amethyst_reaperwrites

It’s for science.

Sure. Anything can be for science. This is … different. Using the term “it’s for science” is a bit difficult when you’re actively trying to squash down the ever-growing, overwhelming realization that you are in love with your best friend.

“For science,” you repeated, staring at him from across the lab bench.

You wait.

Ryland, completely oblivious, is twirling a pencil between his pointer and middle fingers as he looks down at his computer screen.

“Correct.”

You feel your brows furrow in thought, trying to wheel logic around what he just proposed.

“Just making sure I am understanding,” you start, laying your hands flat on the cool marble table. “You want to map out certain points of each other's bodies for science?”

“It’s information!”

“For?”

He looks at you then, glasses resting on the middle of his nose as he sighs.

“The science community.”

“That’s not a good answer.”

“How is it not?”

“You’re not giving me a persuasive argument to believe.”

He huffs again, fingers stopping mid-twirl as he thinks.

“At least give me something, so I don’t feel as bad telling you no.”

He has a hint of a smile on his lips as he speaks again.

“Hypothetically speaking-”

You nod, encouraging him to go on, despite already knowing where this was going. You’ve known him long enough to catch his tells. He’s already getting defensive, so you know something’s up.

“I need a body to map for my physiology course, or I’m failing this semester.”

“Ryland!” you scold, leaning back and folding your arms across your chest.

“Deadline’s Friday night.”

“That’s in two days!” you exclaim. “There’s no way you can map the whole body in that amount of time.”

“Wanna put that to the test?” he grins.

Smug bastard.

Which is how you find yourself lying on the floor of his apartment on a Wednesday night. You have a final draft for your Sociology class that needs another once-over before you submit, but it’s long forgotten. Ryland’s apartment is what you call messy. He prefers to call it lived in. His notes are scattered across his worn coffee table, textbook open and balancing on his knee as he shuffles through the pages to find the right section. There’s a cup of coffee that was half drunk before set, halfway on a coaster and the table itself. The rings on the surface tell you he forgoes one more often than not.

It’s surprisingly comfortable here on his floor. Late November has it dark before six, and the radiator is lazily humming as it warms the living room. He’d told you to dress comfortably, so you did. Deciding a threadbare sweater, campus sweats, and wool socks would suffice. There’s a moment of silence; the only noises are the radiator, pages turning, and the two of you breathing. He’d showered before you showed up, hair still a little damp and curling over his forehead when he’d opened the door.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” you mimic.

“Shouldn’t be too hard, right? It’s a body. We use them every day.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“Better make sure you took good notes.”

Ryland leans up on one knee, placing the textbook down and spreading his fingers across the page. A shift in the air has you taking another deep breath, fluttering your eyes closed.

“Where to start?” he murmurs aloud, glancing over the page again.

“If you start at my feet, I’ll kick you,” you warn.

“Oh yeah. I forgot you’re extremely ticklish,” he laughs warmly. “There was that time when-“

You cut him off, telling yourself the racing of your heart was something else entirely.

“Ryland. Focus.”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

A warm press of fingers to your clothed shoulder has you opening your eyes. Ryland’s not quite over you, but in your peripheral. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as he looks between your body and the book.

“Biceps brachii. Agonist.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have prime movers and synergists. Your prime movers are specific, while the synergist is assistive.”

“Okay,” you breathe, not even processing what he just said.

He slides his fingers down your arm, squeezing just above your elbow.

“Biceps help this guy flex.”

You nod again, trying hard not to focus too hard on the warmth from his fingers.

“Brachialis. Beneath biceps. Primary flexor.”

He bites his lip in concentration, making sure what he’s naming off is correct. The pads of his fingers are warm against your thin sweater.

“Flexor carpi radialis. Radially twists your wrist.”

Ryland slides his fingers down, lightly resting his thumb and pointer finger on the thin skin. Your sweater has raised a bit, allowing the press of his skin against your own. He demonstrates, gently rotating your wrist back and forth.

“Neat, huh?”

“Very,” you breathe out.

“I can feel your pulse,” he murmurs, going silent for a moment.

The air is thick, neither of you breathing for a moment. It’s over before you realize, and Ryland’s moving again, flipping the page of his book and releasing your wrist gently. He leans back on his knees, a sigh falling from his lips.

“I didn’t think this through.”

“What do you mean?”

You sit up on your elbows, waiting for an answer. There’s a small flush to his cheeks, and he won’t meet your eyes.

“There’s mapping that's…more intimate. Deltoids, rectus andominis, obliques…” he trails off.

“Do I need to take my sweater off?” you ask, throat clicking with how dry it’s suddenly gotten.

“I wouldn’t. I mean. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re going to fail your class.”

“Yes. I mean. I could take it again.”

“Ryland.”

He looks at you then, glasses askew, hair finally drying in the warm heat, stuck up messily on his head. He looks pretty.

“You’re not failing the class,” you say, sitting up to pull your shirt over your head before he can object.

A quick glance at the clock shows you that only twenty minutes have passed, and you already have your shirt off. Personal record on your end. The bra you have is simple. Black with a small bow in the middle. Something you got on sale too long ago. Worn, but comfortable. You ball your sweater up into a ball and rest your head back, looking everywhere in the apartment except for the man next to you.

“You’re shirtless on my floor,” he blurts out.

“I am shirtless on your floor,” you state, cheeks heating.

“I’ll go quickly.”

“Okay.”

His hand rests just below your collarbone, palm flat against your skin. Warmth radiates between the two of you.

“Deltoid. Three parts. Anterior, Lateral, Posterior.”

He looks at the textbook again.

“Anterior - up and forwards, Lateral - sides, Posterior - backwards.”

He slowly moves your arm in the mentioned positions, watching the muscles dip and flex under your skin. In a moment's time, it comes to rest by your side, pulse in your ears as you wait for him to move again. The crack in the ceiling next to his doorframe suddenly becomes very interesting.

“Rectus abdominis”, Ryland murmurs, fingers splayed across your ribcage, feeling the slight quiver of muscle underneath. “Stabilizes your core.”

His hands slide to your sides and down to your hips, thumbs brushing over the jut of bone. You desperately try to keep them still, not wanting to arch into his touch. This is strictly educational.

“Obliques,” he breathes, and you notice the slight rasp in his voice. “Another stabilizer.”

There’s a slight pressure as he squeezes your sides before releasing again. His gaze bounces around your face for a moment before he inhales and rests back on his heels again.

“Good?” he questions, hands resting on the flat of his thighs.

You nod, unable to trust yourself to form a coherent sentence. A chill runs down your spine, the loss of heat erupting goosebumps across your skin.

“S’cold,” you mumble, teeth threatening to chatter.

Ryland leans over you again, arms bracketing on either side of your head.

“We can stop.”

“You're already behind; I’m okay.”

“It's my fault really.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Wow, no sympathy at all?” he cringes slightly, eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“No. You do this every semester. Procrastinator.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You feel your lips pull into a smile.

“Will you now?”

He leans closer; you can smell the lingering soap he used from the shower. It mixes with the underlying scent of him - undeniably Ryland. The proximity makes your stomach flip, your gaze flitting to his partially open mouth and then back up to his own. His eyes are dark, the ring of blue barely visible in the low light.

No overhead lighting in his apartment, all warm secondary lighting. He spent enough time under fluorescents in the lab. You suppose it is rather homey, warm, and filled with the scent of him. His muscles flex as he shifts his weight over you, wrists no doubt cramping from holding the position for a set amount of time.

“Where’d you go?” he asks, ever-observant.

Too observant. Especially when it came to you.

“I'm right here.”

“No, you went somewhere. You do that sometimes.”

You hum, somewhat agreeing.

“I was thinking about your apartment.”

“What about it?”

“It’s cozy.”

He laughs then, a melodic sound. You smile. The lighting casts a warm glow around his body, framing him like a Botticelli painting. Oh, he's beautiful. God, you're so fucked.

“Yeah, I suppose it is. Especially when you're here.”

“Me?” you ask, brows furrowing.

“Well. Yeah.”

“Ryland.”

“Yeah?”

You take a moment, on the precipice of pushing things past the point of no return. A sudden rush of courage has the words spilling from your lips in a hushed whisper.

“Does this change things?”

“What do you mean?” he questions, brows furrowing slightly.

“This moment. We’re friends, right?”

“Well, I sure hope so. I wouldn't want anyone else shirtless on my floor on a Wednesday night helping me with an assignment I procrastinated on.”

You see the moment he says it, that he starts to backpedal. Mouth pinching in distress before he starts scrambling over his chosen words.

“Wait. I didn’t mean. Wait a second.”

His hands fly out, trying to console the perceived notion of what he said.

“Ryland.”

“It’s not a bad thing. I mean. I just didn’t think-.”

“Ryland.”

You place a hand on his wrist, fingers encircling while you tug to get his attention.

“You know I willingly came over, right? Even though you put yourself in these situations.”

You laugh a bit, trying to diffuse the situation. He laughs too, albeit at the slight misunderstanding of words. The tension in the air fizzles a bit, replaced by a comfortable silence. The radiator is humming again, another wave of warmth filling the small room.

He breaks the silence first. Unable to endure a moment of quiet.

“Y’know. I couldn’t make it without you.”

By the expression on his face, you know he’s serious. It’s a matter of fact. It makes your stomach pull in a way that lets you know that yes, you are having this conversation now.

There have been times when you’ve wanted to bring it up. But the second-guessing and the inner turmoil of possibly ruining a good thing for both of you took priority. Yes, you’ve grown close as the years have passed. From Freshman Seminar to now, whatever this is. Half naked in his living room, hands on your body and scared to label it as anything other than educational.

There was never a label for Ryland. He was just - your Ryland. Someone who sat with you on the front steps of your dorms until your roommate was able to drop a spare key by. Someone who stayed up late studying for your Research Methods class and helped you solve the Statistics part of the exam because you were terrible at math. Someone who didn't mention when you cried at something in the movies you watched, only made room for you to move closer, shuffling the blanket to accommodate you both. Someone who remembered something from one mention. The comfort food you had as a child. Your sixth birthday party theme. The things that mattered. Someone who made room for you. Always. No question of the time. No matter the day. He was a constant that you had grown to look forward to.

He was someone you could see yourself spending the rest of your life with.

“Can I do something?”

You look back at him now, returning to the present. Too long in your own thoughts. You breathe deeply, the warmth of the apartment returning to your body. His eyes are wide, honest. You nod. You’d let him do anything to you right now. He lowers himself down, close enough that you can feel his breath fan across your cheek.

“Want to test something,” he whispers, before pressing his lips to your own.

A sound of surprise leaves your mouth, body freezing for a moment before arching up into him. You wrap your fingers around his bicep, squeezing at the muscle (biceps brachii, ha, you are learning). His lips are soft against your own, slowly parting as you find a rhythm. He tastes like black tea and mint toothpaste.

“Ryland,” you murmur against his mouth.

“I love you,” he confesses, shaky and pushed out in one breath.

His hands find your jaw, fingers sliding through your hair and angling your face to meet his more comfortably. There's desperation there; you can feel the way his fingers shake. His mouth is parted, and his breath is warm, and he whines. He whines when your lips part for air. A soft thing, unprecedented as it crawls up his throat.

Ryland pulls away, just barely. Foreheads touching as you catch your breath.

“I am in love with you,” he repeats, voice certain.

“How long?” you whisper.

“Day one.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t either.”

“I didn't want to lose you,” you whisper back, eyes searching his face.

His eyes are wet, tears clinging to his lashes, clumping them together.

“You have me. You've always had me.”

You choke out a laugh, pressing your lips to his again. They're soft, stationary for only a moment before he kisses you back. His tongue slides over your lip, and you open, tilting your head back and letting him explore. He hums appreciatively, fingers pressing gently into the back of your skull.

Your legs part on either side of his hips, making room for him to rest right in between. There’s a slight twinge in your hips because of the stretch, but you don't mind. You feel the hard press of him against your hip, mind short-circuiting at the revelation. He wants you. Just like you want him. As if the confession wasn't enough.

He pulls away again, tilting your head to the side to press kisses into your skin and trails them down the side of your neck. His nose bumps your jaw, glasses pressing into your skin as his thumb presses into your sweet spot. Ryland shifts, length pressing into your folds momentarily, causing a moan to slip through your teeth.

“Sorry! Just trying to get comfortable,” he breathes into your skin.

Your hips shift up to meet his again, making the action deliberate.

“Oh,” he realizes.

Ryland grinds his hips down at the same time he licks a hot stripe up the column of your neck, causing goosebumps to erupt across your skin. You gasp, fingers curling around his arms for purchase.

“Yes, Ryland,” you whine, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling.

You feel your panties clinging to your folds, arousal soaking through the thin cotton. Ryland’s hands slide down your sides, thumbs rubbing at the soft skin at your ribs. Feels your breath rise and fall, fingers still at your sides. His mouth latches on your collarbone, teeth scraping deliciously in the divot there.

Fire licks down your spine, body shuddering at his touch. There's a surge of confidence in his body language, the tips of his fingers dipping underneath the band of your bra and pushing up. Your breasts spill out of the material, resting gently against your chest.

You feel his fingers splay widely against your skin, mouth quickly enveloping one of your nipples, tongue swirling to create a soft peak. Your hands slide down to rest around his forearms, squeezing gently. Your throat forms around a soft sound, involuntary as Ryland switches to your other nipple, giving it the same attention as the other. His thumb brushes over the bud, and your nerves sing, pleasure building in your core.

“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs into your skin. “Always thinking of you.”

His mouth is warm and wet, leaving shining trails of moisture along your chest as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your skin. His fingers are still shaking as he slides them up and down your sides, gaining courage as he lowers his path. He’s at your stomach now, kisses pressed to the soft concave between your ribs. You feel the pace of your breathing picking up, no longer in even, regulated patterns.

You’re damn near hyperventilating. He’s everywhere you’ve always wanted him, and still not enough. You can still feel where his touch has been even after he’s moved on, skin still warm from the heat transfer. The pads of his fingers are smooth, soothing as he pets your sides. His thumb has found the notch of your hip again, pressing against the bone and watching the skin give and bounce back gently.

Ryland’s chin comes to rest on the soft plane of your pubic bone. His eyes are dark, irises twinkling in the low light as he looks at you. He’s utterly smitten; it’s written across his face. There’s a small tic of his mouth, something you notice often - especially when he’s content. He’s doing it now, a lazy grin spreading across his face - utterly gorgeous.

“You. You are-,” he breathes. “Riveting.”

He's drunk off the taste of you, despite the minuscule amount he’s been able to explore. Mind slowing and only able to form a few words, because of you. Ryland’s always got something to say. Will make an argument out of anything. You once fought over the way you had your coasters arranged on your coffee table. This - this was something you wanted to see more of. Him at a complete loss of words. Because of you.

Your hand slides down and up the side of his neck, making its way slowly to the back of his head, fingers running through his already messy hair. His eyelids flutter, closing for a moment before lazily resting at half-mast.

“Feels. Good.”

His voice is a low rumble, almost a purr in his chest as he leans into your touch. You watch his throat bob as he swallows, his fingers squeezing your hips once as he relaxes. Your fingers slide through the short strands, nails scratching his scalp slowly. A soft whine catches in his throat, and you notice the tips of his ears go pink.

You decide to test something. In that moment, you feel the overwhelming desire to pull, so you do. You gather what hair you can in your fingers, and you pull. Not rough, just enough to have the strands of his hair curl around your fingers and stretch away from his scalp. It’s effective. Immediately effective. You feel his hips buck involuntarily against the floor, a low growl forming in his throat.

It makes your stomach flip, so you do it again. Curious to file the results. Gotta have evidence to back up a hypothesis, right? His ears burn, and he pushes his face into your stomach, trying hard to hide just how turned on he really is.

“You like that?” you murmur, voice sultrier than you intended for it to be.

He nods, the tips of his fingers turning white with how hard he’s gripping your hips right now. There’s most likely going to be bruising, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You want to watch their life cycle. Deep purples, fading to greens and yellows, and eventually back to the resting place beneath your skin. Your pussy clenches around nothing, reveling in the thought of proof that he was here, on the most delicate parts of your body, hidden away for only you to see.

Ryland’s breath spirals out from where he’s pressed into your skin, warm and wanting. He inhales deeply a few times, and you watch the rise and fall of his chest. You watch the muscles twitch and shift in his back, feel his fingers tic against your hips. He groans softly, obviously fighting with himself as he tends to do often.

He finally looks up, glasses crooked on his nose again as he makes eye contact with you. There’s nothing but pure, blown lust in his eyes, irises swallowed up by the dark space of his pupil.

