𝓜𝓪𝓻𝓲 @yuulettte - Tumblr Blog

contents; okkotsu yuuta x gn!reader. aftercare scenario; suggestive, but sfw! bottom reader implied. hissy reader propaganda. yuuta is genetically incapable of not loving you to bits. plenty of animal & monster imagery; yuuta is scary in the weight of his devotion (as akutami ordained) wc; 2.4k

commissioned by @assmaster-8000 !! thank you for commissioning me .. ily…. it was an honour to write your sweet boy of all time …..

The ache between your thighs keeps you awake.

Vacantly, one faint corner of your mind protests; you probably should be sleeping right now. Tomorrow is a work day, and you had the misfortune of getting stuck with an early shift. Yuuta will without a doubt try to convince you to call in sick, velveteen and sure of himself, almost cloyingly sweet— a tone of voice he saves for when you're tangled up in bedsheets and he needs you home with him— but you're not going to listen. Twice in one month is two times too many. You can't keep letting him have his way just because he's charming in the morning, bleary streaks of sunshine ruffling the black locks of hair kissing your pillowcase, half-shut eyes that seem to see nothing but you and your slumber-worn features. Nope. No more.

Maybe you shouldn't have slept with him tonight. Maybe you need to get better at not needing him after long days. Or maybe he needs to get better at not indulging you so blindly.

Whatever the case, your shift starts in eight hours, and you're too sore to fall asleep. The moon has its crescented face pressed flush against the windows, intent on keeping light in. Your boyfriend is rummaging through the kitchen in search of something for you to eat, which means you're free to wince and whine and flex your calves as much as you'd like to, no use in pretending you weren’t just tenderized. The glass of water in your hand is almost empty; per his half-suggestion, half-instruction, you have to drink it all before he gets back with your food. He'll pout if you refuse him. You've done this song and dance before. Having sex with Okkotsu Yuuta is like signing up for a weekly subscription and clicking on the yearly payment plan on accident— you get more than you bargained for, and give more than you can handle.

He likes the routine of it.

(You'd be lying if you said you didn't, but that doesn't make it any less overwhelming. It shouldn't be, but it is. If you ever thought fucking him might tucker him out, you were sorely mistaken— the energy boost he gets after putting you through the mattress makes no sense, but it's a fact of life with him. One moment he's on top of you, slippery chest weighing you down, and the next he's hopping out of bed to stretch his limbs and ask if you're hungry.

When you first met, he called himself a monster. You've begun to think he was right about that. It's what kind of monster he is that he seems to have misunderstood.)

The door creaks, and a beautiful boy walks in, his quiet gaze catching yours across the room: a seamless kind of clicking together. Magnet eyes and magnet heartbeats. It responds when you catch sight of him, still disheveled, shoulders glistening with residues of sweat, but eyes bright and wide like a lion catching sight of a gizelle in the dark. Ba-dump, ba-dump. He's worn you down with his love, made your pulse his own. You can't look away from him. He's wearing nothing but boxer briefs and an old white shirt, no doubt the first article of clothing he saw when he dug through his closet— balancing a tray with three bowls placed atop of it, steam rising from the porcelain— a warm, hearty aroma wafting through the room.

"I made you miso soup with rice," he calls out softly, the dimples on either side of his lips catching moonlight through the window curtains. Dreamy cerulean hues. "And eggs. I wanted you to have some proper protein, but we're all out of beef..."

"We already had dinner, Yuuta."

"Huh? What's that got to do with anything?"

You squint at him. With thick blankets pooled atop your body and drawn up to your chin, it probably looks more comical than dubious. Your boyfriend tilts his head, clammy locks falling sideways. He doesn't look like he's even washed his face yet.

"… Nevermind," you sigh. "I don't need beef, is what I mean. I'm not that hungry."

"You're always hungry after we have sex," he shakes his head. Smiling sweetly, taking brisk steps towards you. Heat blooms across your collarbones, lips curling into a frown, thoughts louder than your voice. No, you don't. "Or are you going to tell me you could just go to sleep like this?"

"I could."

