Naito Mudano. Readers also a teacher at Rasetsu and they both like eachother, they just refuse to admit it. So one day the reader gets her hands on one of his shirts/jackets and kinda keeps it until he finds out.Fluff that turns into smut
Summary: At Rasetsu Academy, longing settles in the spaces between what’s said and what’s left unsaid. When you find Naito Mudano’s shirt in the laundry room, it’s the beginning of a confession neither of you can keep buried much longer.
Notes: You can see the list of characters I will take requests for here.
The corridors of Rasetsu Academy are hushed as a shrine at this hour; every shadow stretched long and watchful, dusk leaking in watery blue through the high windows, pooling in slick reflections on the waxed floors. A storm has been raging steadily for hours, hammering the roof—enough that, when you pause by the laundry room door, you can’t hear your own heartbeat for the rain.
You’re here for towels, nothing more. But as you step inside, something black, soft, and unmistakably not yours catches your eye, carelessly abandoned atop the half-shut dryer.
You recognise it before you even touch it: plain black cotton, clean lines, the faintest crispness of starch at the collar. Naito Mudano’s shirt. The one he wore to this morning’s staff meeting, before vanishing to train the first-years in the rain. You can picture it instantly—damp across his shoulders, moulding to the sharp geometry of him as he moved through drills, his mouth a thin line, eyes scanning for weakness.
He never forgets things. Never. If this is here, it’s because he wants it to be.
That's what you tell yourself, anyway, as you run your fingertips over the fabric. It’s still warm from the dryer, holding a trace of clean soap and something indefinably him—rainwater, discipline, the faintest ghost of citrus. You hesitate, glancing at the doorway, and then—unable to help yourself—gather it up, pressing your nose to the collar just once.
It feels like blasphemy, the softest sort.
You mean to leave it folded neatly on the counter, but your hands don’t obey. Instead, you clutch it close and sneak back to your room, guilt and anticipation coiling through you. It sits in your bag through dinner. It sits on your bed through midnight lesson plans. In the early hours of the morning, you slip it over your naked body, the sleeves drooping, the scent of him impossibly vivid. You tell yourself it’s only for tonight.
But by the time the sun claws back through the storm clouds, you’re still wearing it.
You don’t bump into him the next day. Nor the next. Guilt and nerves settle between your ribs, a strange ache every time you spot students giggling outside the staff room. Did he notice? Will he say something? Or worse—will he say nothing at all?
You and Mudano have always orbited each other at a careful distance, colleagues by title but something less definable smouldering quietly beneath. He’s impossibly formal, always direct, but there’s a patience in the way he watches you—an attentiveness that leaves your thoughts frayed and your sentences unfinished. If there’s a line between professional and personal, he’s the one who draws it with razor precision, and the one who flinches most if it’s crossed.
You tell yourself you’re imagining things. That he’s just meticulous, just careful, just… Mudano. But it doesn’t explain the glances that last a second too long, or the moments after meetings when conversation drifts into silence, heavy with all the things neither of you are willing to admit.
It’s a stalemate—him, too stubborn; you, too shy. So the tension lingers, patient as rainclouds, waiting for someone to finally speak.
He catches you one late afternoon, just as you’re leaving your empty classroom, the shirt still folded at the bottom of your bag, your pulse frantic as a trapped sparrow.
Mudano leans in the doorway, posture as unreadable as ever. The dying sunlight cuts across his face, carving shadow into the hollow of his cheek, turning his black eyes molten. He’s in a fresh shirt, blood red tie knotted with mathematical precision, hair still slightly damp from a shower. There’s an ease to his stance that you’ve come to recognise—his guard lowered only the barest fraction, a sign reserved for after-hours.
He looks at you for a moment, then: “You’re hard to find these days.” There’s no reproach in it, only a hint of curiosity, as if he’s searching for your answer between the words. “Busy?”
Your cheeks burn. You shake your head, too quick.
A sudden heat prickles at the back of your neck—not just embarrassment, but the memory of last night rising. Alone in the hush of your room, his shirt over bare skin, too big, swallowing you whole, the scent of him an ache at the back of your throat. Your hands had wandered, quivering beneath borrowed cotton, chasing the shape of him in fabric and air, desperate for something you’d never let yourself name. The shirt had clung to your skin long after, damp with sweat and yearning, a secret pressed close through the rest of the night.
You’re still wearing the echo of it now, the memory raw and electric beneath your clothes, impossible to hide from him.
He pushes off the doorframe, crossing to you in three long, silent steps. The click of his rollerblades is muffled on the carpet. His gaze flicks, just once, to your bag.
“I believe you have something of mine,” he says, not quite a question.
You search his face for any hint of annoyance or amusement, but his expression is as calm as always, his eyes giving nothing away. Still, something in the set of his jaw makes your stomach flutter—does he really know? Or is he only guessing?
“I—” The words stick in your throat, mortifying.
There's no point in lying. Not to him.
“I was going to return it.”
“Were you?”
His face is all angles in the fading light, but there's something gentle, if you know how to look—something soft around the edges, something that says he’s not angry, only quietly curious. You fumble for the shirt, offering it out with both hands, fingers trembling.
He takes it with a careful, deliberate slowness, his fingertips brushing yours. The contact, simple as it is, steals your breath—a heat that stills every other thought.
“Did you wear it?” he asks, voice low, almost a secret.
You nod, unable to meet his gaze. You’re sure he can hear your heart.
His lips curl at one corner, a smile so faint you could almost call it a trick of the rain-streaked window. “Next time, ask.”
You blink, looking up. He’s watching you with that same inscrutable calm, but his stance has softened at the edges—a silent offer in the way he stands.
“Sorry,” you murmur. “I just—I don’t know why I—”
“You do,” he says. “You just don’t want to say it.”
You swallow, nerves knotting. “Do you?”
For a second, you’re sure he’ll deflect. Instead, he reaches out, tugs you a fraction closer by the sleeve. His touch is sure, but there’s a hesitation there too—an unspoken question. Your mind goes blank with wanting. You don’t trust yourself to speak—only to close the distance and hope he can’t feel how much you're shaking.
You let your forehead rest against his chest, the steady thump of his heart beneath crisp black cotton. Up close, the warmth of him surrounds you, and you draw in a deep breath, finally catching his scent unfiltered—deeper, alive and impossible to fake. Nothing like the faded memory from his discarded shirt. It fills your lungs, dizzying, and for a moment, you’re not sure where you end, and he begins.
He lets out a slow, careful exhale, and his hand comes up, settling between your shoulder blades. You linger there, savouring his body heat, the realness of his presence.
After a moment, you tip your head up, searching his face. He meets your gaze, and in that long, unguarded silence, everything you’ve been dancing around passes between you—longing, nerves, the hungry ache of something finally, quietly breaking open. There’s no need for words. It’s all there, in the way his dark eyes soften around the edges, the smallest tilt of his mouth, the way neither of you steps back.
When he takes your hand and heads down the hallway, you follow him without thinking, heart in your throat.
His dorm room is neat, almost spartan. Rain beads the windows, thunder rolling distant and slow. He sets the shirt on the back of his chair, then bends to unstrap his rollerblades, slipping them off with efficient, practised motions before setting them neatly by the door. Only then does he straighten and turn to face you, his features schooled to stillness, as if he’s weighing every word that might come next.
“You’re nervous,” he says, voice soft now, almost intimate.
You nod, lost for words, unsure whether to move closer or stay where you are. He steps forward, careful, closing the distance with quiet intent. His hands find your waist, feather-light, waiting.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his thumb stroking a gentle arc where it's settled, grounding you.
You swallow hard, pulse thrumming in your throat. Your mind is suddenly a blur of images: his hands on your skin, his mouth trailing slow heat along your neck, the press of his body against yours in this quiet, rain-wrapped room. It’s too much, all at once—too much wanting, too much opportunity, and you can barely catch your breath.
Your voice is soft, unsteady, but you force the words out anyway. “I… I want you. I want—”
You break off, biting your lip, cheeks burning.
But he doesn’t look away, and you find the courage to meet his eyes.
“I want you to touch me,” you finish, almost a whisper.
His hands glide up your sides, tracing the line of your ribs. He studies you, searching your face for doubt. Whatever he finds there, it reassures him—he leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead, then your cheek, then, achingly slow, your mouth.
His kisses are measured, hesitant at first. You’re acutely aware of every brush of his thumb, every shift of his weight, how easy it would be to lose yourself in the breadth of him. He towers over you—tall and impossibly solid—so that when he gathers you closer, you feel surrounded, sheltered.
Something in you sparks—desire flaring into boldness. Your hands find their way beneath his shirt, fingertips gliding along the hard planes of his stomach, feeling the play of muscle beneath smooth skin. He makes a low sound against your mouth, approving, and deepens the kiss—his tongue sweeping into your mouth, slow and sure, tasting, claiming.
For a dizzy moment, you surrender to it—his body pressing you gently back, his hands bracketing your hips, the room shrinking to heat and the sound of rain and the impossible closeness of him.
When you finally pull away for breath, your eye catches on something unexpected—tattoos, bold against pale skin, revealed just above the waist of his trousers. Your fingers linger there, curiosity winning out, tracing the shapes as you look up at him.
He sees you looking. For a heartbeat, his composure falters.
“I... didn't know you had these,” you murmur, tentative.
He glances down, mouth twitching. “Not finished. I add to them… when necessary.”
“When someone...” You can’t bring yourself to say it. The moment feels too tender to let grief in.
A long silence. His gaze is distant, but not cold. “It’s... a reminder. That’s all.”
