him too. "don't—" and then he's burying deep and staying there, trembling slightly, forehead dropping to your collarbone while his hips roll slow and grinding and he breathes through clenched teeth, "—god, you're so—" the sentence dies, unfinished, swallowed by the sound of his own breathing and the quiet ruin of every document on the desk.
you cum with your hand fisted in his rumpled shirt and his name said wrong, too many syllables, something that comes out closer to a sob than a word. he follows with his face in your neck, a low rough sound that he murmurs your name into, hips stuttering through it, and you feel the warm spill of him and his whole weight sinking into you and the desk groaning underneath and three case files sliding off onto the floor.
silence, for a bit. the lamp buzzes faintly. somewhere outside a car passes.
he lifts his head. looking at you. fixeing his glasses. "i'm reprinting all of this," he says, very quietly, surveying the destruction, and you start laughing and can't stop, and after a second his mouth curves too; not a smile exactly, but the shape of one, the thing that lives just next to composed, and he drops his head back onto your shoulder and stays there.
★ SUGURU GETO
we all know suguru geto doesn't chase. that's the thing about him — the thing you keep forgetting, keep testing the edges of anyway, like you enjoy finding out where the boundary sits.
he doesn't raise his voice. doesn't beg. and when you'd hung up on him three hours ago and stayed gone he'd sat with it, turned it over, and when you finally walked back through the door he was already standing in the hallway like he'd known exactly how long you'd need.
he didn't say anything. just looked at you.
that look. that specific one, dark eyes tracking your face, reading you in three seconds flat, mouth doing nothing. you'd opened yours to say i'm sorry or we need to talk or literally anything with words in it, and he'd crossed the distance and kissed you instead, one hand cupping your jaw and the other already finding your waist, and it wasn't gentle, wasn't rough either, it was decided. like the conversation was already over and this was just the next paragraph.
"sugu—" you tried, against his mouth.
"shhh," he hushes.
he takes his time undressing you, which is somehow worse than if he'd just ripped something. deliberate. like he's not in a hurry because he doesn't need to be, because you're not going anywhere and he's already decided how this ends. his earring catches the light when he ducks his head to mouth at your throat and your hands find his hair on instinct; loose tonight, the tie gone, black silk of it slipping between your fingers — and he hums against your pulse point, warm and approving, and your knees do something humiliating.
"you're so annoying," he murmurs, into your neck, without heat. just a fact. and then he bites down soft and you gasp and he soothes it with his tongue and keeps moving.
on the bed he gets his mouth between your thighs first, because that's suguru, because he'll take the thing apart slow before he's anywhere close to done. chin tilted up watching your face while his tongue works your folds open, flat and thorough, the wet sounds of it slp slp slp embarrassingly audible and he doesn't stop, not even when you're already shaking and grabbing at his hair and saying his name wrong, sugurusugurusugu— like it'll do something. his eyes stay on yours the whole time. that's the meanest part.
he edges you twice before he's even inside you, pulling back each time with this patient, infuriating composure, lips slick and dark eyes blown, watching you fall apart at the removal of his mouth like it's something he's particularly interested in studying.
"please," you manage, thighs trembling either side of his head.
"please what, pretty girl," he says, voice dropped to something that scrapes right down your spine.
when he finally pushes in the sound that leaves you is not attractive. not even a little. his cock stretches you open inch by slow inch and he watches your face the whole way, jaw tight, the composure held together by what looks like significant effort.
his breath heavier than he'd like, a muscle in his cheek pulling, and when he bottoms out he stops, hips flush against yours, and just. stays there. forehead dropped to yours. both of you breathing.
"you pissed me off," he mumbles, very quietly. "don't do that again."
your throat goes tight. "sugu—"
"i mean it." and then he pulls back and drives in and the words dissolve completely.
he fucks you with this horrible focused intensity — not punishing, not exactly, but not gentle either, hips rolling deep and grinding in a way that finds that spot every third stroke like he has it memorized, like he's been thinking about exactly this angle for three hours on the couch waiting for you.
plp plp plp of skin meeting skin fills up the room. his hair falls forward around both your faces and you reach up to grip it and he lets you, makes a low rough sound at the pull, hips stuttering into something harder before he catches himself and smooths back into that devastating rhythm.
"you gonna run off again?" he growls, above you, not quite a threat, not quite a question.
"no—" and your voice breaks on it because he angles up and hits something that makes your whole body jolt, "no, no, i'm sorry, i'm sorry—"
"i know you are," he says, low and raspy, like he was always going to get here, "i know, sweetheart, you always are—" and then his fingers find your nipple, pinching and caressing the sensitive bud.
he doesn't stop when you cum. the composure fully slips somewhere around the second time, hips losing the careful measured drag into something erratic and urgent, his breath coming apart in short rough increments against your temple.
"fuuuck—" quiet, almost surprised, like he resents how good you feel, voice cracking clean down the middle, "too tight, you're always so—" and he buries deep and grinds and his whole body shudders and the warmth of him spilling into you punches a moan out of you both. "fuckin' tight, my love."
he stays inside. grinds it slow. keeps going.
"sugu," you breathe, wrecked, "i can't—"
"you can," he says, into your hair, but it comes out rough-soft, the mean edge gone, and his arms pull you closer, hold you there, and it's not really an argument anymore.
★ NANAMI KENTO
nanami would be so fucking careful about it. that's the part that gets you. the part that's almost meaner than if he'd just been angry — because he is angry, you can feel it in the way his hands grip your hips with this controlled, deliberate pressure, can hear it in how measured his breathing is, how even, the specific even that means he's working very hard at it. he told you to be home by nine. it is past midnight.
and now he has you folded underneath him with his shirt half-untucked and his jaw set and his hips rolling into you in these long, thorough strokes that are technically gentle, paced, deep, no wasted movement, while your thighs shake on either side of him and you babble apologies into the dark of the bedroom that he doesn't acknowledge and doesn't stop.
"i-i'm sorry," you manage, wall flutter pulling a short exhale out of him that he smooths over immediately, "kento, m' sorry, i didn't mean to— i lost track of—"
he rolls his hips on the next thrust and the words collapse into a sound that isn't a word at all, just air, just the squelch of him working into you plp plp plp in the quiet room, unhurried, relentless in the way that only nanami can be relentless about something like it's a task, like the apology goes in one ear and out the other because you're saying it into his cock and not into his face and he knows the difference. "kento—"
"i heard you," he says. low. not unkind exactly. not kind either.
his thumb finds your clit and presses and you jolt, thighs snapping around his waist, and he looks down at you with this expression that is so carefully neutral that it circles back around to devastating, and keeps the pressure steady and keeps his hips moving and watches you come apart underneath him like he's noting every detail for the record.
fuck. you're already so wet it's embarrassing, has been since he'd pulled you in by the wrist the second you'd walked through the door — no yelling, no lecture, just his hand around your wrist and his eyes finding yours and something in his face going quiet in a way that was worse than any argument. you'd said his name. he'd said, very quietly, bedroom, and that had been the end of the conversation.
"you worried me," he says now, into the space between you, not quite looking at your face and not quite not looking at it either, gaze somewhere at your collarbone, and his voice does something strange on the last word; a slight roughness that he smooths out immediately after. the thumb at your clit circles once. you keen, high and broken, hips chasing without your permission.
"don't do that," he says, flatter now, though the hand at your hip tightens the smallest fraction. whether he means don't do that, stop chasing or don't do that, don't worry me again, you cannot parse with his cock buried this deep in you. probably both. nanami is efficient.
"m' sorry," you slur, wet-eyed now, his next thrust knocking it out of you in a rush, "m' sorry, kento, i know, i know i should've—" and then he shifts the angle, just slightly, just a precise deliberate tilt of his hips that drags the head of him across something that makes your vision white at the edges, and you stop making words and start making sounds.
he keeps going. same pace. same depth. same controlled roll of his hips that is technically, technically, not punishing you — except that it absolutely is, except that he knows exactly what he's doing and how it lands, and the smallest thing is happening at the corners of his mouth that might be satisfaction and might be guilt about the satisfaction and is definitely both. "can't— kento— please—"
"please what," he says. quiet. curious, almost. like he genuinely wants to know.
your brain presents you with nothing. please more, please stop, please don't stop, please say you're not mad, please keep looking at me like that — all of it jamming up in your throat at once while your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes a low sound and his jaw tightens and his hips stutter, just once, the first crack in the composure, before he smooths it back out and keeps going.
"you don't know," he observes, and there's something in it; gentle, ruthless, both, the nanami special, and his thumb presses down on your clit and holds and you cry out and your whole body arches up into him.
"i hate when you go quiet on me," he says, above you, and it takes you a fuzzy second to realize he means the argument, means the part where you'd gone cold and hung up and disappeared for three hours — not the current situation where you are physically incapable of coherent speech because he's fucking you through the mattress with his shirt still half-buttoned and his glasses somewhere on the nightstand and his face doing a very poor job of being expressionless.
"i don't—" and here he stops. his hips keep moving, the pace finally slipping into something less controlled, a little harder, a little less technically gentle, and you feel it in your teeth. "i don't like not knowing where you are," he finishes, very quietly, and the admission costs him something you can see him paying. his forehead drops to your shoulder. the careful breathing is gone. "i don't like it."
"kento—" and your voice breaks clean in half on his name, hands scrambling to grip something, his arm, the sheets, landing on both.
