Blimbo💅🏾

I think it’s time I properly introduce myself, so you readers get to know me a bit better: My name is Blimbo, I am a black, young adult writer who writes erotic fanfiction for black women and femmes. I’ve returned from a transformative break, and now my stories are richer, deeper, and more unapologetically me! I created this space so black readers know where to go to feel seen and celebrated. I’m here to build a community that thrives on storytelling, sensuality, and the celebration of Black love. Stay a while, and let’s get to know each other!💐

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FUN FACTS💅🏾

🌟 My #1 favorite anime is Noragami, but I have a top 5 list of my fave anime (will share later). My favorite anime CHARACTER is yeap—you guessed it—Rock Lee💚

🌟 I have written for over ten years🎉

🌟My favorite sport is volleyball (Dropping a Haikyuu fic soon tune in😏)

🌟Favorite thing to pass the time: Converse with myself while watching TV🥴

🌟My dream life involves: Two cats, one big scary dog, and maybe— JUST MAYBE— a spider🫥

🌟Sometimes if I read a fic that’s life-changing enough, I think of printing out a copy and putting it in my shelf like a book. I’ve never done it tho😶

There’s so much I’m doing with this platform, so much to look forward to, and I’m so excited to share my literary universe with you all🥹. I’m not accepting any requests at the moment, but that may change in the future once I’ve published enough work. If you’re under 18 or have no age in your bio, do not interact. And if you like my work don’t hesitate to show support: likes, comments, reblogs, asks, shares, you name it!💚

ROCK LEE

MULTIFANDOM

Chapter 6: Kishibe

Synopsis: Kishibe's life has been a neverending cycle of violence and hedonism. All that changes when he leaves devil-hunting behind for a painfully boring job as a CFO. Yet, what happens when he sees you rock the crowd on the dance floor in some dingy club?

Notes: The reader is BLACKKK, FEMMM/AFAB, and THICK/CHUBBY/CURVY.

Warnings: Depistions of addiction, fluff, ANGST, cursing, sick person in a coma, filthy, filthy sex (kissing, cunnilingus, doggy style, no protection besides birth control, dom/sub dynamics, neck grabbing, dirty talk, etc etc). [18+ ONLY: MINORS/NO AGE IN BIO=DO NOT INTERACT]

A/N: I know y'all been fiending for more fics, so here's a full course meal I've been working on. More stories to come ;)

Word Count: 10.1K

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

“A virgin piña colada, please.”

Kishibe loosens his tie with a resigned exhale. After a tiresome day of supervising an accounting team full of nepo baby cunts, he can only hope a visit at some dingy back alley club will let off some steam. The strongest devil hunter in Public Safety history finally quit his job and reluctantly every vice that came with it at 51. He’s now three years in as a finance manager for some hot-shot company and even dropped his 30+ year-long drinking habit. 

A normal person would condone such drastic changes, yet his new life feels like buying a fancy pen that runs out of ink at the first scribble. The only thing besides Kishibe’s “peace” that’s keeping him from relapsing is the constant revenue his current job flows in.

Kishibe thanks the bartender before taking a sip of his yellow beverage. His inability to enjoy the funky band music or the rowdy crowd makes his fingers fidget for how easily liquor drowned out unwanted noise. But that’s okay. He stayed sober long enough to ignore the relentless tremors.

The investor turns around in his seat to avoid the wall of alcohol bottles glaring down at him, and even observes how the band hypes up their audience to keep himself occupied.

The lead singer instructs the crowd to form a circle, and challenges the best dancer in the room to come forth. Kishibe expects some try-hard to embarrass themself in front of a hundred eyes.

“This’ll be good.” he chuckles ruefully before taking another sip.

He sees you instead.

He sees how your curvaceous body surrenders to the rhythm, how your hips gyrate to the beat, how your hands skim over your body, how the beaded fringes of your backless dress fly when you twirl, how the spotlight magnifies your glow. He can only imagine being in the center with you, envisioning how your softness would feel pressed against him, how you’d arch and melt beneath his curious hands. The band and crowd alike can’t be the only ones enraptured by you, because just for a moment, Kishibe forgets he’s holding his drink.

You needed to let off steam, too. You needed to forget about that petty fuss your boss made at the diner. You needed to forget having to ignore the sly microaggressions from coworkers. You needed to forget how the incessant catcalling amplifies your loneliness. You needed to forget your father’s medical bills.

So now you’re in this dingy back alley club, dancing like you’re not some waitress at a 24-hour diner. Dancing like your rent isn’t due next week. Dancing like you’re the most desired woman in the world, drinking up the screams and cheers from countless strangers surrounding you. A taste of happiness you can afford, even if it’s fake.

After the lead singer crowns you “dancing queen” of the club, you take a breather and head to the bar for a drink. You sit beside Kishibe, making sure there’s an extra stool between you both to keep a respectful distance. The businessman clocks how your cleavage rises and falls with heavy breaths, brown skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat.

When the bartender asks what you want, Kishibe doesn’t expect you to order ice water, despite how natural the request is.

“Who taught you to dance like that?” Kishibe says.

Your head whips to the source of a low and raspy voice and time eviscerates; a blonde-haired man—significantly older than you, with a scar connecting the left corner of his lip to his jaw, and clad in a crisp white button-down shirt with perfectly tailored trousers. You never expected a man of his senior to make ear piercings and stubble look so… sexy.

His gaze pierces through you like an x-ray, causing a wave of heat to disrupt your tummy, yet he’s just honoring eye contact. It isn’t until Kishibe cautiously waves his hand in front of your face that you finally snap out of the trance he casted you in.

“Oh! Uhhhh,” your catty eyes dart in every direction and Kishibe chuckles at the adorable sight.

“I was obsessed with MTV as a kid.” you admit.

Funny, considering the only childhood memories he recalls are being trained by government assassins. 

“Yeah? M’surprised they haven’t hired you.” he praises.

You huff out a candied laugh at Kishibe’s flattery before taking a swig of your water.

“Nah. I’m just a waitress for the time being.”

The financier smirks at the image of you in a cute waiter uniform.

“How’s the food? I might come visit.” he teases.

“Pfft—don’t bother.” you jest.

Although it’s not like the food is bad, you just don’t want this handsome stranger seeing how your dignity gets tested on a daily basis.

“Alright.” Kishibe surrenders as he downs the rest of his piña colada.

“Enough about me.” you insist. “What do you do for a living?”

“…I’m a CFO.” he confesses.

Your brow raises.

Chief financial officer, huh?

Where the real money is.

You rest your chin on your palm, “And how’s that working out for ya?”

Kishibe clicks his tongue in thought, and the sound deepens the arch in your back. 

“Makes my problems a lot smaller.”

This man’s unbothered bluntness makes your heels sway against the stool, quietly astonished by how his deep voice gives simple words so much weight.

“Lucky you.”

The teasing lilt of your honeyed tone paired with that elegant smile brings flashbacks of all the debaucherous nights he spent with nameless women. Despite not knowing if he was going to live to see the next day, such insanity that came with surviving devil hunting…made sense to him. Reckless impulsivity was his native language, dysfunction was how he functioned.

Technically, he’s now the most successful he’s ever been. But he’s nauseous from repetition, heady with constant routine. He retches at the part of him that misses the days when he was closest to dying, yet even the thrill of self-cannibalism got boring. Boring enough for him to leave all things devil-related behind, and sit at this bar talking to a gorgeous woman who he knows is probably half his age.

“How old are you, by the way?”

“Thirty.” you don’t hesitate, immediately understanding his inquiry.

You try to hide your giggle when Kishibe sighs with relief.

Older than I suspected. Thank God.

“And what’s your age?” you ask.

“Fifty-four.”

The businessman notices your eyes widening in shocked amusement and holds his breath for impending disappointment.

“What, younger than you expected?” he presumes.

“Not at all.” you confirm with a knowing smile. “You look great for fifty-four.”

“…Thanks.”

You can’t hold in your cackle, absolutely floored by his deadpan delivery. Such a flat tone from anyone else usually repels you, but he makes it charming in the funniest way. The sound of your unfiltered joy levitates his body to a high alcohol could never reach, failing to remember a time he laughed with similar abandon.

“You a trip, man.” you wipe some stray tears from the corner of your eye.

The financier feels a tiny smile creep onto his face, the mischievous glint in your gaze urging him to avert his own. Just for a moment.

