I just arrived at your blog, but MEGUMI MAKES A MOVIE WITH YOU FFC IS SOOOOOO GOOOD. You've won me over, I declare myself a new fan and now I'll devour everything you've written so far
HIII welcome! thank you, iâm so glad! and please eat well đ
if anyone is in the mood, pls enjoy my first smut here!!! âĄ
gĹjo satoru âËđš ÖśÖ¸Ö˘ gets his makeup done.
genre: pre-smut / fluff
turns out putting eyeliner on satoru is a contact sport. one heâs losing, but refusing to go down without a fight.
âhold still.â
knees bent, satoruâs endless frame is stretched out on your soft carpet, the soft but firm command settling over him.
âi am,â he whines, rapidly brushing ivory lashes against your thumb, where your hand currently rests to steady your pencil. âsee? perfect angel.â
âsatoru.â astriding his waist, you sink back onto your heels to fix him a look. âyour leg.â
satoru blinks, tilting his head down. his leg is, in fact, bouncing.
he laughs, brief, uttering an âoops,â with zero surprise in his cadenceâforcing his heel to drop flat.
âgood,â you approve, restless vibration ceasing at last beneath the weight of you.
unfortunately for you, the reign is short-lived.
as satoru readjusts his head on the rogue pillow you'd dragged to the floor, silken strands of his fringe fall straight across his brow bone, blocking the clear view of his light azure eyes.
âyour hair..â you huff. âitâs getting in the way.â
ânot my fault itâs so good,â satoru chimes in, having regained his playful, lazy edge. he rakes up his bangsâentirely too pleased with himself.
âthatâs not gonna hold at all.â you furrow your brows, tapping your chin. âwait.â
you shift your body forward, leaning down towards him until your chest practically brushes against satoruâs clothed collarbone.
beneath, satoru stillsâthe casual smirk faltering for a split second as the sudden, full-body contact fills his senses. his eyes glance down at the soft fabric dragging against his shoulder.
your outstretched hand grabs the discarded black fabric behind him. âperfect,â
you pull back, sliding the band over his chin before he can utter another quip. the fabric of satoruâs blindfold catches with the nudge of your fingersâpushing up past his hairline, exposing his forehead.
the unruly white hair of satoru contained for the time being, the canvas of his face lies bare below youâexposing the intense, uncovered brilliance of his eyes directly to your concentrated gaze.
satoru's brief respite lasts all of a heartbeat before you lean over him again, guiding the kohl pencil back into the narrow space between your faces.
free hand cupping the side of his face, your thumb settles just above his eyelid to draw the skin taut.
you narrow your focus to the delicate shape of satoruâs eye and instruct him softly. âlook up for me,â
satoru swallows, throat bobbingâfinding himself unable to escape the warmth of your breath against his cheek, or the way you're settled down on him.
"you're real close," he murmurs, voice dropping a fraction of its usual volume.
âsatoru,â you say, practicalâbreath fanning across his cheekboneââceiling.â
his lids tuck back as he complies, bringing his waterline into view. as the tip of the eye pencil nears, the air between your faces tightens with a faint, phantom buzzâgone again as quickly as it came on.
you bring down the sharp point of the pencil, tracing the inner rim of his eye with a steady glide. before it can set, the pad of your ring finger sweeps a gentle stroke across his outer cornerâthe warm friction of your skin dragging over the folding flesh, blending out the harshness until the mix of wax and oil melts seamlessly into the lines of his eyes.
the pitch-black pigment brings a sharp, devastating frame against his white lashes, making the impossible blue of his eyes pop with a dangerous, high-contrast brilliance.
âthere,â you lean away, the absence of your warmth leaving a brief vacuum for satoru, filled only by the uneven exhale he finally lets slip.
and god, does he look incredible.
the look transforms his snowy gaze from a playful nuisance to something high-fashion and devastatingly striking. for a split second, you behold him, pride vibrating in your throat.
satoruâs fresh, dark-rimmed gaze tracks your expression, catching the quiet weight of your stare. he tries for a smirk, but it doesn't quite reach his eyesâhe's still too grounded, still trapped completely beneath you.
âwhat?â he asks, tone still a little lower than usualâa tentative edge cutting through his haughtiness. âam i stunning? did you make me too pretty to look at?â
âshut up,â you sigh, already reaching into the makeup bag beside to swap for a clear lash and brow gel. âiâm not done yet. look at me normally.â
he watches as you unscrew the cap, pump the spoolie. you pull out the handle, setting the rest of the vial down on the ground.
satoru feels the weight of you slowly falling forward towards his chest again.
he opens his mouthâthen shuts it. your palm settles flush with his chest, falling and rising synchronously with him while you guide the bristles through the arch of his brows in steady strokes.
you recline, scanning the evenness of your line work. satoru is left suspended in the sudden quiet of the space between you.
âhm.. tilt your head up.â
the words are still hanging in the air when your fingers clamp firmly beneath the sharp underside of his jaw. the steadfastness of the grip is picked up by zero out of his six eyesâthe rest of the world simply ceases to exist. any lingering thoughts, the room, his own breathâall of it vanishes, replaced entirely by the suffocating awareness of your hand anchoring him in place.
you hold his chin, sliding your knees a fraction of an inch closer and sweeping the remainder of the gel.
to satoru, the distance might as well not exist. with his head slanted up at such a helpless position, he is entirely pinned by the heat of your thighs framing him, the faint, stable rhythm of your breathing, and the agonizingly slow glide of the brush. he can't think. he can't pull awayâcompletely caught in the orbit of your focus. his mind reduces down to counting the seconds by the friction of your skin against his jaw.
only when you are completely content with the end result do your fingers release the sharp bone near his throat. satoru holds back a tight hiss at the loss, the phantom pressure of your thumb still lingering like a brand against his skin.
he takes a slow, deliberate breath, letting his chest rise fully against your lap to stabilize his rhythm. itâs a humbling realizationâthat satoru has to consciously force his heart to stop hammering over something as trivial as a plastic wandâhis system is overloaded by the simple, high-frequency friction of your bare skin and the micro-movements of your hands bypassing his space.
the syllable dies in his throat as satoru parts his lips to say somethingâanything to break the quiet before it swallows him. but your shadow is already falling over him again, swapping the wand for a wide, plush brush.