“I want to taste you.”

You inhale sharply, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Please. Please let me.”

You feel yourself nod, gaze following the roll of his eyes into the back of his head.

“Okay. Okay, let’s-“ he cuts himself off, pushing himself back up on his knees.

He needs the leverage, hands finding your hips and letting his fingers curl around the waistband of your sweats. They’re warm against your skin, but you shiver anyway.

“Up,” he murmurs, and you lift your hips up.

He could tell you to put your palm down on a hot stove right now, and you would do it. There’s something in the way that his voice has slipped. Something soft, reserved only for moments like this. The careful lilt around the vowels and consonants that make up his next words has you nearly choking.

He’s quiet for a moment, your sweats pulled down and off of your legs, folded carefully and placed on his coffee table. You watch his eyes lazily focus on your spread legs. Specifically what’s resting between.

“You’re soaked,” he states, voice low.

You can hear the hitch in his breath, see the tremble in his shoulders. He’s barely holding it together. It makes your eyelids flutter. Pleasure pulsing between your legs in slow, languid bursts. You go to squeeze your thighs together to relieve the ache, and he stops you.

“Tsk.”

A sharp click of his tongue, large hands pressing into the soft side of your knees and positioning them back into the wide vee they were originally in. You don’t expect him reprimanding you to affect you as much as it does. The wetness grows, soaking your panties even further. He catches it. Of course he does.

“You-“

“Don’t.”

“How-“ he huffs incredulously, brows nearly raising up to his hairline.

“You liked it. Me reprimanding you.”

He’s filing it. You watch him do it. Watch the smug smile grow on his face as he pieces more information together to utterly humiliate you.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That. That look.”

“What look?” he questions, knowing exactly what you were asking.

You huff in frustration, hip twitching in irritation.

“You’re putting that somewhere.”

“Mhm.”

“For later.”

“Maybe,” he grins.

His fingers ghost over the edge of your panties, thumb pressing the cotton into your already soaked folds. Makes a soft sound when they grow even darker.

“Christ.”

“Ryland,” you whine.

You don’t even care. The warm press of his thumb has your hips twitching. He keeps it there for a moment, chest rising and falling as he commits this moment to memory. You take a moment too. The press of the floor against your spine, the warmth of the radiator, the smell of his soap, the rise and fall of your synched breathing.

He moves. He finally moves and pulls your panties to the side, revealing your glistening folds. You hear another soft noise from him, like it’s punched right from his lungs. Ryland moves before his mind catches up, tucks his head down, and flattens his tongue against you.

Your brain short-circuits, honing in on just the feel of him. Tongue flat and wide, just pressing. Not moving yet. Filing your taste away for later. His eyes flutter shut, and he moves again. Pulling his tongue back only to do it again, pressing right into you, mapping you out. He’s sloooooow. Tongue parting and tracing your folds, not leaving any part of you undiscovered.

There’s no rhythm yet, him getting a feel for you. Your fingers fly to his hair, spreading wide against his scalp, needing something to hold on to. He hums in encouragement, vibrations rumbling against your core. Your hips twitch up, and he does it again. Filing away something else your body does for him. He’s a quick learner. Listen to the hitch in your breathing to let him know if he’s doing something good.

Tilts his head and lets his nose bump against your clit, the hard line of it delicious as he moves. Your legs are trembling, pleasure building in your spine as he devours you whole. He’s developing a rhythm now, firm slides of his tongue through your folds with the occasional caress of his nose. His fingers are on either side of you, holding you open, forearms pressing your thighs up and back.

Ryland’s fucking exceptional because of course he is. He’s attentive. He listens and adjusts and tests to see what works and what doesn’t. You’re falling apart, and he’s putting you right back together again. The noises you are making are completely involuntary, high whines and gasps slipping out before you even have a chance to stop them.

“God, you-,” he moans against your core.

“You’re better than I imagined. I don’t know how that’s possible.”

Your eyes flutter open, and you take a moment to look at him. Hair wild, glasses crooked, hips-

His hips are rutting against the floor as he eats you out, and it’s honestly the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen. You choke out a sound, lungs stuttering as you come. It’s so fast - so sudden that it’s nearly painful. Pleasure blinding hot as it burns and fizzles into something syrupy in your bloodstream.

“Oh, you’re- you’re coming, aren’t you?”

“F-Fuck,” you gasp, hips rutting against his eager mouth.

The aftershocks have you trembling, fingers gripping hard against his forearms as he guides you through it. He’s relentless, sloppy licks and sucks to your clit as you writhe. He doesn’t stop until you manage to push against his shoulder. Begging for relief.

When you finally regain feeling in your body, you turn your head to look at him. He’s devastatingly beautiful. Eyes bright and chin absolutely soaked with your arousal. He’s grinning, teeth white and mouth wide in excitement.

“That was-“ he starts.

“Some test,” you breathe.

He laughs, a bright, beautiful sound. You feel giddiness rise up into your chest, a laugh spilling from your lips before you can stop it. He presses a kiss to your thigh, inhaling the scent of you before begrudgingly moving up into a semi-tolerant position. Ryland rolls his neck, resting on an elbow before lying flat on his back. You two breathe, a moment of silence before he’s speaking again.

“Was that alright?”

“Ryland.”

“I mean, I think it was I just.”

“You’re exceptional.”

He huffs a laugh, reaching out to brush a thumb over your ankle.

“It’s not fair really.”

“How so?”

“You’re exceptional at everything.”

“I don’t know about-“

“Shut up and take the compliment.”

“Okay.”

You sit up on your elbows after a moment, taking note of your bare body compared to his clothed one. His shirt is rumpled, one leg of his pyjamas is up higher than the other, sock slouched against his ankle. You smile, a warmth fluttering in your chest at the sight of him. So so human. So Ryland. His gaze is resting on the ceiling above, eyes on the same splinter you were looking at earlier.

They shift to you when you lean over him.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He nods, and so you do. You lean down and press your lips to his, feeling the warmth and tasting yourself lingering there. You moan softly, tongue darting out to taste more. He shifts up onto his elbow, tilting his head and opening his mouth wider to accommodate you. Your tongues explore each other's mouths. The soft divot on your lower lip, the hard press of your teeth.

He groans against your lips, hand coming up to rest on the divot of your throat. Fingers splayed wide along the column. He presses gently, fingertips warm against your skin.

“Ryland,” you moan into his mouth.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He hums, and you feel him smile against you.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He deepens the kiss, tongue licking into your mouth. You shift as he does, moving with him as he backs himself up against the couch. Barely pulling away, not wanting to miss any part of him. You do take a moment to shimmy out of your soaked panties, dropping them to the side. Your bra is next, one swift pinch of your fingers and it’s finally off, on the floor in an accumulating pile. One leg swings over his hips, resting just above his lap. You don’t sit down yet, hovering as you press your hands to each side of his face. Your thumbs brush against his stubble.

“This okay?” you murmur.

“More than okay.”

You press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“Sit,” he tells you.

You sit. You feel the hard press of his cock against your core. He’s hot, hips twitching as you settle your weight against him. A sound leaves him then, swallowed up by your open mouth against his own. His hand find your hips, fingers splaying against the fat there. He squeezes once, holding you firm as he rolls his upwards. Once. A test.

You both shudder, gasping into shared space.

“Again,” you plead.

He does it again. You press your forehead to his, moaning softly.

“Yeah,” he breathes, rolling his hips slowly against you.

Your hips dip down to meet his, the friction between your legs divine.

“There you go,” he coos, voice going into that soft lilt again.

You think you might die.

He’s pressing kisses into your skin, wet, open-mouthed kisses as he grinds upwards. The front of his pyjamas is soaked, cool when the air rushes between you. His hand reaches in between the two of you, pushing his pants down around his thighs. His boxers are next, and his cock rests against his stomach, flushed and weeping from how hard he is.

“Need to feel you,” he confesses.

Ryland’s fingers wrap around the base of his cock, guiding the spongy head to slide through your slick folds. Your fingers grip his shoulder, body arching into his beneath you.

“Oh god,” you whine.

Honest to god whine. It’s pitiful. Something that you didn’t even think you could make. But here you are, in your friend’s living room, desperate for his touch. He’s not much better. Body trembling as he guides himself up up up until he bumps your clit. He repeats the motion, reveling in the way your body responds to his own.

The tip of his head catches against your hole, and you both freeze.

“Ryland-“

He says your name. Warm and lax in his throat, breathy. You like the way it sounds when it hits the air. You pull back a bit to look at him. He looks completely fucked out. Eyes blown wide and mouth slack. Lips shiny from your spit.

“Can I?” he asks, unashamedly, pure want fogging the rational part of his brain.

“Yes, God. Ryland, yes, please,” you moan, burying your face against his throat.

You feel him swallow, throat clicking before he shifts and then-

He’s pressing inside. Slow. Slow. Slow. Slow. It’s agonizing. Both of your torsos are trembling, a slight sheen of sweat on the two of you. You see a droplet rest just above the divot of his collarbone. Your tongue darts out to collect it before it falls. He groans against your sweaty hair, hips twitching.

Ryland’s big. He’s overwhelming. Stretching your walls and your hips wide. You feel yourself flutter around him, body inching open to let him sit flush against you. You’re both panting, chests rising and falling in tandem as you take a moment. His grip on your hips is like iron, the hard press of his fingers grounding in a moment like this.

“You’re…big,” you breathe.

He’s quiet. A moment. Two.

You lean up, the shift of your weight pushing him deeper. A gasp leaves your lips as you look at him. He’s trembling, eyes wide as he meets your own.

Ryland’s at a loss for words.

His lips are red, indentations of his teeth an indicator he’s been biting them.

“Ry?”

The nickname slips out with your concern; you feel your eyebrows furrow up.

“Give me a minute,” he grinds out, teeth clenched tightly.

You give him a minute. Rest a hand against his chest, fingers brushing over the text on his shirt. You just notice it now, one of the many science puns he wears. It reads: THE ROTATION OF THE EARTH REALLY MAKES MY DAY and has a graphic of the Earth spinning.

A smile forms on your lips, and you shake your head slightly. His breath matches your own, you come to realize. Your eyes lazily slide up to look at him again, and he’s smiling. Completely, blissed out, watching you with dark eyes. Drunk.

“You good?”

He nods.

“Ryland?”

“Yes?”

“Move.”

He moves. Just like he did earlier. He’s slow. Slow, slow, slow as he tilts his hips back, before pushing back up into you. You hum, knees shifting to rest on the floor on either side of his hips. You tilt yours back to meet his, hands resting on his broad shoulders. One of his hands comes up to grab your chin, pulling you down for a sloppy kiss.

Ryland pants into your mouth, thumb and forefinger holding you in place as his hips move. You breathe him in, thighs shuddering as pleasure curls in your gut. He licks into your mouth again, soft hums of pleasure leaving him.

You clench around his length, laughing softly as his hips stutter.

“Not fair,” he whines.

You do it again just to hear him again. He makes the noise again, the disapproving one he filed for later.

“Tsk.”

Your cheeks grow hot, a flush running down to your chest.

“Be good and sit still,” he huffs, nipping at your bottom lip.

Good lord.

He picks up the pace, the motion of his thrusts making your hips ache. His cock feels like velvet, splitting you open in such a soft way that it makes your chest ache. You can hear how wet you are, feel it dripping down your thighs as he thrusts up into you. His hands are everywhere, touching any point of you that he can - your hips, your ribs, your breasts, your thighs. Ryland squeezes them once, left hand sliding up to rest on your throat.

Not squeezing, resting.

Your pulse flutters against his hand, wild and untamed as he fucks you. He's picked up the pace again, spearing you open on his cock over and over again. Pulling you up and down, guiding your hips to meet his. The meeting and separation of skin is loud in his apartment. That and your breathing, both of you panting and moaning wantonly.

“God- you're so tight,” he praises, patting the side of your face.

He’s babbling, pressing kisses to your skin. His hair is plastered to his forehead, sweat slick on his skin. You’re not much better, body hot and nerves on fire. Ryland’s thrusts are getting sloppy, hips stuttering, a sign that he’s getting close.

“Not gonna last-“ he sighs, eyes screwing shut for a moment.

“That’s okay,” you coo, voice worn from all the noises it’s been making.

“No, wanna-“ he groans, rolling his hips languidly. “Wanna stay here forever.”

You huff a laugh, a wide smile on your features as you kiss him again.

“You can stay forever, Ryland.”

His breath hitches, head lolling back against the couch cushion.

“Can’t say stuff like that.”

“Like what?” you tease, payback from earlier.

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

He tilts your hips, angling just right so his thrusts have you seeing stars.

“Oh f-fuck-,” you gasp, pleasure having your body tremble against him.

He huffs a laugh, smirking for a moment before his face falls into one of concentration.

“Don’t. Stop,” you beg.

He doesn’t. He keeps the angle, hitting your spongy spot over and over until you’re nearly sobbing. Your thighs clench, blinding white-hot pleasure contracting your muscles, causing your breath to stutter to a halt.

Ryland’s hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you up as he fucks you through it. Aftershocks having your walls trembling around him.

“That’s my girl,” he coos.

You think a whine leaves your throat, spit clicking in the back as you gasp for air. Your core throbs, pleasure burning hot down your spine.

“Fuck, Ryland.”

His thrusts pick up, a rapid succession of the tip of his cock pressing just right as he chases his own release.

“Yeah. Yeah. There, right there,” he rambles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, before biting down as he comes.

It’s warm, the sensation oddly pleasant as he fills you full. You hear the way his lungs stutter, a low growl forming in his throat as he ruts into you. Your body trembles, slumping against his chest as he comes down. You wait for him.

You listen to his breathing. Matching your own with his. He takes a moment. Two. Ryland inhales deeply, his brain coming back online as he shifts slightly. The motion pushes his come further into you, and you whine, feeling so so full.

He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering for a moment.

“Okay?” he murmurs against your skin.

“I love you,” you breathe.

At last, your chest heaves, you sob, tears hot as you finally - finally let him know how you feel. His arms wrap around your midsection, pulling you tight against his body. Grounding.

“I am so in love with you,” he repeats. “You have no idea.”

A watery laugh escapes you. You press a kiss to his lips again, soft and pliant against your own. The radiator hums, kicking to life again. Ryland shifts, slowly pulling out of you. You whine softly, shifting and sitting back on the tops of his thighs.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“That was-“

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he laughs.

He traces the shape of your lips with his thumb, dipping into your cupid's bow.

“Can you say it again?”

“I love you.”

The smile on his face makes your chest ache.

“Ryland.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve still got a lot to map.”

He groans, letting his head fall back against the cushion for a moment.

“Please don’t let me procrastinate two days before an assignment is due again.”

“You’re behind, c’mon,” you groan, grabbing his hand and tugging.

“Two minutes. Give me two minutes.”

if there was one thing wade loved, it was trying new things and in second place would be teasing. 

except for when he’s not the one doing the teasing. yeah that he despised.

so when you brought up wanting to try shibari for fun, of fucking course he said yes. 

only an actual psychopath would wanna see their partner tied up in such an intricate way and he would admit to liking that on any given day. 

until he found out that wasn’t what you had in mind. 

“y’know when we talked about this i thought it would be different…” he started and cleared his throat. 

“how so baby?” you asked as he looked up at you, his face as red as the rope that detained him. 

“I didn’t want to be the one tied up!!!!” he whined and tried his hardest to stretch and pray that they move but they were completely secured. 

"oh yeah, that's very different.." you tease and shrug, "oh well!"

he foolishly assumed that you wanted him to tie you up but he didn't know how to use them. 

you only offered because you taught yourself to do it behind his back just so you could tie him up and to see this very reaction. which happened to be better than expected. 

you had him sat on the edge of the bed, his arms tied behind his back and it made a pretty upside down T design on his chest. you didn’t want to do too much  so you only focused on his upper half. 

but seeing how rock hard he had gotten maybe there’ll be a next time for the lower half. 

now it was time for fun. 

“so you don’t like my surprise?” you asked and pouted.

He whined and shook his head, but his cock twitched under his pants — only making you grin and chuckle, “you can lie to me baby but I’ll already know the answer.”  

he rolled his eyes and shook his head, “that thing has a mind of its own- he’s lying!” 

“I don’t think so.” you coo before getting down to your knees. 

he jumped, and tried to get out of the ropes again but to no use. you started undoing his pants, then sliding it off him as he began breathing heavily. “baby you gotta calm down.” you murmur and take his cock out of his boxers. 

