husband!Higuruma coming home exhausted and fucking you slow in the bath (18+)
You swear you were just planning to collapse on the sofa when you got home. Maybe order some takeaway and watch some mindless TV show with your legs stretched across your husband's lap.
So, exactly how did you end up straddling Hiromi Higuruma in the bathtub, hot water sloshing over the edge as you sink down onto him?
"That's it, darling. Just like that."
Hiromi's voice is low and rough, strained in a way that makes heat slick down your spine and pool between your thighs. His hand grips your hips beneath the water surface, gently guiding you as you adjust to the stretch of him inside you.
You found him in here five minutes ago, tie discarded somewhere in the bedroom, shirt unbuttoned and abandoned on the bathroom floor. He'd been leaning back in the tub with his eyes closed, the water up to his chest, looking more exhausted than you'd seen him in weeks. The case he's working on is brutal, you know that. Long hours, impossible odds, the kind of work that wore him down.
"Join me?" he'd asked, opening one eye to look at you, and there was something so vulnerable in his expression that you couldn't refuse.
And that's how your own clothes joined him on the floor before you slipped into the bath with him.
Now his hair is wet and pushed back from his face, water droplets clinging to his jaw and the tip of his nose, and he's looking at you like you're the only thing that's keeping him from totally dissociating.
"Imissed you," you murmur, rolling your hips experimentally. The water makes everything feel different than it would be in the bedroom. More languid and slower, every shift and movement creating a ripple against your skin.
"Missed you too." His thumb traces circles on your hip bone, a tender gesture that contrasts with the way he's so deeply buried inside of you. "Missed you so much, I thought about you all day. I kept checking my watch, counting down the hours until I could see you again."
There's something unfairly attractive about him like this. His usually so composed in his suits and professional demeanour, now completely undone. His cheeks are flushed from the heat of the bath, his lips parted as he watches you move above him, and those tired, dark eyes are filled with something that makes your heart flutter.
"You're beautiful," he says, almost reverent, one hand leaving your hip to cup your face. Water drips from his fingers down your cheek. "Do you know that? How beautiful you are?"
You lean into his touch, your own hands braced on his shoulders for leverage. "You might have mentioned it a few times today before work.”
"Not enough, then." He pulls you down into a kiss, slow and deep, his tongue sliding against yours as you continue to move. When he pulls back, he's smiling—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his whole face. "I should tell you more often."
The water sloshes dangerously as you pick up your pace, and Hiromi makes a low sound of appreciation, his head falling back against the edge of the tub. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you gasp at the sensation.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. "Taking me so perfectly. You feel incredible."
There's something about the praise, the genuine affection in his tone, that makes everything feel more intense. This isn't just sex. It's comfort, connection, coming home to each other after a long day and finding solace in familiar touches.
"Hiromi," you breathe, your rhythm faltering as pleasure builds low in your stomach. "Fuck, I'm-"
"I know." One hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with practised ease. The water makes his touch slippery, maddening, and you rock against his hand desperately. "I've got you. Come for me, darling."
His other hand tangles in your wet hair, pulling you down for another kiss as his hips start to move beneath you, meeting your movements with deep, purposeful thrusts that make the water splash over the side of the tub. But you just can't seem to bring yourself to care about the mess.
"So good to me," he murmurs against your lips. "So perfect. What did I do to deserve you?"
The combination of his fingers, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, and his voice, fuck, that deep, sincere voice telling you how much he wants you, needs you, sends you over the edge. Your orgasm rolls through you in waves that seem to match the water around you, and you bury your face in his neck to muffle your moans.
"Beautiful," Hiromi groans, his rhythm becoming erratic as you clench around him. “You're so beautiful when you come undone for me."
He follows moments later, his grip on you tightening as he buries himself deep, your name falling from his lips like something precious. For a long moment, you stay like that, wrapped around each other in the cooling water, both breathing hard.
When you finally lift your head to look at him, his expression is soft, content in a way you rarely see. He reaches up to brush wet strands of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For the sex?" you tease, though your voice is breathless.
"For coming home to me." He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "For being here."
You settle against his chest, the water lapping gently around you both. "Always," you murmur. "Though we should probably clean up this mess before it leaks through to our downstairs neighbour."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your ear. "In a minute. Let me hold you first."
Summary: You only asked Fred Weasley for one thing — a quick lesson in kissing before your date with Cedric Diggory.
But the moment his lips touch yours, the “lesson” slips completely out of your control… and his.
Warnings: Mild sexual content / sensual kissing / Suggestive themes / Some flirtatious teasing / Light language
The Gryffindor common room hummed with late-evening chatter, firelight flickering against old stone walls. Someone had smuggled in a bag of Honeydukes sweets, someone else debated which Quidditch captain was the most dateable, and the conversation had drifted—inevitably—toward relationships.
“…and apparently Cho Chang kissed him behind the owlery,” Lee whispered dramatically.
Fred gasped. “The owlery? Risky. A bit smelly, but it adds character.”
Laughter broke around the circle. You sat cross-legged on the sofa, pretending to focus on the Exploding Snap cards in your hands, but the conversation kept tugging you in.
“And Cedric Diggory?” Angelina smirked. “Did you hear he likes girls who are… confident?”
Fred shot you a look—one eyebrow raised, trouble already sparkling in his eyes. “Confident, huh? Y/N, you might want to take notes. That Hufflepuff hero isn’t just going to fall into your arms.”
Your face went hot. “I never said I liked Cedric!”
“No, but you blushed when his name came up, love,” Fred teased, bumping your knee with his.
More laughter. You tried to smile it off, but the teasing lodged somewhere deeper, sharper. Cedric Diggory. Confident girls. Kissing behind owlery walls. Merlin—how were you supposed to even go on a date with someone like him when you’d never kissed anyone?
The thought followed you upstairs later, gnawing at you until it turned into something else. A terrible, brilliant idea.
Which was how, twenty minutes later, you found yourself standing in the doorway of the Weasley twins’ dormitory, heart thundering.
Fred looked up from his bed, wand in hand, clearly working on some new disaster.
“Y/N? You planning on joining us for a late-night prank or did you lose a bet?”
You swallowed. “I need your help.”
His grin was instant and dangerous. “Always happy to assist.”
“No, I mean—help with something… specific.” You stepped inside, closing the door behind you. Merlin, why did it feel suddenly hot in here?
Fred sat up, curiosity sharpening. “Alright. What’s the mission?”
The words came out in a tumble. “I need you to teach me how to kiss.”
Silence.
Then Fred’s eyebrows shot so high they nearly left his forehead.
“You—what?” He laughed under his breath. “Very funny. Good one.”
You didn’t smile. “I’m serious, Fred.”
His grin faded—slowly, carefully—replaced by something unreadable.
“Why me?”
“Because you… know things.” You cringed at your own wording. “And if I’m actually going to have a chance with Cedric, I need to not be a complete disaster.”
Something flickered across his face. Not amusement. Not mockery. Something deeper.
He leaned back on his hands, eyes dragging over you, assessing.
“So you want lessons.”
You nodded. “Just… the basics.”
Fred chuckled softly. “Nothing about this is going to stay ‘basic,’ sweetheart.” But after a beat, he patted the space beside him. “Come here.”
You sat beside him—close enough to feel the warmth of his body, close enough that your knee brushed his.
Fred noticed. Fred always noticed.
He angled toward you, one arm draping casually over his knee, posture relaxed but eyes… not. His gaze skimmed over your face with a focus you’d never seen from him before.
“Alright,” he murmured, voice low and almost annoyingly gentle, “first lesson.”
His hand came up slowly—giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t.
Fingers brushed your cheek. Soft. Warm. Almost careful.
Then he tilted your chin up with his thumb, and your breath caught.
“Just follow me,” he whispered.
Fred leaned in and kissed you—soft at first, like he was checking if you’d spook. But you leaned in.
The kiss deepened when you did, his lips warm and sure, guiding yours in slow, patient movements that made your stomach twist in hot spirals. His thumb stroked along your jaw, steadying you, coaxing you.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, your cheeks were burning.
Fred smirked.
“Don’t blush, love.”
Your breath stuttered. “I— I’m not.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You absolutely are.”
The teasing should’ve embarrassed you. Instead, it made something snap in your chest—something bold, reckless.
Fred saw it. You watched his expression shift, eyes darkening with a heat that stole the air from the room.
“Not bad for a first kiss,” he murmured, voice low and sincere in a way you weren’t prepared for. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Actually… you kiss better than not bad.”
Your heart hammered.
“Really?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Fred breathed. “Good enough that I need… another sample. For research.”
This time, he didn’t wait.
His hand slid into your hair as he kissed you again—deeper, slower, with a warmth that spread through your chest and curled into your fingertips. You kissed him back, instinct guiding you more than thought, and Fred made a soft sound against your mouth, a pleased one, like you’d surprised him.
Your fingers curled into his shirt. He smiled into the kiss—mischievous, delighted—and tugged you a little closer by the waist.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your lips. “Just like that.”
He kissed you again.
And again.
Each one steadier.
More sure.
More Fred.
His other hand slid around the small of your back, steadying you when you swayed forward into him, pulling you deeper into the kiss without even thinking.
You weren’t thinking about Cedric anymore.
You weren’t thinking about anything except the way Fred Weasley kissed you like he was teaching you and losing himself at the same time.
And when you pulled back for breath, cheeks warm, lips tingling, Fred looked at you like he’d just discovered something dangerous.
“Merlin,” he murmured, eyes flicking to your lips, “you’re going to be the death of me.”
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you did.
You leaned in—hesitant for half a heartbeat, then with surprising certainty—your fingers sliding into his hair before you could second-guess yourself. Fred inhaled sharply, a sound that hit you low and deep, and you kissed him again, firmer, bolder.
“Oi—” he murmured into your mouth, amused and breathless all at once. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. A slow, wicked smile unfurled across his lips.
“Is that how you want to play?”
You didn’t even have time to form a thought.
Fred’s hands caught your waist, warm and sure, and in one smooth motion he tipped you backward, guiding you onto the mattress with such ease it made your breath catch.
Your back hit the blankets softly, and before you could blink, Fred was above you—braced on his elbows, knees sinking into the bed on either side of your hips, holding himself just close enough that you felt his breath against your cheek.
The world shrank to the inches between you.
Fred’s eyes swept over your face, slow, deliberate, hungry in a way that made your pulse stumble.