"i know," he says, into your neck. "i know, just—" and his hips snap and you both make embarrassing sounds and he mouths something against your skin that might be your name or might be stay.
you can't tell, you're too far gone, thighs shaking and cunt clenching rhythmically around him while he loses the careful measured pace entirely and fucks you like he's been holding it back since you walked through the door, which he has, which you both know, slap slap slap of his hips meeting yours filling up the bedroom while you babble his name and sorry and please into the dark above his shoulder.
he cums with his face still pressed to your throat, a rough bitten-off sound that he muffles immediately, hips buried deep, grinding slow through it, big hand spread at your lower back holding you against him like you might drift away if he doesn't. you feel the warmth of it and your walls flutter and he makes another sound, smaller, helpless, and his grip tightens.
"don't," he says, strained, into your neck. "don't move. give me—" and he doesn't finish that either, just holds you there, both of you breathing too hard, your lashes wet and sticking, his dress shirt damp at the collar from where his neck has been sweating through the last forty minutes of technically gentle.
the silence stretches. his thumb moves, small idle arc at your hip. slowly the grip loosens into something that's just — holding. the kind that doesn't have an agenda.
"i'm sorry, my love" you say again, into his shoulder. meant more, this time.
a long beat. "i know," he says, finally, and you can feel some of the tension leave his back under your hands. "next time." just that. next time — and you know what he means, have learned enough nanami to translate: next time call. next time don't go quiet. next time let me know you're alright. you press your face into his shoulder and nod into the fabric and he exhales, long and slow, and his hand moves to the back of your head.
he stays inside you until you both stop shaking. doesn't pull out. just — stays; somewhere outside it starts to rain and nanami breathes, even, finally, actually even, and his fingers card through your hair once like he's not doing it on purpose.
★ SUKUNA RYOMEN
sukuna would find it genuinely hilarious. that's what gets you first, not the anger you'd braced for, not the cold shoulder you'd half-wanted so you could stay righteous about the whole thing.
no. you walk through the door still rehearsing the second half of the argument and he's sitting there with that look on his face, the one that means he's already decided something, already filed it under your fault, my problem, and the laugh that comes out of him is low and short and not actually funny at all.
"there she is," he mumbles, like you're late to something he arranged. like he wasn't the reason you left.
you open your mouth. wrong move. he's off the couch before you finish the first word, and sukuna in motion is something your body responds to before your brain weighs in — every nerve pulling toward him even when you're still pissed, even when you're already saying.
"don't—" and he's already got a fist in the back of your hair, not cruel, just absolute, tilting your head back so he can look at your face properly.
"you left," he says, like it's an observation about the weather.
"you were being—"
"you left." same tone. lower. and the hand in your hair tightens and you feel your pulse jump.
he walks you backward into the bedroom without ceremony, lips at your jaw, your throat, the hinge of it, not kissing exactly, just pressing, sampling, the way sukuna touches things he considers his. the black marks on his chest are warm against your palms when you grab at him and he hums, pleased, like you've done something correctly by accident.
"always gotta make it difficult," he mutters, into your neck, and there's something in it that's almost fond and almost annoyed and fully neither.
your back hits the mattress. his weight settles over you and blots out the ceiling and you. shit, you stop being mad about the argument for approximately one full second.
he's not gentle about getting you open. two fingers, then three, working you slick with this bored, efficient focus while he watches your face like he's looking for something specific. the exact moment your hips start chasing, the exact shape your mouth makes before the sound comes out. finds both. says nothing about it. just pulls his fingers free and wipes them on the sheets and lines himself up and — oh.
the stretch of him pulls a sound from your throat that you immediately hate yourself for.
"every time," he says, pushing in slow, watching your expression fall apart in real time, "act like you didn't miss it." another inch. your thighs are shaking already. "like you didn't come back for this."
"that's not— kuna~"
"finish a sentence," he suggests pleasantly, and drives the rest of the way home.
oh fuck. white at the edges. you grab at his forearms, thick, tattooed, not moving anywhere, and your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes this rough sound through his teeth, jaw set, eyes gone a little dark, which is the only tell he has and he'd be furious if you said it out loud.
he stays buried, lets you feel all of it, lets the stretch of him sit there in your nervous system like a fire alarm, and when your hips twitch up toward him his smirk sharpens.
"there it is," he says.
he fucks you mean and slow, which is worse than fast, the drag of him pulling out and pushing back in at this deliberate grinding pace that has you leaking slick down your thighs and babbling in under four minutes.
plp plp plp. the headboard knocks the wall. he doesn't care about the headboard. he's got a hand spread at your lower tummy, pressing down just enough to feel where he's hitting, and the filthy sound he makes when he feels it from both sides does something genuinely embarrassing to you.
"look at you," he murmurs, not unkind, "couldn't even wait to fight properly—" and he rolls his hips in and you arch up and he watches that happen with the expression of a man who feels very correct about something.
"wasn't— my fault—" you try, breathless, which is the wrong thing because—
"whose ring are you wearing," he says, flat, hips snapping once and your whole body jolts.
you stop arguing after that. he works you up to something that sits right behind your eyes, all squelch and wet heat and the low grunt of his breathing, and you're holding onto his shoulders with your nails probably leaving marks and he doesn't mention it or stop — if anything he fucks harder when you grip, because of course he does, because that's sukuna, because of course.
"gonna cum f' me?" he breathes, above you, and it's not quite a question, it's more like he's narrating what's about to happen because he already knows.
"yes—" and it comes out wrecked, barely a word, more just the shape of one.
"yeah," he says, very low, and his thumb finds your clit and presses and that's all it takes.
he cums with his face in your throat, biting down, not enough to break, enough to bruise, enough that you'll feel it tomorrow in the exact shape of his mouth, hips buried and grinding through the aftershocks of both of you, a rough sound that he muffles against your skin like he resents needing to make it.
you feel the heat of him spill and your walls clench again and he hisses, "don't—" and then does three more thrusts anyway, short and grinding and involuntary, because obviously.
silence. his weight settles. not off you, just — settled. which is sukuna's version of a blanket.
after a long moment: "you're not leaving again," he says. not a question. not really possessive even, just stated. the way he states everything that's already been decided.
your throat is dry. "that's not really how—"
"you're not," he says, into your hair, and the arm across your waist tightens by about ten percent.
you don't finish the sentence.
★ SHIU KONG
shui kong would let you walk through the door still hot with it. still jaw-set, still convinced you had the moral high ground, still replaying the argument in your head in the satisfying way where you win every time.
he'd be right there, jacket off, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, cigarette burning between two fingers like he's been sitting with it since you left, and he wouldn't say a word. just watches you come in. takes a drag. exhales slow.
that's it. that's the whole greeting.
the silence does something to you that you don't want to examine too closely, because it's infuriating and also your pulse has already picked up and you know he can tell, knows he always can, which is also infuriating. "don't start," you warn him, which is a stupid thing to say to someone who hasn't started anything.
the corner of his mouth moves. barely. "didn't say a word," he says, smoke still curling from the cigarette, voice doing that thing where it sounds perpetually bored and perpetually amused at the same time, pitched low and even, the kind of voice that gets under your skin precisely because it doesn't try to.
"you were thinking it," you say.
"yeah," he agrees, pleasantly. "i was."
he stubs the cigarette out. stands up. and there's a certain category of problem that shui kong moving toward you creates, because he's not fast about it, he's unhurried, which is different, which is worse and by the time he's close enough that you can smell the stale smoke and something sharper underneath it, the argument is already losing structural integrity in your head.
he looks down at you for a second. something in his half-lidded gaze tracking your face the way he tracks everything, cataloguing, unreadable.
"you done?" he asks.
you open your mouth. he tips your chin up with two fingers, not gripping, just placing, and kisses you, and the answer dies somewhere between your throat and the open air.
he gets your clothes off in a way that's efficient and sort of humiliating, like it's a task with obvious steps, like your indignation is a minor inconvenience he's accounting for. your skirt's gone before you've fully processed his hands at the zipper.
he backs you into the wall with one palm flat between your shoulders and mouths at your throat while his other hand slides between your thighs, and you're already embarrassingly wet and he finds it immediately and makes this low unimpressed sound directly against your pulse.
"how long you been like this," he murmurs. not a question.
"shut up—"
"since you left?" and there it is the meanness, the specific shui kong meanness that doesn't raise its voice, just turns the thing over in its hands and examines it while you want to dissolve through the floorboards.
his fingers move and you grab at his forearm and he keeps going, two fingers crooking inside you while his thumb finds your clit and applies exactly enough pressure to make your knees do something unreliable.
"shui—" and your voice comes out wrong, high and broken at the seam, and you feel him smile against your throat.
"there she is," he says, quiet, satisfied. "the version of you that's not full of shit."
you want to say something cutting. what comes out is a moan, squelch of his fingers working into you, plp plp plp embarrassing in the quiet of the room, and he brings you to the edge and keeps you there with this infuriating focused patience — just enough, never quite enough — until you're grabbing his shirt and making small desperate noises into his shoulder and your pride has fully evacuated the premises.
"please," you get out.
"please what," he says, mild.
"please just—"
"use your words," he says, "you were so good at them twenty minutes ago."
he fucks you up against the wall first, which you suspect is partially because he enjoys watching you scrabble for purchase, fingers dragging against the paint, heels slipping, entirely dependent on the arm hooked under your thigh to keep you from sliding.
the angle is something that rearranges your opinions on several subjects, his cock thick and pressing in deep where he holds you open and your mouth falls open on nothing, just air, just the squelch and slap of it slap slap slap and his breath rough at your temple, finally a little rough, finally something, the composed thing going uneven at the edges in a way that you'd feel smug about if you had any working brain cells left.
"still mad?" he asks, against your ear, hips driving up.
"—yes," you moan, which is technically a lie but also the only piece of self-respect you have left.
he makes a low amused sound and angles his hips and hits something that has you crying out, thighs locking around him, walls clenching so hard you feel him shudder, the first real crack — his jaw tensing, a rough "fuck—" that he doesn't quite swallow, muffled in your hair, hips stuttering before he pulls himself back into the rhythm.