“never been tied up before-“

“clearly because you don’t know how to act.” you tease, making him groan. 

meanwhile his cock was twitching uncontrollably and you hadn’t even started yet. you grabbed it with both hands, spitting on it then looked up at him as you started to jerk him off. his eyes, out of instinct closed and he attempted to reach out just to get stopped again, "fuck!"

"sorry baby.. I just had to show you my new party trick!" you chirped and he pouted, looking down at you, "why couldn't your party trick be doing balloon animals?! or I don't know doing magic? something normal??"

"magic is normal?" you scoff and he shrugs, "it is for the mcu." 

you raise an eyebrow as he looks off to the side giving a wink to an invisible camera before looking back at you, "so no on the balloon animals?"

"it's a no." you confirm and stroke him faster. 

"goddamit!" he yelled, exaggerated to hide a moan back.

"hey at least my party trick isn't finding different ways to kill myself." you tease, then laugh, "though I do appreciate the creativity."

"you get it-" he breathes out as you tighten your grip slightly.

"you good up there?" you ask and he nods, "just peachy." 

"you look good tied up." you murmur, finally making him let out a moan. 

you grinned as he gulped, "yeah?" 

"mhm.. red has always suited you." you reply and he chuckles, "yeah that tracks."

you nod and spit on the tip, letting it go down for one second before stroking him faster than before. he moans, tilting his head back in pleasure when you suddenly pull your hands away making him look down, "what the fuck-"

you gave him a grin and blew on it, making him shiver. he grunted and you chuckled, "jesus- look at you Wilson, you're shaking."

he scoffs, rolling his eyes then shakes his head, "am not."

you shrug then take your shirt off, throwing it over your shoulder before taking your bra off too. you squeezed your tits together before he could take a look at your nipples and looked right at his cock. it was twitching and he was leaking precum.

you grinned and squeezed them harder before finally moving your hands to squeeze your tits from the sides. he groaned and looked like he was going to explode, metaphorically.  

his leg was starting to shake, out of nerves and excitement because he needed something.

you then leant in, grabbing his dick and slapping it against your tits before placing it right in the middle. you squeezed them together then started to bring them up and down – his loud moans instantly being heard.

"shit baby-" he groaned then sighed, "I might die of a heart aneurysm or whatever demi lovato said-" 

you fight back a laugh and nod, "a heart attack?"

"uh huh." he moaned as you pressed them harder against him. 

"feel good baby?" you coo and he nods, "please-"

"please what baby boy?" you murmur, making him whine, "fuck!"

you grin and pull away, he instantly whimpered, giving you a glare, "oh my god- fuck please let me cum."

you nodded, bringing both hands back to his dick, and instantly jerk him off as fast as you could. he was moaning your name and bucking his hips forward. 

It was safe to say you absolutely hated two things right about now. The first was The Void, this barren wasteland between dimensions that the fucking TVA sent you to. The second thing you deplored was Wade Wilson, the very reason you were now in the dreaded interdimensional wasteland. He just had to run his fucking mouth, just had to go and find a replacement Wolverine, had to get you all fucking stuck here.

Now, you and Wade were…friends. If you could call it that. Frenemies was a more appropriate word. You would help me out with some missions, and he would help you out with yours. But ideological differences always made sure that any interaction was full of something bordering on a full-blown fight or a full-blown makeout. He was reckless and loved watching heads fly; you were calculated and preferred to keep your hero uniform clean of blood (though in your line of work, that was rarely possible). Every interaction went something along the lines of you going in with a plan, and Wade royally messing it up with his usual flair.

“You reckless idiot! I am gonna kill you!”

“Aww, keep yelling at me like that, princess. I might like it.”

Pointing your blade at him, digging it slightly into the fabric of his uniform right above his heart, all Deadpool did was laugh and roll his eyes. But deep down? He found you so fucking hot when you were mad. Call him a freak, perverted, whatever you wanted; he practically foamed at the mouth whenever you yelled at him. That spark in your eyes, hair wild and tousled from battle, reeking of sweat and effort. You were beautiful, effortlessly so, to him.

And it’s not like you were immune either. Sure, you hated Wade’s guts more than anything. He ruined countless missions for you. But his strength was something to admire, his wry retorts even in the darkest and deepest of battles. The way you could tell he was smirking even under the mask, the definition of his muscles peaking through the spandex. 

Now, you were stuck with him here in the Void, along with whatever dimensional Wolverine you were also hauling around. Exasperated by the fact that two grown men were literally exchanging blows and bullets over misunderstandings. Yes, you despised your current situation too. But fighting each other was no way to solve it. Ugh, men. You were already walking off into the woods, yelling back at the two as you went:

“Boys, boys. You both are pretty, now back the fuck off. We need to find shelter.”

“Did you hear that, Wolvie? Princess thinks I am pretty.”

Wade was promptly flipped off by your retreating form. 

Shelter was a bloody van and a half-made tarp tent that night. Sure, you had slept in worse, but the conditions of this circumstance were out of the norm. A small fire was going, the Wolverine already retiring for the night in the back row of the minivan, as you and Wade sat a few feet outside and watched the flames. Eyes glazed over, trying to ignore the sarcastic and very tall man across from you.

“You’re quiet tonight, princess.”

“I am in a different fucking dimension with two annoying ass men with no way home. I am kinda stressed, Wade.”

“I bet I could help you with that.”

Your eyes raise with a stern and pointed look towards the man, but you don’t miss the indent of his signature smirk against his mask. Yeah, he flirted with you often; it’s who he was. He did it with everyone. Yet, every time he shot a witty line your way, you couldn’t help the swell of butterflies or the anticipating pool of arousal in your pants. The way his voice lilted just high enough to sound teasing, but the heat of his masked gaze deep enough to make you want more. A delicious irony. You were about to brush him off, tell him to shut up or go to sleep, until he moved closer. Rising from his seat on the ground to kneel right in front of you, at eye level. Damn, when did he get so imposing?

“Wade—what are you—”

“Like I said, I am helping you out, princess. That is, unless you don’t want me to?”

Gloved hand coming to caress your cheek, the other sliding up the expanse of your inner thigh. You could say no, you know he would back off and never mention it again. But you would be lying if you said the stress relief wouldn’t be so good right now. So you lean into his touch, spreading your legs a little wider to allow him better access. A low chuckle emitted from his though, hands roaming the expanse of your legs with hungry desire. Squeezing every inch he could, admiring every little jolt that surged through you. 

“Don’t fucking tease—”

“I am just taking my time. Calm your tits.”

Remember those two things in the beginning I mentioned you hated? Well, now there’s a third. How fucking hot Wade Wilson was and how slow he was going. Trying to take matters into your own hands, you tried to adjust your hips so his hand would meet your sensitive clit. But he noticed, saw right through your little act. It was almost cute. How much you hated him, but were chasing every bit of pleasure he was giving you now. 

You almost didn’t register one of his hands leaving your body or the click of the glock, the cool steel pressed against your head when your eyes snapped open. His mask pulled up just enough to where you could see his neck, chin, and scarred mouth curved into a devilish grin.

“Now, now, princess. You are gonna behave, mhm?”

“What the fuck—”

“Ah, ah. Listen to me, alright? Let me treat you right?”

The barrel pushed harder into your temple at his words, a silent threat of what could happen if you continued your disobedience. Of course, you knew he would never shoot you, but the added fear factor of the possibility sent heat rushing to your core. Using his teeth to pull one of his gloves off, Wade’s fingers quickly found themselves at the hem of your pants. Pulling down the offending fabric with a careful ease that had you shivering once the cool air hit your awaiting cunt. His eyes went wide under the mask, damn, you were already so wet. Just from a little talk and his gun. You were truly the perfect woman. 

The ease with which two of his long fingers came to enter you was a small surprise but a welcome one. He paid special attention to that soft and gummy spot on your front wall that had you moaning his name with a high-pitched crack. You gasped at the stretch, gripping the dirt with each strong plunge. Your body felt fuzzy, and your brain was close to numb. All you can think about is how fucking good it feels to finally be fucked by him like this. 

“Wade—”

“Yeah, princess? You like that?”

His name sounded so pretty on your lips, like Heaven had crafted you with his name in mind for you to whimper. Eyes rolled into the back of your head, hands fisting the dirt for even an inch to sanity to remain, chest heaving with each breath as your release started approaching. He could tell you were close. The velvet of your walls is squeezing his fingers so tight that with every exit and entry into your cunt, slick spills from your needy hole to the ground. The barrel of his gun was moving to press up under your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his masked one. That damn smirk is still on his lips. 

Then, his fingers curled up right on that perfect stop, drilling into it non-stop. That’s all it took. With a blinding flash, you were cumming harder than you ever had before. White overtaking your vision as your body spasmed and clenched in need, slick and cum pouring past your weeping pussy with no sign of stopping. 

“Go on, princess. Take what you need.”

And take you did. Riding out your high on his fingers, the stress slipping out of your body with each passing second till you were nothing but limp underneath him in the dirt. Removing the gun to place it back in his holster, his hands slipping out of your cunt carefully, only for him to suck the release off of them with a pop.

“Now, princess. Wanna return the favor?”

Cal's fingers are roughened by a lifetime of labor expedited into 20 short years. They're gentle, though, trepidatious as you nudge his hand further along into your cunt, squirming in place to accommodate for his lithe digits.

"It's-" His breath catches in his throat, his voice dimmed from it's usual brightness, seeming almost nervous, "It's warm."

Warm. Other men might have said tight, or wet, or pretty, all lust-driven shocks to their own pleasure centers. Cal, though, Cal who'd called your mouth and your hands the same thing, says it's warm.

Speaking of mouths, you press yours to his, coaxing him into a relaxed, messy sort of kiss to soothe his nerves. He'd been torn between rigidly puckering up and going slack-jawed at first, and you've finally fine-tuned his kissing skills into a perfect blend of both. He lets you guide- he always does, but he follows your lead, sucking gently on your bottom lip and leaning in, his head chasing yours downwards as you recline against his chest. You lick along his soft, slightly chapped upper lip as you begin dragging his two conjoined fingers out of you, and he lets you because he's lost in the feeling of your tongues brushing against each other.

When you push his fingers back in, that's when he whines, sounding almost caught off-guard by the way that your cunt has begun sucking him in. Cal is so intoxicatingly slow and tender that the brief minutes of kissing and heavy petting that you'd engaged in before this were enough to thoroughly soak you, and your cunt is eager for more of his fingers- in quantity or length, it doesn't care. You rock slightly against his hand, your slick entrance pressing nearly to his palm. He watches, blinking like he can't believe what he's seeing when his fingers have a glistening, sticky residue coating them upon removal.

You kiss fondly against his flushed, ruddy cheek, perhaps a little greedy in the way that you shove his fingers back in for more. He keens again, lips parted and breath hot against your skin, "It's- and it's soft. It's really warm and soft."

You nearly laugh at him, but you could never be cruel to him, so you nod.

"You can touch me more, y'know. You can go further in, you can spread your fingers, you can feel it however you want."

"I want-" He begins, but the firm press of something beginning to present itself against your back is enough to let you know how he wants to feel you, "I want it- I want, to- y'know, make you feel good."

You're not sure if it's his sincere, tender words that do it, or the way that his fingers have curled slightly in the abandonment of your own, but your cunt clenches around his digits, and his eyes blow open wide. He experiments, finding his footing, and you swear his pupils dilate as you squirm against the rubbing of his fingers against your walls.

"You are." You groan, turning to dig your face into his chest as he continues slowly raking his fingers in and out of your sensitive cunt, "You're doing really good, Cal, are-" You make a half-hearted attempt at a joke, "Are you sure I'm your first?"

"Mhm." He nods without hesitation, glancing up at you with his endearing eyes, "I've never- well, done any of this before."

It's painfully obvious in the way that he stammers after you take a well-timed smack at his ass here and there, but now, as he strokes his fingers inside of your cunt like he's been making your legs shake for years, he seems like an expert.

Perhaps he's just an expert on you, perhaps he's proficient in everything that he tries.

His thumb brushes your clit by mistake, and you jolt around his hand, thighs clenching to trap his hand in place. He seems apologetic at first, like he's done something wrong, but when you grab desperately for his thumb and guide it back to your clit, he watches with an intense gaze.

"Do it again. That's- ooh, that's perfect, Cal, you're- please do that again."

"Like... that?" He licks over his lips, worrying at the lower one with his teeth. Your body convulses in response, a shockwave of pleasure rippling through you, center-to-limb.

"Like that." Your voice is little more than a whine, something almost petulant as you slump your body weight against Cal's chest, "Please- please keep doing that, and- and start again with your other fingers- mmh! And- and everything together is-" He's watching your cunt intensely, it's angled upwards by your hips and he tests an especially strong press against your clit with his thumb.

Perhaps another time you'd hold yourself off, fight your impending orgasm down so that it will be more intense later, but instead you let your climax wash over you, teeth nearly pinching at Cal's shirt in an effort to restrain most of your vocal pleasure. You allow yourself muffled moans into his rough tunic, but you almost feel like you'd scare him if you screamed.

His free hand comes to wrap around your stomach, caging you gently against his body as you try not to writhe on his fingers. It's a makeshift hug, you suppose, something entirely Cal, tender and earnest and unknowing. Maybe one day he'll suck a mark against your collarbone, or tug at your breasts with his teeth, but today he hugs you, letting you ride out your orgasm on his hand.

When you calm, you push against his hand, prompting him to pull it out of your pussy. He lets you, staring still at the residue on his fingers.

"You can-" You start, ashamed of the words even before you say them for fear of scaring Cal off, "You can- taste it, if you want."

His brows raise, but he doesn't look put off. Instead, he raises his fingers slowly to his mouth, tongue padding his lower jaw as he envelops his fingers between his lips. He hums, almost thoughtful as he tastes your slick release, but he tucks his ring finger into his mouth next where some of it had spread to the space between.

His fingers shine only with spit when they come out of his mouth, and he tucks the damp hand beneath your jaw, tilting your face up for a kiss. He hesitates first, like he's asking if you're okay with tasting yourself on his tongue, and you nod instead of bridging the gap.

A blended scent of oil, alcohol and energon wafts through the atmosphere of the room. Everyone is enjoying themselves, finally being able to let loose after some recent victories. They all deserve it, you think. They work hard, tirelessly, selflessly.

It's a flashier event, so you did actually bother to look nice for the occasion. You're wearing a deep red, cowl-neck minidress. It hugs the width of your thighs, fitting snugly but flatteringly. You have delicate jewellery to pair with it, trying not to take too much attention away from the entire look. Strappy heels wrap around your ankles to about your mid-calfs. Sitting is a blessing, especially in shoes like this. You couldn't be up dancing like the rest of them.

The unmistakable presence of Jazz strolls up by your side, propping himself against the bar with an elbow. The noise of the room softens into a balanced harmony as soon as he's by your side. You always know when it's him, he carries an air of pride and confidence that not many other 'Bots do. He walks around like he's hot shit, and he's entitled to do so, because he is. Every room he walks into gets marginally more interesting just from his existence alone.

"How is it you look better and better everytime I see you, huh?" Jazz asks with a wide grin, scanning his optics over your body behind his visor. He has a short glass of engex in one servo which he's been cradling all night, not one to handle his liquor particularly well.

You smile with amusement as you pick up your glass, bringing it to your lips to take a small sip. You don't look at him, far too familiar with his flirtatious remarks at this point to elicit a reaction from you.

"Nice to see you too, Jazz. You look good," you say after swallowing your drink, placing the glass back down on the bartop. Your fingers ghost up the wall of it, letting the smooth glass run under your digits. You've known Jazz since your first involvement in their war, which has been a long while at this point, but it still catches you off guard how attractive he is.

"You're low-key distracting, you know that?" He continues, not yet finished with his flurry of praises and pleasantries. You cock a playful brow, turning your head slightly to look at that ever coy expression on his face. You'd love to know where he got all this confidence from, or if it's just a natural part of his personality. Truly, you aren't sure.

"Am I?" You reply, taking a larger sip of your drink this time. Sweetness blooms over your tongue, and you aren't sure if that's because of your choice of drink or the simmering tantalisation unfolding between you and the mech. It's always been there, since the first time you laid eyes on each other. But in truth, he seems like a flirt. Maybe he's considered the Cybertronian equivalent of a player, but as he's technically a work colleague, you've never delved further.

"C'mon, you know you're dangerous. Looking like that and pretending you have no idea what I'm on about," he says, his tone smooth as honey. There's no way a mech as nonchalant as him doesn't flirt with everyone, so you don't consider yourself particularly special to be the object of his interest tonight.

"Do you ever get tired of being such a shameless flirt?" You ask.

"Why?" He hushes, "Is it working?"

"Is it fuck," you scoff with a light shake of your head.