"Mhm." He downright giggles. Evil, evil man. Awful, charming man. He seats himself at your bedside, the tray kept steady on his lap, and leans forward to cup your cheek with the dip of his palm. When you give a pointed glare— mostly for show— his lips curl up like dragon flowers, threatening another bout of laughter. "You don't need anything, do you? Cutie."

"I-I don't," you protest. You've half the mind to shove at him, but your heart couldn't take that. You don't need anything, but there are some things you'd rather not go without. "You're acting like you broke my back. Literally. Cut it out."

He licks his lips absently. They're still rosy and swollen, a far cry from the chapped skin spring usually has him deal with, and his voice falls softer when they part. "… Well, you cried."

"Okay. I'll kill you."

"Baby," he croons. "I'm not trying to embarrass you—"

"If anything," your voice grows sharp, "aren't you more wrecked than I am?"

Pointedly, you look him up and down. Purple hickeys sucked into his skin. Check. Imprints of teeth like a wreath around his neck, evidence of your hunger for the places where he's most tender and you feel his pulse the clearest— check. Scratch-marks on his back? Probably. You'll check up on them tomorrow morning. He'd never bother with the bruise cream otherwise.

Sheepish laughter clouds his words, peach-fuzz dusting his cheeks. One of his slender hands go to cup the root of his throat, feeling for the bite marks. Shameless. "It's not that bad… I like it, actually."

"Oh, I know. I just don't think you should be fussing over me when you're the one who looks like he got jumped by a raccoon." You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the very much still present ache between your legs. If he notices their trembling, it's game over. He won't be able to stop himself from massaging your calves. "We had sex. That's all. It wasn't even that inte—"

"Say 'aah,' honey."

… Suddenly a spoon is poised in front of you, and your boyfriend is wearing an innocent smile. Unbothered by anything you've said so far. That's not surprising, only frustrating. More frustrating is the fact that his feeble distraction actually works. He's scooped up a mouthful of homemade miso soup, a square of tofu sitting pretty and waiting on the cutlery. Despite your insistance that you don't need anything from him right now, that you'll be just fine without the five star meal he was hoping to magically throw together in the span of fifteen minutes, your stomach growls at the promise in front of you— drool pooling under your tongue. It's a struggle not to duck under the covers when the sound makes him beam. As you reach for the spoon held between his fingers, he tuts and pulls away.

Figures. Why did you even try?

"… Yuuta," you huff. "I can eat by myself."

"I know you can." He doesn't let go of it. Simply moves it back to where it was before you tried to turn the tables on a man this determined to spoil his partner, resting pointedly in front of your closed mouth. There's that look in his eye again: a hunter that just spotted its prey. Polished obsidian. Nothing you say or do will convince him to let you win this.

Reluctantly, your lips part. Curse your stomach.

"Good job," he croons, watching you chew on the silken tofu. It's not spoken with condescension, which somehow makes it worse. He scoops up a bite of rice next, blowing on it quietly before feeding it to you. The warmth of the meal settles in your chest like a heated blanket, your hunger growing with each bite. Curse Yuuta Okkotsu. As you eat what he's made you, you feel yourself being moulded into someone more pliant, a shadow of you that only comes out on these long nights, sneaking into his bed and your body like a monster under the floorboards when you're too weary to resist. Before daybreak, after dusk. Yuuta loves that monster. He wants nothing more than to feed into it. To feel its teeth under his greedy fingertips.

He's gross. You're gross for wanting it. You're both rotten and perfect for each other. That’s not something you should feel happy about.

"… There you go, pretty baby." He carefully places the tray and empty bowls on your nightstand, next to a short pile of unread books, a bookmark he made you in high school, the glass of water you'd been drinking from before. There's still the slightest layer of water pooling at the bottom— your stubborn, feeble resistance— but when Yuuta notices he only gives you an indulgent smile. "Was it tasty?"

You manage a nod, allowing your body to melt into the mattress. Limp as a noodle, toasted from top to bottom. "Thanks for the meal," you call out with your eyes closed, drowsy, softer than before. Softer than you meant to. The bed creaks, a kiss planted between your brows; he smells faintly of vanilla and sex, traces of sage from the cologne he likes to spray on his neck in the mornings before hectic work days. It's a scent that makes you feel at ease. He dips his head down to give a peck at your lips next, chaste and sugary, locks of his hair tickling the pulse-pocket at the base of your throat.