You run your fingertips over the black shapes, gentle. He lets you, watching with a strange, open vulnerability. Then, softly, he tugs you in, guiding your hand further up his chest—where the tattoo vanishes beneath his shirt.
“Come here,” he murmurs, voice a touch lower, command threaded with comfort.
He leads you to his bunk and undresses you with reverence, as if each button is something sacred. His hands are steady, but his breath hitches when you touch bare skin—each new inch revealed a study in contrasts: ink and scars, strength and trembling restraint.
You’re nervous, shy, but he is impossibly patient—guiding, never pushing. When you falter, he whispers encouragement, his mouth at your ear, voice a low rumble: “You’re beautiful. Let me take care of you.”
He lays you back against the sheets, and suddenly nothing exists beyond this narrow bed; the heat radiating from his skin, the sound of his breath mingling with yours. Naito’s touch is careful but commanding, palms warm and certain as he trails them down your sides, skimming the soft dip of your waist, the quiver in your thighs. He kisses you again—deeper this time, coaxing your lips apart, swallowing every trembling breath.
When he pulls away, it’s only to map a path down your body with his mouth: your throat, your collarbone, the flutter of your pulse. He’s thorough, deliberate, hands bracing your hips as he presses wet, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach. When he reaches the edge of you—where your need burns the brightest—he pauses just long enough to meet your eyes.
“I’ve thought about this more than I should,” he murmurs, eyes burning with want. “So stay still. Let me.”
And then he’s everywhere—tongue, lips, the press of his hands holding you open, keeping you grounded. His mouth is both devoted and relentless, his tongue slow at first, coaxing gasps from your lips, then firmer as you arch and writhe beneath him. He watches you the entire time—hungry, focused, savouring every sound you make, every tremor. When you start to shudder, he only holds you steadier, mouth never leaving you, until the tension you’ve held for months—years—tears free inside you, leaving you gasping, hollowed out and whole all at once.
He doesn’t stop, not until you’ve shattered and stilled and caught your breath, boneless and shivering with the aftershocks. Only then does he rise, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, quietly satisfied. He leans over you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, letting you settle beneath his weight, sheltered and spent.
You can feel the hard length of him against your thigh—undeniable, insistent, the ache of his own wanting barely contained. A desperate need claws through you; you want him, all of him, now. You try to say something—how good he made you feel, how you never want this to end—but the words tangle uselessly in your mouth.
He doesn’t give you the chance to find them. His lips find yours again, wild now, and you taste yourself on his tongue, hot and bitter. His hand fumbles at his shirt buttons—uncharacteristically rough—every movement betraying just how tightly he’s held himself in check. He breaks the kiss only long enough to pull his shirt open, breath ragged against your skin, before he claims your mouth again, and you arch up, reaching for him, needy for the heat and weight of him, finally, finally pressing into you.
He shoves his trousers down just far enough, freeing himself, and you whine at the sudden heat of him—huge and flushed, pressing against the slick ache of your centre. For a breathless moment, he pauses, head bowed, letting the head of his cock slide through your wetness, staking his place.
Then he looks up, locking onto your gaze—eyes dark, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, his hips just barely held in check. “I want to remember the look on your face...”
You do.
He pushes forward, patient but unyielding, the thick heat of him stretching you open, and for a dizzying second, you can’t think, can’t breathe—can only cling to his shoulders and let the feeling crash over you. It’s too much and not enough, every inch sinking deeper until he’s fully sheathed inside you, the fullness of him stealing the last of your breath.
You’ve imagined this for so long, craved it in quiet, aching moments, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality—how completely he fills you, how perfectly your body yields for him, how the world seems to vanish as he settles his weight over you. You melt beneath him, every muscle going liquid, every thought dissolving into need. He holds still for a heartbeat, eyes locked on yours, committing every detail to memory—your parted lips, the tremor in your voice, the way you shudder around him, already so close to falling apart again.
He takes you apart with exquisite care, rocking into you with a rhythm as steady as the rain against the glass. Each thrust sends a jolt through your body—controlled and so deep you feel yourself unravelling around him.
You barely have time to brace yourself; it’s overwhelming, the friction and fullness, the look in his eyes, the soft grunts against your neck, the weight of how long you've been yearning. You shatter almost instantly. Your body clenches around him, pleasure crashing over you so hard you can only gasp his name, your body catching fire in a dozen places at once.
He doesn’t falter, doesn’t let you go—his hands find yours, fingers entwined, anchoring you as the sensation rips through you in waves. He watches every flicker of your expression, breath coming harsh as he chases your release with his own, still in perfect control until the very last second.
You feel him throb inside you, his movements turning ragged. His grip tightens on your hands, knuckles white, and his eyes never leave yours. You watch the strain etched across his face—the way his mouth falls open, the tremor in his jaw as he finally lets go.
“God, you feel…” he groans, voice raw and rough, the rest lost in a broken gasp as he buries himself deep and spills into you. The heat of it floods you, sending a fresh shock through your body; you arch up to meet him, the sounds he makes resonating deep within your core.
Then, you’re both suspended in the aftermath—his body heavy and shaking over yours, breath mingling, sweat and rain and relief tangling in the air between you. He stays there for a moment, propped on his hands, his face so close you can see the wet shine at the edges of his lashes. He leans down and kisses you again—slow, lingering, with none of the urgency from before. It’s softer, impossibly tender, as if he’s telling you something in a language only your bodies understand.
When he finally pulls back, you find your voice, your fingers tracing lazy shapes along his jaw.
“I’ve wanted this...” You whisper, almost laughing at yourself for how small and true the words sound. “I think I’ve wanted you since the first week.”
His lips twitch into something like a smile, rare and unguarded. “You’re not the only one,” he murmurs. “I kept hoping you’d want me back.”
He shifts, rolling to your side, and pulls you close, tucking you beneath his chin. You listen to the rain together, breath evening out, all of those nerves dissolving into something sweeter—trust, and the new, unshakable knowledge that this complicated, stubborn man will hold you through whatever comes next.
Not just as your colleague. Not just as your protector.
But as the man who left his shirt behind, and hoped—just a little—that you’d find it.
when the students ask if you're seeing a certain somebody, you love to give them more than the truth. (slight manga spoilers and could potentially be a little ooc..)
mudano naito x reader
── ⟢
+ it's canon that mudano will probably focus more on the war than someone. i mean, it makes sense because what's the point of settling in when there's the risk of losing them too.
+ and the students, shiki especially, are sure that he's never going to get married. he has the looks─don't know about the attitude, but they're absolutely convinced that mudano naito is going to remain single for the rest of his life. or at least, until the war between the oni and momo is over.
+ so, it was absolute chaos when the students found out that mudano naito was, in fact, not single.
+ "sit down. i have no obligation to tell you anything," mudano says sternly. he has his arms crossed and he's stood behind his desk. everyone is practically buzzing in their seats after catching him with their training teacher, (name), in the corridor. they were standing very close to each other─enough to suspect that they were definitely more than friends. and it's funny that the mudano naito got caught by no other than yusurube jyuji, who'd sprinted back to the classroom and announced that he saw two adults making love in the hallway─that was not what you were doing, but he obviously had a tendency to exaggerate his observations.
+ to be honest, it's mainly yusurube and shiki who are most interested. byobugaura is happy for you, kuina couldn't care less, rokuro's trembling, yaoroshi has the most bored expression and kougasaki is, and very rightly-so, minding his own business.
+ "muda-sen!" shiki exclaims, his hand shooting up. he has a wide grin on his face along with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "come on! you're really not going to tell us what you've got going on with (name)-sensei?!"
+ "no, i'm not," mudano snaps. "stop talking before i make her give you a hundred more laps around the field."
+ but before shiki can open his mouth to protest, the classroom door slides open and you walk in, a folder in one hand and a drink in the other.
+ "extra laps?" you question. you hand the folders over to mudano, who puts it on the desk. "shiki?"
+ "yes," he replies. "add a hundred to his next training lesson."
+ shiki squawks. "i didn't even do anything!"
+ "that's no fun," you laugh, resting your arm on mudano's shoulder. he makes no effort to move, but he feels the eyes of every student on him, or more precisely, your hand. "shiki, i'll cut the hundred if you buy me my favourite drink."
+ "what?! how can you ask a student that?! i don't have money!"
+ your lips curve. "naito, i think a hundred is too little for him."
+ you're a full-time instructor at rasetsu academy along with mudano and kyouya. while the former is the homeroom teacher and the latter is the infirmary doctor, you take charge over the students' training.
+ having graduated the same year as them, you've grown to become a well-respected oni with a huge capacity of blood in your body. after years and years of gruelling training, you found your specialty in defence, forming blood walls that serve as shields against the momotarou's attacks. many oni have survived thanks to your ability.
+ everyday, you're tasked with overlooking everyone's blood control, making sure none of them go berserk. the whole mikado disaster was only two weeks ago, so you had to supervise shiki for a short while after kyouya had healed him, but luckily, he appeared to be ok.
+ and just as you're about to tell mudano something, shiki, always the energetic one, bursts out cackling. "(name)-sensei! muda-sen won't tell us what you've got going on!"
+ it's like he's singing, you think, as shiki's face morphs into a snarky smile. you truly wonder what goes on in his head, but from experience and also common sense, it's kind of . . . wise to avoid that question at all costs. whenever you bring up the topic of the young ichinose to mudano, he only sighs and tells you to forget about it.
+ you sneak a look at mudano and he has his same neutral expression, but you know better. that tiny tiny crease between his brows, the second-long jaw clench and the hands in the pockets. the students definitely miss it, but you don't.