"So, what do I have to do to make it work?" He probes, tilting his helm to catch your eye. "I could ask you for a dance, do this the traditional way?"

"You'd have more luck getting a blowjob off the Pope," you answer, enjoying this game of back and forth. You're pushing back on him, but there's a sensation crawling along your spine that tells you this moment is about to provide you with that completion you've been hankering for.

"You won't make this easy for me, will you?" He coos.

A moment passes where you don't say anything, where all you do is go back to circling the rim of your glass with your fingertip. You ponder it, weighing up your options.

"That depends. How much do you want it?" You ask lowly. There's a thirst that dries the back of your throat, and no amount of your drink seems to quench it. But, with how things are playing out right now, you have a suspicion your needs are about to be fulfilled.

A window of opportunity presents itself, and Jazz intends to snatch it up without the faintest hesitation.

"Why don't you let me show you?" He offers, stepping closer into your space. "Your place isn't too far from here, right?"

"Tapping out with a lame answer like that?" You protest, but you don't really mean it. Jazz can tell, too.

He brings his free servo to your thigh, just barely touching it to test the waters. You don't resist him or make any effort to move, which he takes as a good sign.

"When we're done, you won't even have the energy to tap out."

Jazz always keeps his promises.

── ⋆⋅☆

His glossa invades your mouth as he walks you backwards through the hallway of your apartment. You rumble against him, wrapping your arms tighter around his shoulders as you try to lead him over to your living room. He's too lost within the feel of your mouth to pay much mind to wherever you're taking him. You could lead him anywhere like this, and he'd go willingly.

Hasty servos feel up the material of your dress, searching for the zipper so that he can take it off of you. The dress is breathtakingly beautiful on you, but what he's really eager to see is what lies underneath. You slide one hand down his arm strut, leading him to the zip on the side of the dress. He manages to pinch the small zipper hook, dragging it down with ease to loosen the dress.

You hook your thumbs under the spaghetti straps, pulling them down over your shoulders to leave the dress in a frumpy ring on the floor. Jazz thinks to break the kiss for a moment to admire you, but he can't bear to leave your mouth. His servos smooth up your spine, revelling in the silk-like skin he finds there. No bra, just as he hoped.

The back of your legs hit the front of your couch, stopping you both in your tracks. Jazz pulls away from you, looking down at you in the dimly lit room. The only source of light is the blue hue spilling in through the windows from the brightness of the moon, but Primus, your beauty never evades you.

"Sit down," he requests quietly, tracing his sights over the curve of your lips, already missing the way they feel against him.

"Yes, Sir," you hush, lowering to sit on the cushioned couch. He kneels before you almost immediately, digging his digits under the waistband of your underwear to tug it down over the curve of your ass and thighs. You shift up to make it easier for him, watching as he tantalisingly slips them off your legs before throwing them behind him.

He peers down at your shoes, following the straps that are wound up your legs. His servo slides over them, trying to assess where it starts and where it ends. He can't seem to make sense of it, which mildly entertains you.

"We'll keep those on," he suggests. "Spread your legs a little wider for me, baby," he pleads, settling his servos on your knees to help wrench your legs apart.

He ghosts one servo down the inside of your thigh, aiming for the crest of your legs. You exhale airily at the softness of his touch as pleasant goosebumps ripple over your legs. He uses two digits to pet you, gathering your slick.

"Already soaked for me?" Jazz teases with a playful smirk.

Your breath hitches before you can make a smart ass response, rudely interrupted by the pressing of his digits. He pushes two in at once, and the sound you make is entirely uncontrolled. He draws his two digits in and out with practised precision, watching how your face twists with pleasure to help teach him in real time.

"Turns me on so bad that you're this wet already," he mumbles.

"S—Shut up," you retort, feeling the embarrassment plague you.

"You don't need to be ashamed," Jazz responds with an air of hubris, cocking his helm a fraction to dive in for another flurry of needy kisses from your lips. You moan into his intake, resisting the urge to grind against his pumping digits.

"What do you mean by that?" You ask during a break in the kiss.

He pulls back a little, admiring your flustered state as he winds you up between your legs. Your pussy feels so good, your walls feel like home to him. He'd be happy to stay more often.

"Ever since you joined us, I've been thinking about you. Wondering how to make you mine. Fantasising of nights like this," he confesses to you, a moment of raw vulnerability that only proves to fuel your lust-riddled state. The words shatter the walls you built, the brick crumbling around your ears as you sense the sincerity in his tone.

"So you weren't just being a shameless flirt?" You ask with a huff of a laugh, "Here I was thinking you were flirting with anything with a pulse."

Jazz responds with a light laugh of his own, "Not a chance. You're the one I've really been pining for."

An immediate pressure starts to build in your stomach, your hips bucking of their own volition to chase the pleasure. He titters lightly, drawing his thumb to your clit to start circling it in time with the movements of his digits. You choke on a moan, biting your lip to stifle any louder noises that might be forced from you. You do have neighbours, and the last thing you want is a noise complaint.

You're entirely fogged by desperation, struggling to keep up with him. Your pussy drenches his digits, a trail of your juices already collecting in his palm. Thank God it's an easy thing to wash out of the couch, lest you be left with a permanent stain to remind you of the events that transpired tonight.

Actually, on second thought, that doesn't sound so bad.

The rate at which you're unravelling is mind-boggling. You've never been able to get yourself this worked up, and you've never been so excited for your eventual orgasm. Right now, your bodies entirely agree with each other. It's as if the world has determined that this match is perfectly right. Breathy moans and cries tumble from you as he floods your system with stimulation. He's fingering you like a pro, and you're not sure if you're happy about that or if you're a little jealous.

You hear quiet pistons from below, your eyes immediately drawn to the source. Between your body, a monster comes out to play. You gasp as you behold his spike in all its glory, and you've never seen anything quite like this. This looks like something straight off Bad Dragon.

It's about six and a half inches, thicker at the bottom and tapering at the top. The head of him is flared, and he's made up of parallel panels. Some panels are curved like convexes, making for a mouth-watering sight. Without even thinking about it, your hand darts down to grab it.

He moans as soon as you do, your soft fingers clenching around it. You jerk him, experimentally at first, feeling the texture of him. This is going to feel unreal inside of you. There are perks to hooking up with an alien species, after all.

"You like what you see?" He whispers sultrily.

"More than like it. I love it," you reply, almost mindlessly.

"I'm gonna be destroying your pretty little pussy with it soon," he promises. You gasp a moan at the dirty talk, loving how smooth he is with it. You feel the familiar build of your climax crescendoing in your core. You just need a little bit more. Fantasising about this spike fucking you senseless is certainly the last bit of stimulation you need to send you over the edge.

"Jazz!" You moan his name, throwing your head back as it hits you. You tremble around his digits, gripping his spike a little harder as you ride your high. A prideful smirk pulls over his derma, swollen with need as he watches you lose yourself.

You feel boneless as you collapse back on the couch, panting shallowly as Jazz slowly works his digits out of your needy, aching pussy. He licks your pleasure off, sucking his digits a couple of times to get all the good stuff.

He burrs low praises as he slides his servos to the back of your thighs, pushing up so that you're just about folded in half. He settles one knee on the couch cushion, his other pede planted on the floor. You look at him with intrigue, not quite familiar with this position. You're pretty sure you've heard of it before, though: Piledrive.

His vents become more pronounced as he wraps his servo around his layered spike, leaning forward just a tad so that he can weigh his heavy spike on your perfectly presented cunt. He slowly rocks his hips, spreading that slick from earlier all over you. When he's satisfied, he lines himself up and uses his thumb to guide the flared tip to your entrance. You watch with bated breath as he does so, butterflies running up a storm in your stomach from pure excitement.

You feel so good already, and he hasn't even started. Your throbbing clit resounds through your entire lower half, and Jazz can't help but chuckle at how on edge you are.

"Nice and easy, baby," he coos, pressing inside of you. Your warmth envelopes his unique shape, conforming to him already. You both share a moan as he sinks inside, parting your pussy over his weeping spike.

"Damn, your sweet valve is tight," Jazz curses as he eases his spike in and out of you. Warmth spreads through all of your nerves as you adjust to the stretch. The position he has you in is probably making you feel a lot tighter, but he doesn't seem to mind.

The drag of his spike feels sensational. He's got so much going on that it's a feast for the senses. You can feel every bump and ridge as it pulls out of your hole. He picks up the pace a little, getting into a rhythm that's harmonious between you both.

The more you moan, the faster he gets. He slams his hips down into yours, fascinated by how flustered you're getting.

Your legs are spread in a V-shape in the air as he piledrives his spike into your desperate, dripping pussy. This position feels so intense, it's like he's fucking right up against your cervix. The horizons of rapture broaden just for you, encapsulating you in this moment with Jazz.

"Holy— fuck! Jazz! Keep fucking me, don't stop!" You wail.

"Yeah? You want me to keep ruining this tight little pussy? Keep you up all night full of my spike?"

"Yes! Yes, please!"

He's fucking you like he's trying to mate with you. You're getting a headrush from it, and you think you might pass out. It's unreal how good he is, you don't think anything else compares.

This certainly wasn't how you expected to spend your night, but you definitely aren't complaining. Who would? Getting your guts rearranged by a 'Bot as attractive as Jazz? No one would turn down an opportunity like that.

"You're so deep," you moan. You swear you can feel him in your lungs, you've never been so full of anything. He's ruined you, you could never sleep with anyone else now and have it live up to this.

"Yeah? You think I've got a fat spike, huh?" He cockily eggs you on with a shiny smirk.

You'd roll your eyes and laugh if you had half the mind to do so, but you're currently entirely preoccupied with how good he's making you feel. The heights of your bliss are being sharpened against the clarity of the moment, and it's slowly drawing you into a mindless state.

"Such a cocky bastard, aren't you?" You airily respond. He knows he's swinging BDE, he doesn't need you to tell him that. The way he carries himself practically screams it from the rooftops.

"Making you feel good though, am I right?" He replies with a slight cock of his helm. How he has the stamina to keep ploughing your pussy in this position is downright impressive, and you consider yourself lucky to have the opportunity. There's complete harmony between you, the notes of your lovemaking are being woven into the air around you.

He's going to break your couch if he keeps up like this. He's irresistible, he's never going to be able to keep you away now. His spike stretches you just the right amount, and with how wet you're getting, it's getting easier with each pump of his hips to slide in and out of you.

The noises erupting from you are so sinful that it borders on embarrassing, but with how Jazz seems to be reacting, you shouldn't hold back. Whatever sounds you make prove to fuel him further, set on driving his thick spike into your heat until you're cumming so hard you forget your own name.

Your eyes manage to catch his spike, watching how it shines as it disappears and reappears out of you. Rings of milky dew coil around his girth, a sight obscene enough to make you blush. He's bullying your G-spot in this position, causing your body to swell with pleasure. You feel it inflate further under your skin, spreading through the valleys of your veins.

"H—ahh— Jazz!" You whine out, rolling your eyes into the back of your head as the bliss reaches a pinnacle. Your toes curl against the soles of your heels as your pussy milks him, releasing the tension bubbling in your body. You are entirely inhabited by the explosion that sets off within you. Jazz groans at the feeling, and in truth, he could've overloaded just by witnessing your expression when you came.

"Primus, that was sexy," Jazz says airily. Any drop of control he had shatters as he drives into you harder, faster and rougher. Cybertronian curses are ripped from his vocaliser as he lets his cardinal need determine his actions.

Your pussy continues to pulse around him in the comedown from your orgasm. You take a stable breath, creasing your brows as he doesn't falter in taking you at a maddening rate.

His performance and stamina are nothing short of impressive. You could get used to spending nights like this, if Jazz was down for the same.

"Fuck— are you okay with me finishing inside?" Jazz strains to ask. He probably should've checked that sooner, but it only just occurred to him as he realised that he's on the brink of overloading.

"Yeah, finish inside me. Please finish inside me," you reply beseechingly.

With your permission, he finds his undoing. The wires in his frame cross as he dumps a thick load straight into your cunt, spoiling your insides with his hot fluid. He lets out a long, gravelly moan, feeling incredibly satisfied with the intensity of his orgasm.

He drops his helm as the relief finally swarms him. Nothing hits quite like this, and your organic pussy is the best valve he's ever known. He'll definitely be coming back for more.

He shifts his hips, easing your legs back down whilst still keeping his spike inside you. You grunt shortly as he moves, feeling his spike slide inside of you. Lowering himself a bit, he wraps his arm struts around your back, which you arch slightly for his ease.

Next, he hoists you up, moving onto the sofa to sit down with you in his lap. All whilst staying inside, which is an impressive feat. Your knees settle on either side of his hips as he hums a low tune, resting his helm against your chest.

"You into cockwarming, Jazz?" You ask quietly to throw the silence askew.

"Sure am," he hushes peacefully. "Let's stay like this a sec. Then, I wanna go for another round."

"Your wish is my command," you reply with a smirk.

he was wearing just his black boxers, hanging low on his hips, the waistband curled from age, and you were perched over him in a thin cotton bra and panties set you hadn’t exactly meant for him to see—pale pink, maybe a little too childish, but it had the tiniest bow stitched into the center and he’d seen it and cooed at it like it was the most perverted little treasure he’d ever been gifted.

“the fuck is this,” he’d said when he pulled back the blanket earlier, voice wrecked from sleep and throat-dry from last night’s weed, squinting at your chest like it was some kind of divine comedy. “you tryna kill me with this little girly ass thing?”

you’d only shrugged, yawned into his shoulder, then kissed his collarbone so slowly it made his stomach clench.

now you were tangled around him, long limbs and soft sighs, his hand splayed wide over your bare back like he thought you’d float off if he let go.

“you’re warm,” you mumbled, lips brushing his jaw as you dragged your fingers down the center of his chest, pausing over his heart, then lower. “like a fucking oven.”

“you love it,” he muttered, tilting his head into your touch, his messy white hair falling over his forehead, strands catching the sun like silk.

“mm. maybe,” you said, grinning slow, lazy, stupid.

he rolled his eyes, but it didn’t mean anything. umemiya didn’t really do real irritation with you. not unless you’d done something really foul, like steal the last ice cream bar or start biting before he was ready. and even then—he was a sucker. everyone knew that. big dog energy. bark loud, bite playful.

his hand slid down to your ass, squeezed gently like he was testing the ripeness of fruit. “you’re fuckin’ heavy,” he lied.

you snorted, then bounced your hips once—just to be a menace, just to hear him suck in a breath. “you’re fuckin’ hard.”

“yeah, well,” he said, licking his teeth, “you are straddling me in your underwear at ten a.m., so, like. yeah. that tracks.”

you kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and wet, then nosed your way to his ear. “you want me to get off?”

he groaned like you’d insulted his entire family line. “don’t even joke like that.”

you giggled into his neck, all teeth and sunshine, and his arms tightened around your waist like a vice.

outside, the world kept turning—bikes rattled past, a dog barked, the clouds shifted like a lazy sigh across the sky. inside, there was only heat. skin against skin. your breath tangling with his. the press of your chests rising and falling together like you shared the same heartbeat.

“you ever think about how stupid this is?” you asked suddenly, tracing a lazy circle around one of the fading bruises on his shoulder. “like. we could be doing anything. and we’re just… making out on a shitty couch. like teenagers.”

he blinked, slow and dumb and sweet, then grinned. “nah. i like this. it’s romantic. it’s filthy. you’re basically grinding on my dick and calling it bonding time. that’s quality relationship shit right there.”

you laughed so hard your forehead knocked into his. he groaned, mock-offended.

“ow. violence. you see this? this is what i get for being vulnerable.”

“you’re such a little bitch,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his temple.

“yeah,” he said, voice soft now, drifting, “but i’m your little bitch.”

his fingers found the back clasp of your bra, teasing but not unhooking it yet. not rushing. just lingering.

your mouths met again, slower this time, sloppier. not desperate. just there. mouths soft and open, tongues sliding lazy and warm, like tasting wasn’t about hunger anymore—it was about memory, about wanting to remember the shape of each other’s mouths forever.

you ground down, just once, barely more than a twitch, but his breath hitched again and his hands gripped your hips like the world would fall apart if he didn’t hold on.

you looked down at him, heart stupid and full.

“we’re gonna fuck, huh?” you whispered, grinning against his lips.

“yeah,” he breathed, eyes dark now, pupils wide, “but slow. so slow. s’too nice to rush.”

“mm,” you hummed, dragging your mouth down his jaw, over his throat. “you gonna be good?”