"sure," he says, slightly strained.
he moves you to the bed at some point, not gentle about it; drops you onto the mattress, hooks your ankles up over his shoulders, and the new depth makes you sob a little which he watches with this expression like he's deeply privately satisfied by that.
the composure is mostly back. mostly. his hair's messed up and there's a flush along his neck he's definitely not acknowledging and his thrusts have that particular roughness that means he's closer than he wants to admit — slap slap slap and your whole body rocking up the mattress with each one, headboard kissing the wall, the sound of you soaked around him absolutely filthy in the quiet room.
"shui— shui, i'm—" and you're already shaking, thighs trembling either side of his head, clenching and fluttering and making his breath stutter again, "gonna cum, please—"
"i know," he says, and the certainty of it is so irritating and so hot that it tips you right over the edge.
he follows close behind, hips grinding in deep and staying, hand gripping your hip hard enough you'll see it tomorrow, a low rough sound that he breathes out through his teeth. the warmth of him fills you and your walls flutter uselessly and he hisses, grinds once more, twice, working it through with his eyes closed and jaw set like he's annoyed at himself for it.
silence. the ceiling. both of you breathing.
after a while he reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a new cigarette. doesn't light it. just holds it between his fingers and looks at the ceiling, chest still moving too fast for someone who'd like you to believe he's completely unbothered.
"we're not doing that again," he says finally, meaning the leaving part. the whole leaving part.
you turn your head to look at him. he's still staring at the ceiling. the unlit cigarette taps once against his knuckles. "which part," you say.
"all of it," he says, which means the leaving and nothing else, and doesn't elaborate, because that's all he was ever going to give you and somehow it's enough.
★ NAOYA ZENIN
naoya zenin would be insufferable about it. that's the whole thing — he'd be insufferable, leaned against the doorframe when you finally walked in, arms crossed, that particular smirk sitting on his face like it'd been waiting there specifically for you. hours. you'd been gone hours, long enough to cool down and heat back up again for entirely different reasons, and you walk through the door and the first thing out of his mouth is "took you long enough."
not i was worried. not where were you. not even a proper argument continuation. just that, delivered like a verdict, like you'd failed a test he'd designed.
you should not find it as hot as you do. you genuinely hate that about yourself.
"don't," you start, already bristling, dropping your bag.
"don't what," he says, tilting his head slightly, light eyes doing that thing where they track you with this lazy attention that isn't lazy at all, not really. "finish a thought, at least."
"don't be a dick about it—"
"i'm always dick," he smirks, like it's a point of pride, and it is, that's the problem, "that's not new information." he pushes off the doorframe. "you done sulking or d' you need another hour?"
"i wasn't sulking—" but he's already moved, already closed enough distance that you have to tilt your chin up to hold eye contact, and naoya at close range is a specific kind of problem because he's taller than you clock him for and meaner than you're ever fully braced for; his hand finds your jaw before you finish the sentence, not hard, just — there, thumb pressing the corner of your mouth, tilting your face exactly where he wants it.
"yeah you were," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "you always do that little thing where you go quiet and disappear and wait for someone to come find you." the smirk shifts into something with a sharper edge. "m' not doing that. you know where i am."
it's the closest naoya zenin gets to i was waiting for you to come back and you both know it and neither of you are going to say it.
he kisses you before you can respond, which is basically naoya's solution to any conversational situation where he's running out of winning moves — not that he'd frame it that way, not that he'd ever admit the conversation had gotten close to him at all.
his hands move fast. not frantic, nothing naoya does is frantic, but efficient in a way that has your shirt gone and your bra following it before your brain's fully caught up, and when you grab at his collar he makes this low approving sound like you've done something correctly.
"there she is," he murmurs, against the side of your face, "been waiting all night for the version of you that shuts up."
"naoya—"
"shhh," he says, which is incredibly rude, and his hand slides down your stomach.
he doesn't bother with the bed immediately. backs you into the wall, slap of your shoulders hitting it, and gets his fingers into you while you're still standing, two of them, crooking like he already knows exactly where to press which he does, he always does, which is its own humiliation.
you're already wet and he finds it and laughs, short and low, right next to your ear. "you went all the way out there," he says, fingers working a slow drag, "this pissed at me—" and you clench around him and his breath hitches, covered fast, "—and came back this worked up. what were you even doing out there, thinking about it?"
"i hate you—" and it comes out wrecked because his thumb grazes your clit.
"no you don't," he says, certain, almost bored about it, and crooks his fingers again and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound.
when he finally gets inside you it's with your legs around his waist and the wall doing half the structural work and his face buried somewhere between your jaw and your shoulder, the composed thing shredding at the seams almost immediately because you're tight and you clench the second he bottoms out and his whole body stutters.
"fuck—" not covered, and you feel his hips jerk forward on instinct like he can't help it. like he's been thinking about this since you walked out. he probably has. he'd rather die than say so.
"oh," you breathe, walls fluttering, and he makes a sound that is not remotely as composed as he'd like. "f-fuck"
"don't," he grits, jaw tight.
"don't what," you mumble, deliberately copying him, and feel him twitch inside you.
he fucks you mean after that, which was inevitable. slap slap slap of his hips against yours, rough and deep, one hand fisted in your hair yanking your head back so he can watch your face, which naoya always does — he wants to see it, wants to watch you come apart specifically for him, and he gets meaner about it the closer you get, running his mouth in this low relentless way that's half degradation and half the closest he gets to losing it.
"look at you," he breathes, eyes dark and fixed, "couldn't even stay mad properly— pussy' this desperate the whole time and you thought leaving was gonna—" and you clench hard around him on accident and his sentence dies, "shit—" hips snapping brutal once, twice, rhythm breaking into something rougher, less controlled.
"mmmgh— naoya~" your voice wet and high.
"yeah," he says, strained, "yeah, that's right—" and his free hand moves between you, thumb finding your clit without breaking pace, and your vision goes sideways.
you cum loud and messy and undignified, thighs locking around his waist, and the clench of it drags a genuine broken sound out of naoya zenin; not a grunt, not a controlled exhale, a sound, cracked right through the middle, his hips driving in and grinding, stuttering through it.
"f-fuck—" and then again, quieter, helpless, face pressing into your neck while he pulses inside you warm and deep and his whole body shakes with how hard he's trying not to make it obvious how gone he is.
he stays inside. breathing hard. the smirk is gone — just his face, flushed and wrecked and younger-looking somehow, eyes shut.
a long beat.
"you're not doing that again," he says, finally, into your shoulder. hoarse.
"what, leaving, or making you—"
"either," he says, fast, and the tips of his ears go pink and he absolutely does not acknowledge that you noticed.
★ MAHITO
mahito would think it was funny.
that's the first thing. you walk back through the door still pissed, still running the argument on a loop, still convinced you were right and he's right there, cross-legged on the floor like he'd been sitting exactly like that since you left, head tilted, those mismatched eyes tracking you from across the room with this expression like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all week. wide smile. the kind that doesn't mean what smiles usually mean.
"you came back," he says, and he sounds delighted.
not relieved. not apologetic. delighted, like you'd passed some test he'd set without telling you, like the whole three hours was a game with a conclusion he'd already predicted. you want to say something cutting and instead you say "don't make it weird—"
"i'm not making it weird," he murmurs, already unfolding from the floor, already moving, the way mahito moves was always so fluid and too-casual, like joints work slightly differently for him, like he's interested in the trajectory of a thing before it knows it's moving. "you left mad and you came back. that's just what happened." he's close now, head dipping slightly to look at your face, smile gone smaller and more specific. "you missed me."
"i didn't—"
"you did," he says, and the certainty of it is disgusting, and correct, and you hate everything.
he kisses you the way he does everything — like it's a new thing he's curious about, too much attention on it, one hand coming up to hold your face in place with his palms flat against your jaw so he can look at you while he does it, which shouldn't be as intense as it is.
his hands are always slightly cooler than they should be. you notice it every time. his thumbs press your cheeks and he pulls back just enough to study your expression at close range, eyes moving across your face like he's cataloguing something.
"still mad?" he asks, conversational.
"yes—"
"good," he says, and means it, and walks you backward toward the bed.
mahito likes you angry. that's the honest truth of it, the part you've stopped being surprised by — he likes the fight still in you, the flush of it, the way your eyes go bright when you're pissed off at him.
he says it makes you more interesting, which is terrifying on a fundamental level and also the most sincere compliment he has the architecture to give.
he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and uses the other to get your clothes off with this absorbed, intent focus, like unwrapping something he's genuinely curious about, and when he spreads you open with his fingers and finds you already wet his whole face does something that cracks the grin into something softer and much worse.
"heh," he breathes, delighted again, "you were thinking about it the whole time."
"mahito i swear—"
"you were," he says, fingers curling in, and your back arches off the mattress.
plp plp plp of his fingers working into you in the quiet room, the wet sounds of it embarrassingly loud, and he watches your face with this open fascination that would be uncomfortable in any other context and is uncomfortable in this one too.
his thumb finds your clit and circles and you stop caring about comfortable. "there," he says softly, more to himself than you, tracking the specific shape your face makes, the way your thighs want to close and his hand keeps them open. "there you are."
he edges you once. just to see what happens. pulls back when your hips are chasing and your voice has gone high and broken and watches you come down from it with his head tilted and his eyes bright. "mahito~" his name comes out lewd, "please—"
"please what," he says, genuinely curious, like he's collecting data.
getting him inside you makes him go briefly, wonderfully, undone — the composed curious thing cracking open at the stretch of you around him, a rough sound against your throat that he doesn't bother covering, just feels them and reports back.
