BRUISES AND BITEMARKS
art by: @/zeiame and @kcokaine
tags: Itadori Yuuji x Male Reader, Trans Male Reader, Yuuji is a biter, modulo scenario, can be gender neutral reader but he does call him boyfriend once, unprotected sex, muzzle obviously, doggy style bc lmao, leg lock, cumming inside yay, reader is a lil tipsy from wine, Yuuji is perfect and a sunshine, he's also strong beefy very hot old man yum, they be gay
sum: your boyfriend always leaves bitemarks all over your body because he simply can't hold himself back when you two are too damn excited. the solution is simple, you get him a muzzle and he takes it for a test drive immediately with you.
The apartment is warm in that drowsy, wine-soft way only a late evening can be. The lamp by the bookshelf is still on, throwing amber over the room, over the half-empty glasses left on the coffee table, over Yuuji’s broad shoulders where his shirt is already tugged crooked. Outside, the city hums faintly through the windows. Inside, it is just the couch, his body over yours, and Yuuji kissing you like he has been holding himself together by the teeth all day.
He always does that.
Holds. Endures. Smiles through things that would leave other people hollow.
That thought flashes through your mind even now, even with Yuuji’s mouth dragging hot over your jaw, over the line of your throat, even with one big hand cupping the back of your neck and the other planted beside your head like he is bracing himself against gravity.
There is still that familiar, helpless tenderness threaded through the heat. You always think of it when you look at him long enough. How absurdly bright he still is. How easily he laughs. How he still grins like the world has not tried to grind him down to powder.
You know better than anyone what that brightness costs him.
You know how many people he has buried. You know how many rooms he has stood in and swallowed down anger for the sake of keeping the peace. You know what the board does to him, how those old men sit across from him and speak as though they own the right to decide what his life is worth, how they still try to make him smaller than he is, easier to use.
And Yuuji still comes home smiling.
Not unchanged. Never unchanged. You wish.
But smiling anyway.
Tonight the smile is thinner when he first walks in. His eyes look older than his face. Then he sees you, loosens, accepts the glass of wine you press into his hand, lets himself be coaxed onto the couch, lets his body slowly unclench. You pull him down beside you. You coax him through the first few minutes, through the slow unwinding, through the moment his head tips back against the couch and he finally exhales like he is somewhere safe enough to do it.
Now he is over you, kissing you with that low sound trapped in his throat, and you can feel how tightly wound he still is beneath the affection. Yuuji is always sweet with you, always careful, always somehow gentle despite how strong he is. But when he is pushed too far, when he is strung out with frustration and he finally lets himself stop behaving, there is a viciousness to him that makes heat coil low in your stomach.
Your body still carries proof of it.
He is all heat and strength and need, kissing with a low, muffled sound in his throat that makes your stomach turn over.
He nuzzles downward, mouth brushing your collarbone, then lower, kissing your chest through the thin fabric of your shirt. He is affectionate even when he is hungry for it. Yuuji loves with his whole body. His hands, his mouth, his teeth.
Especially his teeth.
The marks from last time are still there if you know where to look — faded half-moons on your shoulder and hip, the ghosts of him. You feel one of his hands slide under your shirt, broad palm spreading over your side, thumb rubbing once, absentminded and possessive.
Tender. Dangerous.
He is, through and through, a biter.
Last time, he left your shoulders and chest and hip marked so thoroughly you had spent the next few days catching yourself in the mirror just to stare.
Tonight the old marks are fading but not gone.
You laugh under your breath, already breathless, and slide a hand over his face, right over the center of it, palm to cheek and nose and brow, gently stopping him before he can keep heading down.
Yuuji pauses instantly. His lips brush the heel of your hand. Then he lifts his head with a puzzled little furrow between his brows, pink hair mussed, mouth flushed, eyes bright in the low light.
“What?” he murmurs, voice already roughened.
You only grin, a little drunk, a little wicked, and ease out from under him.
Yuuji makes a sound of protest as soon as the warmth leaves him. It is not even a word, just a noise, soft and offended, and so thoroughly him that it hits straight in your chest. You push yourself off the couch, steady yourself on the armrest for a second, and cross to the bedroom with his gaze following you the whole way.