+ mudano never says that he doesn't want the students to know about your relationship. not specifically. he doesn't really show it in the first place. whatever you do is always behind closed doors, completely locked away from the eyes of nosy people. it's mostly in the comfort of his home, but even these situations are fairly rare because of your merciless schedules.
+ there was one time where byobugaura had shyly asked if you were seeing anyone because she could not believe that someone as lovely as you was a single pringle. all you did was confirm her question, but you didn't go further than that.
+ you squeeze mudano's shoulder and muster the most emotional, saddest tone you can make. you shake your head to add a touch of dramatic flair. "our dorms were separated, so he always snuck into my room at the dead of night just to give me some flowers."
+ mudano's silent, so you take this as your sign to continue.
+ "he'd cook for me everyday, feed me, read me a book, sing me a lullaby and even smile for me." you raise your head. "i got the mudano naito smiling privilege, you guys."
+ mudano's still silent.
+ "and lastly," you say, trying to push down the huge guffaw about to erupt from your throat, "he asked about being parents─"
+ "i did no such thing," mudano finally interrupts, his eyes flickering towards you. "why are you lying?"
+ "they're not all a lie," you beam, looking back at everybody, who now all seem quite engrossed in your doo-doo story. "i'll tell you which song he sang for me─"
+ "i don't sing," mudano says, his voice growing more dull by the second. "stop feeding them false images of me."
+ "hey, muda-sen," shiki sings. "i didn't think you were the romantic type."
+ and before you can embarrass him any further, he kicks you out of the classroom, insisting that he has something to talk to them about. with a laugh, you leave and make your way towards the staff room to get yourself a drink. your lessons are in a few hours anyway.
─
+ you're sitting on a stool with your back against the wall, going through new training regimes for the next few weeks, until you hear the door swing open and the smooth sound of roller skates gliding across the floor.
+ "finished with class?" you ask, not looking up from your sheets. "did they manage to calm down after my awesome stories?"
+ "to be frank, no, they didn't," mudano answers.
+ "same time tomorrow?"
+ he lightly huffs. "absolutely not."
+ he peers down to see what you're reading before he moves to stand behind you to get a clearer look. "what's this? training?"
+ you flip it over so that all the students' data are shown. "yeah, gotta make sure it's all correct before i actually teach it." you set them down and sit up straight, stretching your arms out wide. "they should all be good, though."
+ you're still stretching as you slowly rise to your feet, and with a huge sigh of relief, you turn around. "hello, there."
+ "you made me look like an idiot," he says, but none of those words are mixed with anger, it only makes a small laugh flow out of your mouth as your raise your hands to trace the two lines on his cheek.
+ "yeah, well, like i said, they're not all a lie," you reply, your thumb gently swiping right under his eyes, making him squint just a little. "you did smile for me."
+ "i don't remember."
+ "rude," you sigh. "you did. a very dashing one too."
+ you can't see it, but you're sure mudano's hands are hovering around your waist as you can feel the lightest touches from the tips of his fingers. he's hardly direct, hardly rough, but he has his subtle ways of love that no one else will ever get to pry out of him. he stays still as you gradually lean into him and it's when your chest touches his that his grip on your waist is now there.
+ "should i tell them about this tomorrow?" you ask. "i can say that i have mudano naito hugging privileges too."
+ "enough of that," he says, but his actions say otherwise. he holds you a little tighter and there are things, scenarios, questions and hope spinning through his brain that he wishes can turn into a reality one day.
when mudano naito commits to an oni tradition where they gift their lover a pendant of their blood, how will you take it?
feat. mudano naito
you shut the door behind you and follow mudano into the dimly-lit staff room where the sound of leaves flood in through the open window. the night’s chill melts away as the heaters thrum to life, and you finally realise why this is a place mudano always falls back to.
he comes to a stop in front of a cabinet, his back facing you as he fiddles with the handle. it slides open and you hear the soft jingling of keys, discarded notebooks and what you want to assume is jewellery. it’s not long until he takes something and closes it with a click.
“what do you have?” you ask, putting your hands on the back of a chair. you try to crane your neck, but mudano still hasn’t turned around yet.
“something,” he answers. he curls his fingers around whatever he’s holding, but you think it must be small because it disappears completely in his palms.
since your days at rasetsu, it’s been a joint agreement that out of the four of you, mudano’s always been the least concerned with making new connections. he’s lost so many, so what would have been the point to meet many? he’s always been secretive about his past and probably always will, but none of that stopped you from diving deep into his humane self, filling in the gaping holes that deserve all the love he couldn’t have.
and perhaps that’s how he’s grown more fond of you than he had ever imagined. you were simply another teammate, another person to tolerate along with kyouya and masumi, but that tolerance, your company became something he couldn’t describe. he found himself reaching for it on the days he felt like he couldn’t breathe or when the guilt from being the lone survivor was too much. he’d never show it, he wouldn’t let himself, but a part of him wanted to, to you.
you watch mudano turn around, one hand in his pocket and the other in front of his chest. he glides over until he’s standing close to you, until you can see a brief glint of appreciation in his dark eyes that vanishes almost immediately.
a quiet chuckle leaves your lips. “it must be pretty important for you to bring me here when it’s lights out for everyone else.”
he doesn’t reciprocate your laugh, but his gaze sweeps all over you, like he’s painting over your visible exhaustion. he never misses the tiny details. he’s always been looking out for you since day one, and he’ll continue to do so until the day he can’t.
his eyes trace the way you tilt your head, and it’s as if you’re standing under the most perfect angle with the moonlight casting a glow over your body. your hair looks lighter and your face shines like a pearl he’s blessed to see, and suddenly, the object he’s holding in his hand feels more real.
mudano lets out a deep exhale, moving even closer until you can feel his breath on your forehead. through the gaps in between his fingers, you make out a vague twinkle of silver, but it's gone when he turns his hand.
“this,” he begins, causing you to look up at his black irises, the very ones that you can stare at all day, “is something i’ve been keeping for a while.”
you feel the ghostly touch of his other arm hovering over your waist, but you can only watch the way his eyes drill into yours as he speaks so gently.
“you don’t have to keep it if you don’t want it.”
he unfurls his slender fingers and you’re met with the sight of a beautiful silver necklace with a red vial the shape of a diamond. it’s so slim, like it’s the most delicate thing in the world and it doesn’t seem too long or too short either, a perfect length for you as if he’s measured it all already.
it's oni tradition that giving a gift featuring the blood of an oni reflects their wish to spend all eternity with them. it's not common, in fact, it's one of the rarest and most dangerous things to offer. it's an oath that your life is now theirs and it's a question, a proposal to carry each other on into the afterlife, too.
never in a million years did you think mudano naito would ever gift you something so precious. it must've taken him years and years to come to this.
you zone in on the vial that pulses like a heartbeat. it swirls in the same shape, morphing into circular patterns as it shrinks into the middle. there are small splashes of red and black, and you can only think it represents mudano's desires, his personality.
your voice is low as if you’re afraid to break the silence. “naito, this is…”
“my blood,” mudano says, noting how your eyes enlarge in surprise. “it’s a few drops.”
you press the diamond and instantly, mudano’s blood dips into the outline of your finger. when you let go, it fades back into its calm colour, like a wave flowing back into the sea.
“this is for me?” you whisper. “you're serious about this?”
with a smile that makes him want to run from the world with you, mudano doesn’t move but observes the way you gesture to yourself.
he blinks. "you think if i wasn't serious, i'd be giving it to you in the first place?"
his words trigger a massive flashback of when he was desperately trying to stop your blood gushing out your side. you were leaning against a broken car and his body was caged above yours, shielding you from the incoming bullets of momo troops even if it almost killed him. it was the day you realised where you stood in his life and where he stood in yours. it was the first time you saw real terror behind his eyes.
and after that, in the darkness of your hospital room, it was also the first time mudano naito had voiced those eight letters.
and now, more than ten years later as your strongest self, you're still standing by mudano's side, your connection thicker than ever before.
without another word, he moves behind you and with cool fingers, he clasps the piece of jewellery around your neck. it blends into your skin, shimmering as you look down to admire it even more. you run a thumb over the vial that feels warm and awake before you begin leaning forward.
"you know what this is," mudano says, putting a hand on your back when you bury your face into his chest, "because only an oni will know the significance of it."
"i know, i definitely know," you answer, your voice slightly muffed from his shirt. his scent calms you. "i didn't think i'd get to see one, though."
you hear his heartbeat ringing through your ear, but it's comforting like he always is. there's never been a moment where you've felt unprotected or unsafe in mudano's presence. he's made sure to make you feel like you're his first in any situation and now, with this, it feels more true.
"you know what it means, so i'm not going to explain it," he states, lowering his head so that his lips touch your hair. "no point in saying things twice."
"aw, i would've loved hearing you confess your reasons," you tease, closing your eyes to the feeling of his light kisses. "i haven't heard mudano naito profess his love for me since our rasetsu days."
he presses a deeper kiss on the top of your head, squeezing your sides with his hands. "like i said, there's no reason to repeat myself."
"but you'll say you love me, right?"
there's a pause, but it's interrupted by your soft laughter. you sink into his embrace until your bodies are practically one.
"alright, alright," you chuckle. "i won't ask for anything so outrageous."
he might not say it, he might not let you hear those words, but he'll recite it in his mind all the time.
Summery: In which Mudano is forced to take a moment....