“I’m Kishibe.”

No matter how attracted you are to this man, you give him an alias instead of your real name. For now at least. The CFO pulls out a card from his pocket and slides it toward you.

“Let’s stay in touch.” he says.

You take your time watching him grab his trench coat after leaving his bill by the empty glass. You silently marvel at his intimidating height when he finally stands from his seat, sliding his arms through the sleeves before shrugging on the luxury leather. He doesn’t look back, ready to pull out a cigarette as soon as he steps foot outside.

-

It’s been eight days since Kishibe’s been at the club, and you’re still on his mind like an itch he can’t scratch. 

The businessman sits by his maple wood desk, double-checking income statements for his weekly financial report. Product’s been in high demand lately, so his boss wants him working overtime. But Kishibe ain’t giving up his free time for shit if it’s uncompensated. And the boss wouldn’t be a good boss if they didn’t know that.

But what difference would it make if he did work more hours? He avoids many hobbies like the plague—they’re just humiliation rituals waiting to happen. Of course he doesn’t want to rot in his office either. It’s been three years since he flipped his life upside down, and has yet to reap the benefits.

The ex-devil hunter slouches against his seat, watching his computer screen light up with emails from his secretary. He’s seconds away from dozing off until his phone vibrates beside his keyboard. He picks it up and glares at the unknown number, but answers it anyway.

“Kishibe speaking.”

You hold your breath on the other line, feeling his voice reverberate down your spine.

“Didn’t think you’d answer.” you confess.

The investor’s eyes widen with delight.

“Didn’t think you’d call.” he retorts amusedly.

You tug on the hem of your uniform skirt, slightly frustrated that your break is almost over.

“Yeah, well, I wanted to stay in touch.”

“How’ve you been?” Kishibe will say whatever it takes to savor this conversation. To savor you.

You would tell him the truth: that rent is steadily rising and you recently haven’t been visiting your sick father to keep a roof over your head. Hell, you’re even tempted to admit how much you miss this fine stranger, but your dignity has you on a tight leash.

“I’ve been alright.” you sigh. “Just getting my paper up and looking forward to my day off.”

“When’s your day off?” Kishibe pries.

You side-eye your phone, “Why do you ask?”

“Cause I wanna take you out.”

There goes that bluntness again, making your thighs press together before you can stop it. You nibble on your lip, hoping he doesn’t hear the smile in your cadence when you say:

“…Okay.”

-

On the day of your first date Kishibe offers to pick you up, but you decide to meet him at the destination–not yet comfortable with letting him know where you live. He agrees to your request, and waits for you at this popular botanical garden. 

He stands by the entrance, reading a text from you that says you’re just around the corner. The financier tugs on his collar, burying the urge to smoke for your sake. And when he finally hears heels clacking against the pavement? He turns around and the sight almost undoes him.

You’re adorned in a long silk slip dress that hugs your curves in all the right places, some kitten heels to match, and light makeup that accentuates your features wondrously. Your sweet perfume awakens something salacious in him, but he keeps that to himself.

And Kishibe is nothing to sleep on: rocking a black shirt with the top three buttons undone, his sleeves are rolled up to show those deliciously veiny forearms, a pair of jeans tastefully framing the bulk of his thighs, and some classic Timbs to complete the look.

“Hey, handsome.” you greet, reminding yourself to act right when this man looks down at you with that smirk.

“Hey, gorgeous. Hope your journey here was smooth.”

Kishibe opens the entrance door for you, making sure you’re the first to witness the treat he’s got in store for you.

And a treat it is. Y’all aren’t traversing a simple garden. It’s decorated with a world of lights and intricate color patterns. Every tree, bush, plant, and artful landscape illuminate in stark contrast to the black canvas of the night sky. The financier grins at how you stop in your tracks, how your eyes sparkle mesmerically at the radiance surrounding you both.

Kishibe approaches to smoothly interlace his calloused fingers with your soft ones so he can guide you (and not stare at your ass for too long), making your chest bloom open with warmth at the gesture. Who knew a brute like him could be this daring?

“How did you find out about this place?” you query.

“Some colleagues of mine talked about visiting at least once a year. So I gave it a shot.”

You hum with giddy approval, “Is entry here free?”

“Nope.” he deadpans. “But don’t worry about that.”

He feels your thumb swipe the back of his worn knuckle before giving his hand a gentle squeeze, your silent way of showing gratitude. You both stroll about halfway through the garden and decide to sit at a bench, conversing to your heart’s content while enjoying the scenery.

“If I hadn’t met you at that club, nothing would’ve convinced me you were a clubber.” you confess.

Kishibe chuckles, “Not even my piercings?”

You pause at his inquiry, “…Maybe.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have taken you for a waitress.”

“Oh, I know.” you confirm with a proud grin.

Kishibe visually eats up your perfect posture and how elegantly you fold your legs. He wants to yank them open and rip that dress off until there’s nothing left to cover, but he keeps that to himself.

“Just shows how easy it is for people to assume.” you continue. “For example: why do we give so much meaning and power to virginity? It’s just a social construct—you can never truly tell who is and isn’t one.”

Your cute rambling reminds the CFO of that one time he killed the virginity devil. Yes, the virginity devil. And he made sure no one knew about it. Not even Makima’s crazy ass.

“It helps people feel in control of what they don’t understand.”

You go quiet at his insight, not expecting the comment to align so deeply with your own viewpoint. Which urges you to probe, even if lightheartedly.

“What—you a virgin, Kishibe?”

The businessman rests his arm behind you on the back of the bench, and his eyes pierce through you like they did when you first met.

“Wanna find out?”

Your eyes drop to your manicured nails, struggling to regulate your breath. 

“That… that’s not something a virgin would say.”

Kishibe’s boisterous cackle jolts you out of your flustered head. You’ve never heard him laugh like that before. You want to make him do it again. Honestly, Kishibe feels like he’s enjoying you too much. You palpitate his heart in all the ways that make him want to risk it, even if that risk may be too great for you both. But what does he know? He’s just out on a date for the first time in decades.

So he settles in this quiet moment you both share, watching you study the wildflowers sprouted behind the bench.

“Just look at them.” you mumble. “They’re so beautiful.”

“…Can’t compare to you.”

You close your eyes and fail to repress a smitten smile, feeling like a schoolgirl from his effortless praise.

“Shut up.” you demand meekly.

“You’re more than welcome to make me, sweetheart.”

You sigh in defeat, while also registering your tummy grumble with hunger. You rise from your seat and make a big stretch.

“Let’s see through this garden so I can order takeout.”

“I’ll pay for it.” he offers.

You scoff under your breath with a smile.

Of course you will.

“I’d appreciate that, thanks.”

-

You finally make it to the end of the main attraction, reflecting on all the beauty you’ve absorbed, and all the fun banter you shared. As you both stand outside the entrance, Kishibe watches you ogling down at your painted toes with giddiness. Cute.

“It’s late.” he reasons. “I’ll order you a ride home.”

You take a few steps toward him, close enough to smell his woody eucalyptus cologne and feel his heat. You look up to meet his gaze, seconds away from wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him tight. But you don’t.

“Okay.” Your content smile makes Kishibe want to squish your cheeks until your lips pucker up. 

“Thank you for tonight. I needed this.”

Your simple gratitude is enough to briefly short-circuit all thought, a feeling so foreign it locks his jaw with trepidation. No harm is being done, yet your shameless vulnerability awakens what he thought he killed off ages ago.

What kind of danger is this?

“I should be thanking you.” he insists. “Text me when you make it home?”

“Of course.”

-

After that fateful night, you two went on a few more dates: to the movies, a museum, even a local carnival. Going to festivals is quite rare for Kishibe, and when he had attended some it’d only be to scout for devils and ensure public safety. This is the first event where he solely went for fun, where he went with you. Carnival games weren’t even in his mental orbit until he met you, with your competitive streak and petty ambition to win. You both played a target game called Balloon Darts. Of course Kishibe popped every balloon with effortless accuracy while you missed almost every target. When you tried sabotaging his aim with a petulant nudge, the financier had to hold his stomach from how hard he wheezed with laughter. And despite being the sore loser that you were, he still won you a red panda plushie to take home.