âclose your eyes,â you lean into his space once more. a brief resistance flashes in his eyes before he complies, shutting his charcoal marked lids.
bristles hovering millimeters away from his cheek, your hand stalls. spreading high across the curve of satoruâs cheekbones is a faint but unmistakable, pre-existing pinkâa genuine flush, blooming right through his pale skin, serving as a perfect, organic guide.
after a momentary, practical calculation you tilt your head, tapping the wooden handle against the back of your wrist. a small cloud of excess powder disperses into the thick airâsatoruâs body having already done half the work for you.
satoru finally catches the soft, feather-light drag of the synthetic hair on his faceâthe sweeping caress dawdling agonizingly slow on the high points of his cheeks.
without his sight, the rhythm of your movements feels dangerously deliberate. satoru feels his body on the brink of succumbing, wanting to mindlessly seep into the deeply smooth, sensitive pull of the dense, rounded fluff on his midface.
the velvet-soft texture bridges the middle of satoruâs nose with a trail of friction that makes his nerves fizz, sweeping across, leaving him nearly breathlessâskin pulsing and buzzing under an all-enveloping current. the fallout of powder scatters, settling along the slope of his nose and dusting down toward his cupid's bow in microscopic clumps.
you lean instinctively, parting your lips, then a staggered sequence of moving airâsoft and warmâskims satoruâs cheekbones like a shockwave.
the first blow lands across the bridge of his nose, sparking something in his brain and drifting down over the dip of his cupid's bow, the puffs chasing the stray powder.
and with it, the last of rational thoughts in his mind.
satoru could map out for something tangibleâlike the solid feel of a cosmetic toolâbut the total sensory ambush of the decentralized, shifting airflow coming out of your lips, he hadnât planned for.
visionless and unfocused, satoruâs entire system completely misfires. the living atmosphere of you, raw and encompassing, washes over his bare skin without a single buffer to anchor it.
his fingers twitch at his sides, dragging uselessly against the fabric of the carpet as his lungs struggle to pull in a normal breath.
âyou can look at me.â
for a disorienting second, satoru tries to distinguish if his body started to drift off the floor, or if his mind has just floated that far away from his own skin.
his lids flutter, eyes blinking open to meet yours with a heavy, dazed intensity.
you hold his gaze for a second, brows knitting as your attention shifts. leaning back in, you rest the pad of your thumb under his bottom lip and pointer finger finding the side of his cheek, stabilizing his head while you inspect the deep, vivid rose-toned glow blooming across his skin, bleeding out way past where the brush had traced.
âdid i give you blush blindness?..â
satoru can barely process the heavy, practical focus in your eyes, internally still ringing from the phantom heat of your breath. he tries to reel it in, but his thoughts only scatter further under the solid, unyielding weight of your body, fingers and gaze.
tilting his head just a fraction left, then right, you think out loud, eyes tracing the crimson flush with as you genuinely wonder how it got so heavy-handed.
âiâm sure i tried to apply even less than i planned, though..â
satoru feels his loud, snapping back energy dissipate entirely, tensing hard as you shift his face. your face is entirely too close, your grip a warm pressure under his bottom lip.
he needs to break out of it.
the boiling over temperature of his own body heat screams at him to break it, do something, anything to shatter this encapsulating moment before he completely loses his grip on reality.
âokay, well. here we are. lips now.â
the quiet click of the unscrewed cap resonates loudly in satoruâs ears, his out-of-it gaze of stumbling onto the way you hold and twist the small plastic tube of your clear lipgloss.
next he watches your torso tilt forward over himâmind wheeling as he notices the hem of your shirt riding up in natural motion and exposing the skin around the curve of your waist.
âyou know, youâve been really quiet.â you press your palm, cupping his cheek with your free hand. âunusually quiet.â
needy and desperate on two opposite endsâsatoru wracks his brain, scrambling to find some familiar footing, a way to shatter the intoxicating feeling of your hands on himâform a response, any, deflect, tease, reclaim his birth-given right to be annoying.
instead, he swallows, parted-mouth against your gripâmind a chaotic, short-circuiting mess as the tip of the wand presses against his lower lip.
âjuhâ bweinâ a good canvah.â
the near unintelligible mumble melts in an uncoordinated slur as his lips awkwardly try to move against your hold.
âshh,â you shush, smiling at his idiocy as your breath ghosts his, meeting in the middle with a hot vapor. ânot if you try to talk now.â
the slick, plump pad glides against his bottom lip, applying a chill coat in comparison to his burningâscorching skin. chest tight, the icy contrast against his overheated mouth combined with torturous nearness of your face paralyzes satoru.
he feels damp heat of your lungs against his mouth; see every individual eyelash, and worst of all the total, unbothered dedication in your eyes as you trace his lipsâentirely in control of his space, completely consuming his oxygen and not even trembling.
he needs to break this.
brain grasping at straws while his body cooks, satoru searches for a way out of his predicament.
he needs to channel the unyielding streak of the strongest, bubble it over to the surface, shatter your focus. if he lets you continue peering at him with that calm, clinical authority for one more second, satoru fears itâll be the end of him, completely breaking.
driven by that sheer, desperate impulse, he deliberately darts his tongue outâa slow, damp stripe right across the lower curve of his lip, tasting the familiar artificial sweetness and instantly smudging your careful handiwork.
âreally, satoru,â you huff, the clear note of irritation in your tone triggering a faint, lazy trace of a smirk that attempts to pull at the corner of his mouth. âis this good canvas behavior?â
âwanted tâsee what it tasted like.â satoru remarks with a light shrugâface half-smug, mind half-gone.
âyou know how it tastes.â you reply, flat and resolute.
satoru blinks, taking in your retort.
his brain fills with the vivid, tactile memory of the feverish mouth of yours against his in a dizzying montage of shared kisses, finding himself in moments where he'd pulled you against him and tasted that exact flavor right off your lips.
he tries holding back the craving, his willpower nearly giving in to kiss your finger as it wipes off the dampness off his spot off his lips, preparing to reapply the shine to where he licked it off.
satoruâs longing is instantly hijacked, however, as your body gives in to exhale and naturally vent your frustration.