Tags: Fem!Reader, Light!Breeding, Dirty Thoughts
Oni Corp doesn’t usually have the space or money to give everyone a separate room. It was more efficient that way. Mudano could keep an eye on his student and the organization could send twice as many people. However, he could appreciate the luxury of having his own room. Especially when he woke up this hard
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up like this. As soon as he was conscious, he could feel his head rubbing against the seam of his boxers. It was the raw, sensitive kind of morning wood that refused to be rationalized away. Wide-eyed and gritting his teeth, he knew one thing.
This was your fault. Last night, in a crowded party with no free seats, you found one in his lap. He should have told you to get off — everyone must have seen how he was allowing it — but it was harmless at first. Naito had barely noticed you until you started shifting.
He could still feel the way your ass spread over his thighs. How you rocked with laughter, ground your soft ass against his bulge so obliviously. The way you’d looped your arm around his neck and leaned back to smile at him, thank him for the seat by whispering against his skin.
There was no glory in stuffing his hand down his pants like a needy animal. He should have more control over himself, shouldn’t be mindlessly rubbing his thumb against his leaky head and imagining how soft your fingers would be.
“Fine. Let’s finish this quickly.”
Naito whipped his pride and blanket off together. He ripped his pants down to his thighs. He whinged at imagining your reaction as his cock sprang out of his boxers.
As he’d done before, he spat into his hand, gave himself some more lube besides the precum pearling at the tip. Naito slicked down his shaft a few gentle strokes from top to bottom. Licking his lips, he was assaulted by his fantasies of you.
He would hold your hands, help you sink onto his cock slowly, feel how your little pussy enveloped his cock inch by inch, until your ass was back in his lap, cradling his balls between your cheeks. Mudano could feel your heat melt him back into the sheets like it wasn’t just his hand.
“Ah-” Finally, he stroked himself, feeling your every fold in the fleshy bones of his fingers. His teeth caught his lip before another sound could slip out.
This was wrong. He shouldn’t be jerking off, or at least not as thoughtfully stroking himself, to you. Yet every time he was able to see you riding him, his body froze with pleasure. Your breast bounced with every little thrust of his hips and every time you stopped to grind your clit on his pelvis. He swore he could feel your juices dripping down his thighs.
Mudano twisted, dug his heels into the sheets, and let out one pathetic pant. This was too much, way further than he should allow himself. His shame was audible now, a silky creamy sound that was missing the clap of your thighs meeting.
Throwing his other arm over his eyes, he knew that it didn’t matter. He was going to cum to the thought of you.
His hand worked him quickly, letting instinct take over as he imagined you speeding up. The way you would feel as you came. Mudano swore he would force it out of you first so he could feel the way you twitched and ensure your womb would suck up every last drop of his seed.
“Fuck-”
His body seized as he came like a bolt of lightning. He throbbed in his hand, every breath extending the mind wiping peace of his orgasm. A few thin, watery ropes hit his hands and pajama pants as he finished.
He stayed in that blissful moment for a second. His eyes closed, letting him take in the cool morning air on his hot skin. His day felt hours away and promised it would be awash in the same relaxed bliss.
When he did open his eyes though, the moment was erased. He placed that sweet feeling and you somewhere else safe inside him, where you would not tempt him as he continued his duties. Mudano knew you would return, that the memory of your skin would pounce on him every time he was alone, and he accepted it.
Deep down in his heart, Mudano feared he might even like it.
MUDANO NAITO x FEM!READER. 18+ NSFW. Soft dom!Mudano, Reader is part of the Oni Agency stationed at Rasetsu Academy, implied (private) relationship, shower sex, nipple play, clit stimulation, fingering, mild breath play/erotic asphyxiation, sex against the wall (If you don't think Mudano is strong enough to lift/hold you just read ch 140), P in V, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie, lots of intimacy, praise, unspoken feelings, occasional POV switch, aftercare implied. WORDCOUNT: 7.2k
18+ MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY. MINORS, AGELESS & BLANK BLOGS DNI. REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!
If there’s one thing that you’ve never had issue with sharing with Naito Mudano, it’s comfortable silence.
Being the undeniable stoic type with a penchant for all things efficient, you knew from the beginning that Mudano wouldn’t ever be the first to engage in conversation (at least the kind that didn’t have a clear purpose in mind) or make propositions outside of his straight and narrow mindset. Frivolity is a mystery to him, and the thick walls of discipline he’s encased himself in aren’t forgiving to cheeky banter or whimsical adventure.
And despite that, you think it’s exactly what drew you in to him—his unshakable resolve and a mental fortitude strong enough to hold even the heaviest of burdens. You’ve learned over the years of collecting fragments of information about him that some of that conviction of his was born from things like grief and regret, things he doesn’t talk about, things you probably can’t fathom. But nevertheless, it’s shown you the kindhearted nature that Mudano exudes, albeit in unconventional ways.
Efficiency. Sternness. Silence.
It’s all of these traits that he possesses that eliminated any sense of doubt you had upon growing closer to him, because a man like Naito Mudano wouldn’t waste time on something he wasn’t implicitly sure of. Opening your heart to someone had never felt more safe and secure than in Naito’s capable hands.
There might not be any grand romantic gestures between you, cuddling or canoodling or keeping conversation just for fun, but there’s warmth in the spaces you’ve reserved for each other in your hearts, however minimal it may be.
You appreciate that about Mudano—his way of keeping his affections undeniably special.
Some people might say that his unwillingness to allow you to accompany him on missions is a sign that he doubts your competency or skills, but you’re well aware that his motives are only to keep you out of harms way, and nothing more. He cares far too much to put you in deliberate danger if he can help it.
So to say you’re surprised to be sharing a quiet hotel elevator ride with Naito, deep in the concrete jungle of metropolitan Tokyo, would be an understatement.
It was a simple enough mission—more of a personal request from Rasetsu’s principal since he’s unable to leave the island of Onigashima himself—that seemingly determined that your presence wouldn’t result in extra worry for the straight-laced professor.
(And perhaps the mysterious and obviously more lighthearted admin of the school even had a part in swaying Mudano to let you be his mission partner this time around. After all, he’s one of the few people that know what you and Mudano are to each other, and the Principal has always been quite encouraging about it.)
That’s not to say you weren’t excited to get some one-on-one time with Naito either, since he tends to structure his days and class schedules quite diligently, and he’s certainly not one to engage in public displays of affection at any given time. Moments for just the two of you are ones you keep close to the chest, so getting his undivided attention for a little while sounded like an absolute treat.
“We get to share a room,” you muse as you place your things on the chaise in the corner of your hotel room, admiring the view outside the window.
“It conserves the Academy’s budget.” Naito dryly explains, placing the briefcase which contained the reason for this evening’s mission on the floor. “And it’s easier to keep an eye on things. It’s more efficient.”
He can’t just say that he wanted you close by.
“There you go again.” Your laughter bounces off the plain neutral walls, stepping over to the bed to test its comfortability for the night. The sheets feel soft enough as you run your fingers over the fibers. As your eyes move about the room, something catches your attention. Not for it’s standout features of flashiness, but on the contrary, its glaringly simple existence.
The very modern ensuite bathroom, very unlike the traditional wash rooms at Rasetsu. Which isn’t a problem, but it hadn’t even crossed your mind until the very moment your eyes swept over it.
“We’ll have to use the same shower.”
Mudano stands quietly, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his slacks as he ascertains what you mean. His eyes drift to the threshold of the bathroom, then meet yours for a moment before offering a simple solution to the perceived dilemma.
“Ladies first.”
“No, you can go first,” you quickly counter as you sit at the edge of the bed. “I’m sure you’re way faster than me.”
He eyes you again for a beat before reaching for the knot of his tie. “Very well.”
He gives the tie a practiced tug from around his neck and places it on the bed, proceeding to methodically undo the buttons of his dress shirt. His fingers move dexterously, inching to reveal the bold bodysuit underneath. Tattoos of a past that you’ve only caught glimpses of in rare moments you’ve been brave enough to ask about. Naito isn’t secretive, just private. His avoidant details tell you far less than the work itself, the inky black patterns laid over his collarbones, across his chest, down his sternum and…
There’s a pause before he reaches the last button, and it takes you a second too long to realizes he’s stopped undressing because you’re staring at him.
It’s mildly embarrassing; it’s hardly the first time you’ve seen your own lover without a shirt, and a few times he’s even been kind enough to allow you to remove it for him, but this setting makes things feel uncharacteristically… foreign. Exciting. So much so that you let your mind wander to those stereotypical movie scenes of steamy romance and how it might look between you and the man who you’ve definitely seen naked, just not naked and wet, a pleasant sheen over defined muscle and dripping from*—*
“Would you like to join me instead?”
Your line of sight darts back to his coal black gaze, relaxed and far too neutral, so you can’t be sure if his mouth was actually moving just now or if you imagined his voice inside your wildly delusional head. The latter is certainly far more plausible.
But the way his eyes narrow a fraction, like he’s telling you he won’t ask twice, confirms the doubt.
“Oh… I— If you think that would be… Um, more efficient?”
God, you sound like him right now. You want to laugh at yourself, but your levity gets caught in your throat over the entire situation at hand. Your palms feel a little sweaty, your nerves making your fingers twitch against the freshly creased linens.
You’ve been intimate with Naito, but you’ve never showered with him before, and for some reason that feels way more personal than sharing a bed.
There’s a pause, silence that’s typically comfortable between the two of you, but in this moment feels thick and unnerving and has your thoughts running a mile a minute.
But then you hear Naito sigh.
“It wasn’t a suggestion with efficiency in mind…” He finishes with the last button of his perfectly pressed shirt, revealing in full the decorated markings of his lean but strong body as it slides off of his shoulders.