And now, Kishibe can’t remember being this playful in a way that didn’t involve mass destruction of some form. He can’t remember having fun with stakes that didn't have to be high. After steadily enmeshing your respective schedules, he’s getting used to your presence in a way he cannot simply undo. You’re texting more often—at a respectful pace, but it feels so natural. It's gotten to the point where you send him shitpost memes in the middle of the night, not knowing that he privately giggles at your absurd knack for humor. Every moment he’s not working, he’s thinking of all the ways he’d have you to himself. Of course it embarrasses him, but he craves you too much to care.

It’s 10:15 pm, and Kishibe can finally leave his company headquarters. He just finished an agonizingly uneventful board meeting on profitability improvement after a long day of analyzing data. At this point, he just wants a cigarette and some coffee. Maybe even a slice of pie.

So where does he go? To the nearest 24-hour diner he can find. He steps foot in the restaurant, quietly relieved it’s practically devoid of customers. He sits at a cushioned bench, some cozy booth in the corner, shrugging off his trench coat until a waiter approaches.

Once a coworker announces the new customer, you grab the nearest menu and make your way to the dining space. You wear your brightest smile and prepare your voice for social interaction.

“Good evening! What can I g—“

You almost drop the menu in your hand at the sight before you: Kishibe sitting prim and proper with his hands folded. His eyes widen, mirroring your speechless shock. You look even cuter than he imagined with your waiter apron and matching cap. He even notices your name tag, which definitely doesn’t match the name you gave him.

You quickly recalibrate yourself and hand Kishibe the menu.

You clear your throat, “Would—would you like a drink?”

“Coffee. Black.” the CFO deadpans.

“Coming right up.” you nod and spin your heel to escape your mortification.

As soon as you reach the kitchen, your back hits the closed doors—anything to support your weight against the oppressive gravity.

How the fuck did he find this place?

Did he already know where I work?!

“Hey!”

A coworker snaps you out of your panic.

“What’d they order?”

“Uhh—black coffee.” you stammer.

You dread the moment you’ll have to walk back out there and give him his drink. It’s not like you’re ashamed of your job, you just… thought you could hide this side of you a bit longer. But you’re a big girl, so you leave the kitchen with that coffee mug in hand.

Kishibe watches you approach him with his hot cup before carefully setting it on the table. You pull out a pen and notepad from your apron.

“Have you tried the pecan pie?” Kishibe queries while scanning the menu.

“Yes, actually. It’s good.” you affirm.

“Then I’ll have that.” he decides.

He watches you scribbling on your little paper, looking all productive and shit.

“Anything else?”

“What time are you off?”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, the question already letting you know he’s dead-ass.

“…In an hour.”

The investor rests his back against the seat, carrying a preemptive resolve that you get home safely tonight.

“Guess I’ll enjoy that pie till then.” he smirks knowingly.

You wordlessly turn your heel again, shoving the notepad in your apron before submitting his order to the chef.

You sit in the locker room while waiting for the server signal, trying to wrap your spinning head around this peculiar situation. Your beloved coworker, Kim, shuts her locker door and turns around to take you in.

“You know that dude or something?” she pries.

You avoid her gaze. “What dude?”

“C’mon.” she scoffs. “The hot GILF drinking coffee.”

You snort at her choice of wording. But she’s already clocked your unusual behavior, so there’s no point in hiding now.

“He’s a guy I’m dating.” you confess.

Kim gasps in exaggerated delight. “Luckyyyyyy.”

She sits beside you, further studying your face and hunched posture.

“You don’t seem too happy about it.” she gently challenges.

You rub on your eye bag with a sigh. “Of course I’m happy to see him.”

Kim stays silent to make space for your thoughts.

“But what if he sees me differently now?”

You lift your head to meet Kim’s concerned gaze, hoping to find an answer in it.

“Well…seeing you differently might not even be that bad.”

You raise an eyebrow, beckoning your coworker to elaborate.

“I mean—“ Kim sighs, lightly scratching her knee. 

“Seeing you at work could expand how he already views you. In a good way.”

Her words urge you to look down at the floor, pondering on how not to think the worst of this predicament. How not to think the worst of Kishibe.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” you promise, gently bumping your shoulder with hers.

The server bell rings, so you stand up from the bench and head to the kitchen for that pie.

You place Kishibe’s plate on his table, and he almost drools at how the whipped cream on top seals the baked dessert.

“Enjoy.” you shoot him a crooked grin that he mentally snapshots for later.

-

Your shift is finally over. After changing out of your work uniform, you bid Kim a good night and head straight for the entrance doors.

The first thing in your line of sight is Kishibe’s back facing you, a cigarette held between his fingers. After exhaling a cloud of smoke, he turns to face you and clocks your fit: a crop top, denim mini-skirt, a matching jacket, and some sneakers. He hasn’t seen this much of your legs since that dress you wore at the club, and they’re delectable on the eyes. But he keeps that to himself.

He drops the cigarette bud and steps on it when you walk up to stand beside him. He towers over you in a way you’ll never get used to.

“I didn’t know you work here.” Kishibe assures. “Just needed a place to unwind.”

You nod appreciatively. “I believe you.”

You watch him look up at the sky, wishing you could properly see how the moonlight reflects off his grey irises.

“Your real name is beautiful.” he praises. “Suits you better than that alias.”

You thank him with a bashful chuckle. And Kishibe doesn’t blame you for the fake name, he’d do it too in your shoes.

“Can you drive me home?”

The financier looks down at you, secretly pleased and vibrating with delight at your request.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” you insist.

Wordlessly, he leads you to his car. You ogle at its ridiculous sleekness.

“Okay, Mr. Porsche!” you tease.

Kishibe opens the door for you, making sure his passenger princess gets inside without hitting her head.

-

During the ride, you’re enveloped by that same woody coolness of Kishibe’s eucalyptus cologne. You’ve grown quietly addicted to the minty scent. You don’t exchange many words, besides him describing how delicious that pie was. Overall, the quiet between you is peaceful, natural even. You’ve both had long days, so your social batteries are understandably low.

When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, you let out a dramatic sigh.

“Home sweet home.” you mumble tiredly. 

You turn to face the businessman, and he gives you a look that you can’t instantly identify. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s longing. Regardless, you struggle to look away. You know there’s danger behind those eyes, even when he’s been so good to you.

“Do…” you take a deep breath. “Do you see me differently now?”

“Not a chance, baby.”

Your thick thighs press together at the sincerity beneath his hoarseness, and he notices. He notices everything when it comes to you. Kishibe is terrifying himself right now, his every pore igniting with the primal urge to retreat. He wasn’t even this tender toward his first love.

Time slows when you lean in and place a hand on the side of his neck, gently anchoring him so you can press a chaste kiss on his hollow cheek. You do it leisurely too, enjoying how his stubble lightly pricks at your plush lips. Your soft skin and sweet warmth pressed against him, sinking into him, is enough to make his dick jump in his pants.

Despite Kishibe’s painful erection, a part of him is grateful when you pull back to unbuckle your seat belt. Because deep down he knows if you had indulged his mouth, he would’ve fucked you right in his backseat. And he just can’t rush that. He won’t take more than you give.

“Thanks for the ride.” you grab your bag and open the door. “See ya later.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

When you shut the door, Kishibe runs a hand over his face, not driving until he sees you step inside the building.

-

A few days after that beautiful night, you’re all giddy—itching for the next time to see Kishibe. You’re even comfortable enough with sharing your excitement with Kim, relishing in the mutuality of your new relationship.

You sent him a text or three, and he didn’t answer. But that’s okay. You know how busy he is, so you lean into that trust by focusing on work. When you finally get your day off, you decide to sleep in and cook yourself a hearty breakfast. With more time on your hands than anticipated, your curiosity peaks regarding what your businessman is up to.

You give him a call, squirming in your seat at the dial ringing in your phone. That is until it goes straight to voicemail. Your shoulders sink, along with your hope that he’d be available. When the beep commences, you record that voicemail.

“Wassup, stranger?” you tease. “Work must really be on your ass, huh?”

You stab your food with a fork. “When you find some time, hit me up cause I’m off the clock today. …Later.”

You end the voicemail and put away your phone with a pout.

A couple weeks go by and you hear absolutely nothing from the CFO. You miss him more than anything, but restrain from contacting him any further. Not until he reaches out. Multiple fears begin ambushing you at once.

Is he still alive?

And if so, is he avoiding me?

Was I asking for too much?

Did he get tired of me?