“You look better like this,” he whispered.
You didn’t trust your voice enough to answer.
He didn’t wait.
Fred dipped down again, kissing you—deeper this time, stealing the breath right from your lungs. His hand slid from your waist to your ribcage, stopping just beneath your arm, a warm anchor that held you exactly where he wanted you.
Then his lips left yours.
Not far.
Not for long.
They brushed the corner of your mouth.
Your cheekbone.
The line of your jaw.
“You drive me mad, you know that?” he murmured against your skin, voice lower than before.
He kissed the spot beneath your ear—slow, lingering—and your breath hitched.
It was tiny. Barely a sound.
But he heard it.
Fred smiled against your neck.
“Oh, I felt that,” he whispered, amused and pleased and something else entirely.
He pressed another kiss, lower now, just at the curve of your throat.
Your hand slid instinctively into his hair—fingers tightening for balance, for him—and the quiet sound that escaped you wasn’t a gasp, wasn’t a moan, just—
“…Fred…”
His name.
Soft.
Unplanned.
Pulled straight from somewhere you didn’t know existed.
Fred froze for a heartbeat.
Only a heartbeat.
Then he lifted his head just enough to look at you, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.
“Say that again,” he breathed.
You shook your head, mortified—and that made him laugh under his breath, a low, warm sound that rolled right through you.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours, “you’re going to ruin me.”
And before you could protest, before you could hide your face, before you could think—
Fred’s lips were back on yours.
Not careful.
Not soft.
But sure.
Certain.
Like he’d finally stopped pretending this was just a lesson.
His hand cradled your jaw, tilting your face up to him as he kissed you again and again, each one warmer, deeper, pulling you under and holding you there.
Like he never wanted to stop.
His hips nudged yours—accidental, unplanned, but unmistakably intimate.
The breath rushed out of both of you at the same time.
Fred tore his mouth from yours with a sharp inhale, bracing himself harder on his forearms, because if he didn’t he might—
“Bloody—” he whispered, blinking hard. “Right. Okay. That’s—Merlin.”
He swallowed, like he was trying to drag himself back to reality—
But reality didn’t wait.
“FRE-EED? YOU IN HERE?” George’s voice echoed up the hallway.
You froze instantly.
Fred didn’t move. His chest rose and fell steady. His eyes flicked once toward the door, then back to you—dark and smoldering. A faint, amused smile tugged at his lips. Calm. Collected. Watching you panic like it was the most entertaining thing in the world.
He leaned in, brushing his lips once more against yours in a quick, soft kiss—a last, deliberate contact.
You pushed him off yourself, cheeks burning, heart still racing. “Move,” you whispered.
You stood, smoothing your skirt, brushing back your hair, trying to regain composure. Fred’s eyes followed every movement.
Then another voice joined—Lee’s. “George, wait—no, listen! It wasn’t my fault the mannequin exploded—”
The footsteps stopped.
You exhaled shakily, turning to Fred. “Well… wish me luck, then,” you murmured, trying to sound casual, still flushed.
Fred blinked slowly, that faint, mischievous smirk lingering. “For what?”
“My date,” you said softly, brushing your hair back. “…With Cedric.”
The moment shifted instantly. Fred’s eyes darkened, posture tightening slightly. “After that?”
You tried to scoff, trying to sound nonchalant, though your pulse raced. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
You turned to leave.
His hand caught your wrist firm and certain. “I’m not being ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere with Cedric Diggory.”
You glanced back. Fred’s gaze held you, unwavering, impossibly steady, chest rising slowly, smoldering eyes fixed on you.
Before you could respond further, the door swung open.
George came in. “Fred, Mum wants—oh, hi, Y/N. Didn’t know you were up here.”
“I was just leaving,” you said quickly, wiggling your wrist free from his grasp and steering yourself toward the door.
Fred was still watching you.
You stepped into the hallway, heart racing, breath uneven—
but just before the door closed, you heard him behind you.
Soft. Low. Certain.
“Y/N… I’m serious.”
The door clicked shut.
And suddenly you weren’t sure whether you were walking toward your date with Cedric—
or straight into something much, much more dangerous.
jason todd is the kind of man to keep you safe and continually mentally stimulated, feeding your mind to nourish your soul with genuine care and compassion. he challenges you, offering real opinions that don’t border toxic masculinity. jason listens to you even when you have nothing to say.
he literally sweeps you off of your feet because that’s how much of a gentleman he is. he learns to appreciate the quietness with you, falling in love with existence beyond reason and acceptance that didn’t have to be earned. jason wants to be known and he doesn’t make that distinction any less clear, he only struggles with admitting what he needs. he is kind, he is soft spoken and insatiably intelligent.
he would be the kind of guy who brings roses to a date, run across the car to open the door before you get there and bend down to fix your shoelaces for you.
jason todd is the type of guy to teach you how to do things, especially practical things like changing a tire or oil from your car. he would probably make excuses to see you at first, coming over to fix something and getting himself a little extra dirty just to feel you wipe the scuff off his cheek. he’ll drag his hand over his face purposefully because he wants that excuse to touch you without having to initiate it.
jason todd would finally admit his feelings for you after a long day with you because he just couldn’t help it. he’s rubbing at his temples from the sheer amount of energy it takes from him to be away from you. acting like it didn’t make him want to rip out his skin and scream that he’s in love with you. it would probably slip out in conversation. your complaining about guys in your city and he’s telling you how it shouldn’t be a problem, forgetting about the implication of his words.
“none of them are good enough for you anyways. you deserve a protector,”
you roll your eyes, “i’m not some damsel jason.”
he’ll smile, give you those pretty teeth that he swears never got braces to achieve their straightness with, “nah you’re not. but you’re someone worth dying for.”
you’ll pretend to be unfazed and not like your heart isn’t swelling because he’s the one you wanted all along.
jason todd is never rough or mean in any regard. not with you at least. he would absentmindedly stare at your lips, mind wandering off on how the supple skin would feel against his. faintly wishing he had permission to touch you. shaking his head when you say his name and snap him from his thoughts, smiling up at you.
when you date him, he wouldn’t touch you unnecessarily at first, dragging his hands on the couch next to you. restraining himself for god knows why. he doesn’t initiate touching until you do, until you put his hands where you want them. until you have to straddle him to show him that you need him to touch you more.
jason todd is not half the dominant sexual force people say he is. sure, he’ll kiss you passionately, letting you melt into him before deepening it at all completely. mouthing at you til your breathless, like he wanted his very soul to be fused to yours. he’s hungry, but he’s not rough with it.
he matches your pace, he lets you build it.
he doesn’t just crave reciprocation—he needs it.
jason todd wouldn’t have sex with you immediately either. nor would he be rough in bed like some sex craved demon, even if you wanted him to. one night when you step out of the shower, he’s got dinner cooking and ready for you, and you couldn’t help but appreciate him for his efforts. palming at him through his shorts, whispering that you need him now. he stops your wrists immediately, grabbing them just to tell you he doesn’t need you to, even though he really wants it. jason settles for laying you back on the couch and showing you what a real man does.
when you blink at him, he’s already on his knees.
“let me worship you. please?”
he doesn’t need to touch you yet, he doesn’t even need to be inside you to lose his mind.
jason todd is the type of guy to create his own category of good men. the kind that you would have never labeled before, but knowing him, there was no one else quite like him.
he eats you out like he’s actually starving but he savours at the same time. going back for seconds when you think he’s done, when you think he’s not breathing enough. he acts like he’s got all the time in the world, lapping and not even inside yet, to get you whining and falling apart.
jason todd is a gentle lover, through and through. intimacy was no exception. he cried the first time you had sex, not because it hurt or anything, but because he couldn’t believe he could have you. inching himself slowly until he’s buried in the heat. he kisses you through it, making promises you knew he would never break. the words that slip past his lips, those were what got you. his gentle love that felt like a bed of feathers.
jason todd would carry you to a bath afterwards, even when you were exhausted. even when you told him you just wanted to nap. he’d wash your back anyways, run his fingers through your hair and lather up soap. he would be knowledgeable about it too, putting leave in conditioner in your hair and moisturizer on your face, even though you’re half asleep. you’ll wake up happy, clean and moisturized, with the slightest ache between your legs.
jason todd would already be up, the smell of something sweet and coffee mixing in the air like he lived in a bakery. beckoning you to find out what was creating such a delicious scent. you’ll find him in the kitchen, in a ridiculous apron that says to kiss the chef and no shirt underneath. when he sees you he smiles and strides over, spatula in hand. and when he kisses you, it’s like a thousand butterflies emerge from their cocoons and the warmth of the sun is shining directly on you, all at once.
jason todd would be the first to tell you he loves you when he’s comfortable. he just wouldn’t be able to hide it from you, and he’d probably say it in passing at first, saying bye to you before you leave the house, waving his hand up while he’s busy with something.
“have a good day, love you.”
he wouldn’t even realize until you tell him later that night, after beating yourself up for not saying it then. his cheeks will pinken and his jaw will unclench—like the realization dawned on him in that moment. then he smiles and doubles down.
“well even if you ever decide you hated me, it’s too late. i love you too much to let you go without a fight.”
even jason todds threats linger with sugary sweetness because jason todd is a sweet man, through and through.
not proofread, wrote this on my break at work :p my colour schemes are always so boring, i always write at random times…
i love your writing and aesthetic so so so much!! i do need some soft morning sex with ryland on erid though…
thank you, darling!! sweet and soft morning sex with ryland coming right up...!
Ryland has become more bold since meeting you.
It started with little things. Actually speaking up and telling the waitress that his steak was well-done when he asked for it rare, letting down his walls and holding you close in public, and even initiating intimacy. Those were things he'd never done before. But you were the kind of person to make him feel comfortable—like he could be the realest version of himself.
Ryland had also become adventurous since you got together.
Transitioning to life on Erid hasn't halted that. In fact, you begun to believe that Ryland has lowered his inhibitions. Take today for example.
You're spread out on the beach, soft quilt beneath your skin. Ryland's hands are running down every inch of your body. They're soft caresses, reverence emanating from his eyes. His lips had trailed down your neck, your chest, your thighs, and everywhere between.
"Oh, Ry.." You murmur, nails digging into his back.
He's a wall of muscle on top of you. Despite this, everything he does is tender. The way he tucks hair behind you ear, kisses tears away, nestles his face in the crook of your neck and whispering sweet nothings. You've never felt more loved than you do now.