âunbelievable.â
already drowning in overwhelming want while predisposed to thoughts of past make-outs thanks to you, satoruâs half-smirk is choked out with the specific motion of your slumpâthe one where your hips subtly lift off his lap for a mere second, only to slide right back down, shifting while you reapply the glossâcausing an inevitable twitch in his lap. the sequence prompts a literal muscle-memory alarm, a sudden, heavy ache expanding between his thighs that his spine goes dead rigid trying to ignore.
his chest heaves with a shallow, uneven rhythm as he fights a losing battle against his own skin.
a fraction of an inch, itâs how much you slide your knees forward. you steady your hand, ready for the final layer of shine and in the abrupt, total lack of space, you feel himâthe unmistakable, heavy heat of satoru pressed right against your core, growing more firm by the second.
you freeze, a knot catching in your throatâheart slams against your ribs in a shuddering breath, escaping before you can trap it.
you donât pull away from the position. silence is somehow the loudest thing in the room as satoruâs eyes befall on your form, visibly affectedâchest rising too fast, lips parting on a breath you forgot to take, hips still, pressed against him like youâre part of him.
satoru doesnât look away, straining to keep normal while the remainder of his autonomy drains from his frame, chest heaving with a shallow, uneven rhythm, fighting a losing battle against his own biology. his tense fingers curl hard into the carpet and go bloodless as a dark, breathless heat sparks in his eyes, caught.
âhard...â he lets out, breathy, breaking off into a low and rough register. he swallows, throat bobbing. â...to keep it together.â
itâs the final straw.
his hand snaps up from the carpetâhectic and anything but smooth. large palm sliding onto the bare skin of your waist, fingers gripping with a tight, deliberate pressureâ locking you in placeâanchoring himself because he's completely, utterly undone.
megumi fully commits to your idea, crafting a plan. it involves his room, a blinking red light, and both of you trying to be very, very quiet.
the screen clicks black, the sudden lack of blue light leaving you in the dim shadows of the back porch.
you take a breath, testing the handle of the back door. just like he said, it gives with a soft, metallic click. you slide inside, the air immediately smelling like the cool, clean scent of megumiâmixed distinctly with the sweet, buttery scent of toasted pastry.
âthe kikufuku.â
from the hallway, you can hear the low, rhythmic drone of a television commercial and the occasional rustle of a paper bag. every muscle in your body freezes as you carefully slip your shoes off.
âhe didnât even tell me where to put them...â you eye the area, thinking whether to text megumi and ask, but ultimately decide on bringing them up with you and make it his problem, lest a certain somebody notices them by the door.
shoes clutched by the sole in one hand, you look up the stairsâpitch black at the top of the landing, save for a tiny sliver of light bleeding out from beneath a single door.
you take the steps one by one, pressing your weight close to the wall. megumi didnât specify which one it was, which feels like a massive design flaw in his rescue plan, but you manage to make it without a sound.
before you can even reach for his doorknob, the door cracks open an inch. a slender hand shoots out, wraps firmly around your wrist, and yanks you into the room so fast your head spins.
the door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly youâre pressed flat against the wood. megumi is right there, his chest practically brushing yours, his hand still tight around your wrist. he looks exasperated, dark hair messy, but his eyes are locked onto yours, wide and hyper-alert. âyouâre loud,â he breathes, his voice a barely-audible whisper against your ear.
âi was like a ghost,â you whisper back, a smug grin pulling at your lips despite the way your heart is hammering against your ribs. you glance past megumiâs shoulder, spotting the sleek black shape of a camera sitting prominently on his desk.
âsmart.â he nods at the shoes youâre holding, placing them to the side for you.
âso... director. where do you want me?â
his jaw tightens, a faint flush creeping up megumiâs neck that he desperately hopes the dim lighting hides. he doesn't let go of your wrist. instead, he leans in just a fraction closer, his eyes dropping to your mouth before snapping back up.
âdonât,â he mutters, his voice dropping into that low, rough register that tells you he is entirely done playing games. âheâs still downstairs.â
megumiâs hand is still wrapped around your wrist, and you can feel his pulseâor maybe thatâs yoursâthrumming against your skin. his thumb moves, almost unconsciously, tracing a slow circle over the delicate skin. âso? we just need to be quiet, right?â
he releases your wrist like it burns him, stepping back just enough to create a sliver of space between you. the absence of his warmth is immediately jarring. he runs a hand through his already-messy hair, exhaling sharply through his nose.
âyouâre something else,â he says, but there's no bite to it. if anything, he sounds almost reverent.
âiâd say iâm just someone who wants you.â
megumiâs gaze flicks to the desk, then back to you, his adamâs apple bobbing. without a word, he crosses the room, picks up the camera, and turns it over in his hands like heâs weighing a decision as he chews the inside of his cheek, an anxious habit youâve catalogued over time.
ânervous?..â you tilt your head, searching for his eyes.
he narrows his brows, not answering.
âjust.. touch me.â you softly drag his wrist up to yourself.
megumiâs hands find your waist, observing the contact as his fingers splay across your body like heâs memorizing the feel of you. his touch is hot, insistent, but his movements are deliberateâslow and precise, just like everything he does.
like a magnet pulling, megumi finds himself drawing closer. you lift your chin making way for his head in the crook of your neck.
then the floorboard creaks.
both of you freeze. megumiâs hand is still on your back, his lips still ghosting over your shoulder. you can feel his heart hammering against your chest, matching your own frantic rhythm.
halfway downstairs, a muffled and singsong voice drifts up. âmegumiiii~ wanna eat the last kikufuku?â
megumiâs eyes meet yours. theyâre dark, pupils blown wide, and there's a flicker of something almost feral in them. he presses a finger to his lipsâshhâand you nod, barely breathing.
âno,â he calls back, his voice impressively steady. âiâm good. keep it.â
a beat of silence. then a laugh, bright and unbothered. âokkay, suit yourself! more for me!â the television resumes its drone.
megumi looks at you, and the corner of his mouth twitchingâthe barest hint of a smile. âclose one,â he murmurs.