You come back with the muzzle in hand.
Yuuji blinks.
The confusion lasts all of two seconds. Then comprehension catches up, and the laugh that leaves him is warm and helpless and so easy that you nearly go weak from affection before anything else. It rolls out of him, bright as a struck match, cutting through the heavy atmosphere and remaking it into something playful and hot and yours.
“No way,” he says, already smiling.
“Oh, absolutely way.”
He leans back against the couch, looking up at you with that open, amused expression that makes him seem younger than he is, even when the exhaustion is still riding low under his skin. Then his gaze drops to the leather and metal in your hands, and his smile shifts.
Slows. Deepens. Becomes something else.
“You’re serious.”
“I am.” You step closer, standing between his knees. “You are not biting me more before the old ones fade.”
Yuuji’s mouth twitches.
“I barely—”
You lift a brow.
That gets you another laugh, quieter this time, and a sheepish glance that lasts only a moment before the playfulness comes back.
He reaches for your waist, fingers curling around you and tugging you a little closer until you have to brace a hand on his shoulder to stay balanced. His hands settling on your hips, thumbs rubbing there like he cannot help himself even in the middle of being called out.
“I like biting you,” Yuuji says, utterly unrepentant.
“I know.”
“You like when I bite you.”
You consider that, because honesty has always mattered between you. Then you reach down and tap him lightly on the nose with the muzzle.
“Not tonight.”
He grumbles, low and theatrical, but there is no real resistance in it. Just heat. Just willingness. He tips his chin up after a second, the motion easy and trusting, and that small act nearly undoes you more than any kiss has.
Yuuji lets you fit the straps around his head, lets you fasten the buckles carefully at the back, lets you adjust the leather until it sits snug and right. The thin metal cage curves over the lower half of his face, making his mouth visible through the bars, every little parting of his lips, every slow breath.
When it is settled, he looks up at you through his lashes, eyes already gone darker.
The sight is obscene in a way that catches you off guard.
Not because it makes him look mean. It does not. It makes him look restrained, and Yuuji, by nature, is not built for restraint.
He is all feeling. All instinct turned kind by will and kindness turned fierce by love.
To see that mouth caged, to know the bite has been denied but the urge is still there, sends a sharp current under your skin.
“Well,” you say softly, fingers slipping under his jaw to test the fit. “Pretty boy.”
Yuuji huffs a laugh through the muzzle and immediately reaches for you again.
This time when he goes, he goes hard.
He hooks both hands around your thighs, drags you down into his lap, and you gasp, grabbing blindly at his shoulders upon feeling his warmth and also the growing bulge straining against his pants. Yuuji tips his head back as the movement knocks a strained little sound from him, one that gets trapped and reshaped by leather and metal into something hotter.
He cannot kiss you properly anymore, and he very clearly hates that.
You take pity on him only enough to kiss his throat.
Yuuji shudders.
You do it again, slower this time, mouth lingering against the warm stretch of skin beneath his ear. Then lower. Then lower still. You kiss down the side of his neck, slow at first, then with more intent, mouth open and lingering. You suck bruises into warm skin, one after another, watching his hands tighten where they hold you.
Yuuji tips his head to give you more room, breathing harder through his nose, and the cage of the muzzle gleams faintly each time he turns.
You cannot have his mouth, so you make a mess of the rest of him.
Clothes begin to disappear in fits and starts, not graceful, not patient at all. A shirt caught and dragged over his head. Fingers fumbling with buttons because neither of you is steady anymore. Denim shoved down.
The brush of skin against skin growing broader, hotter, until there is no fabric left to mute anything. When Yuuji’s hands find you again, bare now, they do it reverently for half a second before the reverence gets swallowed by need.
He cannot kiss you, so he mouths at your shoulder instead, the muzzle pressing there with cool little shocks of metal and leather.
Yuuji makes a thwarted, needy sound and nuzzles harder as if stubbornness alone could turn the bars into teeth.
“You poor thing,” you whisper, smiling against his temple.
His answer is a muffled growl that makes you laugh, then gasp when he hoists you closer, manhandling you with startling ease even though you know better than to be startled by his strength by now.