Every passing day he leaves you unanswered makes every question snowball into an avalanche of dread and wounded pride. Every time you’re on your phone, no matter the reason, you’re constantly reminded of the one man you want to hear from the most. You feel like a helpless little infant who’s been robbed of her candy. You don’t even bother mentioning him to Kim anymore, refusing to expose what his negligence is doing to your confidence.

So you continue living your life and act like everything is fine.

A month goes by, and so does your faith in Kishibe. No texts or calls from him, just pure absence. You can’t even distract yourself from the heartbreak. And what’s worse is that you promised yourself you’d never let anyone have this much power over you—let alone a fucking man. But there’s no other one you’ve met prior like Kishibe. He made you feel truly special.

Today, you give your father a visit at the hospital. After paying the annual premium for his life insurance, you just need to see his face. 

You walk down the fluorescent hallways, reluctantly taking in the sterile air and nurses passing by. You make it to your dad’s room, your trembling hand on the door. You close your eyes and take a breath before sliding it open.

There he is: sleeping, bed-ridden, and attached to medical tech. You slide the door closed and take tentative strides toward him. You sit beside him on the stiff mattress and take his wrinkled hand.

“Hi, Papa!” you coo, smiling as if he’s seeing your face.

“I missed you so much.” you gently squeeze his hand, tracing the veins with your fingers.

He looks so at peace. But you remember exactly what your father told you to do when he could no longer function in a way that maintained his freedom. That conversation still haunts you.

“I know it’s been a while, m’sorry it took so long to visit.”

You know he’d never hold it against you, which pierces the guilt in your chest anyway.

“Life has been such a rollercoaster lately, y’know?”

Flashes of Kishibe claim your vision, and you blink them away.

“But don’t worry. When I stack enough bread, I’ll quit that job and finally do what I was always meant to.”

The returning silence threatens the burn behind your eyes, but you swallow it down as best you can.

“I uhh.” you look up at the ceiling when your vision goes blurry.

“I met this man. He… he’s a real trip y’know?”

You can’t believe you’re talking about the bastard to your dad, but you need it off your chest.

“I think you’d really like him.” you chuckle incredulously. 

“He lacks your whimsy, but he’s rough around the edges like you.”

Even though you’re oblivious to Kishibe’s past, your father carried danger too. But he wielded that danger honorably, and is why he’s been your rock for so long. A kind of rock that taught you how to become your own.

“I’m… sure you’d want to meet him.” your voice cracks with grief.

You shut your eyes and sniffle, letting the inevitable tears fall on his skin.

“But—but I can’t make that happen until you wake up, Papa.”

Your shoulders shake with quiet sobs, pressing his hand against your face—anything to stay tethered to his draining warmth. You carefully crawl on the bed and hook his limp arm over your shoulder. You lay beside him and rest your head on his chest, snuggling closer until you hear his weak heartbeat.

-

Kishibe knows he fucked up with you. 

And the universe knows he’s used to fuck-ups, but this time it’s not even funny anymore. In this past month, every wrong thing happened all at once in a way he couldn’t stop: his company’s stock dropped to an all time low. Of course he structured a backup plan for worst-case scenarios, but the hit they took was destabilizing at best.

He practically lived at HQ, no time for anything but monitoring whatever cash flow they had left, advising senior management, accompanying his boss to however many chaotic board meetings it took to get corporate life back on track. They couldn’t even hire anyone until profits equilibrated.

And to top it all off, Kishibe killed a devil. A powerful one.

It’s not that he wanted to. If he hadn’t done it, then someone would have died. Usually he wouldn’t think twice about it. But after three years of zero assassinations or interactions with devils, Kishibe has no idea what this means for him now. Devils hold grudges. Will another find out what he did?

Will this affect his current livelihood? 

Will this affect his connection to you?

Not that he deserves any access to you. Maybe he never did. Yet the thought of never seeing you again makes him want to down a bottle of gin. He hasn’t been this close to relapsing since his first day of sobriety.

He hates himself for not reaching out to you after all this time. But his new therapist—yes, his new therapist, challenged his habit of emotional self-flagellation. Whatever the fuck that means. So he finally sends you texts, trying to reclaim his place in your life. But none of them go through. He calls you a few times, but his phone always goes to voicemail.

That’s when he realizes: you blocked him.

And you had to, he gets that.

It’s the morning after he pulled another all-nighter in his office. Best believe he’s getting at least a week off after enduring that month-long economic crisis. He needs to see you, but you won’t talk to him anymore. All he needs is an inch.

So he does the unthinkable and pulls up in front of your apartment. Once he notices a resident unlocking the entrance gate, he steps out of his Porsche and follows them in. Every step he takes toward your door claws at his back, but he keeps ascending.

-

You sit at your dining counter, sipping on some cheap grocery store wine. You usually drink socially, but you’re at your wits end right now. You grab your bottle to pour more into the glass until a few knocks snatch your attention. You glare at the front door, approaching it with caution.

Looking through the peep-hole, your eyes widen in disbelief at the silhouette on the other side. Just to make sure your mind isn’t playing tricks, you unlock your door and open it.

Before you is Kishibe, a bouquet of roses in one hand and a box of your favorite chocolate brand in the other. He sees you too, clad in a sky-blue satin nightgown and matching robe.

You let out a weak, resigned laugh and the sound stakes through his chest. You’ve laughed with him. You’ve even laughed because of him. But this is the first time you truly laugh at him, and he takes it like an overdue punishment.

“Oh, okay.” you huff out a scoff at the shameful glint in his sunken gaze.

If he thought trying new hobbies were humiliation rituals, then he was never going to be prepared for how you’re leering at him now.

“I see what the fuck’s going on here:” you mock, waving an accusatory finger at him.

“Look, I’m sorry for disappearing on you but I can explain.” the financier pleads.

“Oh I’m sure you can.” you fold your arms. “But the million dollar question is: why should I give a shit?”

“Because you deserve to know the truth.”

You shake your head in disbelief, lips curling into a tight line at his reasoning. He’d rather you scream at him than deal with this cold, unresponsive version of you. But he’ll take what he can get.

“I’m tired, Kishibe.”

The pure strain and exhausted rage in your unforgiving tone renders him speechless, for there’s nothing else he can say that could make this better. Everything is in your hands. You could slam the door in his face right now, and this mess would finally cease.

But you step aside anyway, wordlessly letting him in because if you’re gonna get anything out of this shit show, it will be closure. Kishibe closes his eyes with a sigh, feeling all that pent up terror decompress. He carefully kicks off his leather Cap Toe dress shoes before placing the bouquet in his right arm to pick them up. 

He steps foot inside your domain and places his shoes by your rack beside the door. You snatch the box of chocolates from his grasp and leave him to hang up his trench coat. After tucking the treats in a freezer, you return to your seat at the dining counter.

Kishibe approaches you with caution, taking in the way you pour your second glass of wine. He sits across from you, quietly cringing at how noticeable your eye bags have become.

“Speak.”

Your low command snaps him out of his trance and he clears his throat.

“I almost went jobless.” he begins. “The company lost a lot of money and we nearly shut down for good.”

You’re listening but give him no eye contact.

“I’ve only ever known how to deal with a crisis alone, and I had a hunch you’d be worried if I told you.”

“Cut the shit. That don’t explain why you ghosted me.” you deadpan.

Kishibe scratches his nape as the cortisol starts to spike. He so badly wishes he could tell you about the devil. About his true identity. But he signed a contract, and he’ll be damned if he risks your safety just to feel better about himself.

“I was raised a killer. A professional killer.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his own at the weight of his confession, and you almost gasp because you can tell he’s not lying. You always knew he was dangerous. But not this lethal.

“I never knew my parents.” he continues. 

“The government made sure of that so they could mold me into the perfect soldier.”

You place your glass back on the marble counter, feeling your brows furrow with fright. Not at him, but at the unspeakable pain he had to endure.

“I never talked things out, I fought it out. I drank it out, fucked it out. Not knowing I dug a bigger, deeper hole cause I kept running away.”

Kishibe ran toward chaos because that was easy. But he ran away from you because facing an ugly truth through your eyes is next to impossible. He scoffs at himself, at how weak he really is.

“I…I don’t want someone like you seeing me struggle. Seeing me at my lowest.”

You’re touched by his implication, touched enough to reach for his hand. Kishibe lifts his head at your touch.