“never,” he said, grinning like the devil.

but his hands were gentle, and his eyes were soft, and when you finally lifted your hips and reached for him—he looked like he was watching god come down from heaven just to sit on his lap.

but not yet.

not yet.

there was still more kissing to do.

there was still a morning to ruin sweetly.

the sun didn’t know what it was doing anymore, dripping across your backs like a goddamn blanket someone left in the dryer too long—too warm, too soft, sticking to everything it touched. you were starting to sweat just a little, in that sleepy, sticky way that only happened when your body wasn’t sure if it wanted to fuck or nap again, and he wasn’t helping, not one bit, all spread out under you like a sin and a half, hands cupping the underside of your thighs like you were something he’d ordered off a decadent breakfast menu and wasn’t sure where to bite into first.

the fan clacked from the corner like it had a broken gear, half-heartedly blowing warm air into the room like it was trying but had mostly given up, and you couldn’t blame it. the air was already heavy with too much—too much heat, too much skin, too much tension so lazy it barely had the energy to uncoil. and him. umemiya hajime. blinking up at you through lashes that still looked wet with sleep, white hair a mess of tangled, pillow-dented fluff, mouth pink and parted, like he hadn’t stopped moaning your name in his dreams even after you’d climbed on top of him to ruin his peace.

he wasn’t doing anything. not really. just dragging his hands up and down your thighs in that slow, hypnotic way that made your belly flutter, fingertips tracing the edge of your underwear like he wanted to tug it down but couldn’t be bothered, not yet, maybe not for a while. his thumbs would dip in, barely, then smooth out again like he was testing the hem for weaknesses, seeing how long it would take before the fabric gave up or you did.

you hadn’t kissed in maybe three minutes, but your lips still felt swollen, glossed with the ghost of it, and your hips kept rolling forward in the gentlest, dumbest little circles, more from inertia than intent—like your body just knew where home was and kept knocking at the door.

“what time is it?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, head resting against his chest now, face mashed half into his collarbone.

“time to suffer,” he mumbled, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. “in the best way.”

you smiled, teeth grazing his shoulder. “i mean, seriously. i might be melting.”

“don’t melt yet,” he said, nudging his nose into your hair, kissing the crown of your head like he wasn’t the same pervert who’d just been making heart eyes at your panties like they were designer silk. “need you alive for at least another hour. minimum.”

you shifted against him, slowly, your ass grinding down into his lap in a way that was entirely unintentional, except for the part where it absolutely wasn’t.

“you're so annoying,” he muttered, but his hips bucked up just enough to let you feel everything. “you do that on purpose?”

“no,” you said innocently, biting his jaw. “yes. maybe. depends.”

“on what?”

“on whether you’re gonna do something about it.”

he chuckled, low and loose and warm in your ear. “nah. too comfortable. i like this. this is, like… peak laziness. premium-level bullshit. you’re half-naked and squirming and i’m just here, like a slutty throne.”

you couldn’t stop laughing, head thrown back, giggles spilling out while he groaned and held you tighter, rocking your bodies like a boat in calm water, not enough to tip over, just enough to remind you that the sea was always there, waiting.

“you’re such an idiot,” you said through laughter, hand fisting in his hair and tugging him back toward you, kissing him again, slow and slow and slower, like the air between your mouths was made of syrup. your tongues met like old friends reuniting in a lazy summer town, nothing rushed, just a warm press, a gentle curl, a moan traded like a secret.

his hands moved up again, brushing your ribs under the bra, not trying to take it off, just feeling you, palms hot and steady, thumbs brushing the sides of your tits like he could memorize them through cotton.

you bit his bottom lip, tugged, then kissed it better. “you’re hard.”

“you’re wet,” he shot back, smirking against your mouth.

you shrugged, mouth ghosting over his. “guess we’re even.”

but neither of you moved.

not really.

just more kissing, more lazy grinding, more wandering hands that didn’t really want to start anything they couldn’t finish—but god, the way your hips kept meeting like they had plans of their own, slow and aimless, like two bodies just talking without words.

he kissed your neck again, slow and open-mouthed, tongue wet against your pulse, and you shivered even though it was warm, even though you were sweating, even though you should’ve been used to him by now.

“we’re gonna end up fucking like this, huh,” you murmured, fingers drawing lazy circles over his chest.

“nah,” he said, his voice a mess of gravel and sweetness. “not yet. too lazy. just wanna keep you like this. squishy and mean and sittin’ on my dick like you own the place.”

“i do own the place,” you said, rocking forward again just enough to make him groan. “you’re just leasing.”

“you’re gonna kill me.”

“good.”

and then—more kisses.

longer now.

deeper.

but still slow. still lazy. still not quite ready to tip over the edge.

but fuck, you were close. and you both knew it.

just one more minute. maybe two. you had all the time in the world.

you didn’t know how long you’d been there—how many minutes or lazy, syrupy hours had slipped past with your legs straddled over him like they belonged there, skin pressed to skin in the laziest, filthiest hug known to man, hips barely moving anymore except for the tiny unconscious tilts you kept giving him when you forgot you were supposed to be pretending you didn’t want it yet. and he wasn’t helping. god, hajime wasn’t helping at all.

not with the way his hands were resting low on your waist, fingertips brushing the dip of your spine like he was tracing a blueprint he already had memorized, thumbs stroking lazy, hypnotic circles just above the curve of your ass like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, like his body had gone on autopilot and decided touching you was the baseline function of existence.

you weren’t even kissing anymore. not really. just breathing each other in, letting your noses brush, letting your lips part like you might kiss, like you could definitely fall in, if someone just twitched the wrong way. your foreheads touched, hot and sticky and damp with sweat, your thighs shaking just a little from the position, but you didn’t care. neither of you moved to change anything. you were too far gone into the bliss of almost.

“you’re twitching,” he murmured, low and smug and so goddamn soft it made your chest ache.

“shut up,” you muttered, burying your face in his neck, and he laughed, that sweet, rumbling kind of laugh that vibrated all the way through his ribs and into yours, like you were sharing the same pulse now.

his cock was hard under you, hot and thick and trapped beneath your cunt like a slow-burn threat, his boxers the only barrier left between you and complete annihilation, and you could feel him, every twitch, every flex, every subtle shift of his hips when you rocked down just a little too hard, chasing pressure you weren’t ready to admit you needed.

“you are twitching,” he said again, hands sliding up to cup your ass, squeezing it gently like he was trying to wring the truth out of you with his palms. “you’re making little sounds, too. those tiny breathy ones you do when you’re pretending you’re not horny but your pussy’s already telling on you.”

you gasped against his neck, biting down on his shoulder just hard enough to make him grunt.

“hajime,” you hissed, voice barely coherent, all vowels and heat. “you’re such a—fuckin’—you talk too much.”

“nah,” he said, grinning against your hair. “i talk just enough. someone’s gotta narrate this masterpiece of a morning.”

you both went still for a moment, caught in the heat and the closeness, his hands sliding under the band of your panties now, not pushing them down, just touching, like he wanted to feel your skin burn against his palms, like he was content to tease you to the edge and leave you there. and the worst part—the worst part—was you didn’t want him to stop. you didn’t want him to hurry up. the slowness felt good. maddening and sticky and indulgent, like you’d locked yourselves in a room made of time and heat and nothing else mattered but how your hips kept brushing, how your tongues met in slow, filthy kisses that never got faster, just deeper, more intentional.

you whimpered before you meant to. not loud. not performative. just a soft, cracked sound into his mouth, like your body was leaking your desperation even though your brain was still pretending to be chill about it.

his eyes opened, dark and heavy and amused. “you like sittin’ on it like that, huh? not even doing anything, just makin’ yourself all warm and wet around it. like a little stove top.”

“you’re disgusting,” you whispered, not even trying to hide the way you were rutting down now, gently, slowly, riding the shape of him through his boxers like it was your job.

he groaned, deep and low, hands tightening on your hips, not to stop you—just to feel it better. to feel you. every move. every roll. every dumb, useless grind that wasn’t going to get you off but felt too good to stop.

“you’re soaked,” he said, eyes fluttering shut again like it physically pained him to say it out loud. “fuck. you’re leaking through. you’re gonna stain my boxers and i’m not changing. i’m walking around like this all day and it’s your fault.”

you laughed, then moaned, then tried to laugh again but it came out breathless, broken, head dropping onto his shoulder. “you’re so fucking gross. i love you so much.”

“that’s why you’re still here,” he said smugly, kissing the side of your head. “you love this. the filth. the laziness. the us of it.”

and he wasn’t wrong.

because god—it was you two, like this. warm. slow. heavy-limbed and tangled together on a creaky couch that probably smelled like too many nights like this. you could feel his heartbeat under your palm, thumping steady and slow, not rushed at all, even as you rocked and rocked and rocked again, your body humming with the ache of it, thighs trembling from doing absolutely nothing except pretending you weren’t about to lose your mind if he didn’t start touching you properly.

but still—you didn’t move. not really.

just one more grind.

one more kiss.

one more slow drag of your lips down the side of his throat while his hands finally slipped under the band of your panties for real this time, still not rushing, just resting his fingers there, cupping the heat of you like he was keeping it safe.

and he was.

he was.

you weren’t ready to fuck yet. not really.

but you were getting there. so fucking slowly. and it was perfect.

you didn’t even realize the sounds you were making had words in them, not at first—not until his fingers brushed against you just right, low and slow, barely parting the damp heat beneath your panties, and your mouth dropped open on a sigh that turned itself into a sentence halfway out, lazy and barely-there, slurred around the taste of him and the thickness in your throat.

“hajime,” you mumbled, lips dragging along his jaw, sticky with sweat, heat pooling low in your belly like something unbearable, like honey melting straight into your bloodstream, “fuck me already, i don’t—i don’t wanna move.”

he made a sound in his chest, something between a groan and a laugh, and tilted his head back like the ceiling might have answers for how to handle the little mess you were becoming in his lap, panting and boneless, too lazy to ride him, too needy to stop rubbing yourself all over his cock like a slutty little steamroller.

“you’re so lazy,” he murmured, thumb teasing the waistband of your panties again, letting the elastic snap back against your hip, the tiniest sting making you twitch, “like, violently lazy. aggressively. you want me to do all the work, huh? just lie there and take it?”

“uh-huh,” you breathed, nodding against his neck, rolling your hips just enough to feel him throb underneath you again, boxed in by his shorts and your own teasing. “just… please. please, hajime. i can’t—i don’t wanna do anything, just—just use me a little. i’m too comfy.”

he choked on his laugh this time, one hand splayed low on your back to keep you from sliding off him, the other still tucked under your panties like he’d set up camp there, middle finger pressed right against your slit, not moving, not even rubbing, just letting the heat from your cunt soak into him like a promise.

“you’re actually a menace,” he whispered, kissing your temple, slow and sweet like it canceled out the filth between your legs, “this is so fucked up. you’re begging me to fuck you without moving. that’s not even sex. that’s just evil.”

you whimpered in response, high and soft, your thighs twitching around his waist, every inch of you flushed and prickling with heat, arousal threading through your spine like someone had laced it into your bones. “not evil,” you mumbled, dragging your nose along the line of his throat, kissing the sweat there, tasting the heat off his skin like it could fix something broken in you. “just—just so horny, hajime, please, you feel so good, you’re so hard, and i’m all—i’m so wet, you said it—”

“you are,” he muttered, voice low and reverent now, almost a whisper, like he was overwhelmed by how soaked you were under his fingers, like it was something holy, something precious, “fuck, baby, you’re leaking like it hurts.”

“it does,” you moaned, shifting again, grinding down on him with a helpless little roll that made both of you groan, your panties practically stuck to you now, slick and transparent, his cock straining so hard against his boxers you could see the wet spot blooming near the head, “please, hajime, please, i need it. just—just pull it out, slide it in, don’t even make me move, i can’t.”

his breath stuttered against your cheek, and for a second, he was perfectly still, one hand curved around the back of your neck, thumb brushing your hairline like you were something fragile, something that needed soothing, even while your cunt was soaking his lap like an animal in heat.

“you’re so spoiled,” he whispered, kissing you again, full and deep and hot, tongue licking into your mouth like he was trying to drag the words back in before he gave in to them. “you’re a fucking brat. you know that?”

“i do know,” you whispered against his lips, kissing him again and again, lazy and breathless and so warm it almost hurt, “i know. i’m your brat.”

and then, quieter, gentler, needier—

“please fuck me, hajime.”

and something in him broke. or maybe not broke, but bent, melted, softened all the way down to the core, his whole body vibrating with the slow, aching need to ruin you and still hold you like a thing made of glass.

he kissed you again, slow as sin, hand sliding from your panties to his waistband, fingers curling into the elastic, and he didn’t move fast—not at all—but you felt it, that shift, that tiny change in air and heat and pressure that said, yes, finally, yes, you were going to get what you wanted, and you didn’t even have to lift a finger.

just stay there. just keep being soft and soaked and lazy. he had you.

he always had you.

he didn’t even rush it—didn’t do that stupid, dramatic pants-down-and-ravage-you thing he always threatened to do when you were being especially bratty—because that wasn’t what this morning was built for. no, this morning was made of honey heat and laziness, of limbs too heavy to do more than melt into each other, of the kind of want that didn’t burn but smoldered, low and steady and impossible to ignore. the kind that didn’t scream now—it murmured soon, slowly, let me take my time with you.

his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers with a breathy little sigh, not even bothering to push them all the way down. he just pulled himself out, cock thick and flushed and already wet at the tip, his breath catching when it slapped softly against his stomach and your thighs squeezed around him instinctively like your body was trying to say yes yes yes yes before your mouth could even find the words.

you looked down between you, blinking heavy-lidded and dazed, watching as he stroked himself once, lazy and indulgent, spreading that slick all the way down with a slow roll of his palm, like he had nothing but time and all he wanted to do with it was tease the both of you into delirium.

“mmf,” you whimpered, head lolling against his shoulder, hands curling into his hair again like it was the only thing holding you up, “you’re so big, fuck, you’re gonna split me open and i’m not even gonna move, isn’t that stupid? i’m so fucking stupid.”

he laughed—soft and wrecked and so fond it made your belly twist. “yeah, but you’re my stupid,” he murmured, dragging the head of his cock through the soaked cotton of your panties, pressing up against your folds just enough to make you jerk and gasp, hips rocking forward with all the energy of someone completely overwhelmed and unwilling to do a single thing about it. “and you’re such a mess. this tiny fuckin’ bow,” he breathed, touching it with the head of his dick, nudging it like it offended him, “i could die happy right now.”

you were panting now, forehead against his, skin flushed and burning, your thighs trembling from holding still and holding on, and you could feel every little shift of him—how hot he was, how hard, how much he wanted to just push in, and fuck, you were ready for it, more than ready, soaked through, twitching around absolutely nothing, your cunt clenching like it knew what was coming and couldn’t believe it had taken this long.

“hajime,” you whined, so quiet it was barely air, “please… i want it, i want it so bad, i don’t even care how it feels, i just want you in me, please, i’ll be good, i’ll be so good, i swear.”

he tilted his head, kissed your jaw, then your cheek, then your temple, every touch reverent like you were being worshipped instead of ridden, and then finally—finally—he hooked his fingers into the side of your panties and tugged them to the side, not even bothering to take them off, just baring you enough to part your folds and press the fat head of his cock against your entrance, your slick already making everything so easy, so wet, so warm he groaned like he was in pain just from the heat of you.

you held still—mostly because you had to, not because you wanted to, everything inside you vibrating like a plucked string—and then he pushed, slow, the stretch enough to knock the breath out of you, the pressure so thick and steady and gentle that your eyes fluttered shut and your mouth dropped open around a moan that had no shape, no rhythm, just pure need melting into something soft and wide and impossible to contain.

he sank into you with patience, like he was pouring himself into something holy, inch by inch by inch, until your cunt was stretching open around him, swallowing him so slowly it was almost unbearable, your nails digging into his shoulders now, not from pain, not even from desperation—just from how much it was, how deeply you felt it, how full you were, so full and so still, like the universe had condensed into this moment, into the place where your bodies met, and it didn’t need anything more than this—him inside you, warm and pulsing and there, just there.

you both sat like that for a second, or maybe it was longer, maybe forever, your breaths tangled, your mouths pressed together in the softest almost-kiss, sweat collecting in the hollow of your back, your thighs still trembling, but not moving, not even when he shifted his hips just enough to seat himself deeper, bottoming out with a groan that sounded like it had been punched out of him.

“fuck,” he whispered, burying his face in your neck, his voice shaking, “you feel so fucking good. you’re so wet. you’re gripping me. fuck. i’m gonna die right here.”

you nodded slowly, dumbly, mind blank except for the stretch, the weight, the fullness.