The quiet shift of fabric being laid onto the bed is the only thing that cuts through the tension in the air before he finishes his sentence.
“Only indulgence.”
You feel an immense heat crawl up the back of your neck. You’re not sure that it’s actually Naito Mudano standing in front of you right now, if not for the too familiar unyielding weight of his pitch black eyes. Since when did he cast aside efficiency for blatant indulgence? And during a mission, no less.
Well, the hard part of the mission is over, anyway…
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. It feels like your mind is buffering to blurt out any sort of answer, but trying to stay focused on his generous suggestion while ogling at his shirtless form only makes things terribly difficult for your poor brain to keep up with.
You like to think he’s blissfully unaware of the effect he can have on someone like you.
Without breaking stride, Naito pulls his belt from the loops of his trousers before tossing it to the bed and making his way to the bathroom.
“I won’t wait long.”
You know he wont, but you’re not sure why you still hesitate, feet planted to the floor like they’ve taken root all of a sudden. Perhaps it’s because you’re used to the idea of this being quite impossible with the bathing arrangements at Rasetsu. Thanks to the traditional setup and a firm boundary on mixed bathing, for students and teachers, the thought of sharing a bath with Naito never really crossed your mind aside from being some sexy faraway fantasy that you were sure he’d never bring up on his own.
You’ve gotten so used to the same routine that the sudden crumbling of those walls built around it leaves you slightly anxious.
The sound of running water pulls you from your thoughts, a realization that Naito is probably already in the shower, which means you have about thirty seconds to decide if you’re going to take him up on his offer or leave it to be desired.
Twenty-nine…
Twenty-eight…
You force your feet to move, rather quickly pattering into the bathroom and starting to remove your clothes, trying to ignore the distracting flutter in your lower abdomen.
For all you know, Naito could end up hating this, failing to grasp the whimsy and finding it easier to just continue to bathe alone when you head back to Rasetsu in the morning and never speak of it again.
But there’s a chance he might enjoy it too, otherwise he likely wouldn’t have given it a passing thought to begin with.
He could just be doing it for you, too. But as thoughtful as that is, you’d like to think he has at least a small reason to want to do it for himself. He deserves to be a little selfish after spending countless hours thinking about others.
The glass shower door has already begun to cloud with steam, leaving Naito as a waning indistinct figure on the other side. No sooner do your panties fall to your ankles are you sliding into the rather cramped space directly behind him.
You’re greeted by the intricate patterns that adorn Naito’s back, shimmering in waves like a heavy rain on a spring evening as he lets the water beat down onto his shoulders. His hair hangs heavy, a waterfall of tar black that molds to the curves of his neck.
It’s like you’re seeing him for the first time, in a strange way. It’s most definitely not the first time you’ve seen him stripped down—physically speaking—but as the cascade of water soaks into his hair and glides down his back, its almost as if his exterior is being washed away right before your eyes, softening his edges, giving way to the part of himself he holds far too deep for anyone to reach.
It’s much warmer inside the enclosure of the shower, the air thickening with every ticking second. Your eyes roam the planes of Naito’s body, firm musculature of a well-trained soldier with markings from shoulder to spine and down to his thighs.
You know what they mean, what purpose they serve—a constant reminder of his past, forever etched into the surface of his skin like a punishment that never fades.
You’re not left to dwell on it for too long, because a look over his shoulder shifts your attention. You stand awkwardly away from the water, clutching your arms as the billowing steam against the cool air leaves you goose-fleshed. You’re not sure why you feel so nervous.
Naito wordlessly reaches out to pull you closer, positioning you in his place in front of the hot stream of water. He stands at your back as you near instantly let yourself relax as the warmth beats down into your tired muscles, releasing the day’s tension with a sigh.
“How’s the temperature?” It’s a quiet thrum at your ear, an earnest question.
“It feels good…” The water pressure begins to melt you, inevitably bringing a rumble of pleasure up the column of your throat like a cat’s purr. “Really good.”
The day has been long, a few hours on the Shinkansen left you stiff, and walking through the shadows and alleyways of Tokyo to avoid Momotaro detection really put a strain on your legs. You’re just thankful nothing went awry this time for you to have to fight. Relatively speaking, this assignment went off without a hitch. No mishaps, no wounds to tend to, no need for backup or sudden retreat.
“This is nice,” you playfully muse to break the quiet.
“I wouldn’t get used to it.” His answer keeps the same indifferent tone, albeit a little softer this time. It’s not said from a place of unwillingness, but reinforcing the normalcy for when you both return to the school. Always the sensible one.
“Well then,” you sigh as you let your head fall back, welcoming the downpour of calming water. “I guess we’ll just have to enjoy this while we can.”
“Yeah…” He responds definitively. His fingers softly clutch your hips, as if you might disappear into vapor if he were to let go. The way his hair drips onto the back of your neck makes you squirm a little.
You stay like that for a short length of time, just appreciating the atmosphere and the company of one another in silence, as you always have.
After one long minute, you feel Naito steadily pull you against him, enough to feel his rigid chest against your back, a slight tickle of his breath that makes you bristle with a chill.
“Is this okay?” His voice is smooth and hushed, barely audible through the soft din of the shower, like caution has overtaken his senses, like he won’t move without your blessing. Like he’s tentatively proceeding one small step at a time. You wonder if it’s less about perception or analysis and more about… something else.
And then it dawns on you that this is a new experience for the both of you, a new kind of nakedness and vulnerability within the realm of physical intimacy. Neither of you are ignorant of the expectations here, but it’s still fresh. Unknown. You’re definitely more nervous than he is, but his habitual check-ins always have a knack for easing you out of it.
Every step forward in your relationship together has been treated just the same—Cautiously, observant, assessing every touch and movement for the rights and wrongs.
And there’s been very little wrongs.
You hum thoughtfully, tilting your head to the side when you feel the featherlight touch of his mouth against your shoulder. “Yes. More than okay.”
It’s faint, but you hear the breath he releases, slowly, as if he’s allowing himself the reprieve to let his hands and his lips wander over your dewy flesh. Not with confidence, nor reluctance either, but acting with the utmost deliberation in his actions.
It’s slow and appreciative, tracing an imaginary line with the press of his lips, working his way up the column of your neck as his slick hair drips tepidly onto your skin that’s now beginning to burn up.
You allow yourself to fall into bliss, savoring such a rare and unexpected occurrence. If you were anywhere else, any number of things would redirect Naito’s disciplined laser focus, a machine with well-oiled cogs that are constantly rotating to keep duress at a minimum and be prepared for any threat or disruption.
But here, in this small space devoid of danger, that exact focused attention has fallen completely onto you, and that in itself is something you hadn’t anticipated being quite as heavy as it is.
Naito is an intense man; his emotions are as sharp and hard as granite, oftentimes difficult to decipher, but there’s never any doubt conveyed in the reverence he exudes for the person you’ve become to him. Something to cherish, something that perhaps makes him feel a little more normal… Whole, even. Less like a soldier and more like a piece of something bigger than himself.
You feel the way his arm wraps around you, coiling you into a firm embrace while he sprinkles your damp skin with affections. You’re pressed safely against his chest, sturdy enough to be a reliable failsafe should your knees happen to buckle under his pointed attention while the steam of the shower continues to swirl in plumes around you like a veil, hiding you away from any intrusion that might interrupt such a perfectly intimate moment.
Naito’s touch migrates, fingers gliding over skin like topography he’s fought to memorize. Your breath hitches as he trails up over your breast, palm brushing over your nipple before giving a polite squeeze.
You sigh and arch into his touch, silent in your request for more. He takes your non-verbal permission, letting his thumb sweep slowly over the stiffening bud. You hum in pleasure before choking out a soft moan as Naito adds more pressure, pinching the sensitive pert flesh between two fingers.
The stiff metal of his ring against your nipple has you gasping, a telltale sensation rolling down your spine and making your core flutter desperately for attention.
“N-Naito…” Your voice falls off with a slur of a whisper, barely able to move your tongue the way it needs to. He’s already found the strings to begin unraveling you, the thick air and relaxing massage of the water only aiding in his advances.
Naito remains quiet, pitch-black eyes narrowing the more he watches you react to his touch. It’s not a look of smug power or control, but rather a misunderstood gaze of admiration, like seeing a rose blooming in his hands in real time. A privileged sight.
You press back against his chest then, almost involuntarily as your head starts to spin the more he delivers such attentive touches. Each point of contact stirs that reservoir of desire deep within you. His lips that caress your most tender spots, rolling your nipple between two fingers that produces needy little moans. His hand at your waist that dutifully steadies you, and without you even realizing it, encourages a soft rock of your hips against his groin. It’s all gotten you dizzy beyond belief, and so very slick between your legs.
As if reading your mind or your body language—or both— Naito slips a hand between your thighs that already threaten to tremble under his touch.
He unmistakably presses the pads of his fingers to your clit, giving way to a sigh from your relaxed mouth as they begin a slow and steady pace to circle around the bundle of nerves. The heat immediately begins to blossom in your core, a pleasure so tender that it threatens to tug at the delicate strings of your heart.
Naito patiently gauges every one of your reactions, the way you arch against his chest, your intake of breath, reading into your sensitivity levels and using them to his advantage to deliver waves of pleasure to your center.
You’d never really know it, the way it’s buried behind his permanent indifference, but he’s always studying you, a rooted desire to claim all familiarity over you, a curiosity he’s never had before with anyone else.