âtoo close,â you agree, but youâre already pulling him back to you, your fingers tangling in his hair.
megumiâs mouth finds yours again, deeper, hungrier this time, like the interruption reminded him just how dangerous this isâand how much he doesnât care.
his hands slide down to the waistband of your pants. megumi pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you in a silent question.
you nod, breathless. you scramble to get out of your t-shirt, and he makes quick work of the button and the zipper of your pants, pooling both garments beneath your feet.
you kick them aside and megumiâs eyes rake over you like heâs memorizing every inch. his fingers brush against the side of your leg, âbeautiful.â so quiet you almost miss it. the soft touch makes your breath hitch. ââgumi.. your turn.â
megumi removes his gaze from your bare skin, but doesnât undress. instead he presses the on button, the tiny red recording light of the camera blinking to life.
he sets it down on the desk, pointing it at the bedâwhich you now realize is right there, rumpled sheets and a dark comforter, barely visible in the low light. megumi controls the viewfinder, making sure the recording is underway.
you are about to retort when he shrugs off his own shirt, and the sight of himâlean muscle, sharp collarbones, that dark line of hair disappearing beneath his waistbandâmakes your mouth go dry even as you swallow.
megumi doesnât look abashed. he reaches deep into his nightstand drawer, pulling out a small foil packet. he holds it up, a question in his eyes.
âcondom,â he says, unnecessarily.
you purse your lips, raising an eyebrow and gulping again. âgonna open it, or?..â
megumi tears it open with his teeth, eyes never leaving yours. the sound of the foil ripping is obscenely loud in the quiet room. his jaw flexes as he grabs the torn piece, setting it aside.
âthat..â you breathe.
the corner of his mouth twitchesâalmost a smirk. âwhat?â
âjust come and kiss me.â
he does. closing the distance, megumiâs hands everywhere on you at onceâimpatient in a way his face never lets on, you feel the last of his careful control starting to fray at the edges.
megumi languidly guides you back toward his bed, your body pressing backwards until your knees feel the edge of his mattress. you fall onto it, pulling megumi down with you. he hovers over you, one arm bracing his weight, the other working his pants open
you catch a glimpse of himâthick and already painfully hard, slicked with a bead of pre-come before he rolls the latex down his length.
he glances at the camera one more timeâred light blinking, capturing everythingâthen his eyes find yours. âready?â
âmm.â
megumi sheathes himself, the movement practiced even as his fingers tremble slightly.
âugh, youâreââ he starts, but doesnât finish. he doesn't need to. he looks at you, really beholding you, and his voice drops to something raw.
âtell me if itâs too much.â
âmhâokay,â
the first push is slowâagonizingly slowâand your back arches off the mattress before you can stop it. megumiâs breath stutters above you, his forehead dropping to press against yours as he sinks into your heat.
through the haze of pleasure, you notice his gaze flick to the leftâtoward the cameraâand something in his expression changes.
âah,â you breathe, and it's barely a sound, more air than voice.
âshh,â he reminds you, his own voice wrecked, cracking at the edges. âyou have toâfâbe quiet.â
you want to laugh at the absurdity of itâhim telling you to be quiet while he's inside you, hips are already starting to move in small, shallow rolls that have your toes curling against the sheets.
âmm, more,â you whisper back, and megumiâs eyes flash. he pulls out almost all the way, just the tip of his length resting at your entrance, and then he pushes back inâdeeper this time, a full, slow stroke that has you biting your lip so hard you taste copper.
âyouâreââ he starts, but he can't finish. his jaw is tight, one eye squeezed shut like he's trying to hold onto control by a thread. you put a hand on his face, caressing. âmegumi, look at me,â
he tries, the crack in his composure showing. pupils blown wide, megumi parts his lips, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. for having barely started, he already feels nearly there.
ânot going to last,â he admits, the words tumbling out of gritted teeth in a rough confession.
âahânnm, then donât.â
megumi groans, low and guttural, his entire frame shuddering as he forces his hips into a grueling, deliberate rhythmâbiting his tongue to hold back his own release as he tries to prolong it for you.
slow and deep, each stroke presses against your core in a way that has you seeing stars. his hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding your center, caressing in time with his thrusts, matching the excruciating syncopation.
âmeââ you gasp, your hand flying to your mouth to muffle the sound.
âi know,â he rasps, rhythm breaking to something desperate. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin to hold back a groan as he drives into you, faster now, finding that spot again and again with devastating precision. the heat pooling between your thighs is overwhelming, a tight, electric coil winding tighter with every friction-filled slide of his hips.
slick and undone around him, you dig your fingers into the muscle of megumi's back, leaving faint red crescents.
âmegânnmnâ you whimper his name, the sound slipping past your guard. he instantly snaps his head up, hand flying over your mouth. his palm is hot, smelling faintly of the foil packet as he holds your gaze all frantic, heavy lids hooding blown-out pupils.
âi told you,â he rasps, his chest heaving as he takes a shallow, trembling breath. he doesnât stop moving, his hips striking against yours, a wet, rhythmic slap. âbe quiet.â
he nods his head toward the left. âstare there.â
through the haze of pleasure, you track his gazeâthe tiny red light of the camera blinks, capturing the flush on your chest, the way your knees are hooked over his hips, the sheer, unadulterated look of desire on megumiâs face as he takes you.
âyou wanted... a movie,â megumi mutters, his voice dropping into a dirty, breathless drawl as he arches his back, driving in all the way to the hilt.