It is always there, that impossible strength, housed inside someone so gentle until he does not need to be gentle. He gathers you up as though you weigh nothing, drags you back down into the couch cushions, and then over him, and then under him again, all while you gasp and laugh and cling to him.
The couch creaks beneath you. Your lower back is pressed against the edge of the couch’s cushion, legs wrapped around his hips, hands grabbing at his hair and his shoulder with need as his hard, throbbing cock slides easily inside your entrance.
You groan at the stretch of him, you are wet, sure, but damn he’s big.
He is also patient even when you know how desperate he is to fuck you — he doesn’t rush, he slides in slowly, feels how tight you are around his dick, feels your walls massaging him, clenching and adjusting to his size until he bottoms out inside of you.
He holds your hips with a bruising strength as you pant, letting go of his hair for a moment and settling your hands on his broad shoulders for purchase. His knees are planted on the floor, and well, that’s leverage enough for when he starts to fuck into you.
And gods does he feel good when he’s frustrated like that.
By now his teeth would be buried in your shoulder, neck, chest, jaw, anywhere. He would be marking you, kissing you, sucking hickeys into your skin until you could no longer tell him to stop, but now — now he’s groaning and moaning and drooling because that’s all he can do as his hips snap against the globes of your ass with each thrust.
And the rhythm increases, you end up having to brace one of your arms behind you so you don’t end up pressed against the couch’s backrest as he ruts inside of you and bullies again and again that sweet spot that make you squirm and cling to him obsessively.
He’s giving back the frustration you gave him the only way he can, by edging you again and again, making you chase it and changing his rhythm once he feels you’re close.
You call him a good boy once just to see what it does to him.
The reaction is immediate.
His eyes squeeze shut. His whole body goes tight. He makes the kind of helpless sound that lands low in your stomach and stays there.
Heat mounts. Breath tangles. Yuuji’s hands roam everywhere they can, gripping, spreading, kneading, trying to pull you impossibly closer.
Your own pulse is pounding in your ears, the couch is shifting under forceful movement of his hips once again smacking your ass as he fucks you in a steady way that has both of you moaning and babbling filthy little things at each other.
You feel the floor cold under your knees, then the couch again at your front, cushions crushed beneath your forearms. Yuuji behind you, over you, everywhere.
At some point you both are kind of on the couch and the positions are not the same you started off.
You’re now getting back shots from your muzzled boyfriend — doggy style, because that’s fitting for the situation, you both can agree on that later.
You shiver at the drag of stubble against the back of your neck. The thick weight of Yuuji’s chest pressed to your back and the sweat of your bodies making it all messier and better.
The muzzle knocks lightly against your shoulder blades whenever he chases instinct and forgets for a second that his mouth is covered.
Every time it happens, a fine spray of breath and spit follows, hot and humiliating and weirdly tender in how helpless it is.
Yuuji sounds so fucking wrecked.
That might be the hottest part.
Not the noise itself, though it is enough to make your vision blur and your inner walls clench so hard he has to focus harder not to cum instantly. It is what it means.
Yuuji, who goes through the world taking hit after hit and still offering it his open hands, finally letting himself be greedy. Finally taking. Finally asking with his whole body to be allowed this much. Allowed release. Allowed softness after the fact. Allowed to come apart where nobody can use it against him.
You love him so much it is almost unbearable.
You reach back blindly once and catch the side of his head, fingers sliding against leather. Yuuji leans into the touch instantly, shamelessly, like some huge overaffectionate dog despite the ruined rhythm of his breathing and his pounding as he drills his cock ruthlessly into you — and then he drives his face against the line of your spine as if he is trying to bury himself there, turning the loud wet smacks of your bodies into a deep rut, like a beast in heat rutting ito his mate and begging for more.
He cannot bite, cannot kiss, cannot do anything but press and pant and groan into you, and the frustration of it only seems to make him wilder.
At one point he really does bark.
Just once. Short, wrecked, muffled by the muzzle.
You laugh so hard you nearly fold, and the laugh turns into a helpless sound of your own when Yuuji responds by grabbing your hips more firmly and moving with renewed, punishing enthusiasm like he has been mocked in the exact way he likes best.