To Naito Mudano, people were just people for the majority of his life, but somehow you’re different. It borderline fixates him to your existence in this cruel life he’s come to know far too well. You’ve begun to flip his proverbial axes, alter his very existence, feeding into an undiscovered need. Naito has fallen victim to a fabled alchemy beyond what lies in textbooks and myth, an all encompassing shift to his perpetual blood-stained world.
It’s an attachment he swore he’d never allow, a weakness to his weary soul that can’t ever see the light of day so long as he draws breath.
Not out of shame, but out of fear.
Only right now, he’s evidently heeding to your earlier suggestion, to savor the moment, to indulge in every feasible aspect of you until he’s had his fill. Because sneaking around Rasetsu is fine, but it’s become apparent to him that he’ll never get you like this while within the walls of the school.
Your head tilts back and rests against Naito’s shoulder, losing yourself by the second as he precisely unwinds you with the deftness of his fingers. He swipes softly over your entrance, bringing your arousal to join the water that continues to gently trickle between your thighs.
He displays no urgency, no rush to have you finish as quickly as possible, but a slow and steady build up instead, to let you experience the greatest amount of pleasure he can deliver to you. The concept of efficiency has started to take on a whole new meaning.
You bite down on your bottom lip, muffling your moans to quiet yourself when Naito brushes his nose against your cheek.
“You don’t have to do that here.”
Oh.
You’ve gotten into the habit of keeping a low profile on your relationship while at Rasetsu, because in Naito’s eyes, knowledge can be a weapon in the hands of the wrong people, should it slip through the cracks. The likelihood of someone walking by his room or an otherwise empty lecture hall or staff office keeps you hyper aware of having to mask your connection him. It’s all necessary precautions you’ve agreed to take for the sake of lessening his worries of protecting you.
But here, there’s no one to worry about. The mere probability of anyone relevant, whether Oni or Momotaro, being within earshot of this unsuspecting hotel room in the middle of Tokyo is surely a fraction of a percent.
As you process your surroundings, the vice of your teeth slowly releases your bottom lip, allowing your sounds of pleasure to morph with the newfound shape of your mouth.
They’re clear and salacious, soft pitched moans and choked out curses, properly projected into the thick steamy air. And all the while Naito pays close attention, lidded gaze stuck on your expression as his fingers smooth through your folds and over your clit at an effective pace.
Your nerves feel taut as he inches you closer to climax, lashes fluttering helplessly through each pulse of want deep down in your core.
Naito noses at your exposed jawline, laving his tongue to lick at droplets of water that trail down your neck. Everything feels hot; every touch point now somehow more searing than the water temperature. His teeth gently scrape over your pulse, a hindered growl creeping out from deep within his chest.
As if he’s enjoying this too.
“F-Fuck, Naito—” you whine desperately as the telltale crest begins to peak, nails sinking into the black ink of his arm. He exhales sharp against your neck, adjusting the rhythm of his fingers against your bundle of nerves accordingly to get you over that edge.
Watching. Listening. Feeling. He analyzes your body language so fluently it’s downright overwhelming.
Your legs begin to shake, muscles tense and gradually your moaning crescendos into a breathless pitch. You haven’t even realized that your hips started rocking unsteadily against the friction that his fingers are already providing, chasing that sensation like a primal instinct.
Then you feel it— the tightly wound knot in your core breaks*,* vision faltering as you ascend into climax. Naito watches you fall apart, dark clumped lashes hanging low over the endless void of his irises that drink you in with such weighted intensity.
Like he’s observing nature with the most intimate front row seat.
You pant through the aftershocks, ever thankful that you’ve got someone capable to hold you up because you’re not sure your legs are at all reliable now, and it’s almost hard to breathe in the heavy vapor in the air.
Naito’s pace over your clit gradually slows to a soothing sluggish calm, nuzzling into your cheek appreciatively, like praise for a job well done. The beat of your own heart in your ears overtakes the hush of the shower, drifting you into a fog of ecstasy.
You sense a shift then, the water that was cascading down over you disappears, followed by a sobering chill of wet tile against your back. Naito rests a hand against the wall, bracing himself closely.
If it were anyone else, they’d be pissing themselves in this position, effectively cornered by one of the most revered Oni known for his impeccable combat skill and brutal strength. A measured terror. A monster in all regards.
But to you, he’s the one you trust implicitly with your life without a second thought about it. He is safety, a shelter, a protective shroud from the brutality of the world you exist in.
He brings his hand between your thighs once more, slipping his fingers through your folds before pressing softly against your entrance. You can’t help but keen at the action, hips writhing with the shallow intrusion.
He pushes past the opening of your center to slide two of his slender fingers inside your walls that are already eager for him, a gentle pulse around the digits that coax him deeper and deeper.
The back of your head pushes against the tiled wall, knees drifting further apart to invite him in like a guest of honor. Naito’s palm cups against your mound, protectively so, as his fingers slide in and out of your slippery cunt at a slow exploratory pace.
Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, kneading into muscle with every glide of his knuckles, gasping at the way his palm grinds so perfectly over your clit.
Naito continues to crowd you, damp hair brushing your forehead, the pitch black of his eyes locked onto you to really watch you fall apart this time.
You do your best to maintain the eye contact, lashes fluttering with every subtle curl of his fingers into that precise spot inside you, mouth in a wide ‘oh’ shape, eliciting pleasurable sounds in the very tight space between you.
He leans in another inch, lips grazing the corner of your mouth as he speaks in a low register.
“Can you handle more?”
His words shoot straight to your pussy, clenching around his fingers with want. You whimper as you nod your head, nails gently digging into shoulders for stability, a desperate rock of your hips against his palm. The look on his face right now says he could swallow you whole, but you’re only too willing to surrender, pliant all the way down to your bones.
Naito pointedly presses the pads of his fingers firmly into the spongey spot inside your walls, delivering a shock of pleasure that leaves you gasping for air.
In the same instance, he moves to apply pressure around your throat, lithe fingers of his free hand wrapping around your neck to squeeze over the artery that supplies the oxygen to your brain.
It’s gentle enough to not choke the life out of you, but an accurate measured amount to leave the desired effect.
You moan more deliberately now, eyes rolling toward the back of your head as you’re plunged into a surge of euphoria. It feels so good that your mind begins to fray, bursts of fading white clouding your vision.
Naito seems to know every button to press, every carefully calculated combination to access your body’s maximum dopamine release. He curls his fingers more deliberately, a rapid tap tap tap against that front wall of your core while holding pressure to your neck.
It’s all you can do to cry out in the flood of pleasure, one moan blending into another as the wave hits without so much as a second of interruption. Your lash line pricks hot with tears, camouflaged by the wetness of the shower and your own sweat that tacks strands of hair to your face.
“N-Nai…” Your breath falls off, mind going numb to everything except the crescendo of your second orgasm. You look desperately between the black pits of his eyes, ready to fall into them at any given moment.
“Show me,” he says in a light command, his voice tickling the shell of your ear. “Show me how it feels.”
With a faint squeeze of his hand and a few more motions of his fingers, you’re hurdled into another wave of release, tears falling as you cry out his name like mercy on your tongue. Naito then lets up from your neck, returning the oxygen back to your brain to carry your high even further. Your weak fingers grasp at his shoulders, paw at his chest, sobbing as the seconds pass for you to come down once again.
Naito uses every opportunity to properly drink you in, his mouth ever so slightly parted to quell his own breathing. His chest aches so tenderly, something he’s felt before in his time of knowing you, but still can’t put into any words himself. He wants to be sure before he says them, because he values his resolve.
He retreats his fingers from your heat, a loss that brings you back to earth, back into the shower that’s done nothing to get either of you clean. Not that you mind, of course.
On the contrary, you think you’d give pretty much anything to not ever have to leave this place.
“You’ve done very well.”
Naito’s thumb traces the vein in your neck, as if he’s feeling exactly how hard your blood is pumping under the surface of your skin. His other hand snakes behind your lower back, as if he were holding a delicate bruised flower.
To feel his touch is like feeling heaven against your skin. And though he refuses to believe in such a place, you have half a mind to believe that it exists right here under his very palms.
You beam under his praise, hands reaching for his face to coax him closer. Naito thumbs over your jawline, his breath fanning over your dewy lips, just out of reach.
“Can I continue?”
Your eyes flutter to focus, feeling dazed enough to certainly last you the night, but you’d by lying if you said you weren’t feeling utterly greedy for Naito’s attention now.
You lean in, barely enough to skim your lips against his own as you give a response no higher than a whisper.
“Please—”
It’s all you’re able to manage before he’s crashing his lips to yours, both tender and ferocious somehow. He hardly has to ask for any more permission; your mouth parts on instinct to allow him to deepen his kiss, slipping his hand from your throat to the back of your neck. He guides you so confidently as he presses your already pliant body between him and the slick tiles at your back.
Now that you’re this close, you can feel how hard he is, his length bearing down against your burning hot skin. It’s then that another wave of desire rolls through you, slipping your hands between your bodies to trail them over the ridges of his toned muscles, blindly tracing the patterns of black ink solely from memory, if only to relish in the way he holds back a small shudder at your touch.
Everything about Naito is measured. His tongue moves in a fluid dance against your own, stealing every breath you can take in the little space he gives you to break for air. For a moment there’s only a symphony of touch between you, smoothing your fingers over the plane of his tattooed chest while he rather uncharacteristically slips a hand over the curve of your ass and gives it a proper squeeze.
There’s something about it that makes you smile to yourself, the idea of the most composed ace of the Oni Agency’s Battle Unit displaying such blatant brazen behavior.
Wanting.
Claiming.