“But that’s not how relationships work.” you gently reason.

“Partners don’t just support each other when they need it the least, then isolate when they need it the most. That’s not sustainable.”

You, too, know what it’s like to self-isolate. You know what it’s like to make mistakes big enough to scare you away from connection, from vulnerability. But you also know exactly what that cost you. 

You roll your eyes at what you’re about to ask, at the door you’re about to re-open.

“This is your last chance, Kishibe. Do you want to be my man?”

“Yes.” he doesn’t miss a beat.

“Then we must carry each other through our highs and lows. Are you willing to do that?”

“Yes, baby.” he places a hand on top of yours.

Kishibe has never been more sure about anything else in his life. And you’ve never seen the CFO this soft for you, it forms a reluctant smile on your face. But that same sliver of happiness dies as quickly as it arrived when you remember today’s hospital visit.

You pull back without realizing, so Kishibe secures his grip, interlocking his fingers with yours.

“What is it?” he pries. “Talk to me, please.”

“I—I…” you nibble on your lip, inwardly begging yourself to take the same advice you gave Kishibe.

“…Rent keeps rising and my father’s getting sicker.” you whisper.

Your man stares at you, utterly stunned by the way your eyes gloss over. You look like you’re about to collapse.

“I need to pay off his medical bills, but I also need a roof over my head.”

You attempt to pull away again, but Kishibe doesn’t budge. You gag away the urge to sob, but tears are already streaming down your cheeks.

“…I’m not ready to be homeless.” your voice rises desperately in pitch.

“I’m—I’m not ready to bury him yet.”

Kishibe can truly take no more, and releases your hand. He rises from his seat, walks around the counter and steadily wraps his arms around you. Your shoulders tremble at the all-encompassing warmth of his firm embrace. You grab onto his shirt as your body shakes with sobs.

Kishibe sighs, hot anguish gnawing at his gut at the realization that you’ve been carrying this devastation since before he met you.

“I’ll cover your rent. And I’m not changing my mind.” he calmly declares. 

“You just focus on being there for your dad, okay?”

You give him a wordless nod, fearing your voice will betray you again. You’re the best thing to ever happen to Kishibe in years and he knows it. He refuses to let you suffer another second more than you ever should.

“Wanna watch a movie?” he suggests apprehensively.

“…yeah.” you whimper, face buried in his woody scent.

-

You cuddle together on your living room couch, watching your childhood favorite: Kill Bill. 

You wanted to track Kishibe’s reactions to the film, but crying that hard can make anyone sleepy. You rest your head on his bulky thigh, and he silently revels at the privilege of being your makeshift pillow.

His hand hovers over the side of your head before gently brushing your hair back. He touches you like fine porcelain, praying that he doesn’t interrupt your nap.

A couple hours pass by and your bladder calls. Your eyes reluctantly crack open and you feel something wet on the side of your mouth. You sit up with a quickness and stare in mortification at the tiny puddle of saliva on Kishibe’s slacks. He glances at the stain and catches onto your embarrassment with a giddy smirk.

“Slept like a baby, huh?” he chuckles endearingly.

“M’sorry.” you whine, wiping the wet patch with your sleeve.

Kishibe waves off your worry. “S’just drool, honey. I’ll be fine.”

You get up from the couch and take a big stretch.

“Watch whatever you want.” you mumble before padding to the bathroom.

Kishibe does just that, scrolling through your subscriptions while you take a piss. 

When you come back, he sees you without your robe—drinking up the sight of your bare shoulders and dainty collarbones. You sit beside him and snuggle close, tucking your head in the crook of his shoulder with your legs resting over his knee.

“Did you enjoy Kill Bill?” you query.

“Sure did.” Kishibe tries and fails to ignore how pressed against him you are.

“What’d you like about it?” you trace your toes over the curve of his calf.

“Those animated scenes were killer.” he continues scrolling—distracting himself from your hot breath fanning his neck.

You rest a hand on his chest.

“Who’s your favorite character?” your sultry voice so close to his ear sends a shock of goosebumps straight through his body.

But he gives away no sign that he’s affected. Which you have every intention of ruining.

“Probably O-Ren.” he supposes.

“Mmm, and why’s that?” your hand trails down his stomach, massaging the print of his abs to get a sense of how toned he really is.

You’re so caught up in toying with your man that you don’t even notice him turning off the TV or placing your remote down.

When your fingers descend to the top of his belt, Kishibe wraps his fingers around your throat with a quickness that makes you yelp. 

Even though he’s gentle, the slight pressure on your jugular, on top of the way he looks down at you—like a predator who’s finally caught his prey, makes your body buzz with need.

“Unless you wanna get fucked open on this couch, relax.” His low warning makes your pussy cry.

You shoot him a grin drunk with lust. “Now why would I do that?”

Kishibe pulls you in and crashes your mouths together, groaning at the lavish texture of your lips. He kisses you with a rough sloppiness that makes you moan, so you hold onto his wrist to cope. 

It’s just a make out session and you already feel like you’re being devoured, especially when he slips his hot tongue past your teeth. Kishibe halts when you suck on it, feeling his dick leak when you match his nastiness.

Kishibe breaks the kiss and slowly pushes your back against the couch’s headrest. He releases your neck but his hand lingers, palm dragging down the valley of your breasts, waiting for the green light.

“Go ahead, baby.” you coo, returning his hungry stare with a wink.

“Unwrap your gift.”

He hooks his fingers over each strap and pulls until the nightgown completely slips off. Kishibe blows a low whistle at the sight: your skin glowing with the daily care you give it, the weight of your brown tits sprawl out on each side, your soft tummy rising and falling with heavy breaths, and a lacy black thong hugging the pudge of your hips.

The financier parts your knees for more access and lowers his head to press searing kisses across your neck. His hands skim up your thighs as his lips leave a trail over your sternum. 

You gasp when he squishes your tits together, licking a fat stripe up the supple mounds. He sucks the hardened nipples into his mouth and you run your fingers through his hair to show appreciation.

He pulls back at a teasingly slow pace and looks into your eyes the entire time, releasing the sensitive skin from his lips with a wet ‘pop.’ He continues kissing down until he reaches your fupa, leaving light bite marks on any area of softness he can reach, hands squeezing at the nearest curves and rolls.

He buries his nose in your cunt, sniffing it through your flimsy underwear like the perv he always was. But he’s your perv now, and that’s all that matters.

“Lift your hips, gorgeous.”

You do it on command, feeling your hairs raise when he slips off the last article of clothing on you. Kishibe sits on his haunches while you lean on your elbows, feeling the urge to shrink from his piercing stare.

“Before we do anything, I’m prepping you, got it?”

Your legs fall open at his effortless authority.

“But I’m so wet already.” you pout. “See?”

And he does see: your coarse pubic hair, your puffy clit, sticky folds glistening with arousal, sopping little hole begging to be filled. Which is precisely why he refuses to rush to intercouse.

“Nice try.” he commends matter-of-factly.  “But I ain’t fuckin’ you till you’re prepped.”

You slouch against the headrest with a petulant groan before holding the back of your knees, granting him the easiest access. The investor hums at your compliance.

“Good girl.” he purrs, rolling up his sleeves and rearranging his sitting position for peak comfort.

Kishibe massages the back of your thighs, coaxing your muscles to melt under his touch. 

“You’ll thank me later.” he promises, prying your lips apart with his thumbs.

Your jaw drops open when he licks a wide stripe from the entrance of your pussy to the top of your vulva. He does it again, except his tongue coils against your clit and you gush instantly. He slurps up your wetness and as soon as he swallows a taste of your nectar, his eyes roll to the back of his head with a low moan.

Your toes curl as he sways his head, dragging his tongue between your folds at a languid rhythm. Your trembling hands loosen their hold on your legs, so you have to consciously make sure they don’t fall forward.

Kishibe looks up to meet your half-lidded gaze, and the shameless mischief in his eyes makes your breath stutter. He gives you light, spontaneous flicks until your clit swells against his tongue, and it pulls a sharp cry out of you—the helpless sound going straight to his cock.

That’s right, stop hiding.

He sees your thighs wobbling, your hips bucking into his mouth. Your hands get tired so you release the back of your knees, but keep your legs nice and spread so nothing interrupts Kishibe’s onslaught of pleasure. And he doesn’t stop, especially when your arousal starts dribbling down his chin.