“good,” you said, voice thick and broken, “die inside me. be a man about it.”

he laughed, breathless and helpless, then kissed you again, and again, and again, his hands gripping your hips now, holding you there, not moving, just savoring the way your walls squeezed around him like a heartbeat.

neither of you moved yet.

not really.

just the tiny shifts.

just the breathing.

just the heat, the closeness, the soft press of your lips against his cheek, his shoulder, his mouth. you were still so lazy. but he was in you now.

and god—it had never felt better to do nothing at all.

you could feel his heartbeat inside you. slow, steady, thick—like a second pulse between your legs, pulsing in rhythm with your own, buried so deep you swore he was touching something that made your brain go quiet, soft, floaty, like your thoughts were being scooped out with his cock. not even moving, not thrusting—just there, just in, and still the stretch felt endless, the fullness dizzying, your cunt fluttering around him in slow waves like your body was trying to thank him without words, squeezing so tight in slow, desperate pulses that you could feel his whole body shiver underneath yours.

you weren’t even trying to move anymore. not a single roll of your hips. not even a lazy bounce. you were melted into him, legs spread wide and limp over his thighs, head tucked beneath his chin, arms loosely hanging around his shoulders like you were some kind of sleep-heavy doll. and he held you like you were sacred, his hands sliding up your back, smoothing over the dip of your waist, thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts through the thin cotton of your bra like he was cataloging every inch of you—like he didn’t need you to move at all, not if he could just feel.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he whispered, voice wrecked and warm against your ear, the praise sliding down your spine like melted wax, sticking in the pit of your stomach and curling your toes, “so good for me. just sittin’ there, stuffed full like that, taking it like you were made for it.”

your breath caught, a little hiccup of sound, and you twitched, just barely, hips stuttering in a circle so lazy it felt like an accident, your cunt clenching tight around him in response to the words. you hadn’t known how badly you’d needed to hear it until he said it, hadn’t known how deep it would hit. your walls fluttered again, squeezing him tight, and he groaned—low, broken, dragging his lips across your cheek, the corner of your mouth, kissing you like he was dizzy from the pressure of holding back.

“fuck, look at you,” he breathed, one hand trailing down, sliding between your bodies to rest against your lower belly, palm flat over the place where you were stretched around him. “you’re so full, you feel so good. i can feel you fluttering around me every time i talk. you like that? you like hearing how perfect you are?”

you nodded against his neck, too lazy to answer with words, whining instead—soft and needy and so high-pitched it didn’t sound like you anymore. just a thing made of want. his fingers curled under the band of your panties again, finally tugging them to the side properly, baring you completely now, the sticky wet fabric clinging to your thigh as he exposed the way you were stretched around him, stuffed so full and dripping all over him without even moving.

he looked down. he moaned.

“jesus fuck, baby. you’re so messy. you’re makin’ a fuckin’ mess of me and you’re not even trying. just sittin’ here, squeezin’ me like a little velvet vice. i’m gonna lose it.”

you shifted again, barely—just enough to grind down an inch, feel the drag of his cock along your inner walls, and both of you gasped at the same time, heads pressed together, mouths parted. his hips twitched up once, just reflex, but he caught himself, still holding back, still letting you lead without leading anything at all.

your voice came out ragged, barely a whisper. “do it again.”

“what?” he murmured, dazed, lips against your temple.

“say more,” you begged, so softly, breath hitching. “talk more. i—I like it. wanna hear you.”

he groaned, wrapping both arms around your waist now, holding you tighter, like he needed you to feel how serious he was when he whispered into your skin.

“you’re everything,” he said, slow and reverent. “you know that? this sweet little cunt, the way it hugs me like it never wants me to leave—you were made for this. made for me. you’re perfect like this, baby, so good, so wet, so lazy and sweet. fuck, you’re my favorite girl, you know that? the way you look right now… you’re a dream.”

your whole body shuddered, and the warmth that was coiled deep in your belly twisted, heavy and molten, your nails dragging down his back without pressure, just to touch, just to feel. your eyes were glassy, barely able to stay open, and you didn’t need to. you could hear him. you could feel him. his voice was wrapping around you tighter than his arms, every word threading into the haze of heat and fullness.

you whimpered again, hips stuttering forward just a little more, your thighs weak and shaking now from the effort of doing so little, and it made him groan again, deep and full of awe. “that’s it,” he whispered, kissing you under your ear, “just like that. fuck, you’re so good. you don’t even have to move. just sit there and let me feel you. just let me love you like this.”

you nodded, helpless, cunt clenching again at his words, and this time he did rock his hips—slow and tiny, just once, just to feel the drag of your walls over him—and you gasped, trembling, your hands tightening in his hair as the shock of it lit up your spine like lightning behind your eyes.

you were so close now, and you hadn’t even really fucked yet. just this. this slow, filthy little closeness. the praise. the heat. the stretch.

and still, you didn’t want to move. not really.

you wanted him to do it. you wanted him to keep holding you like that. keep telling you you were good. and god, he would. as long as you kept begging, he’d never stop.

you were so close to unraveling you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began—sweat-slick skin tangled against skin, breath tangled with breath, and your heartbeat echoing in your ears like it was trapped in a shell, loud and rhythmic and matching his, the steady thrum of it vibrating through your chest where it pressed into his. he hadn’t even really moved—just those slow, accidental tilts of his hips, just enough to feel the drag of him inside you, the pressure of being so impossibly full, stuffed to the hilt and held like a thing he was too in love with to ruin, even if you were both already so fucking filthy.

you were twitching now, just a little, your thighs soft and shaking around his hips, trembling with the effort of holding still even though every nerve in your body screamed for more, just a little, just a little more, please. the burn of it wasn’t sharp or frantic—it was molten, syrupy, a slow ache that stretched your belly out tight and kept your breath stuck in your throat, your mouth slack against his neck while you whimpered helplessly, not even forming real words anymore, just noises of need and gratitude and longing.

and hajime—god, hajime was being so good.

he wasn’t teasing, not really. not anymore. he was just loving you in this stretched-out, lazy way that made your chest ache—like he wasn’t trying to fuck you so much as worship the fact that you wanted him this bad without even needing movement, that your body opened for him, wet and perfect, and just held him there like it had known him for centuries.

his hands roamed slowly, tender and hot, one drifting up your spine, fingers splayed over your back like he was trying to cover as much of you as possible, the other anchored low on your hip, holding you still, keeping you close. he kissed your face without aim, lips dragging across your cheekbone, your temple, the corner of your mouth, his breath warm and shaky with how hard he was working to stay soft.

“you’re unreal,” he murmured, voice hoarse, his forehead resting against yours like he didn’t trust himself to look you in the eye right now. “i don’t even get how you exist. i’m inside you and you haven’t moved and i still wanna come. that’s criminal, babe. you’re—fuck—your pussy’s perfect, i swear to god.”

you moaned, long and soft, your walls fluttering again around him like you were trying to milk him just from praise alone. your nails scratched lightly at the back of his neck, not clawing, just anchoring. keeping him close. keeping yourself present.

“more,” you whispered, breathless. “say more. don’t stop.”

he smiled, sweet and ruined, one of those sleepy, stupid grins that made you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“you want more?” he whispered, dragging his hips in another barely-there thrust that had your whole body twitching like he’d electrocuted you. “you want me to tell you how fuckin’ tight you are? how warm? how you’re holding me like you own me?”

you nodded helplessly, a soft gasp caught in your throat, your legs squeezing around his hips with what little energy you still had.

“you do, you know,” he went on, slower now, voice like heatstroke, thick and loving and shameless, “you own me. you ruined me, sittin’ on my cock like this, lazy as fuck, acting like it’s not the most dangerous thing i’ve ever felt in my life. you don’t even have to move. you could keep me here forever and i’d thank you for it.”

your chest heaved, your breathing starting to catch, not frantic, but tighter now—shallower. you were winding up, winding down, spinning in place with him still fully inside you, your cunt sucking around him like your body knew it was allowed to be selfish with this, with him.

he felt it. of course he did. his hand slid down, between you, and cupped your mound—just holding it there, thumb brushing your clit so gently it barely qualified as contact. but you felt it. fuck, you felt everything now.

“you’re so good for me,” he murmured, and you whimpered again, louder this time, your body jerking in his arms, “so good, so soft, so fuckin’ perfect. you don’t gotta do anything. just keep taking it. keep being sweet for me. i’ll take care of you, baby. i got you.”

you clung to him, mouth on his shoulder, moaning into his skin as your orgasm started to creep up on you slow and sticky, from the inside out, building with every breath, every tiny twitch of his cock inside you, every murmured praise and gentle kiss and helpless press of his thumb that didn’t rub, didn’t flick, just rested on you like a blessing.

“gonna come,” you whispered, almost ashamed, voice cracking like you couldn’t believe it, “fuck, hajime—gonna come and i didn’t even move—”

“that’s my girl,” he breathed, kissing your jaw, your lips, his words muffled and adoring and so fucking warm you thought you might cry, “go on, baby. come just like that. just stay soft and let me feel it. let me feel all of it.”

and when it hit you—god—it hit like a slow collapse, like a sunset sinking into the horizon, no sharp peaks or gasping cries, just this deep pulsing wave that rolled through your entire body, dragging every last ounce of tension out with it. your whole body trembled, thighs twitching, cunt squeezing down on him in rhythmic, velvet pulses while you moaned into his mouth, kissing him through it like you were trying to pour the feeling back into him.

he held you through all of it. didn’t move. didn’t rush. just whispered how good you were. how proud. how sweet.

and when it faded, when your muscles gave out and you melted entirely into his lap, still impaled on his cock, breath wrecked and lips swollen—he was still there. still hard. still in you.

and neither of you were in a hurry to change that.

not yet. not for a long, long while.

he didn’t even try to pull out—not when your walls were still fluttering around him like aftershocks, all slow and wet and greedy, still coaxing him with every lazy squeeze, like your body wasn’t done worshipping him, like you knew he hadn’t come yet and were coaxing it out of him the only way you knew how—by holding him, wrapping him in all that slick heat, and letting him feel how perfect you were around him, without moving, without bouncing, without a single ounce of effort beyond existing in his lap and falling apart so beautifully on his cock.

hajime was shaking under you now, whole body strung tight with restraint, his hands gripping your hips so gently, like he didn’t want to bruise you, didn’t want to ruin the softness of the moment even though you were clenching on him like a vice, wringing every ounce of self-control out of him one heartbeat at a time. his breath was ragged, loud, desperate, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in this little broken expression that was all teeth and awe and struggle.

“baby,” he groaned, and it sounded wrecked, it sounded full-body, like the word had been torn out of his chest, “you’re gonna make me cum just like this. jesus fucking christ. you’re gonna milk it out of me and you’re not even doing anything—”

“you don’t need me to,” you whispered, voice still hoarse from moaning, lips brushing his like a secret, “you’re already there, hajime. i can feel it. i can feel you twitching inside me. just let go. come in me. come, baby, please—”

and that broke him.

he choked on a sound, a half-moan, half-growl, and pulled you down tighter into his lap, burying his cock as deep as it would go, his hips jerking up in one desperate, stuttering thrust that sent another ripple through your spent muscles—and then he was coming, hard and slow and loud, his body tensing up under you like a live wire, his mouth falling open in a long, low moan that vibrated through his throat like thunder barely held in check.

“fuck—fuck—you feel so good, you feel so fucking good, baby, holy shit—” his words were messy, frantic, strung together in that helpless way he got when he was right on the edge, and now he was there, cock throbbing deep inside you as thick, hot ropes of cum spilled out into your cunt, filling you in long, pulsing waves. you could feel it—feel the way it pooled and spread, dripping down between your folds with no resistance, no barrier, just skin against skin, warm and perfect and obscene.

he kissed you through it—sloppy, breathless, his mouth barely finding yours between the moaning and the panting and the little whispered, “fuck, fuck, i love you, baby, you’re so good, so good for me, you’re my girl, you’re mine”, and it all spilled out like he couldn’t hold it anymore, couldn’t keep anything to himself when you were like this, wrapped around his cock and still twitching from the high of your orgasm.

you held him through it, arms looped lazily around his neck, cheek pressed to his damp shoulder, and you felt it, every twitch of his cock, every breathless curse, every drop of heat he spilled into you, and it was so much, more than you expected, more than either of you could hold. the mess between you was thick and slow, spreading over your thighs where you sat locked together, and neither of you moved to fix it. there was no need. not yet.

his breath started to even out, little by little, chest rising and falling against yours like he’d just run a marathon through molasses, body loose and trembling under you, hands still gripping your hips like he needed to anchor himself to something real or else drift straight out of his body.

“holy shit,” he muttered after a long silence, voice gone, throat raw, lips brushing your temple. “you… you broke me. you broke my whole body. i’m gonna be like this forever now. this is my final form. a man who came without being fucked.”

you giggled, breath catching in your throat, turning your head to nuzzle into his neck. “you came so much,” you whispered, a little dreamy, “i can feel it everywhere. fuck. you filled me up so good, hajime.”

he groaned again, his cock giving a lazy twitch inside you at your words, still half-hard and utterly wrecked, the overstimulation starting to sink in, but in the best, warmest way.

“don’t say that,” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “if you say shit like that i’m gonna want to do it again in ten minutes and i literally can’t feel my fucking legs.”

you both laughed then, soft and breathless and completely fucked-out, wrapped around each other in a mess of sweat and slick and affection, your skin sticking in all the places it had no business touching, and still you didn’t want to move. not an inch. not even to clean up. just stay like this, warm and full and loved, your heart thudding in time with his, his cock still nestled deep inside you like it belonged there.

and maybe it did.

because right now—nothing else had ever felt so right.

for a long while, there was only silence. not the heavy, awkward kind—no, this was the warm kind, the kind that sat gently between your bodies like a third presence, sleepy and full-bellied, all limbs tangled up in skin and breath, sweat cooling slowly where it pooled between your chests. the fan hummed lazily in the corner, blowing soft warm air across the room like it was too tired to do its job properly, and the sun had moved just far enough that it now caught in hajime’s hair, making it glow like moonlight in water, pale strands stuck to his flushed forehead where he was still trying—and failing—to breathe normally.

you were both still joined, cock softening barely inside you but refusing to go anywhere yet, not while your body was so slick and warm and relaxed around him, still pulsing now and then in slow, tired waves like your cunt hadn’t quite processed that it was done yet, like it didn’t want to be done. and neither did he, really—his hands still draped around your waist, one thumb stroking idly at the swell of your ass, the other curled under your bra strap like he needed something to hold onto.

you could hear the wet sounds where you were pressed together, the mess leaking down between your thighs in slow, lazy trickles, smearing across his lap, soaking into his boxers and sticking to your skin in ways that should’ve felt uncomfortable but didn’t—not yet. it just felt real. lived-in. like the kind of mess you didn’t clean up until you had to, and even then only because gravity insisted.

you sighed against his chest, nose brushing his collarbone, your voice slow and quiet like a thought you hadn’t even finished forming before it slipped out.

“wanna do it in the shower?”

he blinked.

you felt it. the subtle shift in his breath, the way his arms tensed just slightly like his whole nervous system had tripped over itself and was trying to decide whether to pass out or jump up and drag you there right now.

then—his laugh. soft and stupid and so fucking fond, cracking low in his chest as he tilted his head back and groaned like you’d just asked him to do quantum physics while still half-dead.

“you are the devil,” he mumbled, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, “the actual devil. a succubus in girlfriend form. you want me to stand right now? after what you just did to me?”

you grinned against his skin, licking a bead of sweat from the curve of his neck. “i didn’t do anything. you did all the work. i’m still just sittin’ here. technically, i’m the innocent one.”

he groaned again, louder this time, full of mock pain and real lust, and his cock twitched faintly inside you, like it heard the offer and wasn’t quite done weighing its options.

“you wanna shower or you wanna fuck in the shower?” he asked, voice rough and sleep-thick, lips brushing your ear as he whispered it like a dare. “because those are two very different commitments, baby.”

you laughed softly, tracing lazy circles over his chest with your fingertip, smearing the sheen of sweat across his skin like warpaint. “mm. both. eventually. i just… wanna be warm. and wet. and slippery. and maybe let you bend me over while we rinse each other off.”

he shuddered.

you felt it.

“you’re a menace,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder, teeth grazing where your bra strap had slipped down. “i can still feel you leaking down my cock and you’re already talkin’ about round two. fuck. you’re gonna kill me. this is how i die. just a drained man on the shower floor, smiling.”

you smiled, slow and dreamy, and nuzzled into his neck.