"Gosh, sunshine." his hips roll slowly into you, gliding through your walls. "s'good. you feel so good."
Ryland presses his lips to your neck, peppering kisses to your jaw and cheeks. Ever drag of his length through your walls feels like he's saying 'I love you.'
The biodomes artificial sunlight pours over you, bathing the two of you in golden light. Warmth envelopes you in a little ball. Like you're the only two beings in the entire universe, melding together, breathing in each other's air, and tying your souls together.
A gasp falls from your lips, eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself fall into pleasure.
"I love you." He whispers into your skin, holding you close to him.
His hand print is surely imprinted into your thigh from holding you open for him. But there's no ache—there's only adoration. He needed all of you to cherish. Even if he's felt you beneath him a hundred times before; each time felt like the first.
Your hands thread through his dirty blonde hair, gently tugging at his roots. "Nghn—love you, Ry."
He pulls back to look at your face. His eyes are glassy, filled to the brim with stars. There's a moment where you think he's trying to memorize every inch of your face. And maybe he is. Because this—this ethereal glow radiating from your skin—is one of the prettiest things he's ever seen.
Ryland's lips press against yours, veneration on his tongue.
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i'm in a sad and sappy mood and i don't know if i want heeseung to fuck the living daylights out of me to make me blank out and forget about everything or make sweet love to me whilst whispering affirmations that make me bury my face in his shoulder and sob
...or both
hee x reader where he just makes sure his girl is feeling good
Oh, I really had to do this soon, because it wouldn’t have the same effect once the moment passed. So here I am, pampering you a little, babe ~ 💕 I really hope you feel better.
Heeseung’s breath fans hot against your neck as he moves inside you, deliberate rolls of his hips that sink him deep, then deeper, until you feel every thick inch stretching and pressing against your walls. Every thrust is deliberate, deep, pressing against that spot that should make your back arch and your breath hitch. But tonight your body isn’t singing the way it normally does. Your mind is somewhere else, drifting, heavy, wrapped in that gray fog you can’t seem to shake. Your moans are quiet, almost absent. Your hands rest on his shoulders but they don’t grip like they usually do.
Heeseung notices immediately. He slows, then stills completely, buried to the hilt. His dark eyes search your face, brows furrowed with concern. “Baby… what’s wrong?” His voice is gentle, low, a little breathless from holding back.You blink up at him, eyes clearer now that the motion has stopped. For a moment you just look at him, really look at him, and the weight in your chest makes your throat tighten.
“I… I don’t know,” you whisper. “Something isn’t right. I’m not… I’m not feeling my best.” Heeseung’s expression softens instantly. He brushes a few strands of hair from your forehead, thumb tracing your temple with aching tenderness.
“I could tell,” he murmurs, voice thick with empathy. “I didn’t want to push you if you weren’t in it. I’m sorry, love.” The moment the words leave his lips, something in you cracks open. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down until his chest presses fully against yours. Hee doesn’t hesitate, he wraps you up in his strong arms, hugging you close, one hand sliding up and down your back in soothing strokes while the other cradles the back of your head.
“It’s okay,” he whispers against your hair, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your eye. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Whatever’s weighing on you, you don’t have to carry it alone right now.” You cling tighter, face buried in the warm curve of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. A shaky breath escapes you, and then another. His cock is still nestled deep inside you, hot and throbbing, but neither of you moves. It feels grounding. Full. Real.
Heeseung keeps murmuring softly, lips brushing your ear. “My sweet girl… you’re doing so well just by being here with me. I’m so proud of you for telling me. You don’t have to be strong every second, okay? Let me take care of you.”
When he shifts slightly as if to pull out, your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, locking him in place. “No,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Don’t pull out. Please… stay like this. I need you close. As close as possible.”
Heeseung stills, then lets out a soft, understanding hum. “Okay, baby. I’m not going anywhere.” He settles deeper, hips pressing flush against yours so there’s not a single inch of space between you. “I’m right here. Inside you. Holding you.”
His arms tighten around you, one hand continuing those slow, comforting strokes along your spine. He kisses your shoulder, your neck, the shell of your ear, gentle, reverent presses of his lips that make your eyes sting.
“You feel so good around me,” he breathes, voice warm and sincere. “So warm… so perfect. Even when you’re sad, your body still holds me like it was made for me.”
A quiet sob slips from your throat. You bury your face harder into his shoulder, tears finally spilling over. Heeseung doesn’t flinch. He just keeps rocking in tiny, shallow movements, barely thrusts, more like a gentle sway that keeps him pressed right where you need him while his cock stays buried deep.
“That’s it, let it out,” he murmurs, lips against your hair. “Cry if you need to. I’ve got you. You’re my girl… my beautiful, strong, sensitive girl. And I love every single part of you, the happy parts, the heavy parts, all of it.”
He shifts just enough to angle his hips, pressing against that sensitive spot inside you with each small roll. Not hard. Not fast. Just steady, intimate pressure that makes warmth bloom low in your belly even through the tears. “Feel me?” he whispers. “Feel how deep I am? That’s me loving you from the inside out. You don’t have to think about anything else right now. Just feel me holding you… filling you… taking care of you.”
Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, and he groans softly, the sound vibrating against your chest. “There you go… that’s my girl. Let your body feel good. You deserve it. You deserve to feel loved and safe and pleasured, even when your heart feels heavy.”
He keeps that slow, intimate rhythm; deep, rolling grinds that rub perfectly against your clit with every movement. One hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit and circling it with feather-light pressure, never rushing.
“Look at me for a second, baby,” he coos when your sobs quiet into shaky breaths. You lift your tear-streaked face just enough. His eyes are soft, dark, full of nothing but adoration. “You’re so loved,” he says, voice steady and sure. “I love you when you’re smiling. I love you when you’re crying. I love you when you need me rough and when you need me gentle. Right now, I’m giving you everything you need, my cock deep inside you, my arms around you, my heart right here with yours.”
He kisses your wet cheeks, then your lips, slow, deep, pouring every bit of tenderness into it. His hips never stop their gentle rocking, the head of his cock kissing that sweet spot over and over while his fingers keep their soft, slick circles on your clit. The pleasure builds slowly, warmly, mixing with the ache in your chest until the two feelings tangle together. Your legs tighten around him, pulling him impossibly closer.
“That’s it… just feel,” he whispers against your mouth. “Let me make you feel good. Let me fuck all the sadness out of you nice and slow… or let me love you until you forget everything but how full and safe you feel. Whatever you need tonight, I’m giving it to you.”
You whimper, nodding against his shoulder, fresh tears slipping down your temples. Heeseung kisses them away, then presses his forehead to yours, breathing with you.
“I’m so deep, baby… can you feel every inch of me? I’m not pulling out until you tell me to. I’m staying right here, making love to you until your body melts and your heart feels lighter. You’re mine to take care of.” His pace stays intimate deep, and unhurried grinds that make your toes curl and your breath hitch between sobs. Every thrust is paired with soft affirmations whispered right against your skin.
“You’re so beautiful when you let yourself feel everything.”
“You’re safe with me. Always.”
“Let go, love. I’ve got you… I’ve got all of you.”
The coil in your belly tightens gradually, pleasure weaving through the sadness until it becomes something softer, warmer, almost healing. Heeseung keeps you wrapped in his arms the entire time, never once letting you feel alone, his cock never leaving the tight heat of your body. When you finally start trembling, thighs quivering around his waist, he presses his lips to your ear and murmurs the words that tip you over the edge: “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you fall apart while I’m still inside you. I love you so much… let me make you feel good.”
Your orgasm washes over you in slow, rolling waves, intense but gentle, pulling soft, broken cries from your throat as you cling to him, sobbing and moaning into his shoulder. Heeseung groans deeply, holding you through every pulse, hips still rocking you through it until you’re boneless and trembling in his arms. Only then does he let himself follow, spilling deep inside you with a quiet, shuddering moan, arms wrapped so tightly around you it feels like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together.
Afterward, he stays buried inside you, softening but refusing to pull out. He rolls you both onto your sides, keeping you pressed chest-to-chest, legs tangled, his hand stroking your hair while you hide your face in his neck. “Still here,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Not going anywhere. You can cry, you can sleep, you can stay just like this as long as you need. I’ve got you, my love. Always.”
You let out one last shaky breath, the heaviness in your chest a little lighter, his warmth and his words and his presence wrapped around you like the safest blanket in the world. And for the first time tonight, the fog feels just a little farther away.
Okay so…Reader rides Bucky’s thigh without even realizing she’s doing it (like during a movie night) and when she finally cums, Bucky’s like “sweetheart… i didn’t even TOUCH you” and then drags her to his room for the real thing
HELLO HELLO HELLO IM HERE
---------
Movie nights with Bucky were supposed to be harmless.
They always had been. A blanket, a bowl of popcorn, your legs draped across his lap or your head on his shoulder, his body heat a comfort rather than a threat. You’d done this a hundred times with him — letting his presence smooth the edges of a long week, letting the low rumble of his voice pull you out of your own head.
But tonight you’re wound tight.
Maybe it’s how long it’s been since you’ve been touched the way you really need to be. Maybe it’s the way Bucky isn’t paying attention to anything but the screen, all heavy warmth and steady breathing, broad thighs spread the way they always are.
You’re not trying to do anything. You’re not even thinking about it. You’re just shifting, adjusting the blanket, trying to get comfortable. He’s warm. He’s solid. Your hips naturally angle toward him.
And then there’s pressure.
Right between your legs. Firm. Reliable. Too good.
You freeze. But he doesn’t notice — his eyes are still on the TV, jaw ticking as he chews a piece of popcorn. He’s so relaxed you melt a little, letting your body lean in, leaning over his thigh just enough to—
Oh.
Oh god.
You should stop. You should. Because your clit is throbbing, and the seam of your shorts is dragging perfectly, painfully over the muscle of his thigh. Because your breath is catching and your lips are parting and you are very, very obviously using him.
But he hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t looked over. Hasn’t moved. And something about that — about the fact that he’s just there, big and quiet and easy to hide against — loosens every bit of sense in your body.
You shift again.
Your core pulses.
Your thighs tremble.
You keep watching the movie like nothing’s happening, like you’re not grinding yourself stupid against your best friend’s leg, like the heat isn’t building with every tiny unconscious roll of your hips.