The CFO roams his rough palms up your soft tummy and cups your boobs, the pads of his fingers fondling the sensitive flesh. 

“Feelin’ good, sweetheart?”

You fail to answer his check-in, utterly hypnotized by the wet heat and pressure erupting in your cunt. But he doesn’t care how fucked out you are, he needs you present.

Kishibe pinches both of your nipples at once, jolting your entire body until you howl.

“Y-Yes, baby—fuck!” you wail, grabbing onto the armrest beneath you, and by extension, your dwindling sanity.

Your man pulls one hand from your chest and decides to reward you. His index and middle fingers curiously prod at your silky entrance before slowly slipping them inside your cunt. A stream of wanton moans and gibberish pour from your mouth at the smooth intrusion, your brows knotted up and glossy eyes glued to his audacious movements.

He curls the fingers up toward his tongue as it circles your clit, relishing the squelching noises he produces from fucking you with just his hand. He can feel every tiny twitch inside you, and it’s the most wonderful place in the universe to be. You squirm and thrash uncontrollably, feeling that familiarly hot coil threaten to implode and snap your brain in two.

And when he inserts a third finger? 

You squirt directly into his mouth with a keen, singing Kishibe’s name like a song he’ll replay long after this night. And he finally understands why memories of his past partners come to a blurry void. They just aren’t you.

When you can truly take no more, the investor stays close as he drifts away from your pussy. He kisses his way up your tummy and chest before pressing his soaked fingers against your lips. You open and suck on them, moaning at your taste as you ride out the aftershocks.

Now that he’s got you in the exact state he intended, Kishibe unbuttons his shirt before shrugging it off. Your eyes crack open as you take a breather, watching your man unbuckle his belt. You literally just came and you’re already clenching at the sight of his chiseled abs, V-line, and scarred skin. Once he fully strips, you witness the rest of his muscular physique.

And when your eyes trail down to that cock…

The sight of those veins, the thickness, those heavy balls, how that flushed and leaking tip reaches his belly button—there are no jokes or slights that can match what you’re beholding. Kishibe can’t help but chuckle at your stupefied face.

Your first time together is too sacred to be had on a couch, but he also doesn’t want you wasting energy on walking.

“Can I carry you to your bed?”

You’re super grateful for his offer, knowing your legs feel like jelly. But you have to talk some shit regardless.

“Sure you can handle it, old man?” you raise a brow, unable to hide your crooked grin.

He gives you a bored stare and sighs. “Keep playin’ with me.”

You giggle at successfully fucking with him, watching him crouch down to slide one arm under your knees and the other under your upper back. He hoists you up like it’s nothing and starts walking to your bedroom.

“Thank you, honey.” you purr while stroking his cheek with your hand.

“Yeah, yeah.” Kishibe rolls his eyes, but he’s melting inside.

When he makes it to your room, your free hand turns the knob and pushes the door open. He carefully places you on the edge of your queen-sized mattress before turning on a couple of your lamps. He has enough taste to avoid overhead lights at all costs. He even takes in the personalized femininity of your space: that sweet aroma in the air, posters of your favorite artists, that red panda plushie sitting by your vanity mirror, purple furniture—

“C’monnnn.” you whine on all fours, shaking your ass impatiently.

The businessman swats your cheek with a quickness, making you gasp at the sharp sting. He massages the handprint on your skin to assuage the burn and you lean into his touch.

“How do you want me?”

“Just like this.” you assure.

“You on the pill?” he checks.

“Yesss.”

Your refusal to hide your desperation makes Kishibe snort. The comforter dips under the weight of his knees as he positions them outside of yours for maximum security. He deepens the arch in your back before groping at your hips.

“What’s your safe word, darlin’?” he strokes his cock and aligns it with your entrance.

“Uhh—pineapple.” you decide.

Your vision falters when he rolls his tip over your clit for good measure. 

He slowly pushes through your slit and your eyes bulge out of your sockets from the stretch. You manage to swallow his head in one smooth movement, but the arresting impact it has on your body forces you to hyperventilate. Kishibe senses your panic and runs a loving hand up your spine to keep you tethered.

“Breathe, baby.” he orders gently.

So you do, taking deep inhales until your tummy expands. One particular exhale relaxes the tension in your muscles, allowing Kishibe to slide in more length. The minor consequence of this escalation is that you’re already mewling.

“I know, sweetheart.” He pauses so you can continue adjusting.

Your man hisses at the feel of you sucking him in, your pussy’s grip is simply merciless. He massages your waist and leans down to kiss the back of your shoulders. You relish how he touches on you, which stabilizes your breathing enough to alert Kishibe. He acts accordingly and gives you a couple more inches until your thighs start to tremble. You feel so fucking full and he’s only halfway in.

“Talk to me.” he ceases movement and waits for a response.

“S’alot.” you slur as your eyes threaten to burn with tears. “B—But I’m okay.”

“Good.” he praises, remaining stagnant until he knows you can handle more.

The longer you sit with the stretch, the less foreign it feels. You both sit in silence, taking the time necessary to get used to this new layer of connection. The weight and stretch of him feels heavenly, but you’re scared of pushing your body past her limit. Ultimately, you test the waters and carefully push back to receive more length.

The investor catches on and drives forward until his pelvis collides with your ass. A sound of pure devastation rips through your throat, feeling a bulge form in your lower tummy.

“You in pain?” he queries, slightly guilty from seeing you struggle so much.

“No.” you whisper, deeply appreciative of his hands steadying you.

Your arms start to wobble as they continue to keep you upright in your doggy position. So you use whatever strength that’s left to grind against your man.

“Look at you.” Kishibe cheers, beyond eager to meet you halfway.

He secures his grip and drives his hips forward, giving you slow and deep strokes. He’s only using a fraction of his power and you’re already loud.

“Kishibe—fuckkk.” you bawl, feeling your arms collapse on the comforter.

Every unhurried thrust paralyzes your body with a disastrous pleasure, fucking high-pitched moans out of you. Yet the same man taking you apart is the same man holding you together.

“I hear you, honey.” Kishibe coos, but he doesn’t stop—too fixated on your ass jiggling from the momentum.

Your cunt gives him a special squeeze and he throws his head back with a drawn-out groan, feeling his balls tighten from the pressure. He can only imagine what your face looks like paired with that pretty voice wailing for him. You’re in shambles right now but he knows he can take you deeper. He knows his baby could handle more of him—all of him even.

Carefully, Kishibe bends forward and lifts your upper body until you’re flush against his chest. One arm’s wrapped securely around your torso, and his other hand gently holds your throat. He spreads his knees to lower his stance, listening to your cute little sniffles.

“Ya ready?” he coos menacingly beside your ear.

You already suspect he’s about to wreck you, so you take a deep breath and swallow some spit.

“Give it to me.”

Kishibe’s dick twitches at your command. 

He retracts his hips until just the tip prods at your entrance, before slamming back into you with a force that pushes all the air out of your chest. He fucks you with a speed and vigor that repeatedly rocks the bed against the wall. He fucks you so hard your tits bounce, his balls repeatedly slapping your clit, and all those sensations make your voice go hoarse from the debauched sobbing. And your man holds you close through every second of it.

Kishibe licks up the tears streaming down your cheek like the madman you’ve made of him. He looks between your bodies and catches the ring of cream forming on his shaft—the sight pushing him dangerously to the edge. You’re grabbing onto his arm to brace yourself.

You can’t even warn him when you cum, your vision spotting and stomach tightening as you spray all over his cock. Your climax tips him over and he finishes with a guttural shout, rope after rope of semen painting your velvet walls. If there is a God, Kishibe can only fall to his knees in gratitude—for he can’t believe he almost didn’t have this union with you.

You both ride out your highs to a gradual stop, the only thing filling the air are your heavy breaths. With time, Kishibe regains the clarity to pull out before lowering you on the comforter. He lets you rest and opens your bedroom door, intending to get a towel so he can wipe you clean.

“Wait.” you mumble tiredly.

Your man pauses and turns to face you. “Hmm?”

“Let’s take a shower.”

Kishibe smiles at your request. “Alright.”

So he heads to your bathroom and turns on the shower head. You follow shortly after, and he cackles when watching you limp toward him.

“Shuddup!” you whine, petulantly tucking your hair in a satin bonnet.