Naito’s touch shifts further down, gripping into the plush of your thigh and slowly hiking it up to brush over his hip. The wet slip of skin on skin feels tantalizing, even more so when his cock rests directly over your mound, nearly causing you to vibrate with desire to have him closer, so much closer…
Before you can whine for more, Naito brings his other hand down and lifts you off of your own feet. There’s only a split second of panic as you’re robbed of your footing before you realize just how steady he holds you, straddled to his waist like you weigh next to nothing.
You knew he was strong, inhumanly so, but you can’t fight the dizzying whirlwind that now flutters in your core over the display of sheer effortlessness. Your pussy clenches like it’s begging to be filled.
And Naito obliges almost too quickly, looking down between the two of you to properly align the head of his length with your slick cunt. He lowers you just enough to breach the tip through your entrance, drinking in the way you reel from the minimal intrusion alone, pressing your nails into the frame of his shoulders until you’re marking him with crescent shaped indentations.
He’s kind enough to start slow, letting every inch sink into your wet heat as he gently lowers you onto his cock, keeping his grip firm under your thighs, all the while holding an intense focus on the way you take him in.
You can hear the smallest reactions fall from his lips, restrained as ever, holding steady to his practiced composure. But you want him to let loose, to not hide so diligently behind that calm collected demeanor of his.
You whimper his name breathlessly, letting him plunge himself deeper into you with every shallow movement. You notice the way his brow tightens just a little behind his bangs, his hardened muscles flexing under the cloak and pattern of black ink.
You tilt your head slowly, placing your wet lips to his cheek, caressing those two inked lines that adorn them with a soft kiss.
“Feels so good. You feel so—”
All at once, you feel pressed into the wall and the full length of his cock sink into you. Naito strains with a barely there groan, fingers gripping into your ass like he needs something to ground him.
You cling to his back, arms now wrapped around his shoulders as you gasp at the fullness of him, ever so patient to let himself make the connection that feels so impossibly complete. Your toes curl, legs dangling helplessly as your walls clench around him, nerves alight and heart hammering in your chest.
Naito conceals his face in the curve of your neck, breath hot on your skin as he pulls back out of your pussy only to thrust back in fully. He creates a rhythm like that, slow and deep and dizzying, pleasure rolling in like waves of the unyielding ocean.
He huffs under his breath as you softly moan into his ear, suspended between the euphoria of him and the hard reality of the tiles at your back. What you wouldn’t give to never part from him like this, to abandon duty and remain here where you can both live out the rest of your days being wrapped up in each other instead of senseless conflict and violence.
And it’s like Naito knows what you’re thinking exactly when you’re thinking it, because he picks up his pace enough to drown out those thoughts, sounds of your pleasure echoing off the walls that drip with desire and condensation. The entire room is shrouded now, mirrors and glass opaque with vapor, like barriers away from the world you don’t need to think about right now.
“Tell me again,” that soft sturdy voice commands you, dripping down the back of your neck and into the spaces of your spine like molten honey.
You know that he doesn’t often seek reassurance, so the logical explanation falls in line with keeping you from drifting too far away from him. He wants you here, present in this shower for as long as the water runs hot, for as long as he can keep you in his arms, safe from everything.
“… so good.” Your mind sluggishly crawls back to him, the existence of him like gravitational pull to ground you. The fullness you feel starts to tip you over the end of your emotions, tears welling in your eyes and holding back the sob lodged in your throat. “It feels so good, Naito.”
Your nails gently rake over his back, thighs squeezing his hips that keep driving his cock into your center. The coil in your tummy tightens almost painfully, your walls spasming with every long drag of his length, attentive and heavy.
Naito adjusts his grip, tilting your hips ever so slightly that his next thrust nearly sends a shockwave through you.
“There, right there—” you pant through the sharp pleasure, chasing the release that feels so tight it might tear you apart. “Please, don’t stop—”
Naito hears your pleas and follows them to the letter, face still tucked away, the softest grunts bouncing off the wet tile behind you. You’re thoroughly pinned, the weight of him pressing you back into the shower wall with undulated force.
Time freezes in a way, your lives awash in this bubble of your own making, focused solely on each other, a luxury of circumstance. The heat of your bodies, stripped of worry and flooded with everything you haven’t yet said to one another.
Sometimes, words just aren’t necessary.
There’s flames licking wildly through your core now, reapproaching the precipice of your release despite the ache and exhaustion. But you welcome it, for the way he’s entwined himself with you so completely he’s practically given you his own tattoo over your beating heart. A mark of permanence.
Your fingers slip through Naito’s hair, giving the black strands a firm enough tug to coax him away from your neck and face you again.
Your lips beg for his, little eloquence in the way you moan around his tongue wantonly, cupping his face in your hands that fight the tremble of overstimulation.
Naito hums with a low growl between your teeth, receiving and delivering with the same intensity. His fingers grip you so hard that you know they’ll leave bruises in their wake. He so thoroughly drowns himself in your pleasure that it naturally coincides with his own, a tension building swiftly in his rhythm the more he bleeds his devotion into his precise strokes and heavy kisses.
You chant his name over and over between your lips, sickly sweet and out of breath, letting every bit of air you manage to get into your lungs belong to him.
He could have the whole of you and you wouldn’t dare protest.
It takes you a moment to realize that Naito’s breathing has labored too, not severely but enough to notice the way he’s started panting against your mouth when you pull away.
Your eyes lock, nose to nose, the solidness of him so much more present as he pushes his cock so deep it gathers the stars and puts them in the center of your pupils.
Your fingers glide over the back of his neck, a touch lingering at his nape so featherlight it makes him bristle, and a second later he’s claiming your mouth again, an urgency laced in the depth of kiss before he thrusts harder. Pointed. Telling.
There’s a muffled moan, a rigidness to him as he stutters his hips. You feel your body beginning to melt into him, limp and spent, a fragile climax threatening to shatter you completely.
His abdomen tightens, a final thrust that pins you to the wall with no other option than to take it, as you’re so willing and ready to.
Naito’s mouth parts from yours if only to let the faintest sound fall away from his lips, breathy and titillating, the twitch of his cock nestled deep inside your cunt signaling the flood of his release just as your walls desperately squeeze around him.
You come together like that, so close and connected that its any wonder where he begins and where you end. And even still, you long to bring him impossibly closer, hot palms caressing his face and leaving little room to breathe through your shared orgasm. His air is your air, his being is your being.
And you’d be none the wiser to think the same of the other way around with the deep penetrating look in Naito’s eyes, a swirling pitch of intensity and reverence.
You practically go limp against him, noting the way his own shoulders go softer without relenting his grip on you. The comedown is slow, savored in a way, an absence of desire to separate, to let this end.
“Will you let me wash your hair, Naito?” you finally say after a minute, weakly nosing at the crook of his neck as if seeking shelter.
His fingers knead into your flesh, absorbing the tremble he can now feel in the muscles of your legs. “Will you be able to stand?”
You curl into him slightly, a smirk creeping across your kiss-swollen lips. “No.”
Naito quietly chuffs at your response. “Then how do you hope to—”
“You’ll hold me up… right?” You cut him off before he can finish his admittedly sensible question.
There’s a silence that follows, that same shared comfortable quietness that’s now only accompanied by the spray of the long forgotten shower, lukewarm and still beating down against the floor.
Your eyes don’t see the fleeting, barely-there twitch at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah… I’ve got you.”
Naito allows you to wash his hair then, strong arms dutifully wrapped around you as your hands swath him in a different indulgence. All the while, he watches you carefully, silently, calmly enamored in your determination to give him something he’s probably never thought of in his lifetime.
❤︎ | What are the TouAnki men like as dads? Do they give off girl dad or boy dad energy... maybe both? (oni agency ver.)
╰ feat. mudano naito, masumi yodogawa, kyouya oiranzaka
see also -> kikoku unit ver. | momo ver | more soon...
MEGA MASTERLIST
— Mudano Naito
OBVIOUSLY GIRL DAD ENERGY. NEED I SAY MORE?
Some dads deny being protective over their kids... he does not. He's not loud about it, but he justifies it even though it's overboard sometimes. But then again, the world is a dangerous place (he's not talking about momos... he's actually talking about boys).
He takes milestones and achievements VERY seriously. Other parents keep photo albums with cute photos... but this man keeps a notebook like a fuckin' basketball coach.
He's the kind of dad to start training kids early, especially if he has a little girl. Not just because he wants her to learn how to defend herself, but also to become someone who can take over his role in training other onis to become prepared to fight on the frontlines.
He sits perfectly still even though his daughter/s is/are absolutely going to town with the pigtails, nail polish, sparkly stickers, and lipstick. Does he look like a unicorn farted on his face? Probably. But he doesn't care as long as it makes his girls giggle.
Sure, he has a shit ton of tattoos—he even has blackouts on both arms. But if his kid even hints at wanting one? Nope. No way in hell. There won't even be room for discussion for it.
But, hey, he's the type of dad that might give in with just the right amount of puppy eyes and begging. He's only soft for his kids.
— Masumi Yodogawa
Boy dad. Dad to multiple boys. I can't see him stopping at one or two.
Believe it or not, he's stricter than Mudano. Even the other onis are shocked by the fact.
He's strict not because he believes this will make them stronger or whatever. He has enough pride to believe that his kids have it in them to become powerful regardless of their ability. No, he's just strict because he likes to run a tight ship and he wants them to respect his authority as their father.
That being said, he's allergic to stupidity. That also applies to his kids. He won't be the type to shout or reprimand his kids in a loud way. Why? He doesn't need to. One look from him and his kids know they're in deep shit. You can hear a pin drop with how quiet they get...