Your breathing gets shallow. You try to hide it. Try to keep your movements small, subtle, something that could be mistaken for fidgeting. But every drag of friction lights you up a little more, makes your nerves spark, makes your vision blur around the edges.
Bucky clears his throat.
You nearly jump off him.
But he just shifts his weight, settling deeper into the couch. And in the process… his thigh flexes.
Sweet. Fucking. Relief.
The contact sends a shock through your whole body. Your hand flies to your mouth before you can swallow the sound, a pathetic little whine muffled against your palm.
You can’t stop now. It’s not even a choice anymore. Your body is already chasing, already trembling, already dripping through the thin cotton between you and him.
You rock a little harder.
His thigh is huge. Solid. Perfect. Heat rolls off him, straight into you, straight into the place you need it.
Your pussy clenches hard enough to make you dizzy.
Bucky shifts again.
His thigh tenses again.
You’re so close you can barely breathe.
“Just— just a second,” you whisper, not even sure who you’re talking to, pressing your forehead to the blanket, letting your hips find the exact angle you need to fall apart.
The movie keeps playing.
Bucky keeps breathing.
And you come.
Hard. Silently at first, then with a strangled gasp you try —and fail— to smother. Pleasure rips through you, your legs shaking, your whole body bowing over his thigh as heat floods your panties, your core spasms uncontrollably, your breath breaking on every exhale.
You ride out the wave helplessly, your fingers digging into the couch cushions, your thighs clenching around his, your cunt pulsing in the aftermath as wetness spreads warm and humiliating through your shorts.
You’re still catching your breath when the room goes quiet.
Too quiet.
You blink. Look up.
And Bucky is staring at you.
Not shocked.
Not confused.
Just… dark. Focused. A little wild around the edges.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate through the couch cushions.
Your heart drops into your stomach.
You open your mouth, to apologize, to explain, to beg the earth to swallow you, but he tilts his head.
“You just came.”
Heat rushes up your neck, choking you. “Bucky, I—I didn’t realize I was—”
He lifts one finger.
You go silent immediately.
“Sweetheart,” he says again, more like a warning this time. “I didn’t even touch you.”
You swallow hard. Your thighs are still trembling around him.
His eyes drop to the mess between your legs — the damp patch you can’t hide, the way you’re still pressed against him like your body doesn’t want to let go.
Then he looks back up at you.
And you know you’re in trouble.
“Up,” he murmurs.
You barely process the word before he’s guiding you off his lap, his hands surprisingly gentle, helping you stand on shaky legs. He rises too, towering, close, heat radiating from him like a second skin, and he doesn’t break eye contact for a single second.
“Bucky—”
“Shh.”
He takes your hand.
Not roughly. Not sweetly.
Purposefully.
And then he’s walking you backward down the hall, slow enough to let your panic and your arousal twist together, fast enough to make your breath stutter.
When your back hits his bedroom door, he cages you in with one arm above your head, leaning in close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear.
“You’re gonna tell me exactly what you were thinking,” he murmurs, “when you were grinding that pretty little pussy all over my thigh.”
You shiver violently. “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean— I just—”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“So desperate you didn’t even know you were doing it?” he asks softly.
Your face burns. “Bucky…”
He hooks a finger under your chin and lifts until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“You came,” he repeats, “without me. Without my mouth. Without my hands. Without my cock.”
Your knees nearly buckle.
“And now,” he whispers, brushing his lips over your jaw, “you’re going to come with me.”
The door clicks shut behind you.
He backs you toward the bed, one step at a time, his voice the only thing anchoring you.
“You’re gonna ride my thigh again,” he murmurs, “but this time you’re going to look at me while you do it.”
Your breath hitches.
“And after that?” He smirks, hands finding your hips, dragging you flush against him so you feel exactly how hard he is. “I’m going to make you come so many times you forget how you managed without me.”
You let out a broken sound — a plea, a surrender, something in between.
Bucky kisses you.
Hungry. Claiming. Like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.
And when he finally pulls back, he whispers against your lips,
Fantasizing about the local baker with the soft arms and the flour-dusted apron?
He wishes that were beneath him.
Unfortunately for him (and fortunately for you), he is a very, very weak man.
*-*
To the average pedestrian, Nanami is an unshakeable pillar of calm.
A man of beige suits and exact timekeeping, eyes like wet ash and a jawline you could dice shallots on. He walks like his spine has never known a slouch. He counts his steps. Breathes in a rhythm. Lives by the ticking of his watch.
He is also, tragically, so far gone for the woman at the corner bakery that he once rescheduled a grade one exorcism because he heard she was testing a new tart recipe.
And you. You’re the problem:
You make pastries like you’re possessed.
Not in a demonic way, though Nanami has considered exorcism as a means of freeing himself from the maddening pull of your whipped cream chantilly and fat little jam-filled beignets.
No, it’s more like—like some unholy mix of talent, divinity, and a deep, sexy knowledge of butter temperatures. You’re too good at what you do. That’s the problem.
You, with your flour-dusted apron, laughing behind the counter with a voice that bubbles like sugar in a pan. You, with your absurdly perfect pastries and your cat. You, who once gave him a free canelé and called him “Mr. Cool Office Guy” with a wink and a grin, and now he hears phantom giggles every time he closes his eyes.
He’s going insane.
He is certain of it.
*-*
The bakery does not need to be this good.
The quiche is illegal. The kouign-amann is weaponized. The “Chairman Meow” bun (a puffy cinnamon roll in the shape of a cat paw, with little sugar-glazed claws) is objectively humiliating for a grown man to buy—especially when he buys two and pretends one is for a friend.
(Lie. Nanami Kento has no friends.)
He tells himself he likes the bakery because the food is good. He’s a practical man. It is close to the office. It is on the way. He is a man of logic, taste, discipline.
Except he also somehow knows the exact week you change your seasonal menu. And the song you always hum when you think no one’s listening. And that you studied pâtisserie in some sleepy town in the south of France that smells like sea salt and burnt sugar, and he knows this not because you told him, but because he stalked your Instagram all the way back to 2014 at 2:12 AM on a Tuesday like a man unhinged.
It’s not his fault you were semi-Instagram famous before you moved to Japan.
It’s not his fault your pastries could be considered legally erotic.
It’s not his fault your smile could kill a man.
He hates himself.
He’s back again the next day anyway.
*-*
Nanami is fully convinced he’s being normal. Entirely neutral. Chill, even.
This is a lie. He tells himself he’s only here for a snack.
He lies. He lies like a dog. A bald-faced sinner.
*-*
The worst part is that he tries to be normal. He tries, God bless him.
Every day he walks in with all the confidence of a man about to negotiate international trade sanctions, and every day he ends up saying something like:
“Hello. One... cat paw... please. The edible one.”
Or worse:
“The raspberry tarts are... wet today. In a good way.”
Or worst of all:
“Is that your cat in the photo? The one in the chef’s hat? He looks like he wants to die... Same.”
He wants to take an expensive flight to France, suffer in the metro and lie face-down in the Seine.
He wants to die beneath the wheels of the bakery delivery van, crushed under boxes of éclairs.
He wants to gouge out the part of his brain that saw the photo of you and the cat—Chairman Meow, a furry war criminal dressed like Paul Hollywood—and thought, God, I wish I was that cat.
He knows where you live. Not technically in a creepy way—he just happened to notice the address on the back of a flyer once, and then happened to walk by, and then happened to notice your curtains were the same color as your bakery logo.
(He thinks about what your kitchen looks like. What your bed looks like. What you look like half-asleep, reaching for coffee in the morning. He thinks about you too much.)
*-*
You like him.
You don’t know why, because he’s a little stiff, a little strange, always looks like he’s trying not to panic when you talk to him—but there’s something about him.
Something sad. Something polite. Something funny, in that deadpan way where you’re not sure if he’s making a joke or confessing to murder.
Like today:
Today, you catch him staring at the strawberry shortcakes like they’ve personally wronged him.
“Rough day?” you chirp, sliding him a paper bag with his usual: one financier, one “Chairman Meow” paw, one espresso.
He blinks.
He swallows.
He looks at the paw like it contains a bomb.
“I wish I were this cat,” he mutters.
You blink back. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
He takes the bag and leaves like the bakery is on fire. You hear the tink of the bell as the door closes. You think maybe, possibly, hopefully... he’s just a little weird.
You like weird.
Oh yeah, you really like weird.
*-*
Nanami dreams about you.
He dreams about your fingers, dusted in powdered sugar, brushing his knuckles as you pass him a macaron. He dreams about your laugh, loud and full, head tossed back as you roll dough at midnight. He dreams about kissing you, bending you over the bakery counter, flour in your hair and his tie yanked off and your mouth tasting like vanilla and bad decisions.
He wakes up hard.
So... well: he goes to the bakery.
You give him a sample of a new custard bun and ask him if he thinks it’s too sweet. You lick some filling off your thumb. He almost dies on the spot.
You say, “You come here a lot, Mr. Office Guy. Don’t you get tired of sweets?”
He says, “Not when you make them.”
He wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge.
*-*
Gojo once caught Nanami lingering outside the bakery like a sad, sad man in slacks and asked him if he was trying to haunt the muffins.
Nanami told him to fuck off.
*-*
He doesn’t know what to do. He’s a grown man. He exorcises curses for a living. He has biceps and trauma and a skincare routine better than most idols.
And he is completely and utterly in love with the woman who sells him pastries shaped like paws.
He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself he’s not obsessed. He tells himself it’s just a little crush.
Meanwhile, he’s walking ten minutes out of the way just to catch a glimpse of your “Closed” sign flipping to “Open.”
He’s rewriting his schedule to match your bakery hours.
He’s memorized your handwriting from the little chalkboard menus.
He knows the name of your cat, your hometown, your favorite jam flavor, and the exact sound of your laugh.
He’s not obsessed.
He’s just...
...devoted.
That’s better. Right?
*-*
There are moments—brief, glimmering, morally ambiguous moments—when Nanami considers the possibility that you are evil.
Not in a tax fraud way, or a won't turn your phone brightness down in a movie theater way.
No.
He means Evil™. Arcane evil. Seductress evil. French rural witch evil.
You’ve been in his thoughts.
Scratch that. You are his thoughts.
You’ve moved in, settled down, started paying rent with your soft smile and that little hm-hm-hm hum you do when icing eclairs. You haunt his brain like it’s a cozy Airbnb with complimentary brainworms.
Nanami is spiraling. Quietly. Elegantly. With grace.