You prepare him a wash rag and dry towel while he prepares the water’s temperature.

“I don’t have men’s body wash, so you’re gonna smell like coconuts and vanilla after showering.”

The CFO huffs out a chuckle. “Fine by me.”

You step inside the shower first, shuddering at the hot water droplets hitting your skin. Kishibe follows inside, and you feel his presence towering behind you. While bathing, you two help each other out; scrubbing your backs and any other places that are hard to reach. Very few words are exchanged, but that’s natural between you.

After some much needed exfoliating, you rinse off whatever’s left and turn to face your man. He looks down at you with a fondness you can finally identify, and it unfolds that familiar warmth in your chest. You grip the back of his neck and pull him toward you. Your lips interlock at an idle pace. He wraps his arms around your waist and you stand on your toes to deepen the kiss.

After finishing your respective grooming rituals, you lend Kishibe a robe with the least feminine color in your closet: teal green. You giggle at how pampered he looks, but he’s too sleepy to bite back. 

You both lay down in your bed, snuggling under the comforter and sheets. You rest the side of your head on his chest with a leg draped over his. The investor is seconds from dozing off until he hears you mutter his name.

“Hm?”

“Thank you for paying my rent.”

Your voice is light with lethargy, but Kishibe hears the sincerity behind it.

“It’s the least I can do.” he insists while rubbing your hip endearingly.

“Now get some rest. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

And you do just that, letting your eyelids surrender to the heaviness of slumber.

Hello my lovely readers! I just started publishing on ao3, yay! :D I recenlty posted Nirvana: Chapter 1 on there, so please feel free to comment and leave kudos. Here's my account: blimbosworldddd

Chapter 5: Satoru Gojo

Synopsis: As an aspiring business-owner from humble beginnings, you had no problem letting multi-millionaire CEO Satoru Gojo mentor your entrepreneurial talents. In fact, his consistent support has done wonders for you. But can you deal with the price of deepening your shared connection? Can you withstand the reality that proximity to power never goes unnoticed?

Notes: chubby black fem/afab reader.

Warnings: Angst (depictions of poverty and violence, psychological warfare, social scrutiny, arguing), usage of the N-Word, fluff (use of pet-names), smut (kissing, fingering, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamic). [18+ONLY: MINORS/NO AGE IN BIO=DO NOT INTERACT]

Word count: 2.8k

Masterlist

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Satoru Gojo was born and raised by privilege. He’s gotten everything he's wanted for so long that wealth was the only language he was fluent in. When he finally came of age and maturity, his multi-millionaire CEO father passed his corporate legacy down to his only son.

As expected, Satoru kept the business booming. He maintained his father’s professional and political relationships while planting seeds for new ones. Traveling overseas week after week, stacking enough lucre and power to fly his nation’s economy into the stratosphere was his only mission. He did everything his father advised.

Yet he still treats Satoru like any other business partner he’s made money with.

Considering the path he’s on, the bachelor could retire at the hedonistic age of forty or younger. But he’s not a bachelor, not anymore at least. Sleeping with nameless women before befriending a firecracker like you got too fucking old.

Compared to Gojo, you grew up with next to nothing.

You lived with roaches and mice. You lived in violent streets. You lived with the uncertainty of life or death. But you lived with love, too. Your single father made sure you survived childhood so you could thrive in adulthood. He made sure you were educated and ambitious, granting you more layers of freedom when you finally earned the discernment to protect them.

And now you’re birthing your own legacy, working several side jobs and attending classes to build the foundation of your business. At times it’s tiresome, grueling even. You were often tempted to settle for a comfortable government job.

But giving up was never an option for you. Not if you wanted to keep your dreams alive.

Last year, you met Satoru after watching him speak at a lecture for aspiring entrepreneurs. Despite his ridiculous beauty, you just wanted him to elaborate on some pointers he shared to expand your wisdom.

Not only did his words help, but he was charmed by you enough to give his personal business card. Throughout the first several months of contacting him, you never rushed into a relationship–only texting him questions and sharing your ideas to keep things professional.

The scariest part was how receptive he was; initiating phone calls, providing constructive feedback for your entrepreneurial approaches, even inviting you to his private conferences so you see firsthand how shit gets done. You know you’re a force to be reckoned with, but a part of you struggled to see what Gojo saw in you.

That is until he invited you to something that wasn’t business-related. A date to be exact.

The first several dates were casual and adventure-oriented. You introduced him to your favorite taco truck downtown, strolling beneath the city lights while chowing down the most delicious street food you’ll both ever eat.

Satoru remembered how loudly you guffawed at him when he confessed that was the first taco he’s ever eaten. He loved that you weren’t afraid to make fun of him, to play with his ego like a basketball. He loved how easily you challenge his impeccable sense of self.

The date he’s taking you on tonight, however, is a private dinner party at his local mansion. A trip inside his world. To say you are utterly mesmerized by the architecture’s vintage interior is a severe understatement.

And the attendees add to the grandeur; aristocrats adorned in custom gowns and suits, butlers and maids serving at every corner while free-form jazz sets the luxurious tone.

Satoru smirks at the priceless way your jaw drops and places a warm hand on your lower back.

“C’mon princess,” he whispers right by your ear. “Food isn’t getting any hotter.”

You swallow the dried spit in your mouth and let your date guide you to the refreshment and appetizer tables. The startling variety of options—from vegan delicacies to meats to virgin drinks to liquor, leave you speechless and drooling.

You pick up the first thing that peaks your interest. Satoru can’t help but snort at how you sniff the fried arancini a couple times before taking a tentative bite. You devour the rest of it—enchanted by its crispy outer layer and savory inside flavors. You raise the food to Gojo’s chin and he pops the fried ball in his mouth.

After downing your appetizers with drinks, Satoru smoothly interlaces his fingers with yours.

“I want you to meet some people.”

You wordlessly comply, watching him lead you to his most trusted business partners. You’ve never shaken so many hands or received a flurry of compliments at once. And the best part is that you aren’t afraid. With the security of Gojo’s presence, you relax into your element; speaking your mind from a place of grace, actively listening to the unique stories they share.

Maybe…

Maybe there is room for me.

Satoru happily watches you acquaint yourself until he hears his favorite song being played by the jazz band: At Last by Etta James.

You’re so caught up in conversing with a peer about this sick business idea, that you flinch when someone’s knuckle teasingly taps the back of your shoulder. You turn around and behold the sight of Satoru offering his hand.

“Care to dance?”

You would excuse yourself from the person you had just spoken with, but you’re already taking your date’s hand. Satoru walks you to the dance floor, past the other couples already swaying to the music. He takes a step closer, and the sight of him–slicked back hair and divinely tailored three piece suit, demands nothing less than absolute restraint from you.

“May I guide your movements?”

“Please do,” you humbly insist.

Satoru steadily raises your left elbow to the height of your shoulder before placing your hand on top of his right upper arm. He holds your right hand up with his left before settling his right hand on your bare back. You know it’s likely just proper positioning, but the warm skin-to-skin contact chips away at your resolve.

“Just follow my lead, baby.”

And you do: moving as soon as he moves, preparing to step backward after he tells you to, all while trying not to overthink away the fun.

And when you inevitably step on his foot, he has to hold back from giggling at the mortified apologies spilling from your lips. He rests his chin against the side of your head, making you smell his citrus cologne.

“To think the most beautiful woman at this party doesn’t even know how to waltz,” Gojo jests.

You reward him with a sultry chuckle, and it’s honey to his ears.

“I’ll see if there’s room left in my list of priorities,” you purr.

You’re both in your shared zone, but that doesn’t stop the surrounding gazes from intruding your bubble. You look around and see eyes–distant, yet piercing stares. And what’s worse, it feels like they aren’t for Satoru to notice. You clear your throat and reluctantly halt the dance’s flow. Your date pulls back and looks down at you with mild concern.

“I’m gonna use the restroom.”

Before Gojo could say anything, your heels are already clacking away on the ceramic tile floors.

Once you have some privacy, you approach the sinks and look in the wall-sized mirror. You take a deep breath, not minding the snow-haired woman putting on lipstick beside you–the deep red hue emphasizing her porcelain skin.

“I love your dress! Nothing classier than a backless garment.”

Your eyes flicker up to see the woman admiring you, and feel a soft grin taking form.

“I appreciate that. You look wonderful as well.”

She pops the cap back on her lipstick and buries it in her purse.