"You're welcome." He smiles against your skin. "Should we freshen up? Or do you want to sleep?"

"Sleep," you rasp. "I have work tomorrow."

… At that, a low, thoughtful noise coils in his throat. You can almost feel his Adam's apple bob under its vibrations. For a moment, all is quiet.

Then he whispers: ”Alright. Sleep it is."

Your body is still slick with sweat and fluids, but that doesn't bother you right now. You can take a shower in the morning without falling behind your schedule. Yuuta's compliance is suspicious, but you try not to pay it any mind. The ache is still there, but its begun to be dulled by the warmth of the meal and insistent tugs at your consciousness, pillowed under the weight of your exhaustion. It's only a matter of time before it overtakes you. Yuuta lowers the window-blinds before he slips beneath the covers, tangling your limbs together: exhaling a breath of relief, like this was the only thing missing. His leg under yours, his arm curled comfortably around your midriff. Tethered together like Tanabata-wishes on worn branches. He gives small, wet kisses to the apple of your cheek, knowing you're too fatigued to grumble about it.

"How are you feeling?" he whispers. "Sore?"

"… Just a little."

A soft, knowing sound. "Sorry. I missed you today, so I might have gotten carried away."

For a second, you think you'll laugh. This is what makes him so lethal. He doesn't realize what his voice does to you when it sounds like that, when it's saying things like that—

Your heart threads itself into a knot. Knocks against your trembling ribs. For a moment, being peeled open doesn't frighten you.

(For a moment, you think you'd let him unravel you however he likes, for however long he likes.

Just a moment; nothing more. If he weren’t kind, and didn’t love you, it would mean the end of you.)

"I'll massage your hips," he promises. Nosing at a tender spot below your jaw, a hound sniffing for buried weaponry. Surely, he should already feel satisfied. He got to break you open and stitch you back together again. Make love to you until your throat felt too rigid to make sound with, soundless tears dribbling down your cheeks, on your pillowcase, into his mouth. Your Yuuta is greedy. He's the greediest. That's the only reason you feel comfortable being greedy back. "Tomorrow. Or right now. You can sleep, I'll handle everything."

"I can handle myself," you protest, slurring your words. An ocean wave of slumber laps at your shaky legs, wades over your body, threatening to swallow you under. But you aren't afraid.

"I know you can."

Quiet breaths. Mingling pulses. Outside the walls of your apartment, unbeknownst to either one of you, the crescent moon succumbs to slivers of creaking dawn.

A kiss at your pulsepoint. It flutters beneath.

"I just don't think you should have to."

…

With what little remains of your willpower, you stifle a yawn, reaching over to wrap your arms around his neck. He's all too eager to make space for you. His body used to be eerily scrawny, but now there's more muscle mass to it. Enough for you to feel underneath the fabric, thrumming faintly, like a steady reminder of how strong he can be. How gentle he chooses to be.

There's no need to have your guard up. You know that's what he's saying, near constantly, without opening his mouth. You can close your eyes around me.

So you do.

"Yuuta," you call.

"Mhm?"

"You didn't eat anything."

Faintly, he chuckles. You can picture his smile in the dark of the room. As if your concern alone could fill his stomach, or soothe the ache in his lower abdomen. "I'm okay, baby. I'll eat something tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"… Yeah," he sighs. Wrapping you into him, pressed taut against his ribs, like even that isn't as close as he'd like you to be. If you fell asleep right now, you'd dream of it; dream a bird's dream, sitting pretty on a bone-white branch, next to a heart too big for his body. "I promise."

Yuuta is nothing if not meticulous. He's never broken a promise he made you. Intertwined pinkies mean more to him than written contracts.

So you believe him.

(His love is insurance. Reassurance. You fall asleep with it around you, inside of you; a quiet, mutual love. The trust that comes with it.

Tomorrow, you'll wake up past your bedtime, too late to catch your shift. The morning alarm you have set to ring isn't on: Yuuta's doing. Your compliance. You know you're losing one way or another, and he knows you'll let him win.

Despite yourself, you like the routine of it.)

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