You are, in his completely unbiased, sexually frustrated opinion, suspiciously good at making custard.
And that is, clearly, a red flag:
“There’s a possibility,” he murmurs over black coffee, “that she’s a low-grade curse user siphoning power through some kind of... hexed brioche.”
“Or,” says Gojo, from his crime against humanity of a bar stool, “you’re just in love with a hot baker and trying not to cum about it.”
Nanami chooses violence and walks away.
But the seed is planted. And like everything around you—it fucking grows.
*-*
You're behind the counter, wiping down trays and humming some old chanson that sounds like longing dipped in honey, and Nanami is watching you through the tainted glass with the grim intensity of a war general studying enemy tactics.
He does not understand his feelings.
Therefore, you must be cursed.
It’s the only logical explanation, the most obvious one.
You: warm, soft, sweet like a madeleine soaked in brandy.
Him: cold, tight, stressed, still has a goddamn Nokia from 2008 because “it functions.”
He looks at you, and his stomach twists. He thinks of biting. He thinks of holding. He thinks of what kind of jam you’d taste like and gets dizzy.
And so, his brain—bless its brittle, tax-paying, emotionally constipated structure—goes full fantasy-paranoia.
He wonders again, very seriously:
“What if she’s some kind of low-level jujutsu sorcerer that bakes cursed confections to seduce men and drain their cursed energy through erotic pastries?”
(This is what happens when you don’t go to therapy.)
*-*
Nanami walks into the bakery like always that morning. Suave. Smooth. Suit pressed, tie aligned. All part of the ritual.
He opens the door. The bell rings. The air smells like vanilla and sex and maybe nutmeg.
He thinks: maybe today will be normal.
HA.
Maybe today, goats will fly and whales will walk.
Because then he walks into your bakery, and the fucking vibes are off.
It’s not the usual good-off, like the time you accidentally put hot pepper flakes in the strawberry jam and called it “emotionally volatile confiture.”
No. This is curse-off.
Stale, crawling, leechy.
Nanami stiffens. Eyes narrow. His gaze immediately shifts—reflex, training, trauma—to the curse floating, slick and shadowy.
It’s leeching off your back like some ugly little leech goblin, gurgling like a clogged sink and pulsing with enough cursed energy to make his stomach twist. Small. Filthy. Leeching your warmth like a perverse little parasite.
It’s touching you.
And Nanami just. Stops.
“Ah,” you greet, beaming. “You're back! Try the cherry brioche today, it’s—”
He is not hearing you.
He is staring. Hard. Jaw clenched.
Because there is a fucking curse crawling up your spine and no one else can see it and what the fuck is the universe’s problem???
“You okay?” you ask, peering up at him with nothing but kindness in your gaze.
“You’re… staring.”
Oh God. You’ve noticed.
You’ve noticed he’s been staring.
You probably think he’s checking you out. (He was last week, for the record. But not now. Now he’s being haunted in real time.)
He opens his mouth to lie. He’s good at lying. Emotionally guarded men always are.
But then—
You blink. Lean in.
And say, soft and slow:
“...Can you see it too?”
HE IMMEDIATELY FREAKS THE FUCK OUT.
Nanami stares at you like you just slapped him with a baguette and whispered, “Surprise, I’m God.”
“What,” he says. Flat. A single syllable drenched in existential crisis.
“What did you just say?”
You glance behind you, at nothing. The curse is wriggling happily like a tapeworm in heat.
“The thing,” you whisper. “The weird… sticky ghost-thing. Can you see it?”
He does not answer.
Instead, he vaults the goddamn counter like a gymnast in a Calvin Klein ad, yanks the blunt sword from his back, and slams it into the curse with enough force to shatter the air itself.
Because of course.
Of course he doesn’t hesitate. One clean strike and the curse explodes into black mist and bitter air, shrieking into the ether.
Silence.
You’re shaking. So is the cat, who just witnessed a goddamn exorcism next to the espresso machine.
Because the thing popped like a cursed piñata.
Nanami straightens his tie. Sheathes the sword.
Silence.
Nanami straightens. Adjusts his tie. Eyes you carefully.
“...Why didn’t you get rid of it yourself?”
You blink. Still catching your breath.
“...Get rid of what?”
He gestures to the sizzling spiritual remnants in the air, still hissing faintly like microwave popcorn.
“The curse.”
You furrow your brows.
“Oh, is that what those are called? My grandma always said they were, like… spirits. Or, y’know, les esprits tordus—twisted souls. She said they couldn’t move on- or y’know, like in yokai stories? Or French folklore. You’re supposed to ignore them. That’s how you make them go away.”
Nanami looks like he just found out the sun is fake.
Nanami squints.
“And… you didn’t think that was concerning? You… you’ve just been ignoring them?”
You shrugged.
“Yeah? My grandma taught me how to like... sorta train my brain to not see them anymore. It’s like a game of ‘don’t perceive the demon writhing in the corner.’”
You grin like this is normal.
He looks like he needs to sit down.
“Also,” you add, “who are you? Why do you have a sword? Are you, like, a priest? Or a demon hunter? Or… like that one anime- whats it called again- Oh yeah, Demon Hunters?”
Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I’m a jujutsu sorcerer,” he mutters.
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is.”
“That sounds fake.”
“I don’t have time to argue with you. I need to file a report- wait what did your grandmother say??”
“She said I could just ignore them. So I learned to do that. Like when someone tries to sell you MLM oils on Instagram.”
Nanami’s eye twitches. He is visibly malfunctioning.
“You’ve been seeing them your whole life?”
“Yeah, but it got way worse after I moved to Japan. It’s, like, super haunted here. No offense.”
Nanami has so many questions and exactly zero emotional bandwidth to process any of them.
“You’ve never trained? Been contacted? Approached by anyone in the jujutsu world?”
You blink. Again. Slowly, a small smile starting to play on your lips.
“The jujutsu what now?”
You laugh. You actually laugh.
Nanami is… confused. Intrigued. Horny.
"I... I need to go. I need to write a report-"
“Fine, Mr. Sorcerer. But you owe me a pastry explanation. Like… what the hell was that sword? Why does it look like someone sewed a curtain onto a kitchen knife?”
“It’s my weapon.”
“Is it polka-dotted?”
“You’re deflecting.”
“You traumatized my cat.”
Chairman Meow meows in agreement. Divine retribution.
*-*
You wrap a raspberry tart in wax paper. Press it into Nanami’s palm.
“Here. Payment for curse removal. Come back after your… ‘sorcerer job.’ We’ll trade info. You bring me answers. I’ll bring you cake.”
Nanami, for a moment, just looks at the tart like it’s a sacred object.
He nods, curt and awkward, like this is a hostage negotiation.
“I’ll be back at 7:00. After work.”
“Cool,” you say, grinning. “Don’t get cursed.”
“That’s not how it works.”
You wink.
“Still sounds fake.”
He leaves, flustered. Walks directly into the door.
You giggle.
*-*
There is something deeply humiliating about hope.
And Nanami certified hater of modern life, is standing outside a closed bakery at 7:01 p.m., learning that lesson like a child burned by their first oven.
He stares at the “SORRY WE’RE CLOSED” sign like it insulted his mother.
The lights are off. The curtains are drawn. The air smells like cinnamon and delusion. The sun is low, casting long shadows like a noir film, and Nanami is—how do you say—tragically, dicklessly, emotionally unwell.
“I was stupid,” he mutters. To himself. To God. To no one.
“She was being polite. A free tart does not mean she wants to know about my cursed technique. I'm a fucking idiot.”
He turns. Shoulders drooped. Soul crushed. Probably going to cry into his briefcase.
He will go home, eat instant noodles in a three-piece suit like a divorced Victorian ghost, and pretend he doesn’t wish she’d called him back in.
But then—
“MR. WIZAAAARRDDDD!!”
His soul fucking leaves his body.
*-*
He turns around.
There you are, in the bakery’s side door, lit from behind by the golden glow of fairy lights and domestic divinity, waving like a lunatic and calling him “Mr. Wizard” like this is a fucking fantasy novel.
Nanami wants to die. He wants to live. He wants to kiss you on the mouth and then respectfully retreat into a volcano to process his feelings.
“That’s not—” he starts. “I’m not a wizard, I’m a sorcerer.”
“Okay, Gandalf.”
You gesture him over with a grin and a little shimmy of your hips that nearly sends him to hell. He’s so gone for you it’s offensive. Disgusting. Genuinely criminal.
He steps inside. You lock the door behind you. And then you take him through the bakery, past the ovens and cooling racks, through a small hallway…
..to the cutest fucking courtyard he has ever seen.
There's ivy. There's a teapot already steaming on a wrought iron table. There's a string of glowing fairy lights above.
Chairman Meow is lounging on a cushion like a loaf of divine judgment. And across the courtyard is your actual house, which is—fuck—a tiny, two-story cottage with blue shutters and window boxes full of marigolds.
Nanami is having a stroke.
“You live here?” he asks, stunned.
“What, you thought I slept under the bakery counter?”
“I—no—”
“Well. Sometimes naps happen there. But that’s different.”
You usher him to sit. Pour him tea. It smells like lemon balm and honey and sex and crime. There are also pastries. On dainty little plates.
You are the Devil.
This is a trap. And Nanami is walking directly into it with a boner and a prayer.
“So,” you say, settling in with a cookie and a gleam in your eye, “explain the sword thing. And the… curse stuff. What is a jutsutsu sorcerer? Is it a union job?”
Nanami sighs.
And launches into it. Like, really launches. He explains Jujutsu society. The school. The levels of curses. The dumbassery of Gojo Satoru. The politics. The existential dread. The constant dying.
You nod, fascinated.
Nanami explains. Slowly. Methodically. The same way he breaks down curse structures and enemy tactics in debriefs.
“Curses are born from negative emotions. Fear. Hate. Regret. They form in places where humans suffer.”
“Like... hospitals?”
“Or public bathrooms.”
You gasp.
“Do... do they have toilet curses?”
“Yes.”
"Ew."
"Exactly." He answers, as he awkwardly patting the cat, who's loaffed next to him like he’s never touched anything soft in his life.
You continue.
“Your weapon,” you say, pointing to the polka-dotted sheath.
“Why does it look like an umbrella made by Comme des Garçons?”
“It’s a blunt sword. Wrapped in cursed cloth. I activate my technique through it—Ratio Technique.”