"fuuuck—" drawn out, honest, his hips grinding the last inch in while his fingers dig into your thigh. you feel every ridge of him, the slight upward curve, and your walls clench helplessly and he makes another sound, this one shorter and more surprised, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"you always—" he starts, and stops. tries again. "every time you—" and stops again, which for mahito, who always has something to say, is saying something.
he starts moving before he finishes the sentence.
slap slap slap, his hips meeting yours, the pace building into something relentless and deep that knocks the air out of you in short punched increments.
his hair falls around both of you, long and bluish-grey and falling out of whatever loose hold it'd been in, and when you grab a fistful of it he groans loud, hips stuttering hard. his hand finds yours and keeps it there, keeps the grip, like he wants you pulling.
"yeah," he breathes, "yeah, mmm— harder—" and you're almost laughing except he snaps his hips and hits something deep that dissolves the laugh into a keen that bounces off the walls.
"mahito—" wrecked, too many syllables, your voice doing something it's not supposed to do.
"i know," he says, "i know i know, you're—" and he bites your shoulder, sharp, and you clench and he shudders and the rhythm breaks into something desperate and stuttering and completely out of the neat curiosity it'd started with.
he gets you off twice, which you were not prepared for, the second one rolling directly into the first before you've caught your breath, and he watches both of them happen up close with this half-lidded focus while his own breathing comes completely apart.
the second time your walls lock around him and your voice cracks on his name he tips over too — a low grunt sound, hips buried, grinding through it with his face in your neck and his hands gripping your hips hard enough you'll feel it tomorrow in the shape of his fingers.
warm spill of him, deep, and he keeps rolling his hips through the aftershocks because he can't quite stop, little involuntary rocks that drag sounds out of both of you.
silence. both of you breathing.
he lifts his head. looks at your face. the smile that comes back is smaller than usual, something genuine underneath it that mahito doesn't always let sit on the surface. "you're not doing that again," he says, meaning the leaving.
"that's not really your decision—"
"you're not doing that again," he repeats, patient, and his nose touches yours, and it's the closest he's getting to please don't leave and you both know it and he'd never say it with different words.
I'm SICK and TIRED of the Kento Nanami mischaracterization.
(Now playing, "Sweet" - Cigarettes After Sex)
(MDNI! Lots of nsfw/sex talk, Husband!Nanami, fluff, comfort(?), smut, short drabble, Reader is heavily implied fem, pregnancy talk, I suppose? Just soft sex with Nanami.)
Kento Nanami does not fuck.
This man is not coming home after a hard day at work and "fucking the shit out of you." Half the time, he can barely get the dinner you made him in his stomach before he's crashing.
This man is not getting off on being called daddy. Or spanking you while calling you his "good little girl."
Nanami views the idea of coming home to you as the only good thing about leaving in the first place. So when he does come back home to you, he expects softness. Comfort. Not lust.
Nanami isn't a lustful man. This isn't to say he doesn't like sex. He adores it. With the right person, of course. But it's not something he does for his own greed. Kento does not fuck. He makes love.
As cheesy as he knows he'd sound if he ever said it out loud, it's the only descriptive that's ever felt right to him. Nanami doesn't want to grab you by your legs and pin you to the wall and "fuck" you. That sounds aggressive, degrading. As if his spouse, his love, his reason for coming home at all, was something to be used.
Nanami pours all of his love into having sex with you. (Literally and figuratively)
He's not grabbing your chin and spitting into your mouth. He's interlocking your fingers, his lips ghosting over yours as his forehead rests against your own.
He's not saying "look at this pretty fuckin' thing..." while admiring the way your cunt clenches around him. He's saying, "You're so pretty... my angel.." while looking into your teary eyes.
Yes, Nanami is Cumming inside of you. But it's not because he wants to "claim" you or prove he "owns" you. But because he wishes to one day start a family with you. A real family. With the love of his life.
This man isn't rolling over and falling asleep on the opposite side of the bed after sex. Nanami cleans you up as if the touch of water on its own will make you disintegrate like cotton candy. He wraps you up in his big arms, knowing there's not a single place on earth you could be safer. He's kissing the top of your head and rubbing your back as you both fall asleep.
《A/N: stop headcannoning Nanami as some weird lowk abusive freaky BDSM husband 🙏 SUKUNA IS RIGHT THERE.》
in which the men turn to the AITA subreddit for opinions on their relationship disputes. the comments aren't always the most...supportive
warnings: just fluff and crack, some cursing, some sexual language, prob not the most accurate depiction of reddit (I am not familiar with the platform so I did my best lol), non curse au mostly, NOT PROOFREAD (this was a pain to edit you don't even know so I don't want to hear it)
featuring: Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, Nanami, Sukuna
your husband hiromi never misses an anniversary—until now.
tags: higuruma x reader, husband!hiromi, gn!reader, hurt/comfort (kinda?), married life shenanigans, based on this ask
hiromi stares at the date and time on his phone.
fuck.
it's your wedding anniversary. he only realized that two minutes ago, and it's already a few minutes past eleven at night. to make things worse, he's still at the firm, still buried in cases and documents that suddenly feel meaningless in his hands.
hiromi's gaze flicks back to the screen—to your message, still unread until earlier.
are you coming home early tonight?
and his reply—too quick, too thoughtless:
still busy.
that's what he sent you. that's what you'll be reading alone.
you already bore with too much of his missed dinners, missed dates, missed breakfasts, but never a missed anniversary—not until now, at least.
shit.
hiromi exhales sharply through his nose, already standing, already gathering his things—movements efficient, practiced, automatic. but there's a tension in him now, something tighter than exhaustion, because this isn't just another late night.
it's this night.
his mind scrambles as he locks his office drawer.
flowers? everything's closed.
dinner? everything's closed.
a reservation? what a joke.
even the convenience store options feel insulting in his head.
still, he's moving. still trying, still late.
the elevator ride down feels too slow. every second stretches in a way that makes him more aware of how badly he's already failed the night.
by the time he steps into his car, his fingers are already dialing a florists he knows is open late for emergencies.
it rings—once, twice, then—
the tone flats. closed, of course.
he grips the steering wheel a little tighter.
“of course,” he grits out.
the drive home is quiet, but absolutely not peaceful. his thoughts don't let him settle into it. they keep circling back to one thing:
you were waiting, and probably still are.
you probably expected to see him beside you first thing in the morning. you probably expected flowers at your door by noon. maybe a call to a nice dinner out in the evening.
instead, you got a cold reply from him telling you he's still busy.
when he finally gets home, the house is dim. hiromi steps inside slowly, loosening his tie halfway out of habit before stopping entirely when he notices something: no warm greeting, no sound of footsteps, just... stillness.
then he sees you sitting on the couch. not asleep, but waiting, and that's somehow worse.
hiromi closes the door behind him more gently than usual.
“sweetheart,” he breathes out. “look, i'm s—”
“have you eaten?”
hiromi pauses at your interruption. he swallows down any excuses in his throat. “...i haven't,” he admits. “if you want, i can look for a res—”
“i already set aside dinner for you,” you cut in again. “i'll go to bed.”
he hastily rushes to your side. “sweetheart, thank you for dinner. have you eaten? maybe we can eat to—”
“i'm full.”
hiromi sucks in a breath. “...okay,” he whispers. “alright. come here.” he leans in to press a kiss against your cheek, but the way you tilt your head away even the slightest bit makes hims freeze.
“wow,” you chuckle humorlessly, “bold.”
“i'm sorry,” hiromi immediately says. “i remembered late. i know that's not—” he sighs, “—enough. i... got busy.”
that's when you look at him properly, and it makes him straighten up.
“i wasn't asking for the perfect night,” you say softly. “i just wanted you know you remembered it was ours.”
hiromi's jaw tightens slightly. “i did,” he says, quieter now. “just not when it mattered.”
“that's the thing, hiromi.”
he goes still at his name like that.
you continue despite it. “i keep being understanding. i keep moving things around so your life works.” you look away before adding, “and i think i stopped being something you have to make time for.”
hiromi's feet move on their own. by the next second, he's already crouched in front of you.
“tell me what you need,” he says quietly. “...please, sweetheart. i'll do anything, just... don't shut me out.”
the next morning, you wake up alone. you blink up at the ceiling, thoughts drifting off to last night. with a heavy chest, you drag yourself off to bed before heading out to the kitchen to make yourself breakfast.
just when you step out of the room, you freeze at the sound of dishes clinking. your eyes flicker to the wall clock nearby—it's already nine in the morning, hiromi should be out by now. when you reach the kitchen, you find him in there, setting the table.
hiromi glances up when he hears you.
“...good morning,” he greets.
he doesn't approach, doesn't reach out, doesn't initiate anything. instead, he gestures at the table and says, “i made breakfast.”
you don't argue, but you don't thank him either.
later that day, you're baffled to see him still at home. you're so used to him leaving early to the firm that the sight of him at his home office is unusual.
“...you're not going in?” you ask.
hiromi doesn't look up from the document in his hands.
“i called in,” he simply responds.
you blink. “you never do that.”
“i know.” hiromi sets the file down. “i wanted to be here.”
not for work, not because he had nothing to do, just... here. with you. still, you don't respond, but you don't tell him to leave, either.
the next day, hiromi's still trying. not loudly, just consistently. he offers you snacks he knows you like while you review your own paperwork. he keeps the house quieter than usual, doesn't bring cases home this time. he, without a fail, checks on you without hovering too much.
still, the distance is obvious. you talk, but it's surface-level. you respond, but you don't soften.
and it's starting to get to him.
it happens in the evening. you're folding laundry without a word, the tv showing some soap opera from years ago. hiromi's been watching you for a while now—quiet, hesitant, like he's been building up to something.
“are you still upset with me?” he asks.
you don't look up. “you know i am.”