Whenever his kids ask him for/about something... his default response would be, "Go ask your mother." His kids may be afraid of him... but he is afraid of YOU. On the totem pole of the household, you sit comfortably at the top and he has ZERO complaints about it.
Since he has a bunch of boys... it's expected that chaos is always right around the corner. Fighting, bickering, taunting—the works. Instead of making them stop, he'll encourage them. "You wanna fight? Go. Fight each other then. Don't stop until the other drops like a fly." Do they keep fighting? Nope. Not a chance.
— Kyouya Oiranzaka
Girl dad! I can see him having twins though—LIKE WOULDN'T THAT BE SO CUTE?
He likes teasing his girls that they, "definitely look like their papa," and his kids would grumble each time. He finds joy in seeing them pout while absolutely looking like him. (His genes are strong, what can I say?)
He's a pretty chill dad. Not really gentle parenting per se... but he lets his kids learn from their own mistakes and guide them on how they can do better next time. He's not the type to hound them or crucify them for every small mishap.
He and his kids DEFINITELY play doctor at home. They have all the doctor's equipment in pastel pink plastic form. In between patients (house pets who unwittingly became patients for play time), he would also teach his kids the value of becoming part of the supporting team in their cause.
While other oni dads train their kids to become formidable fighters, Kyouya makes sure that his kids can take his place in the future too.
Out of all the dads... I think he might be the strictest one when it comes to romance. He obviously knows what men are like and what their intentions might be. And yes, he does cry when his daughter tells him that she has a crush at school.
╰ author's note i might have to reread the manga or get my ass to watch the anime just so i can confidently write the others again... i feel like i lost touch with their characters... my bad...
We know how strict Mudano is especially about time and efficiency, the problem is his beloved loves to tease him and make him mad😏 Imagine he’s about to went to work then you just tease him and beg for five minutes (we know it’s gonna be just five minutes)
If Mudano didn't know any better, he'd think you enjoyed riling him up or something; though, he doesn't understand why you would enjoy something like that. He can't understand why the tight knit between his eyebrows warms an even tighter coil in the pit of your stomach or why the sterness in his tone or the blatant aggravation written all over his face makes you soak right through your panties- nothing about him being late for work is sexy, and it certainly isn't efficient.
"Y/N, I was supposed to be out of the door three minutes ago." He looks down at your fingers that are wrapped around his forearm. "I am going to be late."
You feign a pout, and Mudano looks at you with utter indifference. "Just five minutes, please." You even whine as your fingers stroke the definition of his arms from underneath his dress shirt. "How do you expect me to help myself when you look this good all dressed up and ready for work? I can't help if I get undeniably horny just looking at you, you know. It's kind of your fault."
Instead of letting you continue to stroke his arm, he grabs your wrist. "Don't blame your perversion on me."
"Oh, I love when you grab me like that." You bat your eyelashes up at Mudano, a small smirk on your face. "Can you grab me like this for just five minutes, please? You're capable of taking care of both yourself and I in less than that."
With a sigh, Mudano makes quick work of pulling his tie loose and grabbing your face in his hand. "This is inconvienant." He presses a kiss to your lips, eyes dark with lust. "Five minutes and that's it. Since you can't seem to wait, get exactly how I like you. Clock's ticking."
----------
I cannot wait to write the nastiest Mudano fic to start off my Tougen Anki section on my fic masterlist. Like, I am literally so excited LMAO Expect nastiness, no lie.
💌 - it's finally done, my goodness😭😔 hope you enjoy and feedback is always appreciated, have a good day <3
masumi
clutching your bloated stomach, you glare at a hysterical masumi who’s been trying to put on your seatbelt for the past 10 minutes. “I’m never, ever listening to you again” you hiss, but he shrugs off your comment by clicking the belt in place and kisses your temple before hopping in the drivers seat, speeding off into the night.
“come on, don’t be so upset. you looked like a complete badass. very hot and we won” he coos, turning into the apartment garage. you can’t entirely blame him, part of it was your fault too. if only you picked the date yourself, you wouldn’t have let him convince you to join that mushroom eating contest.
hell, you didn't even like mushrooms. yet it seems this was the price you pay for being a loving s/o.
once you both have on proper nightly attire, masumi plops next to you on the bed and starts rubbing circles on your stomach.
“you still mad at me?,” he whispers and the question is answered when he hears you scoff.
“okay, okay. how can I make it up to you?”
“you can start by eating all the damned mushrooms in the car. y’know since mushrooms are considered prizes nowadays"
he starts laughing again, you swat his hand away and turn to face the wall. masumi hums in agreement to your request, but he sure as hell won’t eat all those mushrooms.
just to make you happy, he’ll give them to karou. he’s sure he’ll appreciate them.
karou
grocery shopping should be a calm and relaxing thing, it shouldn’t be stressful.
that's what karou keeps saying to himself like a mantra, to stop his hair from turning grey right then and there. he’d lost you, or naturally − you wondered off and now he’s stuck asking the workers if they’ve seen someone who matches your description.
it makes more sense for karou to call you, but your phone battery died the moment you got to the store (again). worst part being this always happens and most importantly you take the cart with you (again).
for what seemed like forever, he finally finds you near the exit talking to a worker holding a few items. “baby look!" you say, pointing animatedly at the sales person in front of you, explaining how they're promoting a new snack to sell.
curiosity getting the best of him, he takes one to try. immediately turning away, he cringes, it tastes awful (to him that is). he’s appalled they’d even think of selling something like that, but karou is karou and he can’t bring himself to say he hates something you like. so he gives you a thumbs up before handing you some cash to buy it, taking the cart and doing some actual shopping.
later in the parking lot, he notices the snacks.
plural - as in you’ve bought at least 15 boxes. he doesn’t mention it until you both get home.
“um so I was wondering, were those snacks expensive? just asking because you know…15 boxes is a lot. not that I'm complaining, if anything we could take them back and get a discount.”
he’s really hoping they were, that way when returned he can sneak his way to buying some different snacks, ones that were more "edible”.
“of course not, or I wouldn’t have bought so many.”
you simply wave him off, laughing lightly. as if you’d buy something so expensive. you tell him you bought more because you’d share them together.
“I can’t eat all these by myself y’know, so you’re gonna help me” you muse, quirking your brows in amusement, while you stare at his solemn expression. and all karou can do is nod, he’ll just wait for the perfect chance to strike - the chance to get rid of those horrid things.
ousuke
if ousuke didn't know any better, he'd think his stomach would cllapse on itself. and not from overeating, but not eating nothing.
he forgot the lunch you packed him. he was in such a rush to get to work (mostly to mess with the newbies) and left it on the counter. he could have bought food, but he refuses. your cooking is the only thing he wants.
so when he comes home angry and hungry? now that's a dangerous combination. you take a look at him and sigh, "you didn't eat today, did you?" and his stomach growls when food is mentioned.
"how'd you know?"
"my sixth sense" you say, while heating up the food he forgot. and he eats like he hasn't eaten in days. you end up pushing your half finished plated towrads him and he doesn't even question it.
"next time, finish my food too. I can't eat all this."
he nods with a mouthful. ousuke would eat your food every day if it meant he got to eat more of your cooking.
mudano
after a tiring evening filled with grading papers, mudano was ready to end the day with being in the comfort of your arms.
when he opens the door to your shared apartment, he’s hit with a sweet smell and isn’t surprised at what he sees. you've been baking again and he can only smile.
he always cooks for both of you, no matter how busy he is. so you try to return the favour whenever you can. he walks over, wraps his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder.
"you made this all for me?"
"well..for us" you say, pointing to the cupcakes on the counter. "but I can't finish it, so you're gonna help me." he chuckles, kissing your cheek and grabbing a fork.
he'll always finish your food, especially when you've made it with him in mind.
shiki
shiki is suffering.
it would’ve been a harmless prank on kyouya really, until he got the wrong person...mudano. and it's all jin's fault.
that’s how he ended up on lockdown: no leaving his dorm, no phone and no visitors, which meant − no you.
he's been sulking for the past 3hrs. and when his mind goes back to mudano’s sharp glare he feels chills down his spine and remembers how his dad used to scold him. lost in reminiscing he doesn't hear his door open, nor does he see the looming shadow approaching.
“i thought you might be hungry, y’know since you’re on lockdown and such,” you whisper and he raises his brow in confusion. “I appreciate the thought, I do. but why are we whispering?”
you roll your eyes, "because mudano has super hearing. if he hears us? we're dead meat"
yea he didn't think about that. of course he didn't. you sit beside him and hand him your half finished plate.
"I can't this anymore, too full. finish it for me?"
he doesn't think twice, he's so grateful he has you...just know he'll need your help to get his revenge.
kyouya
he just wishes you'd listen to him from time to time. you always overportion and he scolds you, not because he wants to - because you always complain. so he's not surprised when you push your unfinished plate towards him and he can only blink at you.
"let me guess, you're full already?" he asks, squinting like he's analyzing you. and you nod, holding onto your stomach like you've been kicked.
rolling his eyes, he snorts, "you're not serious." still he pulls the plate towards him and starts eating your leftovers.
"you know", he starts, "if you'd learn from your previous mistakes, you wouldn't be in pain."
you glare at him, "you're not helping."
and he shrugs, because it seems you like reducing his title from boyfriend to compost bin. but he keeps eating anways. onced finished he walks up to ypu, kissing your cheek. "next time? just give me half from the start. if you're still hungry, you can take my half," he says, hoping this time you'll listen. but he knows you won't, you're stubborn but that's your best quality.