“Oh damn,” you mutter. “That sounds hot. What does it do?”
“It mathematically locates a critical point on the target’s body and strikes with guaranteed lethality.”
You blink.
“So you kill people with math.”
“Yes.” He answers, a bit flustered. "As I said, it regulates the ratio of cursed energy to physical force. I use a binding vow to—”
“You’re losing me- the hell is a binding vow?”
He sighs.
“It hits really hard.”
“Hot.”
Chairman Meow chooses this moment to march onto Nanami’s lap like a loaf of divine retribution. He kneads Nanami’s thigh once. Twice. Settles in. Stares up with narrowed, ancient eyes.
Nanami goes completely still.
“He likes you,” you say, sipping your tea like this isn’t war.
“He’s sitting on my tie.”
“Better than him pissing on it.”
Fair point.
*-*
You start talking about your grandmother. The jar lady.
How she would whisper to curses and coax them into tiny glass containers. How no one believed her. How you did. How you could see them, floating like black smoke, pulsing and ugly and weird. And how, when she died—every single one of those jars either shattered or were somehow emptied.
So you explain:
You tilt your head, watching the steam rise off your tea like you’re about to drop lore.
“My grandma used to collect jars,” you say. “Big ones. Old ones. She’d paint little symbols on the lids and store them in this attic no one was allowed to go in.”
Nanami nods, already deeply intrigued.
“Everyone thought she was just old and eccentric. Or maybe a hoarder. But I could see the curses inside. They’d scream sometimes. Look like shadows.”
“She had a technique,” Nanami mutters. “Some kind of seal? Storage-type? A domain fragment—Well it sounds like your grandmother had a cursed technique. One that created sealed areas—a type of containment field. Simple, but effective.””
“Yeah, I think she was trapping them. She said curses were like flies—useless unless you caught them and made them behave. After she died, all the jars were empty.”
“Her cursed energy must’ve dissipated.”
“And then I started seeing them everywhere.”
You both fall silent. The moment is... odd. Gentle. A little holy. You, surrounded by ivy and old ghosts. Him, sword-saint of salarymen, sitting with sugar on his fingers and a cat making biscuits on his thigh.
You talk for hours.
Chairman Meow sleeps on Nanami’s lap. You refill his tea. He eats three pastries and tries not to moan about it.
He wants to kiss you.
He wants to kiss you so bad he feels it in his knees.
Instead, he finishes his tea. Adjusts his tie. And stands.
“I should go. I have an early mission.”
You walk him to the edge of the courtyard.
“Thanks,” you say, softly, “for not thinking I’m crazy.”
“You’re not crazy,” Nanami says. “You’re… terrifyingly competent.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
You hand him a little box.
Inside: a cookie shaped like his sword (made that morning- after the curse incident). And a card.
On the card: your number. With a heart next to it.
He looks up.
You grin.
“Just in case you wanna teach me more wizard stuff.”
“Sorcerer.”
“Sure, Tinkerbell.”
“Don’t text after 10:00 PM,” he mutters. “I turn my phone off.”
“Noted. Grandpa.”
“I’m thirty-five.”
“That’s so hot.”
He leaves.
Still has raspberry jam on his collar.
Doesn’t notice until he’s halfway home.
He leaves, heart hammering. Whole body warm. Soul restored.
It’s the best night he’s had in years.
*-*
You didn’t expect Nanami to be a frequent texter.
You also didn’t expect him to be weirdly fucking good at sending memes. Not good in the conventional sense.
Anyway. The point is: you see him. A lot. Over three weeks, in fact.
Sometimes he shows up after your shift and you sit in the courtyard, drinking whatever the hell tea you felt like brewing, while Chairman Meow does laps around Nanami’s shoes like he’s trying to possess them.
Sometimes you get lunch with him (which is absurdly illegal-feeling; Nanami in daylight? Nanami not in a suit? Nanami with his tie tucked into his shirt like he’s just a guy and not The Sexual Apocalypse incarnate? please call the authorities.)
And every time, you learn something new.
“So Gojo,” you ask once, chewing through an almond croissant like it’s laced with heroin, “he’s... like, strong?”
Nanami sighs like you just asked him to describe the ocean using only corporate buzzwords.
“He’s the most powerful jujutsu sorcerer alive. Technically. He’s also an idiot.”
“Like dumb-hot or hot-dumb?”
“Both. And worse.”
You nod.
“So his power is just… infinity? Like math??”
“He manipulates space.”
“So physics math.”
*-*
You learn about cursed energy. About how most people don’t even know what it is. How kids get scouted from early age if they show signs. About the schools. The missions. The deaths.
“And you’re... like a salaryman by choice?”
“It was either that or therapy.”
*-*
He tells you about cursed techniques over butter cookies. About his Ratio Technique. About how math—math—can be his weapon.
You tell him more about the jars.
“I don’t really remember what happened. It was like... my grandmaa's hands just knew what to do.”
“That’s how most techniques manifest,” he murmurs. “Under stress. Instinctive. Primal.”
You don’t say it, but you do think about the way he says primal.
And you try not to look at his hands.
You fail.
*-*
It’s 10:37PM when you call.
You expect to leave a voicemail.
Instead—
“Hello?”
Nanami’s voice is low. Sleepy. Suspiciously naked-sounding.
“OHMYGOD YOU PICKED UP—HI—SORRY—BUT—I—OKAY—LISTEN—”
“You’re speaking like Gojo. Are you hurt?”
“No! No no. I caught a demon.”
“...I’m sorry?”
“Like a little creepy guy! Kinda cute actually! It jumped at me and now it’s in a jar.”
Silence.
Then:
“...I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
*-*
When he arrives at the park near your bakery, he’s in... a half-suit.
Not half-assed. Literally half.
He’s wearing slacks. A belt.
His button-up is halfway done and his tie is in his teeth.
He looks deranged. He looks like sex and taxes. He looks like he’s ten seconds from either fighting god or proposing to you.
“Where,” he pants, “is the curse.”
You gesture proudly to a large glass jug on the ground beside you. It’s about knee-high. Some sort of old-timey wine demijohn, the kind people repurpose for Pinterest DIYs.
Except inside this one?
There’s a fucking curse.
Squirming like a pissed off eel in a blender. A little smoky bastard with limbs and hatred and a tendency to hiss like a tea kettle.
“See?” you basically cackle in glee.
Nanami squats. Touches the glass.
“It’s sealed,” he mutters. “This is—this is your cursed technique?”
“I mean, I guess?? I wasn’t really trying. It just—happened. I was leaving my friend’s place and it lunged at me and I panicked and wanted it gone and then it was in the jug and my hands were glowing and I—”
“Why didn’t you just run?”
“I was holding cheesecake.” You answer as you lift a very small pastry box.
Nanami makes a face like he’s not sure whether to fuck you or shake you.
“You risked your life for cheesecake.”
“It was Basque-style.”
He closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose. You can hear him whispering to himself:
“This is fine. This is okay. I can work with this. She’s only mildly suicidal.”
*-*
He carries the jug.
One-handed. Like a man. Like a gentleman.
His shirt flaps in the wind. You want to unbutton the rest. With your teeth.
You get back to your place, usher him inside, put the jug on the floor of your kitchen like it’s your new haunted roommate. The curse growls. You put it next to the trash. It screams. Chairman Meow hisses.
“So,” you say, hands on hips, “what now?”
“Now,” Nanami says, stepping close, “I file a report with the higher-ups, notify the jujutsu authorities, and work to classify your cursed technique as—”
You kiss him.
Because what else are you supposed to do?
He’s been sexy and stressed and saving your life for weeks.
He brought a tie to a park at 10PM and held your ghost jug like a prince cradling a cursed baby.
You kiss him, and he kisses back like he means it.
Hands on your waist. One in your hair. The kind of kiss that’s definitely inappropriate in front of a cursed creature and a cat.
“You’re trouble,” he breathes, biting your lip.
“You’re the one in half a suit, sexy wizard.”
“Sorcerer.”
“Yeah, yeah. Call me later, Gandalf.”
You’re giggling. He’s hard.
You pull him into your kitchen.
You climb up on the counter.
He groans when you pull at his belt.
“This is reckless,” he mutters, voice shaking.
“This is hot.”
“There’s a demon in a jug watching us.”
“It’s called ‘audience participation.’”
You make out.
You grind.
There’s groping and panting and a very clear moment where Nanami moans into your neck and Chairman Meow leaps off the counter in disgust.
It’s beautiful.
It’s filthy.
It smells like vanilla extract and lust.
And.. well. You know it’s going to happen the moment Nanami moans.
Not just any moan, either.
Not your run-of-the-mill "mmm yeah babe" porno crap, no. This is a low, wrecked, real noise—the kind that’s half-strangled behind clenched teeth and a button-down that’s two stressors away from bursting at the seams.
A sound so honest it makes your thighs twitch and your brain sizzle like oil in a pan.
And then—
“We’re not doing this in front of the curse,” he growls, tugging your legs apart like he's Moses and your thighs are the Red Sea.
“I mean, it’s in a jar?”
“And the cat.”
“...Okay, yeah. Chairman Meow is a baby.”
(He's not. He's like 30 in cat years.)
“Exactly.”
Then he picks you up.
PICKS YOU UP.
Like you're weightless. Like you’re nothing but a feathered dream in his arms. Like your chubby little bakery thighs aren’t full of croissant and bad decisions and emotional instability.
“Bedroom,” he says, lips brushing your ear like a threat.
“Now.”
His arms are so strong it’s not even sexy anymore, it’s just disrespectful. You’re clinging to him like a slutty little koala, getting carried bridal style past the ghost jar and Chairman Meow (who squints at Nanami like he’s judging his tax returns), and you're being deposited—gently, reverently—onto your bed.
And then his hands are on you again.
Gliding. Grabbing. Ghosting under your shirt with purpose and precision, like he’s been fantasizing about this since the moment you offered him a butter tart months ago and said, "I made this with love. And a little bit of rage."
The sex?
Oh, well... just average...
WRONG!!!
He lowers himself to your thighs after stripping you like you were something holy and—because yes, he is a gentleman, a scholar, and a man who understands that foreplay is the syllabus of romance—he eats you out like he’s auditioning for a Michelin star in cunnilingus.
And ohhhh my god. He knows. He fucking knows.
He goes down on you like a man on a mission. Like he’s trying to collect all your moans and put them in a jar next to your curse. Like he wants to taste everything and ruin your life in the process.