“i do.” a pause. “...i just don't know if it's getting any better.”
that makes your hand still. you finally look at him, and you finally see how tired your husband looks. not from work, from this. from not knowing where he stands with you.
“i don't know how to do this part,” he admits quietly.
that's new. hiromi higuruma always knows what to do. but somehow, not this.
“i can argue cases,” he continues, voice low. “i can fix problems when i understand them.” he steps closer. “but i don't know how to fix hurting you like this.”
hiromi crouches in front of you again. slowly, he lowers his head until his forehead rests on your thighs.
“i'm trying,” he weakly says. “sweetheart, i've been trying since that night.”
he presses himself closer to the warmth of your skin.
“i just don't know if you can see it.”
your chest tightens slightly. your hands fist the shirt you're holding just to stop yourself from forgiving him too quickly and pulling him up for an embrace. you were hurt, too.
“sweetheart,” hiromi murmurs, almost in a whimper, “you're staying too far away from me.”
your breath hitches. you hate that tone—not because it annoys you, but because it gets to you. every. time. still, you don't move.
hiromi almost whines from your lack of reaction. the famous atty. higuruma, feared and revered all the same, reduced to this mess. he can't complain—he brought it upon himself.
“...sweetheart,” he murmurs hoarsely. “please talk to me.”
“what do you want me to say, hiromi?” you ask quietly. that makes him freeze. there's no anger in your voice, just pure exhaustion, and that scares him.
hiromi swallows. “anything,” he admits. “just... anything that isn't silence.” his hand shifts slightly against your leg, like he's grounding himself there.
your hand tightens around the fabric in your hands. “i'm trying not to give in too easily,” you admit weakly. “to you, to this. because if i do, then it feels like what happened didn't matter as much as it did.”
“it mattered,” he says immediately. “it still does. sweetheart, please. i'm sorry.”
for a moment, there is silence again. his shoulders droop a little. then, slowly, you shift. your hand moves, hesitant at first, before resting lightly against the back of his head. your fingers thread through his hair as he keeps his face buried on your thighs.
“you're making this hard,” you murmur.
he lets out a quiet, almost breathless sound, a poor attempt at a chuckle.
“i know,” he whispers. “i'm sorry.”
your thumb brushes faintly against the crown of his head.
“i waited for you,” you say, voice soft. “i kept checking the time, telling myself you'd walk in any second.” your voice dips. “i even reheated dinner twice.”
that breaks him. you see it in the was his shoulders drop completely this time, in the way his hand presses more firmly against your leg like he needed something to hold on to.
“i'm sorry,” hiromi says again, but it's different now. quieter, heavier. “i'm so sorry.” his hands lift from your legs before gently resting at your waist.
“can i try again?” he asks softly. “not the day. i know i can't redo that.” he moves his face from your thighs to your stomach, still kneeling on the floor. “can i try again with you?”
your heart stutters. if there's one thing you know hiromi doesn't like, it's quick fixes. you just know he's being genuine. still, you two have a long way to go.
you study him for a second second longer before humming, “you already are.”
a/n: ermm didn't know what to do with the ending, so i made it (kinda) open... i love writing begging hiromi it just fits him so well
Headcanons that I think Nanami will have with you!
The rainy evening in Tokyo had finally slowed to a persistent drizzle, the kind that made the city lights blur into soft, glowing smudges against the pavement. He stepped through the front door, the familiar scent of home—sandalwood and something warm, like toasted bread—instantly loosening the tight knot of tension in his shoulders.
He moved with his usual quiet precision, hanging his beige trench coat and methodically loosening his spotted tie. The day had been long, filled with the "nonsense" of paperwork and the draining energy of minor curses, but the sight of you curled up on the sofa with a book made the fatigue feel distant.
A quiet welcome
The Greeting: He doesn't say much at first, simply walking over to press a lingering, cool-nosed kiss to your forehead.
The Shift: You notice the way his sharp gaze softens when he looks at you, the "salaryman" persona melting away to reveal the man who just wants to be home.
The Ritual: He allows you to guide him to the kitchen, where a warm cup of tea is already waiting. He treasures these small, domestic anchors.
Domestic Bliss
Nanami isn't a man of grand, sweeping gestures; his love is found in the meticulous details. It’s in the way he makes sure your favorite bakery treats are on the counter before you wake up, or how he’ll quietly take the book from your lap when you fall asleep, marking your page before tucking you in.
"You're late," you tease softly, leaning against the counter as he sips his tea.
He glances at the clock—6:05 PM. A small, rare smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Five minutes of overtime is still five minutes too many. I apologize."
He reaches out, his large hand finding yours and squeezing gently. In this quiet apartment, far from the chaos of jujutsu high and corporate offices, he isn't a Grade 1 sorcerer or a former stockbroker. He is simply yours.
Evening Routine
1. Downtime: He enjoys "boring" activities with you, like finishing a difficult puzzle or playing low-stakes video games to unwind.
2. Affection: Nanami is surprisingly tactile in private. He loves resting his head in your lap, letting you run your fingers through his hair while he closes his eyes.
3. Protection: Even on his day off, he’s observant, making sure you’re comfortable and well-fed, treating your happiness as his most important "assignment".
As the night deepens, he leads you toward the bedroom, his arm draped securely around your waist. "Let's rest," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your temple. "Tomorrow is a day off. No work, no curses. Just us."
᭡୧ Fix your route? Nah, Fuck you right. — N. Kento.
᭡୧ synopsis: in which nanami is a longtime divorced man but got a very active sex life. and in which a new, bimbo… and a very much younger neighbor moves in next to his apartment. worst part is, he’s not able to control himself around you. especially when you’re at his door, asking him to fix your wifi late at this hour.
᭡୧ pairing: older!nanami kento x kinda bimbo fem!reader
᭡୧ c. warnings: age gap, heavy sexuál tension, eyefu cking, solo m. mast urbation, nanami is in his 40s and reader is early 20s, belly/tummy bulge, fing ering, did i say heavy se xual tension?, pus sy eating, overstim ulation, squi rting, weak plot/heavy po rn — if there’s more to tag lmk. w.c: 7.8k+
nanami kento has always kept his life neat and quiet, the kind of man who folds his shirts the same way every morning and times his coffee exactly seven minutes after the water boils. forty years old, divorced once a long time ago, and now he lives alone in the corner apartment on the fourth floor where the hallway light flickers just enough to remind him he should probably call maintenance but never does.
his sex life is the same as everything else he controls, sparse and deliberate. a few times a year he lets himself download one of those bland apps, meets a woman his age in a hotel bar, fucks her slow and polite in the dark so neither of them has to look too closely at the other.
most nights though it is just his own hand in the shower, quick and efficient, eyes closed while he thinks about nothing at all. he likes it that way. clean. no mess. no complications. until you moved in next door three months ago and ruined every single one of those careful rules without even trying.
you showed up on a rainy tuesday with too many cardboard boxes and a laugh that carried through the thin walls like it belonged there.
early twenties, fresh out of whatever college or job that spat you into this building, always in oversized shirts and tiny sleep shorts that rode up the back of your thighs when you bent over to pick up your mail. nanami noticed you the first time he passed you in the hallway, the way you smiled at him like he was just another neighbor instead of a man who suddenly felt every one of those twenty years between you. he told himself it was nothing. just new noise in a building that had been quiet for years. but then the noise became something else.
the soft thump of your music when you cooked dinner, the way your balcony light stayed on late while you scrolled on your phone, the faint vanilla scent that drifted under his door every time you took out the trash. he started catching himself pausing at the peephole when he heard your keys, hating the way his cock twitched at the mere sound of your footsteps. hating it more when he realized he was hard again in the shower that same night, fist wrapped tight around himself while he pictured those sleep shorts pooled around your ankles.
he tried to ignore it at first. threw himself into longer office hours, came home later, kept the volume on his television higher so he would not hear you humming in the shower through the shared wall. it did not work.
every little thing you did chipped at him. the way you waved from your balcony in the mornings wearing nothing but a thin tank top and no bra, nipples stiff from the cool air. the way you asked him once, all sweet and shy, if he knew how to fix a leaking faucet and stood too close while he worked, soft focused grunts leaving is chest and his rolled-up sleeve. after that night he jerked off twice before he could even get his jeans off, coming so hard he had to brace one hand on the shower tile just to stay upright.
he hated how easily you affected him. hated that a girl barely old enough to rent her own apartment could make a man like him, a man who prided himself on control, feel like some desperate teenager again. his sex life used to be something he managed. now it was just quiet frustration and the occasional guilty stroke while he thought about how small you would look under him, how tight you would feel, how pretty you would sound moaning his name.
then came the router. you knocked on his door at nine-thirty one random night, voice small and embarrassed over the phone first, then in person when he opened up still dressed in his white button-up and black jeans.
nanami stands at your doorway with one hand already in his pocket, the other holding the small toolbox he keeps for these exact random neighbor emergencies all ready, and he tells himself for the tenth time that this is nothing. just a quick fix.
your voice is soft and a little embarrassed over he’s not surprised. “sorry to bother you, nanami-san, but my wifi router just died and i have no idea what i’m doing with these things.” he had sighed, told you he would be right over, and now here he is, hating every single second because the moment you open the door he feels it again. that pull. that stupid, inconvenient heat low in his gut that has been creeping up on him since the day you moved in.
you are wearing your famous oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and tiny sleep shorts that ride up when you shift your weight, bare feet on the hardwood, skin glazed with a thin layer of sweat like you had been lounging on the couch all evening.
you smile at him, grateful and a little shy, and nanami’s jaw tightens. he is forty, a divorced but settled, a man who likes order and quiet and routines that do not include getting half-hard at the sight of his much younger neighbor’s collarbones. yet here he is, eyes dragging down the line of your neck before he forces them back up.