âso stare at it,â he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, fingers tangling with yours on the mattress. he strains, âand watch how good you take me,â
the visual, combined with the deep, bruising depth of his thrusts, completely shatters you. your hips roll up to meet him, begging for the friction, your core clamping down around him so tight it makes his entire body shudder.
megumi abandons the entire pretense of control, his pace turning even more frenzied, hard, and desperate. he chases the edge, his fingers squeezing your hips hard enough to leave marks.
you put your palm over your mouth again, a galaxy of stars exploding behind your eyelids as a wave of pure, convulsive heat ripples through you. your muscles squeeze him rhythmically as you reach your end, breaking the absolute final straw for megumi.
megumi lets out a low, wrecked sound, driving into you one last, deepest time as his own climax hits. he stiffens, jaw locking as he pours himself into the condom with a broken sound, something that's half your name, and half a swearâchest heaving against yours as the waves of aftershocks ripple through him.
for a long minute, the only sound in the room is the tangled, ragged breathing. slowly, megumi collapses onto you, his head burying into your shoulder, heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs. he doesn't move, opting to holding you tight, skin slick with sweat.
finally stirring, megumi pulls out with a soft sigh and quickly disposes of the evidence in the trash bin. as he climbs back onto the bed, he pulls the comforter over you both, pulling your body flush against his chest.
ânever doing that again,â he murmurs into your hair, his arms are wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you closer.
you let out a breathy laugh, hand reaching out over the edge of the bed to turn off the camera sitting on his desk, the blinking red light wavering. âbut you directed so well.â
âhm.â megumi hums in response.
the heavy silence of the house settles over his bedroomâcomfortable and warm, until a sudden, sharp slam of the front door downstairs cuts through the quiet like a knife. a voice echoes loudly up through the floorboards, bright and entirely too cheerful.
âyo me~gu~mi~! i left you some kikufuku on the counter. thought you may have changed your mind. don't let it go to waste!â
the house falls silent again as the footsteps fade down.
above you, megumi stares blankly at the ceiling for three solid seconds before burying his face into his pillow, letting out a muffled groan of embarrassment.
you break out into giggles, poking his side. âme~gu~mi~â
âugh,â he mutters into the mattress, arm tightening around your waist and refusing to let go.
tangled up in his sheets, you let the moment settle for a moment before bringing up the footage. âso... when do we watch it?â
megumi goes still. â..huh?â
you tilt your head at his silence, unreadable face, and pink ears. then, barely audible, he utters â...youâd want to?â as if speaking to himself,
âmegumi. i just let you film me falling apart. i think iâm pretty okay with watching it.â
he swallows. âthen... maybe tomorrow.â
you grin. âmaybe tonight?â
âtonight,â he says firmly, âi'm sleeping.â you feel his lips press your temple.
âmm. say,â you exhale lightly, eyes landing on the desk. âwhen did you get that anyway? looks expensive.â
âhm?â megumi nuzzles into your neck as he shifts.
âthe camera. didnât see it before. or knew you had one.â
âoh. that.â megumi says, flat. âhe wasnât using it.â
âwhat?â your mouth drops, âitâs gojoâs?â
âiâll return it.â he closes his eyes, relaxing. âjust not the SD card.â
-
you successfully sneak out at dawn, slipping through the back door again. megumi watches you go from his window, a small, private smile on his face.
an hour later, megumi walks into the kitchen. there, he finds gojo lounging at the table withâas far he can seeâan entire pack of ramune, the empty sugary soda bottles lined up in a neat rowâand the smuggest expression on his face.
âmorning, sleepyhead,â gojo chirps, tossing four marbles into the air and catching them. âsleep well?â
megumi grunts, heading for the coffee maker.
âhey, by the way,â gojo says, voice light, âhave you seen my camera? the one i use for, you know, documenting things. i swear i left it in the living room, but i checked everywhere this morning and itâs just... gone.â
megumiâs hand freezes on the coffee pot.
â...no,â he says carefully. âhavenât seen it.â
âhmm.â gojo taps his chin, frowning. âthatâs odd. i couldâve sworn it was in the living room. i even checked the hall closet, the study, under the couch...â he trails off, then sighs dramatically. âwith stuff going missing, maybe we should get a security camera. yâknow, just in case. make sure no ghosts are sneaking in.â
megumi turns slowly, face carefully blank. âghosts.â
âor maybe,â gojo muses, tapping his chin, âone of those fancy ones with the motion sensor. the good ones. records in 4K. really capture the details, you know?â
âwhat are you talking about.â he barely keeps an eye from twitching.
gojo blinks, all innocence. âhmm? just talking about home security. why? what did you think i was talking about?â
the silence stretches. megumi pours his coffee. gojo watches him with that insufferable grin, letting the moment hang.
"youâre walking a little stiff today, by the way. everything okay?"
"fine."
"you sure? you look like you mightâve, you know, strained something." gojoâs grin widens. âmaybe you should stretch more. really reach for it, you know?â
megumi stares at him.
gojo stares back, blinking good-naturedly.
â...iâm fine," megumi says flatly.
âokay, okay! just checking.â gojo stands, shrugging and stretching dramatically, and pats megumi on the shoulder. âlet me know if you find that camera.â
heâs gone before megumi can respond.
megumi stands there for a full thirty seconds.
then he drops his forehead against the counter with a dull thunk.
the king of curses mutilates people for less than any of the things you do to him on a daily basis.
walking into the room to inform him of the latest update on the warfront, uraume decides they have certainly witnessed more compromising states than this.
they bow down before the king of curses, who is currently lounging on his throne with you draped over his shouldersâlike some human mink coat or a sentient scarf of sorts, snoring softly into his unkempt hair.
âlord sukuna.â they rise and address him, tone within the emotional range of a stone.
âspeak.â
â...i can return later.â
âno, report.â
uraumeâs eyes divert to the snuffling form of you for exactly half a second, a monumental display of curiosity for the permafrost-carved servant. they begin their report, speaking in their usual monotone intonation, but sukuna catches note of the way their eyes keep drifting upward.
âwhat.â
ânothing, my lord.â uraume meets his four eyes, choosing the addition of words with care. âitâs just... interesting, to see you soââ
âwatch your mouth before i slice it off.â
âaccommodating.â uraume finishes, deadpan, because they've served him long enough to know when heâs all bark.
sukuna's upper set of eyes narrows, but the lower pair flicks upwardâtoward your head, where your exhales stir the fine strands of his light crimson hair.
âi am going to flay you,â he says, deeply flat.
burrowed so deep into the crook of his neck, sukuna feels the damp warmth of your huff against him like a warm parasite that had somehow convinced itself the king of curses is a personal mattress. your previously limp hand curls into the fabric of his dark kimono, loosely holding on to a fistful of the silk robe as you exhale harder into his thick neck.
uraume's eyebrow twitches, a fraction of a millimeterâpractically a scream of emotion from them.