Every movement precise. Every lick, suck, press, curl of his tongue calculated for maximum chaos and orgasmic destruction.
He is methodical. He is cruel. He is tender. He is earth-shattering.
You arch like a cat possessed. His hands grip your hips, your thighs, your ass. You are trembling, quivering, dripping like a melted sugar sculpture.
His tongue is demonic. Not in a literal sense (to be fair, it might), but in the sense that you would absolutely sell your soul to it.
He finds your clit like a GPS-enabled delivery driver. He moans into you. He fucking moans into you.
His lips wrap around you like you're the holy grail and he’s been dying of thirst for decades. You swear you see God. Or maybe Gojo. Terrifying either way.
“Jesus CHRIST, Kento—”
“I’m not done.”
A loooonnggg lick, his thumb finds your clit.
“Oh my God—okay, okay, yeah—okay—fuck.”
He doesn’t stop until your legs shake. Until you grab the sheets like they owe you money. Until your voice cracks like a fucking opera soprano and your soul does a somersault into the stratosphere.
Then he kisses up your belly like the romantic menace he is.
“Was that okay?” he asks, lips slick with your essence.
“Okay?” you croak, tears in your eyes. “I just saw my own funeral.”
You hand him the lube (because you just can SENSE this man's girth). It’s vanilla scented. It’s all you had.
He laughs.
He laughs. A quiet, hot chuckle that rumbles through his chest and goes straight to your neglected, begging pussy.
“Of course it’s vanilla,” he smirks, opening the cap. “Sweet.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“It fits you.”
“I am a WHORE, sorcerer sir.”
“You’re adorable.”
He pulls one out of his wallet like a gentleman.
“You don’t need to—”
“I want to. I trust you. But I like being safe. It’s... important.”
STOP IT RIGHT NOW. A man? Respecting you? Checking in? Not trying to rawdog your future against your will?
You nearly marry him on the spot.
You see IT.
You blink. You see it again. OH. OH.
Let’s talk about the cock.
This is no ordinary cock. This is a career-focused, exorcising demons, salaryman-of-your-dreams cock.
Sensational. Groundbreaking. Like an early morning earthquake in the best way. Thick, hard, precise. The kind of thing that makes you forget how to think, makes you forget your own name, makes you absolutely devoted in a way that is borderline illegal.
We’re talking commanding. Regal. A fucking Excalibur of a dick. Thick, weighty, veiny in a way that’s both artistic and slightly threatening.
He rolls the condom over his cock like he’s conducting a sacred ritual. You literally think you might cry from how responsible and fucking sexy this man is.
He slides in slow. Too slow. He holds eye contact the entire time.
“There we go,” he breathes, forehead to yours, voice low and strained. “You feel perfect.”
You do. You feel full. Like a pastry cream pipe got shoved in you and God said, “LET THERE BE SIN.”
And then he fucks you. Slow and deep at first. Then faster. Like he’s trying to rearrange your internal organs into a pie chart that says, “NANAMI KENTO OWNS THIS PUSSY.”
His hands roam. Everywhere. Ass, tits, back, hair. He doesn’t miss a spot. He slams into you in a rhythm that is both brutal and tender. Each thrust a lesson in patience, control, and pure filthy love.
You’re a mess. He’s panting. The bedframe is squeaking.
“Is that good?” he murmurs.
“Yes—fuck—yesyesyes, oh my God—”
“That’s it,” he growls, grabbing your hips like a man possessed.
You come again. Harder this time. So much harder. There are tears.
He follows right after, cursing under his breath, fucking you through it like he’s trying to tattoo your guts with his cock.
You lie there. Sweaty. Destroyed. And so, so loved.
He kisses your collarbone. Your cheek. Your lips. Your heart.
“I like you,” he says, hoarse.
“Yeah,” you breathe, giggling, “I noticed. You ate me like a starving man.”
“You taste better than anything you bake.”
“Shut up. You’re obsessed.”
And outside, in the kitchen, the curse jar sits silently. Still glowing. Maybe a little traumatized... it trembles, possibly jealous.
Chairman Meow licks his paw and looks away. He’s seen worse.
A/N: okay so this was fun. hope you enjoyed:) tomorrow, will be VERY special so i'll post smth extra special.
“Happy birthday.” Your co-worker messages you. You reply with a smiling + hugging emoji, before dropping your phone to your side. The first person who wasn’t a family member to message you happy birthday almost 24 hours later.
Usually you didn’t care, you really didn’t. Yet, celebrating everyone’s birthday this year and last, you thought you would get the same energy back.
But no.
Twenty-something now, and you’re spending it alone, sitting on your apartment floor, with a cardigan way too big for you stained with frosting. The same stale frosting that took over the air and mixed with the scent of candle wax.
It’s too quiet in your living that eventually it gets too loud. So, you put on your shoes and walk to the nearest corner shop that’s open this late.
The dull lights buzz the moment you walk in, alongside a small bell. Immediately the cheap alcohol section is calling your name, singing thou happy birthday louder than anyone has all day.
The basket gets heavy as you put in the six-pack, your forearm dropping slightly. You fill the basket: chips, chocolates, more cheap alcohol.
You got birthday money from a family member, “might as well put it to you,” you mumble to anyone who’s around you, but the store’s empty.
You’re grabbing one more bag of chips when you hear:
“…No way. Is that you?”
You furrow your brows, freeze a little. You’d recognize that voice anywhere.
You turn and there she is behind the counter. Your old High School classmate. The girl who wore her lanyard either on the loops of her pants or around her wrist. The chick who wore boots during the rain and snow, whenever she walked all you heard was: ‘squeak squeak.’
Same girl who wasn’t really a close friend. Though, in some blurry memories, once made your stomach flutter-cheeks burn up for reasons you never understood at seventeen.
She leans forward on the counter, smiling like she’s genuinely glad to see you. And you, cursed at yourself for wearing the: ‘no one I know will see me,’ outfit.
“You look like you ransacked the place, and are about to ask me for the money in the safe,” she teases. “Everything okay?”
You shrug and lift the basket slightly. “Birthday.”
Her face changes, not pity, but like she just recognized something. A quiet “oh,” look appears into her expression.
“It’s your birthday? Tonight?”
You nod, and she lets out a little laugh, stepping around the counter so she’s closer. Too close for someone you haven’t seen in years.
“I remember…” she murmurs. “Back during homeroom, you used to bring cupcakes for everyone. Different colored frosting, rainbow sprinkles; like you were a birthday fairy. Cute little crown too.”
You feel your face heat up. “Yea…well that was before everyone ditched me right after graduation. Hard to keep a reputation when no one sticks around.”
The words came out harsher than you meant it. Regretting the whole: “woe is me.” She notices. Her expression softens again, this time in a way that kinda hurts.
“I didn’t ditch you,” she says quietly. Yeah she didn’t, you did though. Her gaze drags over your face like she’s searching for the old you she used to know. “None of that reputation shit ever mattered to me.”
You gulp, the store feeling too warm. Or maybe it’s her.
She plucks a bag of chips with her knuckles out your basket. “Tell you what. You shouldn’t spend your birthday alone…” she looks at the clock behind you, red lights on. “I get off in ten minutes. Stay? Keep me company while I finish my shift?”
It’s the way she looks at you: softly, familiar, almost like she’d been waiting for you to walk back into her life. Shit, now your heart fluttering, it’s like you’re seventeen again.
You nod before your brain even fully understands what she ask. And she grins.
⟡
She clocks out as the neon sign in the window glides: ‘24-Hours Open’ Her position behind the counter, replaced by another employee who barely looks up from their phone. She grabs her jacket, slinging it over her shoulder and nods towards the door.
“Cmon birthday girl.”
The night air hits a bit cooler than before. And the beer you crack open as soon as you step outside sends warmth down your chest. The streets quiet, just the sound of your footsteps and cars passing by occasionally.
She bumps her shoulder gently into yours, “So…big plans for the rest of your b-day?”
You laugh, bittersweet: “This is the most social thing I’ve done all day.”
She gives a look, curious she tilts her head: “Did you at least get birthday calls? Messages? Something?”
You shrugs, “Apart from family…” you shake your head. “No one said anything.”
You pause for a second, “Actually, yeah. My coworker who’s an elderly woman said happy birthday.”
You don’t want pity, and she knows that, cause she doesn’t give you any. She just walks closer, her arm brushing yours.
“You know…” she begins, taking a sip of her beer. “You usually post on your birthday.”
You surprisingly glance at over at her: “Do I?”
“Yea,” she laughs softly. “You didn’t this year. If you had , I would’ve said happy birthday right away.”
You stop walking for a second. “You…follow me on social media?”
She raises a brow, grinning: “Of course I do. Why? You don’t follow me?”
You open your mouth, then close it. The silence answers for you.
She burst out laughing, the sound: teasing, affectionate, kinda warm all at once. “Oh my goodness. Wow, so you really just never noticed me there?”
You look away all flustered. “I-I…you’re not really someone I expect to keep up with me after school.”
She slows her pace until the two of you fall into sync again, but this time she’s closer. You look over at her before quickly looking down at the black plastic bag filled with what you bought.
Her tone is lower. “Well I did.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You nervously bite your bottom lip. The apartment complex appears around the corner, streetlights making everything gold. You feel her eyes on you.
“Which one?” She asks, nodding towards the buildings.
You point, the motion a little wobbly from the alcohol. She reaches for your elbow lightly, not holding you more like steadying you.
That touch makes you have butterflies.
She smiles, “Alright, Apartment 312.”
⟡
“Do you wanna come in? For one more drink? I still have cake. Might as well pretend is a birthday party.” The words slip out without hesitation. You’re not sure whether it’s the beer, the tingling feeling of her hand still lingering on your elbow, or the way she looked at you under the streetlights…
She looks at you for a second, her expression making you nervous. “Yea, I’d like that.”
Your apartment inside? The right amount of messy that comes from living alone and not expecting people to come over. A blanket on the couch, an empty mug, a candle that burned out days ago. Yet she doesn’t seem to mind. She just takes it all in with curiously, then flops on your couch like she’s been here hella times.
You grab the cake from the fridge, store bought—frosting smushed, and two forks. She whistles dramatically.
“Damn, a private cake tasting. I feel honored.”
You laugh and hand her a fork. The two of you eat straight from the container, washing it down with another round of drinks.