“thank you so much for coming,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. your voice is warm, a little breathy from the relief of not having to deal with it alone. the apartment smells faintly of vanilla and whatever takeout you had for dinner.
nanami nods once, polite as always, and follows you toward the corner where the router sits on a low shelf. he can feel the weight of his own body, the clean but lived-in scent of his white button-up clinging slightly to his skin after a long day, black jeans sitting snug on his hips. he is musty in that grown-man way, soap and faint cologne mixed with the faint trace of office air and the walk over, nothing overpowering but undeniably male. he knows it. he hopes you do not notice how it fills the small space between you.
you hover close while he crouches down to look at the router, your thigh brushing his shoulder as you point at the blinking lights. “it just stopped working out of nowhere. i tried restarting it but…” your words trail off when he glances up.
his eyes catch on the way your t-shirt hangs loose, the soft swell of your tits visible at the neckline, the smooth skin of your legs right there at eye level. he should look away yet nanami does not. instead his gaze lingers, slow and heavy, tracing the curve of your hip, the way the hem of those shorts digs into the flesh of your thigh. he feels his cock twitch in his jeans, thickening against the zipper before he can stop it.
fuck.
he shifts his weight, trying to hide the growing bulge, but the movement only makes the fabric pull tighter.
“let me see,” he mutters, voice lower than he intends, rough around the edges. his fingers work the cables, checking connections, but his mind is not on the router. it is on you. on how you smell like warm skin and faint lotion, on how you keep biting your lip while you watch him, on how easily he could reach out and slide his palm up the back of your thigh.
he has been trying to ignore it for weeks. it takes him back to the way you wave at him from your balcony in the mornings, the sound of your laugh carrying through the thin walls when you are on the phone with friends, the soft thump of your music when you cook.
every little thing has been chipping away at his carefully built restraint. he is older. he should know better. but his body does not care about should.
he stands up slowly, taller than you by a good amount, and when he does his chest brushes your shoulder. you do not step back and the air between you feels thick, charged, and nanami’s eyes drop again, this time to your mouth, then lower to where your nipples have tightened under the thin shirt.
he swallows hard. his cock is fully hard now, pressing insistently against the front of his black jeans, the outline obvious if you were to look down. he turns slightly, pretending to fiddle with the router settings on his phone, but the movement only highlights the bulge.
he can feel the heat of it, the way it throbs when you lean in closer to see what he is doing, your breath ghosting over his forearm.
“is it the cable?” you ask, voice quieter now, like you have noticed the shift too. your eyes flick to his face, then down, then back up, and nanami sees the faint flush creeping up your neck. good. at least he is not suffering alone. he clears his throat, forcing his attention back to the device, but his free hand flexes at his side, knuckles whitening. he wants to touch you. wants to back you against the wall and slide those tiny shorts down your legs, wants to feel how wet you already are because he can smell it, that sweet faint arousal mixing with your usual scent.
his mind supplies the image without permission: you bent over the couch, his cock buried deep while he grips your hips and fucks the whimpers out of you. he exhales sharply through his nose.
“try it now,” he says, stepping back just enough to give you space, but not enough to hide anything. the router lights flicker green. you pull out your phone to test the connection and let out a small happy sound that goes straight to his dick.
“it works! oh my god, thank you, nanami-san.” you turn to him fully, eyes bright, and for a second he lets himself look. really look. at the way your chest rises with each breath, at the bare stretch of thigh, at how your lips part when you realize he is staring.
he does not smile. his expression stays bland, almost stern, but his eyes are dark and hungry, eye-fucking you so openly now that there is no pretending. his cock strains harder against the denim, a small wet spot forming where he is leaking, and he makes no move to hide it.
he is half heartedly relieved you do not notice. your gaze still stuck on your phone screen, lashes fluttering, and when you look back up, you read there is something new in his expression, something needy and waiting to be unleashed.
nanami’s voice comes out rougher than he means. “you should get a better router. this one is outdated.” it is the most neutral thing he can think of, but it does not matter.
the tension is already there, thick and undeniable, wrapping around both of you in the half-unpacked living room. he can feel his pulse in his cock, the heavy ache of it, the way his balls feel tight just from standing this close to you. he wants to hate how easily you affect him.
he does hate it. but he cannot stop the slow drag of his eyes over your body one more time, imagining exactly how you would look spread open on his bed, taking every inch while he tells you how long he has been fighting this.
you shift on your feet, thighs pressing together, and nanami catches the tiny movement. his jaw clenches. he should leave. he should say goodnight and go back to his quiet apartment and jerk off to the memory like he has done more nights than he cares to admit.
your heartbeat picks up its rate, your finger tips sweaty. you feel the air thickening already, noticing the print of your neighbors dick without even looking down.
“so maybe you could stay and i could make you some te–” your proposal is short lived.
“i’ve fixed what you’ve called me to help for. goodnight.” his stern voice catches you off guard, watching him collect and grab the toolbox on the floor that was forgotten seconds ago. you try to say something but stay frozen when he pushes past you, his neck veins slightly showing on his skin.
nanami strides out fast. because right now, with his cock hard and obvious and his control fraying at the edges, he is not sure he has the strength to stay in the same room with you.
and so he leaves you standing in the middle of your apartment with your wifi fixed and a pile of notifications ‘ding-ing’ every seconds.
+
a week drags by in thick, unspoken tension that sits heavy between the thin apartment walls like smoke that refuses to clear.
nanami wakes each morning with the same stern resolution burning behind his eyes: keep the distance, lock it down, pretend the night you called him over for the router never happened. he leaves for the office before the sun fully rises, comes home long after the hallway lights have dimmed, and when he passes your door he keeps his gaze fixed on the scuffed floorboards like they hold the answers to every moral question he has been asking himself since he first felt that inconvenient throb in his jeans. but the memory refuses to fade.
it lingers in the shower when hot water runs down his chest and his hand wraps around his cock without permission, stroking slow and frustrated while your freshly known name slips out between gritted teeth like a confession he wishes he could swallow back.
it follows him into bed at night, where he lies stiff on his back and remembers the exact shade of flush that crept up your neck when his eyes dragged too long over your body.
he hates it. hates how easily a girl barely out of her early twenties can unravel the careful, quiet life he has built for himself. he is older, disciplined, a man who values order and restraint above almost everything, yet here he is, reduced to stolen glances through the balcony railing and late-night strokes that leave him emptier than before.
you do not make any of it easier. you still wave at him from across the narrow gap between your balconies in the mornings, soft smile curving your lips like you know exactly what you are doing to him. you leave polite little notes taped to his door about shared packages or the new recycling bins downstairs, your handwriting neat and looping in a way that makes his fingers tighten around the paper every time.
each accidental brush of your fingers when you hand him mail in the hallway sends a spark straight down his spine, and every polite “good morning, nanami-san” you offer chips away at the walls he keeps trying to reinforce. he catches the sound of your laugh through the thin wall sometimes when you are on the phone with people… your age, light and warm, and his cock thickens in his slacks before he can stop it.
he tells himself it is nothing. just proximity. just the natural reaction of a man who has been alone too long. but deep down he knows the truth: you have gotten under his skin, and the more he tries to push it away the harder it pulls.
tonight the last thread of his restraint finally frays and snaps.
the familiar knock comes at exactly the time he wishes it to, soft but insistent, cutting through the quiet of his evening like a hook sinking into flesh.
nanami opens the door still dressed from the office, white button-up with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, black jeans sitting low on his hips, the faint musty-clean scent of him drifting out into the hallway, clean and faint cologne and the long day clinging to his skin.
you stand there in another oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder and those same tiny sleep shorts that have been haunting him, hair not perfect like you had been caught up in something… private, cheeks already carrying that telltale pink flush. it’s as if last week was repeating itself.
“the router again,” you say, voice small and breathy, but your eyes are not on any imaginary problem. they trace the open collar of his shirt, the broad line of his shoulders, the way his chest fills the doorway. “it keeps dropping signal. i tried everything you showed me last time but… i think i need your help again.”
he should tell you no. should suggest you call the building manager in the morning this time and close the door before the air between you thickens any further. instead he exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight, and reaches for the small toolbox he keeps by the door without saying a word.
he follows you next door, the faint click of the lock behind him sounding louder than it should. the moment you are both inside the living room the atmosphere shifts, warmer and heavier, like the space itself is holding its breath. you lead him to the same corner shelf where the router sits, but this time you do not hover at a polite distance.
you stand close enough that your bare arm brushes his rough skin when he crouches down to look. the lights on the router are steady green. he knows it is working fine the second he glances at it. and most definitely you know it.
the excuse is paper-thin and neither of you bothers to pretend otherwise.
nanami rises slowly, turning to face you fully, his tall frame casting a shadow over you in the soft lamplight. his eyes do the same slow, solemn drag they did the week before, only heavier now, sharpened by seven long days of fighting the memory of your body.
he watches the way your nipples have already tightened under the thin fabric of your shirt, the subtle press of your thighs together like the ache between them is already building. his cock responds immediately, swelling thick and heavy inside his black jeans, the thick ridge becoming obvious as it presses against the denim. he’s sure a faint damp spot is beginning to form, but he does not try to hide it this time. he lets you see. lets the weight of his stare settle on you like a touch.