“then die pretty,” you whispered, kissing him there. “and hold me while we do it.”

and he did.

he held you a little tighter, groaned again, then tapped your thigh like a man preparing to rise from the grave.

“okay,” he said, breathing deep, “but if i fall and crack my skull in the shower, you better come down there and suck the life back into me.” you giggled, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, still glassy and stupid with love, hair a sweaty, glowing mess.

“deal.”

and then—finally, slowly, lazily—you shifted in his lap, your bodies coming apart with a wet, obscene sound, and both of you hissed, eyes fluttering, groaning at the loss of contact, of heat, of fullness. you looked down between your legs, watched as a thick spill of his cum slipped out of you and dripped over his thigh.

he stared too.

then looked up at you.

and grinned.

“yep,” he said, “definitely gonna need that shower.”

you reached for his hand with the laziest kind of grace—fingers curling around his like a stretch at sunrise, your whole body still soft, a little shaky, slick and gleaming with sweat and whatever was still leaking down your inner thighs in slow, shamefully sticky streams. the apartment smelled like sex and warmth and morning skin, like the kind of mess you didn’t want to clean up too fast, but your legs were finally remembering how to move, and the promise of hot water and tile and his hands on your body again made your chest ache with a new kind of wanting.

hajime groaned dramatically as you tugged at him, head rolling back against the couch cushion with the commitment of a man being asked to climb everest barefoot. “fuck, baby, i just came. i just died in your lap. i think my soul left my body for a minute. you’re really dragging my ass to the shower?”

“uh-huh,” you said sweetly, pulling him upright with both hands now, watching his abs flex under the movement, the light catching on the slick patch of skin where your bodies had been stuck together. “you made a mess of me, hajime. now you have to help rinse me off.”

he grumbled, but stood anyway—slowly, lazily, half-staggering like his knees weren’t real anymore—and when he did, his cock swung forward, still damp, softening slowly but no less heavy, thick with the weight of recent release, still glistening with a mixture of you and him and the entire morning.

you couldn’t help it. your eyes dropped. your grin stretched.

“god,” you said, low and hot and half-gasped, “look at you. that dick looks exhausted. you fucked me so good it’s hanging there like it’s waiting for applause.”

he snorted—snorted, then covered his face with one hand like he couldn’t decide if he was embarrassed or proud. “you’re so nasty,” he groaned, glancing down, then up at you through his fingers. “why does it turn me on when you talk like that? you’ve broken me.”

“i’m helping,” you said sweetly, reaching out to hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and dragging them down the rest of the way—slow, deliberate, watching them slide down over his hips and thighs, revealing all of him, streaked with your slick, his own release still dripping from the flushed head of his cock. the fabric dropped to the floor with a soft whisper and he stepped out of it, finally naked, glorious and flushed and gleaming in the morning light, hair a wild mess, lips kiss-bitten, chest still rising in slow, post-orgasmic breaths.

you stared. appreciated. because how could you not?

“fuck, you’re pretty,” you murmured, stepping close again, bare feet quiet against the warm floorboards, your own body still barely dressed in that thin little bra and the now-shoved-aside panties doing nothing to hide how swollen and slick you still were. “all wrecked and flushed and leaking. if we had another hour, i’d sit back down on you just to watch you twitch.”

“jesus,” he groaned, voice cracking, grabbing your wrist with a hiss, like just your words were enough to make him start hardening again. “shower, baby. before i forget how to walk again.”

you giggled, teeth catching your bottom lip, and gave his hand another tug, leading him down the short hall like you were luring something dangerous out of its den—except the danger was love-wrecked and dragging his feet and still looking at your ass like he was trying to remember if he could get it in you again standing up.

“if you drop to your knees in there, i swear i’ll let you eat me until the water goes cold,” you said, glancing back over your shoulder.

“you keep talkin’ like that,” he muttered, squeezing your fingers, “and i will. and then i’ll rinse your thighs with my mouth.” you reached the bathroom door, heart thudding, smile stretched wide and wicked, skin tingling all over again. “good,” you said, pushing the door open. “i like it when you do your chores.”

and then—steam. tile. warmth. the next slow, perfect mess.

the bathroom was already warm before the water even started—sunlight slanting in through the frosted window, catching on the sheen of your skin and the pale dust motes floating in the stillness like lazy little sparks of heat—and hajime was behind you, bare and heavy-limbed, his hand still loosely tangled with yours, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, like he thought you might float off without him if he stopped touching you for even a second.

you moved slowly, every step thick with the weight of what you’d just done—no rush, no urgency, just the quiet hum of bodies already well-fucked and full of something deeper now, something that made even the air between you feel heavier. his chest brushed your back as he followed you in, hips flush to your ass like his body just knew where to land, and you reached out to start the shower, the squeak of the tap echoing softly off the tiled walls, followed by the sputter and hiss of hot water as it surged to life.

the steam curled instantly, slow tendrils licking up the mirror, fogging the edges of the glass before the water even hit full heat, and you felt hajime’s hands on your sides—light, reverent, still a little shaky, like he hadn’t really come down yet. and you didn’t want him to. not yet.

his fingers trailed up your ribs, brushing beneath the edge of your bra where the cotton was clinging damp and crooked to your skin, straps hanging low from where they’d slipped during the mess on the couch. he didn’t rush, didn’t tug, just slipped one hand beneath the fabric, the other following up to the clasp at your back, his breath hot against your shoulder as he leaned in.

“can i take this off now?” he murmured, not because he needed permission, but because he liked asking. liked making you melt just from the sound of him wanting something that was already his.

you nodded, slow, head tipping to the side to give him more of your throat, and he kissed it as he unhooked the clasp with that lazy, practiced ease of a man who’d spent enough time daydreaming about undoing you that his fingers moved on instinct. the bra slipped away like it didn’t even belong there, and you felt the cooler air kiss the swell of your breasts, the steam licking up in its place, your nipples already hard and damp, brushed with the memory of his tongue and teeth.

he dropped the bra to the floor, but his hands stayed where they were—palms full of you, thumbs grazing over your nipples with slow, gentle pressure, not to start anything, not yet, just to touch, to savor the feel of you bare against him at last.

“fuck,” he whispered against your neck, his cock twitching against the curve of your ass even though he was still soft, still recovering, but already half-hard again from just the weight of your body under his hands. “you’re unreal. even like this—fuck, especially like this.”

you smiled, slow and sly, reaching behind you to tangle your fingers in his damp hair, tugging him down just enough to catch his mouth in a lazy kiss, tongues brushing, slow and warm, steam curling around both of you now like silk.

“you gonna take the rest off?” you murmured, voice low and teasing, still breathy from earlier, “or are you just gonna grope me like a horny ghost?”

he laughed, breathless against your cheek, then dropped to his knees behind you with a groan so dramatic you almost turned around just to admire it. his hands smoothed down your hips, thumbs hooking into the sides of your panties, and he pressed his face to the small of your back like a man in prayer.

“horny ghost,” he mumbled into your skin, kissing the dip of your spine. “yeah. that tracks.”

you felt the fabric slide down, slow and damp and sticky with everything he’d left inside you—your panties clinging for just a second before peeling away with a soft, wet sound that made both of you shudder. he dragged them down over your thighs, your knees, kissing the backs of your legs as he went, fingers trailing with worshipful laziness down to your ankles where he helped you step out, tossing the soaked cotton aside with a reverence that was both stupid and sincere.

you were naked now, completely, flushed and warm and still sore in the best, sweetest way—your thighs slick, cunt still swollen and tender, and he looked up from where he was crouched behind you, hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted like he was seeing something holy.

“you’re a fuckin’ masterpiece,” he whispered, voice gone husky again. “messy and perfect. i should put you in a museum. under glass. but, like… still let me touch you sometimes.”

you rolled your eyes, laughing softly, but your cheeks were burning, and your thighs pressed together instinctively, bashful in a way that felt more intimate now than full-blown lust.

you turned toward him, finally, and offered your hand again, water hissing behind the glass as steam filled the room, everything warm and soft and glowing. “come on,” you said, voice low and smiling, “let’s get clean before we make another mess.”

he took your hand.

and followed you in.

the shower hissed and roared around you, hot water spilling in thick, steady rivulets across your back, running down your spine in slow drips that felt like fingers, steam blooming around your skin in soft, rolling waves—thick enough to blur the tile, thick enough to make you feel cocooned, wrapped up in warmth and wet and the dizzying weight of him.

you had barely stepped inside, barely turned toward the wall when hajime sank to his knees behind you again, not waiting, not asking, just easing you forward with those wide palms on your hips, guiding you into position like it was routine, like this was the most natural thing in the world. and maybe it was. maybe for you two, the ritual of sweat and steam and mess was holy in its own way.

your hands found the slick tile in front of you, palms flat, bracing as he pressed closer—his breath ghosting over the curve of your ass, and then lower, lower still, until the heat of his mouth hovered just behind your cunt, and the only warning you got was a low groan that vibrated in his chest, that soft “fuck me, baby…” before his tongue touched you.

it was gentle at first. obscene in its softness.

the flat, slow drag of it up your slit, parting the slick folds that were still puffy and sensitive from everything he’d done to you earlier, his spit mixing with your wetness and the remnants of his own cum that had started to leak again under the pressure of the water. it didn’t matter. none of it mattered except his mouth and your thighs shaking and the sound of his voice as he moaned like he’d been starving and this was the only thing that could possibly satisfy him.

“you taste like me,” he said, half-drunk on it already, fingers digging into the plush of your ass as he buried his face deeper, tongue sliding down, then up again, slow and firm, licking through everything like he was cleaning you with his mouth. “fuck, i can taste how full you are. you’re still leaking, baby. made you so messy…”

you whimpered, forehead pressed to the tile, your breath fogging the surface in front of you, legs barely holding you upright as he licked deeper, more deliberately now—his hands spreading your cheeks gently, reverently, opening you up so his tongue could press right where it needed to go.

he was slow about it, because of course he was. he was warm and lazy and loving about it, like the idea of rushing this would’ve been disrespectful, like your pussy was a place to worship, not conquer. the tip of his tongue circled your entrance, teasing the cum out of you, licking it up, humming deep in his throat at the taste, and then moving higher—just a little—to flick slow, damp patterns over your clit until your hips jerked forward against the wall and you let out the softest, dirtiest moan you’d ever heard come from your own throat.

“h-hajime…” your voice cracked, barely a whisper, “that’s not—this isn’t cleaning…”

he laughed, low and ruined, and dragged his tongue over you again, firmer now, pressing just right as his nose nudged the cleft of your ass, his voice muffled in your soaked skin.

“it’s my version of clean,” he said, breath hot against your cunt, lips slick and wet, “and you’re doing so good for me, baby. holding still like that, letting me take my time. so fucking sweet. just let me—fuck, just let me have this.”

and you did.

you let him devour you, kneeling in the steam, water cascading over his back, down your thighs, pooling around his knees on the shower floor while he licked and sucked like it was sacred—his mouth slow and focused, his lips wrapping around your clit just enough to pull another gasp from your chest, his tongue dipping inside you again, tasting the mess he’d made and moaning for it like a reward.

his hands held you steady as you started to tremble, your knees wobbling, your thighs clenching around his head without meaning to—and he groaned louder at that, digging his fingers in deeper, dragging you back against his mouth, his stubble scratching soft against your inner thighs as he devoured you.

you were breathless now, barely upright, the water pounding against your back and shoulders, your cheek pressed to the slick tile as your body pulsed with heat and need and overstimulation, your orgasm building again—not sharp, not fast, but slow, molten, a roll of thunder that was crawling toward you across the horizon of your skin.

“c’mon, baby,” he mumbled against your cunt, licking hard and slow, relentless now, “come for me. let me taste it. i wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue. be my good girl, yeah?”

and you did.

you came for him, again, so slowly it felt like the world was unraveling inside you—your thighs clamping around his head, your mouth open against the wall, moaning his name in a breathless, high whimper as the pulse gripped your cunt and rolled through you in waves, your body giving out so gently, so beautifully, that hajime had to catch you, hands sliding up under your belly, holding you upright as you fell apart.

and he didn’t stop licking. not right away. not until you were shaking so badly your voice was breaking on every breath. only then did he kiss the inside of your thigh, his tongue soft now, slow again, like a goodbye.

he stood up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, chest pressed to your back, both of you panting in the water and steam, your bodies so warm and spent and close you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“now that’s clean,” he whispered against your ear, kissing your neck.

you laughed. you couldn’t help it. you were glowing. and you were already thinking about what else his mouth could do.

but for now— you leaned into him. and just let the water run.

his mouth never left your neck—not really—just dragged slowly from your shoulder to the hinge of your jaw, open and wet, breathing hot against your pulse like he could live off the sound of your heartbeat alone. his hands had moved up from your hips to your stomach, splayed wide across your belly like he was trying to hold all of you, to feel every tremor that still rippled through your muscles, those soft aftershocks of the orgasm he’d licked out of you like it was a secret only he was allowed to know. the water beat down on your shoulders and over his chest, your bodies slick and gleaming, chest to back, skin to skin, like the shower was some kind of womb and you were curled into each other inside it, existing only in heat and hush and pulse.

and then you felt it—his hand sliding down.

his fingers slow at first, deliberate, trailing over the curve of your mound, skimming over the mess he’d made of you just minutes ago, the pad of his middle finger catching lightly against the oversensitive hood of your clit before dipping between your folds again, testing how soft, how open, how ready you still were.

he groaned low behind you, teeth grazing your shoulder, his voice a hot breath wrapped in affection and filth. “fuck… still so warm. still twitchin’.”

your knees buckled just slightly, your forehead dropping against the tile again, the coolness there the only thing grounding you as you felt his other hand move—reaching down between his bodies now, slow and certain.

and there it was. the unmistakable sound of him wrapping his fingers around his cock, thick and wet and half-hard still, the heavy slap of it brushing the inside of your thigh as he stroked himself lazily behind you.

you bit your lip, breath hitching, too fucked-out and slow to form anything more than a soft whimper when he rutted gently against your ass, not pushing in—yet—just lining up, smearing himself against your soaked folds while the tip of him teased low, slow, deliberate.

his lips returned to your ear, smiling against your skin now, voice playful and terrible and way too fucking pleased with himself.

“mm. think we’ve got company,” he murmured, his voice dipping into that low, menacing warmth he used when he was about to do something awful in the nicest possible way. “you feel that, baby?”

you blinked, confused for half a second, still too dazed to follow.

and then he moaned, shameless and soft, dragging the fat, heavy head of his cock between your folds and notching it right at your entrance, pressing just barely in—not enough to breach, not enough to claim, but close. so close it made your cunt clench down again, helpless and desperate, trying to pull him in.

you opened your mouth to say something, but he beat you to it. his teeth grazed your earlobe. “an intruder,” he whispered, deep and teasing. “uninvited. pushy. rude, even.”

and before you could answer, before you could say yes, or please, or fuck me again, he rolled his hips forward with a slow, relentless pressure, and sank into you—inch by inch, deep and thick and unyielding, burying himself inside your pussy with one long, claiming thrust that made your knees tremble and your breath break against the tile in a soft, gasped moan.

“fuck—fucking shit, hajime—”

his hands were back on your hips instantly, steadying you, pressing you to the wall, his chest to your back again, his cock now fully sheathed inside you, pulsing with the effort of holding still while your body clenched down around him like it had been waiting for this the whole time. the stretch was thick, slow, and real, a second claiming after that first soft heat on the couch, and this time—this time, he didn’t wait for permission.

“couldn’t help it,” he whispered into your hair, kissing the back of your neck now, voice thick with awe and lust and something stupidly tender. “you were just so fuckin’ open for me, baby. so perfect. i had to come home.”

you moaned, helpless, pressing back against him now, your body welcoming the fullness, the weight, the soft pressure of his cock twitching inside you with every shallow breath he took. he was balls-deep, unmoving, letting your cunt flutter and squeeze around him while the shower rained over your bodies, steam curling up around your legs, your backs, clinging to the walls like ghosts made of heat.

you shivered—not from cold, but from sensation, from everything—your voice barely more than a whisper. “you’re insane,” you gasped, smiling through it, ruined and fond. “you warned me about your dick like it wasn’t already my problem.”

he chuckled, low and shameless, nipping your shoulder, one hand sliding down again between your legs, fingers finding your clit with lazy, practiced precision.