You came once already, and the way he’s punishing you with this new, fast, animalistic rhythm is making you delirious enough to start to press back into him, arching your back as if offering yourself fully to his ministrations and his hunger, lust, strength.
And he takes it — he absolutely takes it.
He digs his nails into the curve of your hips, presses his chest further against your back and pins you down completely on the couch as he fucks into you as a frenzied animal would.
Your legs tremble and shake when your second or third orgasm is ripped from you — but he goes on and on and on, breathing heavily, letting saliva dribble down from his chin to the muzzle to the curve of your neck where his face is nested and you can hear his heavy breathing, his groans and moans and how insanely ht he sounds when he’s ruining you a little bit more before allowing himself to cum.
He rolls his hips deeply, pressing into you as if he could go even further, and the tip of his cock finally spills his hot, thick seed inside of you as he moans weakly your name and you roll your eyes back at the maddening sweet sensation of being filled completely by him.
By the time the tension in his body finally breaks, it does so thoroughly. Not all at once. In waves. In a long, trembling aftermath that leaves both of you boneless and damp and pink-cheeked and breathing as if you have run yourselves to collapse.
When Yuuji finally lets his weight drop, he does it carefully, gathering you with him instead of away from him, dragging you into the center of the couch until you are both tangled in a mess of limbs and sweat and fading laughter.
For a moment neither of you says anything.
Then you reach up, fingers clumsy with exhaustion, and start undoing the buckles.
Yuuji goes very still under your hands.
The muzzle comes away. The indent it leaves in his skin is faint and temporary. His mouth is wet and bitten-red, lips parted as he drags in a deeper breath now that nothing is caging him.
For a second he only stares, dazed and beautiful.
Then you lean in and kiss him.
It is sloppy and crooked and probably tastes like wine and sweat and the whole ruin of the evening, and Yuuji kisses back with gratitude that can split a person open.
At the very end of it, because he is still himself and always will be, he catches your lower lip between his teeth and tugs.
Not hard.
Just enough.
“There,” Yuuji murmurs, voice wrecked. “Had to get one.”
You snort and let yourself be reeled in. Yuuji settles you flush against his chest, one arm banded heavy around your waist, the other hand moving in slow, lazy strokes over your back.
The room smells like leather and sex and skin and the faint sweetness of wine. Your cheek fits over his heart. It is beating hard, but steadying.
“You okay?” you ask quietly.
Yuuji hums.
The sound vibrates through both of you.
“Better now.”
There is silence for a few breaths, the good kind, the full kind.
Then, because that is who Yuuji is, because even relief makes him want to talk and share and be known, he starts telling you about his day.
About one elder in particular who keeps pretending not to understand a report everyone else at the table has clearly understood.
About how one of them still talks to him like he is fifteen and reckless instead of older than every one of them in the ways that count.
About how he spends the whole afternoon wanting to leave and come home and put his face in your neck and be done with it.
You smile against his skin.
Yuuji’s hand keeps traveling up and down your back, over scars long healed and muscles pleasantly spent, with such absent tenderness it aches.
“And then,” Yuuji says, voice going softer, “I get here, and you’re here, and you look at me like that, and everything stops feeling so heavy.”
He tips his head just enough that you can look up at him.
His face is open now, tired but bright, worn down but never emptied out. There is love in him like a living thing. Ridiculous. Stubborn. Endless.
“I love coming home to you, I hope you know,” Yuuji says. “To my wonderful boyfriend.”
The words land warm and deep and you really feel like crying but you blame the wine for it.
You could laugh, or kiss him again, or say something clever to cover how hard that hits. Instead you only nestle closer, press one last kiss over his chest, and let your eyes drift shut while Yuuji keeps petting you like you are the one being soothed.
Maybe you are both being soothed.
For now, there is only the couch, the warmth, Yuuji’s body curled around yours, and the easy, precious sound of him still talking softly into your hair just because he can.
And you wish you could live forever just to have endless moments exactly like this by his side.
🦴: @someaholic and @whistlebrox are mandatory in any Yuuji content I post.