“the router is working fine,” he says, voice low and rough, carrying that same stern tone he always uses, like he is delivering a verdict in court rather than standing in your living room with a hard-on he cannot will away. “you know that as well as i do. why did you really call me over here?”
you swallow visibly, eyes flicking down to the clear outline of his cock straining against his jeans before rising back to his face.
your chest rises and falls with a heavier breath, lips parting slightly, but instead of answering you take one slow step back. then another. your hands move to the waistband of your sleep shorts, fingers hooking under the fabric, and you bend forward just enough to slide them down your legs in one smooth motion.
the shorts pool at your ankles and you step out of them, leaving you in nothing but a pair of grey lace panties with delicate pink ribbons threaded along the edges. the soft fabric clings to the curve of your pussy, the faint outline of your folds visible through the thin material, and nanami’s right leg twitches involuntarily, his cock jerking hard inside his jeans at the sight.
his brows draw together in a quick pretend of frown, serious expression tightening. “what are you doing?” he asks, voice dropping even lower, a clear warning threaded through the words. but you do not stop. your fingers catch the hem of your oversized t-shirt next, lifting it slowly, inch by inch, revealing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate dip of your waist, the underside of your breasts.
you pull the shirt up and over your head, letting it drop to the floor beside the shorts, and now you stand there in only the grey lace panties, tits bare, nipples stiff in the cool air of the room. nanami’s breath catches, his hands flexing hard at his sides, the long fingers curling into fists as he fights the urge to reach for you.
he says your name then, low and rough, the syllables heavy with warning. “don’t.” but you only smile, small and soft and knowing, and continue. your thumbs hook into the waistband of the panties, sliding them down your hips with agonizing slowness, the lace catching briefly on the swell of your ass before you let them fall.
you step out of them completely, now fully naked in front of him, skin flushed warm under his heavy gaze. you walk toward him, bare feet quiet on the floor, hips swaying just enough to make your tits move softly with each step. when you are close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body, when his mouth opens to speak again, you lift one finger and press it gently to his lips, shushing him.
nanami lets out a small, broken sound, half whimper, half groan, the noise slipping out before he can stop it. his cock throbs visibly in his jeans, another bead of pre-cum soaking into the fabric as the tension coils tighter in the narrow space between your bodies.
he exhales shakily against your finger, eyes dark and conflicted, thick needy lines deepening on his face. “you’re a very young girl…” he trails off, voice rough and strained, the words carrying the weight of every reason he has been telling himself to stay away.
you pull your finger back just enough to speak, voice soft but steady. “i’m legal.”
“barely,” he counters immediately, the word clipped, his gaze dropping despite himself to the bare curve of your breasts, it taught him to squeeze on them and make you feel good, the soft swell of your hips, the smooth skin between your thighs where he can already see the faint shine of arousal. “you’re barely twenty-something. i’m more than twice your age. this… this is not appropriate.”
you tilt your head slightly, still standing naked and unashamed in front of him, the tension so thick it feels like the air itself has weight. “and yet you’re standing here with your cock so hard i can see it twitching through your jeans,” you murmur, eyes flicking down pointedly to the obvious bulge. “you’ve been avoiding me all week, nanami-san, but you still came over the second i knocked. tell me again how inappropriate this is.”
caught him red handed. fuck you.
he lets out another low groan, the sound vibrating in his chest, his hand coming up like he might push you away but instead hovering just above your waist, fingers trembling with restraint. “you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, voice quieter now, almost pained. “i’m not some young man who can just… give in without consequences. you deserve better than an older neighbor who can’t keep his eyes off you.”
the banter stretches, slow and heavy, every word laced with the electric pull between you. you step even closer, your bare breasts brushing the front of his white shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric, and nanami’s breath hitches sharply. “then why does it feel like you’ve been thinking about this as much as i have?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. “why do you look at me like you want to bend me over every time we pass in the hall?”
his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking visibly, but his eyes stay locked on yours even as his cock continues to throb between you.
“because i do,” he admits finally, the words dragged out like they cost him something. “i want to. more than i should. but you’re young. barely out of college. and i’m… this.” he gestures vaguely at himself, the musty yet cleaned scent of his body stronger now with the heat rising off his skin, the faint sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. “a tired man who should know better.”
you smile again, softer this time, and reach up to trace one finger along the line of his jaw. “then stop fighting it for one night,” you whisper. “just let yourself have me. i want you, nanami. i’ve wanted you since the first time you fixed my router and looked at me like you were starving.”
the silence stretches again, thick and humming with tension, his breath coming heavier now, chest rising and falling against yours. his hand finally settles on your waist, large palm warm and slightly rough against your bare skin, thumb stroking once, slow and deliberate.
he does not pull you closer yet, but he does not push you away either. the battle is still there in his eyes, solemn and conflicted, but the hunger is winning, inch by aching inch, as the minutes tick by in the quiet room and his cock continues to strain painfully against his jeans, waiting for the moment his restraint finally gives out completely.
nanami’s hand tightens on your waist, fingers spanning wide enough to nearly wrap around the curve of it, and the last of his resistance crumbles like dry paper under the heat of your bare skin against his palm.
he exhales once, long and shaky, eyes still calculated but dark now with the kind of hunger he has been trying to bury for weeks, and then he is moving, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch and you sink down onto the cushions. he follows without a word, dropping to his knees between your spread thighs like a man who has finally stopped pretending he can walk away.
his broad shoulders push your legs wider, the white button-up stretching tight across his chest as he leans in, breath hot against the inside of your thigh. he looks up at you one last time, jaw set, like he is giving you one final chance to tell him no, but you only slide your fingers into his neatly combed hair and tug him closer. that is all it takes.
his mouth finds your pussy like he has been starving for it, lips parting to drag a slow, broad stripe up your folds, tongue flat and heavy as he tastes you properly for the first time. the groan that vibrates out of his chest is low and rough, almost pained, because you are already soaked, slick coating his tongue in a way that makes his cock jerk hard inside his jeans.
he licks again, slower this time, savoring the way your thighs tremble on either side of his head, then seals his mouth around your clit and sucks gently, tongue flicking in tight little circles that have your back arching off the couch. one of his huge hands slides up your stomach, palm pressing flat just below your navel, and he pushes down with just enough pressure to make your pussy clench around nothing.
the size of his hand there is obscene, fingers spread wide so his pinky rests near the base of your ribs and his thumb brushes the top of your mound, the sheer scale of him against your smaller frame making everything feel tighter, hotter, more overwhelming.
nanami eats you out like he has all night and nothing else matters, tongue sliding deep between your folds before circling back up to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that builds slow and relentless. his free hand grips your thigh, spreading you even wider, thumb digging into the soft flesh while he buries his face deeper, nose pressing against your mound as he drinks down every drop of you. the wet sounds fill the quiet room, wet and loud, his groans mixing with the slick slide of his tongue and the shaky breaths you keep letting out.
he keeps that steady pressure on your lower belly the whole time, palm rubbing slow circles that make your insides twist and flutter, the tummy bullying so deliberate it feels like he is trying to feel exactly where his mouth is working from the inside. your hips twitch, trying to ride his face, but he holds you down with that big hand, keeping you exactly where he wants you while he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
when you come it hits hard and sudden, pussy pulsing against his tongue as your thighs clamp around his head and a broken moan spills out of you. nanami does not stop. he keeps licking you through it, slower now but just as thorough, tongue dragging over your oversensitive clit until your whole body jerks and you try to squirm away from the intensity.
he only presses his palm firmer against your stomach, holding you in place, the slight overstimulation making your eyes water and your voice crack on his name. “nanami…plea– fuck, it’s too much,” you whimper, but he just hums against you, the vibration sending another sharp spark through your core, and slides two thick fingers into your still-clenching pussy without warning. they stretch you wide, the size of them so much bigger than your own that you feel every knuckle, every ridge, as he curls them deep and starts pumping slow and steady.
he lifts his head just enough to watch his fingers disappear inside you, eyes dark and tempting, lips shiny with your slick. “look at how well you take them,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, the praise low and almost reverent as he presses down on your belly again with his other hand, feeling the way his fingers create a very faint bulge against your walls from the outside.
the pressure makes everything tighter, more intense, and you clench hard around him, another wave of overstimulation crashing through you while he keeps fingering you through the aftershocks. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles that have you shaking, the combination of his thick fingers stretching you open and the firm press on your tummy turning every breath into a broken little sob.
he does not rush. he just keeps working you, long fingers dragging along that perfect spot inside while his palm rubs steady circles on your stomach, bullying that soft lower belly until you are dripping down his wrist and whimpering his name like it will make it better than it already is.
only when your thighs are trembling uncontrollably and your pussy is fluttering helplessly around his fingers does he finally ease up, sliding them out slow and careful, bringing them to his mouth to lick clean with a low groan that makes your stomach flip.
he stays on his knees between your legs for a long moment, forehead resting against your thigh, breathing hard while his cock strains painfully against his jeans, the front of the fabric dark with pre-cum. when he finally looks up at you his eyes are still determined, still carrying that quiet conflict, but the hunger has won completely now, and the way he stares at your flushed, marked body makes it clear he is nowhere near done with you tonight.
nanami stays on his knees between your spread thighs for another long, heavy breath, forehead pressed to the soft skin just above your knee while his chest rises and falls like he is trying to steady something inside himself that already broke minutes ago. his fingers are still shiny with you, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the sharp sweetness of your pussy hanging thick in the air.
when he finally moves it is slow and deliberate, like every motion costs him something. he rises to his full height, towering over you on the couch, white button-up wrinkled and damp at the collar from the heat rolling off both of you. his hands, large and steady, slide under your thighs and around your back in one smooth motion, scooping you up off the cushions like you weigh nothing at all.
your legs wrap around his slim waist on instinct, heels digging into the firm muscle of his lower back, and the sudden shift leaves you gasping against his shoulder because he lifts you so easily, strong arms locking you against his chest while your bare pussy hovers right above the heavy bulge still trapped in his jeans.
he does not give you time to look down. one arm stays banded tight under your ass, holding your weight like it is effortless, while his free hand works between your bodies to unbuckle his belt with a quiet metallic clink. the zipper follows, the sound loud in the quiet room, and he shoves both jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself.
you feel the thick, heavy length spring up against your inner thigh, hot and velvet-smooth, the blunt mushroom head already slick and leaking. before you can even tilt your head to catch a glimpse he shifts you higher in his arms, pressing your back against the nearest wall for leverage, and uses that same free hand to guide the fat head of his cock right to your dripping entrance.
the broad tip nudges through your folds, rubbing slow and deliberate, coating himself in your slick while he watches your face with those solemn dark eyes, brows knitted tight like he is still fighting the last scraps of restraint.