You talk about everything and nothing. How you moved back to this town after swearing you’d never return. How the other city you lived in, drained you out. The way it took you so long to unpack, and how you barely go out, only to work.
She listens, knees angled towards yours on the couch.
“It’s kinda nice you’re back,” she admits quietly. “Everything now feels nostalgic.”
Blaming it on the alcohol, the comments feels deeper than it probably is. You swallow another sip.
From there, the convo switches to high school. Old teachers—stupid rumors—ugly ass yearbook photos. The friendship between you two: never close but shared memories of events during lunch or field trips.
Both of you laughing hard, leaning into each other the more drink you two get.
At one point she groans, dropping her head back dramatically.
“God, your friend group was lowkey lameee.”
You cackled, “I KNOW! They were…ugh I dunno. I mean…” you pondered briefly. “They were cool sometimes. I just don’t know how I survived all the drama.”
She rolls her eyes and snorts. “They thought they were cool.” after a sip, “…them ditching you after graduation?….Never liked them.”
You tilt your head, “I never knew that. You never mentioned it.”
“You never asked…and why would I tell you that?” She teases.
Another drink enters your system quickly. Now your head feels light. The line between rational judgment and drunken honesty blurs, you say it:
“There was this one time…in the girls locker room.”
Her eyes goes to you instantly, amused and curious. And now you wish you didn’t bring it up.
“Go on,” she smirks. “This already sounds interesting.”
“Ahh, no no, never mind.” You drop your face into your hands for a second, but the alcohol pushes you. “Ok ok.” You caved in so quickly.
She taps your knee, “…come onn, say it.”
You exhale. “You remember, sophomore year. We had the same P.E class. It was after class.”
She lowers her chin a bit, “You gotta be more specific. I try very hard to forget that locker room existence.”
“You were always the last one to finish changing,” you mumble. “You’d be at your locker, shirt half on, hair a little messy from whatever we did that day.”
She now looks more curious and amused.
“And?”
“And…” you look all around your living room except her face. “There was this one day. You were laughing at some joke someone made, and you-your shirt was kind of…stuck…?”
You gestured badly, “Like halfway up. And I just…I dunno. That image stuck in my head for a while.”
She blinks slowly. What was even slower was that little wicked smile that forms.
“So, what I’m understanding is…you were checking me out during our time in the locker room?”
You blush: “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she leans closer, voice deepens.
Her knee presses between yours a little. “You fantasized about me in high school?”
She’s making the room spin more than the alcohol. You gulp hard, “it was just one time.”
“That you’re admitting…”
You wanna deny it, but her stare is steady, flirty, soemthing you can’t really give a name to. Just feel down to your core.
The air between becomes heavy with alcohol, nostalgia, dare even say….lustful?
She leans back a bit. Answering the last thought, when she licks the frosting off her fork and watches you like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Should’ve said somethin’ back then,” she says playfully.
You met her gaze.
“You wouldn’t have believed me.”
And for the first time all night, she doesn’t laugh. She just looks at you. The way she wouldn’t dare to do in high school.
You feel her shift closer on the couch. Her knee brushing yours again. Her hand slides along the back of the couch until her fingers hover near your shoulder, like she’s testing the waters.
“What?” You sniff nervously.
“What?”
“You’re staring,” your whisper.
She slowly smiles, “I know.”
Her breath mixes with yours, a touch so gentle when you feel her thumb on your jaw. Makes you breathless
“Can I…” she starts, her voice barely audible.
You don’t let her finish. You close the space and press your lips to hers. A fluffy kiss at first: careful like if you’re painting with a small thin brush. The she makes that damn sound. Just one sound that’s needy and desperate. That small sound is all it takes to unravel everything.
She grabs your waist to pull you fully onto her lap; your knees on either side of her thighs. The couch creaks from the sudden shift. Her firm hands sliding up your back. Under your shirt, her touch is hungry and your thighs tighten around her.
You can tell something inside her awoken by the way she moves her mouth against yours. As if she’s been waiting years for this. You as well…
You pull back enough to catch your breath, but she chases you. Lips brushing against yours. Gosh she can’t stop.
“Mmphhh,” she humms against your lips, “you have no ideas how long I wanted that.”
Your heart flips, “High school?” You ask, out of breath.
She laughs, air hot on your neck as she kisses down to your throat. “Maybe.”
Her hand slips lower, gripping your hips, guiding you against her. Your body reacts: ASAP. You’re already wet. You grind down without thinking, and she lets out a hushed, strained groan that sends shivers down your spine.
The apartment becomes irrelevant: the cake, the cabs, the mug, the frosting stain on your cardigan. All of it doesn’t matter as she’s kissing you again, thus time deeper.
“Bedroom?” she whispers on your lips.
So dizzy~
You nod.
She stands, hands on your waist. You wrap your arms around her neck as she walks backwards, unknowingly, til you point at the right room and you back hits the wall. You kiss her like you need her, like you’ve imagined for all these years without even knowing.
⟡
Clothes hit the floor: her jacket first, then your pants, then her tank top. You barely make it to the bed before she pushes you gently on your back, climbing on you with a look that you only read in books.
Her fingers trace your waist, tickling your ribs, mesmerizing your chest. “You’re so beautiful,” she says, in a tone of almost frustration at how true it is.
You pull her down and kiss her again: deeper, messier. Hair tangles between your fingers as she shifts between your legs. Her thighs slide against you and you gasp, hips lifting towards her instinctively.
She notices. She smirks. She does it again.
You playfully bite her shoulder and like she’s done all night: laughs…except this time it’s breathlessly and followed by a rolling of her hips against you. Yummy, slow, calculated.
Your mind goes fuzzy. Soft moans fill up the room. Yours plus hers, overlapping. Her hands explore every inch, guiding you.
You feel her everywhere: mouth on your neck—fingers tracing between your thighs, coated with slick—breathe trembling when you tug her closer.
God, she wants to ruin you. You want her to.
You lightly gasp an exhale. You felt pressure against your clit as she keeps the heel of her palm on your bud and slips inside her index and middle finger.
⊹
Your lips journeyed back down her neck, her chest as you slowly grind on her hand.
You cum with your mouth on her collarbone and riding on her fingers. She’s whispering your name through it, in way that she can’t even believe she’s actually doing this with you, needy and desperate.
She kisses you tenderly through the aftershock, holding your jaw steady. Then take your hands to her body, and you take your time exploring.
“Your turn,” you whisper.
Her lashes flutter. “Mm yea…” she breathes, “please.”
You’re a bit more feral, palms grazing her nipples then filling your hands with her breast. Leaving wet spots on the valley of her breast with open kisses.
‘It’s MY birthday, and she’s like my gift. I’m going to enjoy her, like I deserve.’ you thought to yourself, selfish thoughts.
You trailed your gaze down to her bare bottom, and trailed your mouth over it. Her fingers slid into your hair, and you just lost it.
You tasted her slowly. Lingering, your hands sliding up her stomach feeling her muscles quiver in pattern. Toying and teasing her breast. She tugs your hair, and rolls her hips against your mouth.
She got on her elbows as she shook, knowing she was close. You lightly stroked a fingertip over her slit, teasing the opening as your mouth traced lazy circles around her clit. Your eyes watching hers, looking for her reaction.
She let out a throaty low groan and you loved it. You were no longer thinking: ‘My birthday, my gift….’ it’s now a ‘Thank you. Thank you for spending time with me on my birthday.’
You learn what makes her gasp, arch her back, grab the sheets. Seeing her come undone under you ignited something…that you didn’t want to think about right this moment.
“Oh god,” she gasps. Her hips twisted subtly, and you slid your finger out, letting her watch as you slowly sucked it into your mouth, tasting her.
She basically rolled her eyes back, letting out a chuckle, she didn’t think that you even had this side. “If I knew you were going to be like this, I would’ve given you more.” She managed to say audibly.
“Don’t worry about it.” You kissed between her thighs. Tasting her one last time.
“You’re…” she swallows. “You’re unbelievable.”
You crawl up to her. Clinging onto her close, you don’t really mean to. She doesn’t pull away. She kisses the corner of your mouth then your lips.
Eventually, later on you’re both exhausted, drunk, tangled together asleep. One arm over your waist, the other drape over her eyes, your face against her collarbone.
⟡
2:43 a.m
You wake up to the soft rustling of sheets and the fabric being pulled away gently.
For a moment you think it’s morning, until you glance over at the dim lights glowing in your nightstand.
She’s sitting at the edge of your bed, fully dressed, slipping on her shoes. The room is dark except for the light you left on the hallway, drawing over her shoulders—curve of her neck—and the messy flyaways of her hair.
She glances over at you as you move.
“Hey,” she whispers, voice groggy from sleep. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
You slowly sit up, the sheets slipping down your chest. “You’re good. You heading out?”
She nodded, tying her shoe. “Unfortunately—yea. I have to…”open,” the store tomorrow. Well…today.” Her tired laugh is soft and real and makes you grin foolishly.
There’s no awkwardness, no panic, or regret in her gaze. Just pure exhaustion, and a tiny bit of hesitation if she should leave or not.
You shake your head, “I get it.”
She stands, smoothing her top sliding into her jacket. Then looks at you with something gentle and tender.
“I had a really good time,” she quietly says. “Like…honestly the best night I’ve had in a while.”
Your chest is warm: “…me too.”
She steps closer, stopping in front of you. Her hand lifts, fingertips brushing your cheek, jaw, slow and respectfully. Memorizing you again before she closes the door behind her.
Then she leans in and kisses you. Not hungry like earlier. Not rushed like she wants to leave.
Just a soft kiss, sweet and honest.
When she pulls back, her forehead rest against yours for a moment:
“Happy birthday,” she murmurs.
You blush and hold your breath.
“And…I hope I see you again.”
You open your eyes. “You will.”
She smiles, before stepping toward the door. You watch her walk out through the hall, listen to the soft click of your apartment door closing behind her.
You bite your bottom lip with a smile.
The room feels different now: still quiet, but not lonely.
You roll over, grab your phone from the nightstand, and open social media: search her name….There she is.
Profile photo you somehow never noticed. Thinking how you missed her entire online existence.
That follow button you should’ve pressed years ago: You tap it.
Then you go on every other media: follow, follow, follow…
It’s stupid, you feel silly. Also feels huge. It feels like the best birthday gift you could’ve given yourself.
You set your phone down, sink back into the warm spot she left behind, and close your eyes.