âfinish the report,â sukuna growls, low enough that it vibrates through his wide chestâand through you, because you're plastered to his body like a second skin. you stir, mumble something unintelligible, and he stills again.
uraume continues, detailing the skirmish in various territories, relaying information on sorcerers who think they could exorcise a fragment of their lordâs power. standard fare and utterly boring, sukuna only half-listens. the other half of his attention tuned into the way your breath starts to even out again, deep and slow, weight becoming heavier against himâfully asleep and dead to the world, completely vulnerable in the lap of the most deadly being in existence.
reckless, sukuna thinks. how idiotic.
his lower left arm moves, the rough hand settling against the small of your back, steadying you as you slip dangerously close to sliding off his shoulder.
he adjusts without thinkingâtugging you close against him, rearranging your limbs so you lay across his lap instead.
uraume stops mid-sentence.
âcontinue.â sukuna snaps.
âthe latest front has been... largely pacified.â uraumeâs voice is perfectly measured. their eyes are notâintrigued gaze fixing on the way sukunaâs thumb traces an absent circle against your spine. âwe anticipate the remaining forces will mobilize. shall Iââ
âno.â
uraume continues theorizing as sukuna's second mouth, the one on his stomach, lets out this tiny rumbleânot quite a growl, nor a purr. something in between. something possessive.
he cuts uraume off without looking away.
âspeak quieter.â
âvery well.â
silence engulfs the quarters. uraume remains perfectly still, head bowed, waiting for the inevitable command to execute the upcoming massacres. the only sound is the rhythmic, maddeningly peaceful puff of oxygen against sukunaâs skin.
your hand finds one of his in your sleep, palm curling against two of his fingers. he stares at your grasp like it offends him.
"i am going to kill the rest," sukuna announces.
uraume nods, faint and brief.
âin the morning.â
ânaturally.â
âwhen theyâre awake.â
âiâm sure theyâll be devastated.â
sukunaâs eye twitches. he could kill uraume. he won't. but he could.
then you sigh in your sleepâsoft, contentedâand press a kiss to the inside of his wrist, right over his pulse point, where the skin is thinner and no one has ever been dumb enough to put their mouth.
sukunaâs grip tightens around yours, his chest tightening. he grits his teeth.
âuraume.â
they perk up.
âfind a blanket.â
uraume blinks, most expressive they've been in decades. â...a blanket.â
âyou heard me.â
âof course, lord Sukuna.â they bow, and sukuna picks up on the hint of a smile his servant holds off.
the sliding doors shut behind uraume.
then sukuna is alone. with you, your breathâthe hands, tiny compared to his, enveloped in his, and the infuriating, tight heat spreading through his torso.
a curse user who has unraveled sorcerers from the inside out, yet he cannot bring himself to move.
đ ŕŁŞË Ö´ÖśÖ¸đৠË｡༠genre: pure fluff / comfort, hc vibes (â *â ďšâ *â ;â )
choso already has an overwhelming need to be near the people he loves.
and at last, he officially meets his match. the concept of âtoo much togetherness.â becomes entirely foreign, his natural state validating yours.
you wanna hold his hand constantly? okay. text him when apart? choso reads every message carefully, often multiple times. you want to spend every evening together? he assumed that was how it worked.
it takes choso a while to realize other couples apparently⌠donât partake in this. he doesnât see the issue.
choso has the habit of never letting go of your hand first. he holds on with quiet, steady pressure and doesnât release unless you do. youâve had to pry his fingers open once before, leaving him genuinely puzzled.
choso operates at a frequency where you are a necessary condition for his comfort. he sees nothing unusual about having physical closeness as a baseline.
you wanting to be close, seeking him out, press yourself into his space, never leaveâchoso receives it like itâs the most natural thing in the world, because to him it is.
when you happen to be sitting on the floor doing separate things, you shift a leg closer to his. choso meets the gesture halfway, pressing his foot against yours.
choso redistributes his weight to accommodate your presence. you lean, he shifts. you settle and he stills. structural support on instinct. living furniture. he is okay with this.
he tends to stop moving entirely when you fall asleep on him. you wake up an hour later, disoriented, and tell him he should've moved you, or moved himself. âyou were sleeping.â he replies, as if that explains everything.
you text choso while he's in the room over. a silly thingâa photo of a frog. you hear his phone buzz. a pause. then comes footsteps. he appears in the doorway with phone in hand. âyou could have called me over.â
you shrug. âwanted to text.â
choso looks at his phone, then at you. with zero word, he walks across, sitting down next to you. screen still lit, he watches for whatever comes next.
one evening his younger brother watches you both for a moment too long. âyou guys are just always like that, huh?â yuuji thinks out loud, âalways touching. itâs kind of impressive actually.â
you become aware of your fingers rubbing against chosoâs, shoulder pressing against his arm, and withdraw silently. choso notices, his brows furrowing. he looks at his brother, then you, confirming. â...yes.â
choso hadnât thought anything of it until then, and even now heâs not sure what heâs supposed to be thinking. do other people need that much space?
later, when alone, you ask him. âare you... am i being too much?â choso blinks, processing the question like itâs in a foreign language. âtoo much... what?â
you apologize for it, and choso goes still. he looks at you for a moment with an unreadable emotion, then quietly mutters âdonât.â as he pulls you back toward him. neither of you mention it again.
a week later, you and choso pass by a cafe on an outing. he slows his steps, then stops completely, his gaze falling at two people sitting at an outside table. choso watches them for a moment, something uncertain crossing his face. âare they.. fighting?â
you look at the couple, then at his confused face. you open your mouth. close it.
đ ŕŁŞË Ö´ÖśÖ¸đৠË｡༠genre: pure fluff / comfort
fushiguro toji is in bed, resting on his stomach. youâre there tooâignoring all the available space to lie down on his back instead.