“breathe,” he mutters, voice low and rough, the single word almost gentle even as his hips tilt forward. he helps you sink down, one thick inch at a time, the stretch burning so good it makes your jaw go slack and your eyes flutter half-shut.
he is big, thicker than anything you have taken, the veined shaft dragging along your walls as he lowers you steadily until your ass meets his hips and he is buried to the hilt. a quiet groan tears from his throat when he bottoms out, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours, and for a long second he just holds you there, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing deep inside your smaller body.
you’re pressed and folded in an awkward position, and it only makes the size difference feel more obscene, your soft curves dwarfed by his tall, solid frame.
nanami does not wait long. his hands grip your ass harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he starts to move, lifting you up and dropping you back down onto his cock with controlled, powerful strokes that hammer into you deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. each thrust makes your whole body jolt in his arms, tits bouncing under nothing. bare and free for him to watch, back sliding against the wall while he fucks up into you like he has been imagining it for weeks.
his height towers over you completely, shoulders broad enough to block out the room, white shirt straining across his chest with every roll of his hips.
the mushroom head of his cock drags perfectly along that spot inside you on every downstroke, the sheer size of him making your belly bulge slightly every time he bottoms out, a faint outline visible under your skin if you looked down, but he keeps your face buried against his neck so you cannot.
he keeps that steady, punishing rhythm, hips snapping up hard while his arms hold you suspended like you are weightless, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing louder with every thrust. sweat beads along his hairline, dampening the collar of his shirt, and his breath comes in hot, measured pants against your ear.
“too big for you?” he asks, voice strained but still carrying that solemn edge, even as he grinds deep and holds you there for a heartbeat, letting you feel how completely he fills you.
your only answer is a broken moan and loled nod, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, legs tightening around his waist as another wave of overstimulation starts building fast. he does not slow down. he just keeps lifting and dropping you onto every thick inch, eyebrows still knitted in concentration, eyes flicking between your slack mouth and the way your body takes him so greedily.
his shirt keeps getting in the way, bunching up between both of you, so he shifts his grip, one hand sliding up to yank the fabric higher until it is completely off of him, exposing his sweaty chest completely to the cool air and your half-focused stare.
now there is nothing between you but sweat-slick skin and the relentless drag of his cock stretching you open. he leans in, mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin while he hammers into you harder, the angle shifting so the head of his cock bullies that perfect spot with every upward thrust. your smaller frame jolts in his arms with each powerful stroke, pussy clenching tight around the thick length splitting you apart, and nanami groans low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest as he feels you start to flutter around him again.
he keeps you pinned against the wall like that, towering over you, strong arms never tiring as he fucks you deep and steady, the size difference so stark it makes your head spin. every time he bottoms out his hips grind against your clit, the pressure on your lower belly from the inside making everything feel tighter, fuller, more overwhelming.
you are already close again, thighs shaking around his waist, voice cracking on his name, and nanami just holds you there, determined eyes locked on your face while he drives you closer to the edge with every heavy thrust, determined to feel you come around his cock before he lets himself follow.
nanami’s rhythm starts to falter just a little, hips snapping up with shorter, more desperate strokes while his breath comes hot and ragged against the side of your neck. he can feel it building fast, that tight coil low in his gut, his heavy balls drawing up tight and aching as your pussy flutters and squeezes around every thick inch of him.
but he refuses to let go first. he is older, more controlled, and right now that control means making sure you fall apart completely before he does.
with a low grunt he shifts his grip, one big hand sliding under your ass to tilt your hips forward while the other presses flat against your lower back, forcing your spine into a deep arch that pushes your pelvis out and opens you up even more obscenely. the new angle is nasty, almost cruel, your body folded and suspended in his arms so your clit grinds hard against the base of his cock on every upward thrust and the fat head of him drags directly into that spongy spot inside you at a brutal upward curve.
your legs dangle wider, heels kicking uselessly against his lower back, the sheer size difference making you feel like you are being split open and rearranged from the inside while he holds you like a toy.
he starts hammering into you with that filthy new angle, cock bullying that spot over and over until your eyes roll back and broken sobs start spilling from your slack mouth.
the overstimulation crashes in hard and fast, your already sensitive pussy clenching and spasming around him while tears prick at the corners of your eyes and start to slip down your flushed cheeks.
your hand flies down between your bodies on instinct, palm pushing weakly at his lower stomach like you can stop the relentless drag of his cock, fingers scrabbling against the damp fabric of his white shirt. nanami’s eyes narrow, jaw tightening, and he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he hisses the words low and dark, “do that again and i’ll fucking hurt you good.”
the threat hits you like a live wire. your whole body seizes, a choked cry tearing from your throat, and then you are squirting hard around his cock, hot fluid gushing out in messy pulses that soak his jeans, drip down his balls, and splatter onto the floor beneath you.
nanami groans deep and filthy at the feeling, the wet heat flooding around him making his cock twitch violently inside you. he does not slow down. if anything he fucks you harder, hips snapping up with wet, punishing slaps while his free hand slides between your bodies and starts tracing tight, relentless infinity signs over your swollen clit with two thick fingers. the pressure is mean and perfect, circling and dragging in that figure-eight pattern while he keeps pounding into that nasty folded angle, cock bullying your g-spot and his fingers never letting up on your overstimulated clit.
“i know, baby, i know,” he rasps against your ear, voice hoarse and strained, the words almost soothing even as he wrecks you. “you can take it. just let it happen.” your legs shake violently around his waist, tears streaming freely now, little hiccuping sobs mixing with the wet squelch of your pussy taking every brutal thrust.
nanami keeps that freaky rhythm going, hips rolling deep, fingers drawing those endless infinity loops over your clit until your vision whites out and another shattering orgasm rips through you, pussy clamping down so hard it almost forces him out. he hisses through his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest, but he powers through it, fucking you straight through the peak and into the trembling aftershocks.
his own control finally snaps. his balls tighten almost painfully, cock swelling even thicker inside your fluttering walls as he buries himself to the hilt one last time, grinding deep while thick, hot ropes of cum flood you. he comes with a low, broken groan that vibrates through his chest, pulsing hard and endless, filling you so full that it starts leaking out around his cock in creamy white streaks every time he gives one last shallow thrust.
the mess is everywhere, your squirt and his cum dripping down your thighs, soaking the front of his jeans and pooling on the floor, the obscene wet sounds slowly fading as he keeps you pinned against the wall, still buried deep, both of you heaving for air.
nanami’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breathing hard, the last energy well spent, showing of with both of your sweat-soaked body mixing with the sharp smell of sex filling the room. his arms stay locked around you, holding your smaller frame effortlessly even as his cock twitches with the last weak spurts inside you.
for a long moment the only sounds are your shaky sobs and his ragged breathing, bodies trembling together in the aftermath, messy and spent and still connected. he does not pull out yet. he just keeps you there, suspended in his arms, the quiet weight of everything that just happened settling heavy between you while his cum continues to leak slowly out around where he is still buried deep.
nanami stays buried inside you for what feels like forever, thick cock still twitching with the last lazy pulses while warm cum slowly leaks out around where your bodies are joined, dripping down your thighs and onto the floor in messy little trails.
your legs are still wrapped around his waist, trembling, heels digging weakly into his lower back like you cannot quite let go yet, and he keeps holding you up without any effort, strong arms locked under your ass, keeping your smaller frame suspended against the wall like it is the most natural thing in the world. your shaky little sobs eventually quiet into soft, hiccuping breaths, tears drying on your cheeks, but the overstimulation still makes your pussy flutter weakly around him every few seconds, milking out another thin trickle of his cum.
finally he shifts, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he carefully pulls out, the wet sound loud and obscene in the quiet room.
a thick glob of his cum follows immediately, sliding out of your swollen, puffy pussy and running down to join the mess already pooled beneath you. he lowers you gently until your feet touch the floor, but your legs are too shaky to hold you, so he keeps one arm banded around your waist, steadying you against his chest while his other hand tucks himself back into his briefs and jeans with a quiet zip.
the white button-up is wrinkled and damp with sweat when he puts it back on, black jeans dark at the front from your squirt, but he still looks put-together in that quiet, solemn way of his, even now.
he does not say anything at first. just looks down at you with those dark, heavy eyes, thumb brushing slow circles on your bare hip like he cannot quite stop touching you. then he exhales, long and tired, and rests his forehead against yours for a brief second.
“this…” his voice comes out rough, low, almost reluctant. “this can’t happen again.”
the words hang between you, simple and final, even as his hand lingers on your skin and his cum continues to drip slowly down the inside of your thigh.
he presses one last, almost gentle kiss to your temple, the kind of kiss that feels heavier than any promise, before he steps back. his fingers flex once at his sides like he is fighting the urge to pull you close again, then he turns toward the door, shoulders straight, footsteps quiet on the floor.
“get some rest,” he murmurs without looking back, the manly scent of him still clinging to your skin. “and… call the building manager about the router next time.”
the door clicks shut behind him, leaving you standing there naked and trembling in the middle of your living room, thighs sticky, pussy aching and full of him, the quiet weight of what just happened settling deep in your chest. you know he means it. you also know, deep down, that neither of you really believes it.
well y’all i had to claw my nails onto a wall to storm this idea so it better do good or you’re not hearing from me again.. (i’m literally posting in few hours again 😛)
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