“not a problem,” he murmured, rolling his hips once—slow, shallow, just enough to feel the slick slide, “a guest. just a really bad-mannered one.” and with that, he moved again—slow, deep, devastating. his hand stayed there. his lips never left your skin. and the shower ran on. you were already drowning. and you never wanted to come up.

he moved in you like the water did—slow, constant, impossibly gentle—like there was no end, like there didn’t need to be. each roll of his hips was an ache and a comfort, a rhythm too lazy to be called thrusting, more like rocking, like breathing, like he was trying to stay inside you more than fuck you, and god, that might’ve been worse. better. everything.

his cock dragged deep and slow through your pussy, all that thick friction slick with what you’d made of each other—warm and messy and too much, not enough—his length pressing against the softest, deepest spots in you like he knew them by heart now, like he didn’t need to chase an angle or a pace because your body did all the work for him, pulling him in, gripping around him with every tiny roll of his hips like your cunt had been made to hold him and only him.

the water kept falling, washing sweat and slick down your stomach, between your thighs, but it didn’t clean anything. it just made it prettier—made it shine. your back was arched into the tile, your hands flat against the wall for support, and hajime was wrapped around you like a second skin, his chest warm and broad and solid against your spine, his mouth never far from your shoulder or your neck or your cheek, pressing slow, wet kisses wherever he could reach between moans that made your skin gooseprickle, not from cold.

he was panting, softly, into your ear, not because he was chasing anything—no—but because he was holding it all back. the tension wasn’t sharp, wasn’t wild or frantic. it was this thick, drowsy coil that stretched out forever, and he liked it that way. he wanted to feel every second of your cunt pulsing around him, wanted to savor every breath you lost, every little gasp you gave when he hit just right. and you—you were so far gone you weren’t even thinking about time anymore, just about the feeling of being full, of being loved with slow, unbearable intent.

his hand was still between your legs, thumb moving in slow, tight circles over your clit, not fast enough to push you, but enough to keep you gasping, to keep your whole body tuned to his.

you whimpered—high and quiet, not even a plea, just a sound of too much pleasure carried on too little strength.

he kissed behind your ear, his voice low and flushed, thick with something softer than lust. “that’s it, baby… fuck, you feel so good. you’re squeezin’ me like you never wanna let me go.” you moaned, back arching a little more, helpless against the heat pooling again in your belly, a new wave building slow and dangerous.

he kept fucking you like he had all the time in the world. shallow, deep, slow, meaningful—the kind of movement that wasn’t about chasing pleasure but communicating it, like he was trying to talk to you through the way he moved inside you. and every word was love, was praise, was you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.

his nose brushed your temple, his fingers still drawing soft, patient circles around your clit, never pushing too far, just staying there, giving you everything you needed without needing to take.

you could feel his cock throb with every little squeeze of your pussy, feel the tension building in the slowest, thickest way possible—his hips stuttering sometimes, barely noticeable, but enough that you knew he was close to that line, and choosing not to cross it yet.

“you wanna stop?” you whispered, breathless and dizzy and aching, but not from pain—just from the stretch of it, the suspense, the pressure that had built into something almost too much to hold.

he kissed your shoulder again, hand gripping your hip, holding you in place as he gave another deep, slow roll of his hips, and you felt it—how deeply he settled inside you, how your cunt welcomed every inch.

“never,” he whispered, voice breaking into a laugh, soft and wrecked and full of love. “you’re the best fuckin’ place i’ve ever been. i could stay here all day.”

and with that, he started again.

slow. deep. loving. not trying to finish. just trying to feel.

and you let him.

the water kept cascading over both of you, not quite rinsing, not quite cooling, just wrapping your skin in a lazy kind of warmth that didn’t even matter anymore—not compared to his warmth, pressed to your back, chest sliding slick over your shoulders with every long, rolling grind of his hips. the sound of it all—your soft, broken breaths, the wet drag of his cock inside your swollen cunt, the rhythmic splatter of water on tile—filled the small bathroom like a song you’d both forgotten how to stop singing, something low and slow and sacred, something that didn’t need to end.

hajime’s hands were everywhere, slow and reverent, like he didn’t know what part of you to touch next, like every inch deserved a thank-you. one palm slid up your stomach, fingers splayed under your ribs, holding you steady as he rocked into you again and again, pace still unhurried, still that same rolling, grinding motion like he was trying to fit, like he wasn’t just fucking you but settling into you, like he wanted to nest there between your legs and never leave. the other hand cupped under your thigh now, lifting your leg just enough to tilt your hips back into him, to open you more, take more, and you gasped when he did it—not from surprise, but from how right it felt.

“fuck, baby,” he murmured against your neck, lips soft and wet, his breath ghosting down your spine as he rutted into you, “you were made for this. made for me. i swear, you open up for me like you know i belong in here.”

you whimpered something that didn’t even sound like a word, just noise, your fingers flexing uselessly against the slick tile, hips pushing back now in tiny, desperate movements that made his breath hitch in your ear. you could feel it again, the deep throb of your own need spiraling tighter, building in that same molten way, slow and thick and dangerous—but he still wasn’t rushing, wasn’t chasing it.

he wasn’t letting you.

not yet.

and neither of you wanted to finish. not now. not when it felt this fucking good just being connected like this—cock buried in your soaked cunt, his arms holding you up like scaffolding, his voice pouring over you in slow, filthy praise like he could keep your body wanting forever just by saying your name right.

“you feel that, baby?” he whispered, voice gone hoarse, almost worshipful. “that slow drag when i pull back? how your pussy doesn’t wanna let go? she’s greedy,” he groaned, fingers flexing on your thigh as he rocked into you again, slow and deep, so deep you felt it in the base of your skull. “just like you. sweet little thing, always makin’ a mess of me, so fuckin’ full and wet and tight, fuck—i can’t believe i’m still not done with you.”

you were trembling again, and he felt it—his arms tightening around you, his chest curving over your back like he wanted to shield you from the weight of your own pleasure. his cock dragged out slow, thick, the head catching just slightly, perfectly, before he pushed back in again with a groan that sounded pained with how good it felt, the slap of his hips against your ass lazy and wet and perfect.

you moaned, loud this time, couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the way your legs tried to squeeze shut around him even though he held you open, your body betraying you with every twitch and flutter and gasp. “haji—hajime—fuck, i can’t take it, you’re—you’re too deep, it’s too good, i—”

“you can,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek now, almost like a kiss, “you are. you’re takin’ it so good, baby, so fuckin’ good. every time you suck me back in like that—fuck, i think i’m gonna lose my mind.”

he shifted again, slower now, deeper, like he was dropping anchor inside you, his cock thick and hot and so hard it almost hurt to feel how much control he was still using to keep the pace gentle. your walls pulsed again, helpless around him, the drag of every vein on his shaft sending sparks up your spine, and still—still—you weren’t finished.

neither was he.

not yet.

because this—this was the part he loved.

not the chase. not the finish. but the having.

the holding.

your cunt full of him, warm and stretched and twitching, body pressed into the tile, open and obedient, breath fogging the glass while his voice made your knees weak and your heart ache.

you were still moving together.

and it was still everything.

his mouth never left you—not for more than a breath. hajime couldn’t stop, wouldn’t even try. he kissed you like it was instinct, like if he didn’t keep his lips on your skin, the moment might slip away into steam and water and all the other small infinities that lived inside a shower like this one.

his hips rocked into yours with the same aching slowness, that deep, patient rhythm that made your whole body hum from the inside out, every thrust a warm drag, every withdrawal a tease your cunt clung to like it was afraid to let go. and he just stayed there—wrapped around you, cock buried to the hilt, breath catching with every twitch of your walls, every soft moan that spilled from your lips when his thumb grazed your clit again in that perfect, lazy little circle that was just enough to keep you wanting, just enough to remind you that he was still in control of everything you felt.

but it was his mouth that undid you.

not just what he did with it—but what he said with it.

his lips ghosted along your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—kissing slow, messy, tender little prints across your skin, not even with hunger anymore, just with need. to stay close. to taste. to worship.

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he whispered, voice a low, broken thing, full of awe and heat and something softer underneath it all. “can’t believe this body’s mine—this pussy, this skin—fuck, you let me touch all of it like you want me to.”

you gasped, forehead pressed to the tile, and he chased that sound with another kiss, just behind your ear, then lower, to the base of your neck where he nuzzled in and breathed you deep.

“you hear yourself?” he murmured, lips brushing your hairline now. “makin’ all these soft little noises just for me. like your body knows who’s inside it. like it misses me even while i’m fuckin’ you.”

you whimpered, too gone to speak, just a moan catching in your throat as his cock dragged slow through your soaked heat again, his hand sliding from your hip to your stomach, palm splayed like he was holding you together.

“you’re so good for me,” he said next, and this time the words were shaky—like they hurt to say. like they meant something bigger than the moment. “so fuckin’ good. you always take me so well, like you were made for me, like your body’s been waitin’ for this your whole life.”

he kissed your shoulder. kissed your spine. kissed the back of your neck, open-mouthed and reverent, like he wanted to swallow your sweat and keep it.

you moaned again, not louder—just softer, like everything in you had turned inward, wrapped up around the warmth of his words, the stretch of his cock, the unbearable sweetness of being held so fully, so gently, while being fucked so deeply.

and he didn’t stop.

his voice kept pouring over you, low and thick and worshipful, every word heavier than the last, every kiss slower, sloppier, hotter with affection that bordered on desperate.

“i love the way you move for me,” he whispered, hips rocking forward again, cock grinding deep as his thumb returned to your clit. “even when you’re too tired to fuck back, your pussy knows. she squeezes me just right. always. every fuckin’ time.”

you were shaking again, legs spread wide and still somehow not wide enough, held open by the press of his thigh and his arm and his chest, everything wet and hot and unbearable, and still he kept kissing you, like each press of his mouth was a promise.

“you’re everything to me,” he whispered, and now he sounded wrecked, like he was choking on the feeling. “you make me feel so fucking loved, baby. even like this—especially like this. i wanna fuck you forever. slow. like this. never stop.”

he thrust again—slow, sure, perfect.

kissed the place where your shoulder met your neck.

then again.

kissed your temple.

again.

kissed the corner of your mouth where it trembled against the tile.

“you’re doin’ so good,” he whispered, “and i’m not done.”

and you believed him. because he was still moving. and still kissing you.

and he hadn’t even let you go.

he had you folded so gently into him, hips pressed to hips, one arm wrapped tight around your middle like he was afraid you’d float away in the steam, the other hand between your legs, fingers slick and steady, circling your clit in soft, patient motions like he wasn’t just trying to get you off—he was coaxing it out of you, calling your orgasm like a thing he already owned and was just waiting to unwrap.

his cock was still buried deep, warm and thick, dragging slow through your fluttering walls with each shallow roll of his hips, the movement more like rocking than fucking, more like cradling—and that was the most unbearable part of it all. that it was so gentle. so affectionate. so devastatingly tender.

you could feel it coming, not as a wave this time, but as a flood—slow, creeping, stealing the air from your lungs one breath at a time, building deep in your belly where he kept you stretched and full, the heat blooming outwards in slow spirals. your thighs were trembling again, not from exertion, but from too much softness, from the weight of how he was touching you, from the sound of his voice spilling into your ear between wet, open-mouthed kisses.

“that’s it, baby,” he murmured, breath hot against your neck, hips grinding just right into the softest part of you, the curve that made you bite down on a moan. “you’re almost there. i can feel it. fuck, you’re so tight—so close—you gonna cum for me, sweet thing?”

you couldn’t speak, just nodded, whining into the slick, fogged tile, your body twitching now with every soft, insistent stroke of his fingers, your cunt clenching tighter and tighter around him as if trying to pull it out of him, pull him in deeper, wrap around him until there was nothing else in the world but this—this heat, this stretch, this overwhelming, slow, beautiful fullness.

“yeah,” hajime groaned, voice cracking as he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, still slow but with weight now, with intention, with need, “you’re gonna cum on my cock, baby. make me feel it. wanna feel you squeeze me while i fill you up again, fuck—i wanna drown in you.”

and that was it.

your orgasm broke like a tremor through your whole body, a full-body, bone-deep wave that stole the breath from your lungs and left only sound—your moan catching in your throat as your cunt spasmed around him, fluttering in hot, tight pulses that made your knees buckle and your spine arch. he caught you instantly, arms locked around your belly, holding you against his chest as you cried out for him, falling apart with no shame, no pretense, just pure sensation—wet and shaking and his.

and hajime—god, hajime lost it when you did.

he gasped into your shoulder, hips stuttering for the first time all morning, finally giving in to the heat that had been simmering behind every slow thrust, every kiss, every whispered “you’re mine.” his cock twitched once, hard, then again, and then he was groaning—long and low and broken—as he spilled into you, thick and hot and so much, his body shuddering behind you as he emptied himself deep, grinding into you with tiny, desperate rolls of his hips as his arms crushed you against him, breath ragged and voice whispering “fuck, fuck, fuck—baby, i’m—god, you’re perfect—”

he didn’t pull out.

of course he didn’t.

you were both too tired, too warm, too full. he just stayed like that—locked to you, softening slowly inside your twitching cunt, his hands smoothing over your belly now in slow, lazy strokes, kissing your temple like nothing else existed, like he could live here forever, inside this moment, inside you.

the water had turned lukewarm, but neither of you noticed. not yet.

your head dropped back against his shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth as you caught your breath. “...you finally finished your chores,” you murmured, voice wrecked, teasing soft.

he laughed—low, breathless, kissed your jaw.

“best housework of my life,” he whispered. “might do the dishes next if you let me come in you again.”

you giggled, weak and warm, pressing a kiss to the air.

and in that soft, perfect stillness, the only thing left between you was the sound of the water. and the way he kept holding you like he couldn’t let go. and the way you didn’t want him to.

you stayed like that for a while—bodies flushed and heavy, wrapped in steam and each other, too content, too lazy to move, your back against his chest, his arms still looped around your waist like a warm belt, his softening cock nestled deep inside you where your bodies had long since stopped trying to tell the difference between where one ended and the other began. the water had lost its sting, now barely more than a drizzle of lukewarm kisses across your shoulders, and even that felt too indulgent, like one more softness layered on top of too many others.

hajime was still kissing you. not frantic. not even needy. just... present. his lips pressed into your temple, then your cheek, then your neck, the corner of your shoulder where the skin was pink and slick from the steam. slow, messy kisses that barely held shape, kisses that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t chase—just gave. his nose nuzzled into your hairline, his breath fogging against your ear, and he murmured something like a sigh, like a half-finished sentence that didn’t need words.

you giggled softly when he kissed your shoulder for the seventh time, maybe the eighth, the affection starting to tickle in the best, most unbearable way.

“you gonna kiss me into a puddle?” you asked, voice hoarse and slow, lips curling into a smile you didn’t bother hiding. “gonna melt me right through the damn drain?”

he huffed a laugh, kissed you again anyway. “mm. yeah. i’m thinkin’ about it. just need a little more time. maybe another twenty, thirty kisses. don’t move.”

“as if i could,” you muttered, reaching back to stroke lazy fingers through his damp hair, twisting a pale, messy strand between your fingertips. “you wrecked me.”

“nah,” he said, smug and sleepy, rocking his hips just a little—just enough to remind you he was still there, still inside you, even if it wasn’t about fucking anymore. “you’re still standin’, aren’t you?”

you groaned, hips shifting with a shiver at the slippery drag of him inside you, that soft squelch of overstretched, overused heat that hadn’t let him go yet, not fully, your walls still hugging him like your body couldn’t quite bring itself to stop.

“barely,” you said, half-laugh, half-whimper. “you’re like… a really affectionate parasite. a romantic leech. never pulls out, but always says thank you.”

he snorted, full and delighted and so in love it made your chest ache in this slow, dangerous way. “babe,” he whispered, grinning against your neck, “i love when you talk dirty to me like that. don’t stop.” you let your head fall back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open in a soft, smug little smile. “what can i say,” you murmured, “you’re the best squatter i’ve ever had inside me.”

“fuck, marry me,” he groaned, biting your shoulder gently. “let’s just stay in this shower and be horrible and in love forever. we’ll pay rent in orgasms.” you giggled again, high and breathy and happy, and turned your face toward him, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth in a kiss that tasted like sleep and salt and satisfaction.

the water finally started to run cold, a gentle shiver curling down your spine, and you felt him groan behind you—not from the cold, but from life, from the cruel idea of having to move, to leave this perfect, wet cocoon of your own making. “mm. we should probably rinse off,” you said reluctantly, running your fingers down his forearm, nails light and soothing against his skin.

“mmf,” he groaned, “nah. let’s just live in our filth.”

you laughed. “you said you were gonna do the dishes.”

he kissed your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder again.

“i am. i’m doin’ ‘em tomorrow. with my dick. in the kitchen sink. real thorough.”

“you’re disgusting,” you whispered, but you were still smiling.

“you love me,” he said, softly, like a prayer.

you did.

you really did.