âi gotta piss.â he grumbles. you sling your arms around his neck. âthen go.â
his chest rises in a slow exhale. toji pushes himself upright and makes for the bathroom, bringing you by extension.
not long after, youâre out running errands. toji doesn't even look back when you grab his forearm mid-stride.
he keeps walking until your hand slips away. then he slows his pace until you catch back up.
you look him dead in the eyes. âcarry me.â
toji stares, flat. heâs almost starting to develop respect for the audacity you bring. âyou have legs.â
âbut iâm tired.â you haven't even broken out a sweat. âi figured.â
so there he is, carrying the stubborn backpack that is you. people are staring, and when a passerby nearly bumps into you, he pauses long enough to hitch you higher. âiâve seen less needy strays.â
later at the convenience store, youâve shifted to hanging off tojiâs side. he tries to pay for a discounted ready-to-eat meal, one arm down.
the clerk sets down his change on the tray. âoff. need my other hand.â you squeeze tighter.
toji tsks, scooping the loose coins from the tray. the clerkâ sweating bullets, awkwardly packs the heated meals into separate plastic bags, before carefully looping them over tojiâs free wrist.
eventually, heâs watching some tv while scarfing his food down. he stops chewing to look at you as you look up. âoutta the way.â
you take it as an opportunity to wedge yourself between him and the coffee table, settling right between his spread legs.
he leans back into the armchair and you come with him, pressed tighter against his chest.
toji reaches out for his chopsticks, continuing to eat over your shoulderâhis arm settling around you like itâs always been there.
some time later, toji makes a move towards the doorframe bar for some pull ups. so do you, wrapping your arms and legs around his body.
he stops mid-rep, free-hanging as you dangle off him. âseriously? do i look like a jungle gym?â you giggle. toji drops without a grunt after doing three more.
next toji drifts towards the corner of the living room where heâs set up a bench and some dumbbells. you interrupt as heâs doing some standing bicep curls.
âsit down so i can sit on you.â
tojiâs eyes wander to the couch right behind you. then heâs putting the dumbbell down, and sitting back to pat his lap once. you get on.
toji sighs. he really should be concerned about how quick he is starting to give in to your demands. âwe have a sofa.â
âi know.â he continues the set. âthis is wrong form.â
âis it?â
âyup.â he doesn't move you.
last stretch now. core lockedâtoji holds a plank. you assess the situation for half a second before deciding to sit on him again, this time cross-legged.
a full minute passes. toji doesnât acknowledge you.
âdone?â you probe, scrolling on your phone.
âno. will say.â toji holds it for three more minutes. you stumble and nearly fall as he switches to push-ups.
back in bed at the end of the day, you crawl over to him and bury your face in his chest. toji doesnât even raise an eyebrow.
âalways gotta be on me, huh.â
you pull backâhe catches your wrist and silently keeps it in place. âpain in my ass,â he mutters under his breath as his thumb traces a slow circle against your skin.
đ ŕŁŞË Ö´ÖśÖ¸đৠË･đŁ˛â§. genre: pure fluff / comfort
nanami kento values his personal space. unfortunately for him, so do you.
itâs friday evening as he steps inside. kento loosens his tie, but before he can remove his shoes to utter a standard âiâm home,â youâre already wrapped around him like a koala.
kento lets out a slow sigh, pausing in the entryway. â...hello to you too.â
a man of great poise, he adjusts his center of gravity before navigating the hallway for the two of you.
kento drifts into the kitchen, where he learns the important skill of cooking mostly one-handed.
tucked against his side, your arms securely loop around his waistâfingers lacing through his left hand. he frets lightly.
â...could you at least stand still so I donât lose a finger?â
after dinner, kento settles on the couch with a good book, but the freedom is shortlived.
sinking your head into his lap, you securely lock your arms around his thigh. he rests a hand over yours, pinning you to his leg. kento is reading in quiet contentmentâuntil he dares to lift his hand to turn a page, earning him a soft whine at the break of contact.
he eases the book down, slanting his gaze toward you. âam i not holding your hand tight enough?â
late saturday morning, he makes two identical cups of tea, setting yours down squarely in front of youâonly to watch you immediately lean across the counter and steal a sip from his mug instead.
after he gives you a long, pointed look, you merely shrug. âless dishes this way, right?â
kento glances down at the untouched, perfectly full second cup on the counter. his shoulders slump a fraction as he covers his nose with his knucklesâbut itâs a beat too late. a breathy huff of a laugh escapes him.
sunday noon, grocery shopping brings the teamwork that is pushing a single cart together.
early monday morning, kento wakes to his alarm, and you lying on top of him like a weighted blanket.
a tried and true tactic, he stares at the ceiling for ten full seconds. then, with you still wrapped tightly around his torso, he sits up. switching to carry your sleeping form bridal style, he heads to the living room, setting you down on the sofa and tucking the comforter around your shoulders.
âdonât go...â
kento pauses. he leaves down to press a firm kiss to your forehead, knowing he has to leave before you lock your fingers onto his sleeve like before. âkento...â
kento stops fully in his tracks as heâs hit with another working method.
âcould you dress here?â
he blinks, turning to fix you with a flat look.
there he is, two minutes later, standing by the television, buttoning his crisp white shirt under your sleepy gaze.
once he manages to leave for work, texts start to pour in.
âmiss uâ. he is waiting for the morning commute.
âwhen homeâ. he knows you know his schedule.
âsend pic of your sandwichâ. the same one you watched him make.
as kento gets busy, he replies back with a single periodâ something that translates to âsaw your message. in a meeting. thinking of you.â.
tuesday evening, kento brings the office home with him and snaps once, an event akin to a twig breaking.
you tug at his collar the second he crosses the entryway, follow him to each roomâlean your upper body on his briefcase like a housecat.
once kento manages to sit down with his laptop, you're there, snuggling so close that his typing arm is pressed flush with his ribs.
he closes his laptop a little more firmly than necessary and turns to you. âdo you need something? or do you simply wish to occupy the same atoms as me?â
âboth.â
he exhales through his nose. next thing he knows kento is moving the device aside to pull you into his lap, resting his chin on top of your head. âfifteen minutes.â
you fall asleep within four, and he doesn't reopen the file.
the more space you take, the more natural it feels for him to keep giving itânot interrupting his life as much as settling in nicely.
describing him as taken aback is the understatement of life itself. a forward gesture openly shakes naoya to his core.
itâs a regular moment. naoya is doing that condescending lean, one hand braced above your head, cornering, belittling your space. last thing he expects is you yanking the collar of his dress shirt to push him into the wall mid-sentence.
his mind halts. whatever smirk naoya had mere moments ago is effectively wiped off. âwhat.â one of his eyes twitches.
his load-bearing ego goes into overdrive. three choices, thatâs what naoyaâs brain offers: push you away, mock you, or reciprocate.
heâs never been the recipient of a kiss like this, never had to want someone back before. naoya has no script for being touched first, itâs a complete system halt. all three options slowly crash into each other and burn.
he doesnât know how to take it. then he hears âyou talk too much.â and his pulse hammers. naoya doesn't hate the audacity. he hates that he doesnât hate it.
lips are parted, eyes unmoored, naoyaâs arrogance flickers but doesnât relight. his throat works, yet no sound comes out. his pride is screaming at him to reclaim control, however his body doesn't seem to be onboard. he wants to demean you, he should, but you're the one humiliating him. on top of it all, naoya is starting to become very aware of the airy feeling that manifests in his core.
it threatens him. excites him. infuriates him. he knows one of those things is not like the others. "let go right now."
when he finally recovers, naoya turns to defensive mockery for a lifeline. he tries to make some leering comment about how impatient you are, desperate you are, but his voice cracks on a word and he gets angry at himself. the rough remark is more lost sounding than angry. âwhat the hell was that?â
naoya looks like he swallowed glass for three hours afterward. his brain refuses to look at you for the next hour, and within two, he rewrites the memory. by the next morning, he let you do it. he was indulging you. his brain simply refuses to store it any other way.
naoya chooses to ignore the way his usual sneer is weakened, and and instead focuses on rebuildilding the wall of his kicked down world view by being short with you the next day. in an even more insufferable way than usual, he ramps the degrading to eleven. something in his chest does a very concerning lurch when you don't even flinch.
he reframe it in ways that doesn't wound his ego. naturally, you want him. you can't help yourself. that's what he chooses to believe.
still, when you reach for the belt of his hakama without any preamble, he freezes, eyes widening a fraction. the way you look at him dead in the eyes makes naoya gulp.
your confidence proves to be a more than a one-time thing when you shove naoya back to a futon. his expression lands somewhere between disgust and bewilderment, yet his laugh is breathless and wrecked. a slight flush crawls up his neck as he makes a sound against your mouth. âyouâre still beneath me.â the words are not more than strained, half-choked growls.
extremely hyperaware of the way you straddle him and slowly unbutton his shirt, naoyaâs hands hover at your hips, trembling slightly from the sheer novelty of being taken. naoya is barely holding off from arching his back like a man starved. his brows shoot up despite what he thinks is a hardened expression on his face. a full-body shudder takes over him. pride in shambles and never been harder, naoya could almost cry.
the next time youâre alone and naoya starts his usual âyou should be grateful I even look at youâ routine, he trails off mid-sentence, realizing the script doesn't feel as effective now. when you raise an eyebrow, he looks away first, putting on an annoyed act.
naoya does not posses the capability of handling vulnerability, and it leaks sideways as further cruelty. cracks keep forming because you keep doing it, and every time, the gap between his dismissing facade and actual feelings get a little wider.
he starts to get possessive in a way that has everything to do with the fact that you wanting him feels like something he could lose, and the idea frightens him more than he can metabolize.
he'll tell himself it's about control, about keeping you where he wants you, but the forehead pressed onto your shoulder speaks volumes he would rather soon die than admit.
worst is when you roll off, offer a compliment and yawn with the same tone one would use after a meal. it does not compute how you're not preening over having had him. naoya lies there like youâve murdered him, chest heaving, filled with furry and confusion, staring at the ceiling. horrified at himself that he's wishing for eventual continuation. some part of him hates that you can access him like this. other part of him is hoping you keep doing it.
naoya starts to develop a bigger problem. he has a newfound need to be perceived by you, because it means you are finding something worth reaching out for. it is a completely novel experience he is choosing attach to like it's better than oxygen.
suguruâs first instinct is to briefly pause. he doesn't shift nor match your energy. just receives it, ice cold.
his gaze drops down to the point of contact, then back up to your face. he tries to gauge how far youâre willing to take this maneuver. will you falter? back down?
after a beat, his expression twists into a heavy-lidded smile. softly, too softly, suguru grabs your jaw. angles your head to his and peers down. âand what exactly do you plan to do with me?â
if he finds your confidence comes from a place of âi want you so badly i can't waitâ, he will allow you to initiate. otherwise, he will not tolerate being managed or controlled.
being desired proactively feels entirely intoxicating to suguru. it sustains him, fulfilling a deep need that he wasn't even aware of. like a form of purification.
heâll allow you to climb into his lap, palm his face with one hand. yet, youâre rarely allowed to finish on your own terms.
the moment you push an inch too far, suguruâs hand locks around your wrist, or your throat, depending on the offense. not enough to hurt a lot, but just enough to remind you of the bridge that exists between you.
he doesn't really get flustered. just shifts all of his terrifying, laser-focused attention entirely onto you. the way you breathe.
one of the only times he lets you completely set the pace, his hands grip your waist so hard his knuckles turn white.
watching your hands do the work is a massive turn-on for suguru. suguru notices if your hand shakes slightly as you undo his collar. and when he catches a flicker of fear or hesitation as you're trying to be bold? his smile widens. suguru will not file away the observation. he uses that exact moment to completely unravel you.
alas, he doesn't always have the energy to mindgame your advances. late at night when you unbutton his heavy, stifling robes, he closes his eyes to relish the feeling.
suguru's long hair spreads out wildly across the floor as he lies back and you climb on him. his shoulders are dropped, jaw looseâthe parts of him that are always working finally letting loose. he looks almost vulnerable, like a fallen deity.
loss of composure is a rare occasion for suguru geto. but there are signs. a hum. the tension in his jaw. the way he exhales just slightly too slow. all while holding you so tightly it leaves bruises. he'll recover. he always does.
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