“I’m Mei-Mei, a close friend of Gojo’s.”

Funny, considering he never introduced her to you. But you give Mei-Mei your name anyway.

“It appears you’ve piqued his interest, no easy feat,” she continues.

You remain silent, her eerily composed demeanor reawakening your hypervigilance.

“What’s it like being Gojo's assistant?”

I knew it.

How fucking typical.

Your gaze loses all warmth at her sorry excuse for a question, instead sharpening into a detached glare.

“I work for no one.”

Mei-Mei laughs lightheartedly, “Of course you do! Everybody works for someone.”

“Well I’m not everybody.”

You activate the faucet and rinse your hands to drown out her psychological warfare. Mei-Mei takes a step closer, and you pause to make sure she doesn’t try anything rash.

“You’re not his first arm candy and you definitely won’t be his last. He takes women like you home for one thing and one thing only.”

Women like me, huh?

You shake away the water, not caring if any of it got on her attire. You snatch some paper towels from a nearby machine and wipe your hands.

“Have the life you deserve,” you toss the used paper in the trash.

Mei-Mei watches you silently storm out of the restroom before looking back in the mirror.

Luckily for you, the party is nearing its end. Satoru sees you approaching him and is about to crack some corny joke, until he notices the distant look on your face.

“I’m ready to go.”

Satoru pauses with a raised brow, “You okay? Something happened?”

“Nah,” you lie. “Just wanna get up early for work tomorrow.”

Your date doesn’t give it a second thought and summons the valet to bring his car. Once you’re both outside, he opens the door of his black Mercedes-Benz to let you inside. He retrieves his keys and starts the car.

You feel your mind slipping into auto-pilot as he drives, involuntarily repeating the venom Mei-Mei force-fed you. That is until you notice Gojo parking in one of his lots. Your face contorts with a frown when he turns on the ceiling lights.

“Why did you stop?”

Satoru hears the panic bleed in your tone, and he hopes what he’s about to ask assuages your fears. His nervous hands grip the steering wheel, waiting for that unbreakable conviction to gradually release his hold.

“I’ve been thinking about all the progress you’ve made since we met at that lecture,” he carefully prompts.

“How about I give you a grant?”

You delay your response, finding it surprisingly difficult to receive his confession. Satoru takes that as an opportunity to expand his reasoning, failing to notice the way you ball your fists.

“Your business is read-“

“Do you think I’m just some whore whose loyalty can be bought?”

Gojo’s dazzling eyes widen at your gall, “I beg your pardon?”

You scoff petulantly.

“Don’t act brand new, nigga. What would you even gain from doing that, huh? Why would you?”

“Because you deserve it!”

“Like you know what it means to deserve anything.”

You knew that was a low blow and immediately felt its shameful price. But even the cruelest remarks can hold truth, which explains why Satoru chooses not to hold back when he says:

“It’s not my fault you’ll never know what real money is.”

His words boil the blood beneath your skin, years of buried rage and systemic injustice clawing its way out into the open. You’re about to roar, but you laugh in disbelief instead.

“You mean the real money you made off of sweatshop workers? The real money you made off of citizens living check to check?? The real money your father made off of slave wages?! You motherfuckers need us!”

“Then why are you sitting in my passenger seat, hm?”

You falter–face contorting into a sad, almost reverent smile. You throw your hands in the air, humorously coping with the helplessness of this situation. It makes Satoru’s heart nearly shatter into tiny pieces.

“Why not?”

The silence that follows screams louder than any moan Satoru elicited from any woman that isn’t you. Louder than the gunshots that made you duck in your childhood apartment. A flustered scoff escapes his lips as he glares forward to hide the heat blooming on his face. The effort is futile.

He whips his head back to you, instantly realizing that not once did you break your solemn gaze. You look at him in a way no one ever has or will. You’re so goddamn lucky he’s been abstinent for two years. If not you would’ve been ravaged right here and now.

He leans closer so you can see the burning restraint in those blue eyes—more vibrant than the diamonds he bought you.

“If we go any further than this, I'm ruining you for everybody else,” he warns.

You meekly nibble on your bottom lip, “Promise?”

Gojo grabs the back of your neck and collides his mouth with yours. You immediately moan into the kiss, his minty breath and soft lips reducing what’s left of your inhibition to mere putty. You dip your tongue in his mouth, making the growing bulge tightening his trousers impossible to ignore.

Satoru grabs your jaw to keep you in place and pulls back, a string of saliva the only thing connecting you two. The way his half-lidded eyes bore into yours ignites a wave of arousal so arresting your pussy quivers.

“Open your legs, gorgeous,” he coos. “Wanna try something.”

You waste no time and unbuckle your seatbelt before pulling apart the slit of your dress. Like a hawk, he watches your thick thighs slowly spread–not taking his eyes off you for a single second. You try to remove your panties, but Gojo turns your chin to face him.

“Stay,” he orders.

You slip your fingers from the dainty cotton in compliance, trusting that it’s okay to not know exactly what he’s thinking. Satoru rewards you with a peck on your shoulder before tilting your seat back to provide a more comfortable posture.

“Just relax and keep those knees apart, alright?”

“Okay,” you hum wantonly.

You lean against the head rest and close your eyes to fully decompress. Gojo rests a warm palm on your inner thigh, you can’t help but flinch at the goosebumps his caresses ignite. The profound suppleness of your silky skin makes his dick leak when imagining all the ways he could mark it.

Your eyes rip open with a gasp when the pads of his fingers unhurriedly brush your clothed clit. Gojo watches you watch him apply skillful pressure, attuning to how your chest rises and falls when massaging the swollen bud.

You grip the arm rest as your legs start to tremble. The sound of your heavy breaths make him relish how delectably helpless you look. His hand traverses the thickness of your cunt, taking note of the growing wet patch where your entrance must be. He clicks his tongue.

“This wrecked already, princess?” He whispers by your ear, making sure the tease of his words permeate through your gown.

“Too bad you’ll be shit out of luck when I finally fuck you.”

A firm swipe of his knuckles threatens to make you gush prematurely, feeding the carnal ecstasy buzzing through you.

“F-Fuck, Toru,” you cry as your hips swivel and buck into his hand to chase the pleasure.

“Say my name again.”

And you would, but the remnants of your ego pathetically cling to pride by gagging you. Gojo enacts punishment by pinching your clit until you jolt, and the squeal you let out echoes through the eternity of his spirit.

“Say it or you won’t cum.”

His low yet merciless command urges a sob to bubble up in your throat, but you keep your knees open despite the sting. You don’t even notice one of your heels dangling off your foot.

“P–Please don’t stop, Toru.”

Satoru chuckles at your whimper of surrender, “You beg like a pro, baby.”

He hooks a careful finger beneath the hem of your panties and slides it all the way to the side. The man almost creams his pants when touching the delicacy of your bare folds, sticky and wet and all his doing. The way he relentlessly fondles your naked cunt forces you to grab the headrest as desperate mewls tumble from your plump lips.

As soon as he plunges his middle finger through your slit, you unravel before you could warn him. The surging orgasm forces your body to thrash and squirm, plush thighs clenching his hand to prevent overstimulation. Simply hearing you wail–simply watching his hand devastate you is a climax in itself, one he knows he’ll treasure even after death.

Gojo slowly pulls his hand from your body before repositioning your underwear back in place. He lets you catch your breath while shamelessly sucking on his fingers to taste your nectar. More ravishing than any 3-star michelin meal he’s ever eaten. He pulls out a handkerchief to wipe what’s left before re-attaching your seatbelt. He starts the car and drives you home.

You both pull up at an intersection. While Gojo waits for the green light, he steals a glance of you through the rearview mirror. You look tired, but content.

“Just so you know,” he grips the steering wheel to ground his nerves.

“It’s okay if you don’t want the grant. I can support you in other ways.”

You lock eyes with Gojo, sighing blissfully at his anticipatory gaze.

“You already have, Toru.”

I've been following your work for some time now (and I just started following you, even though I thought I already did) ans I just wanted to drop by to thank you for everything you post. ❤️

The way you represent us black women through your writing is so comforting and very much needed.

I hope you have a nice day/night and overall week.

Much love.

Xx

Chapter 4: Bokuto Koutaro

Synopsis: As an aspiring educator, dating a volleyball star is as foreign as it is wonderful. Despite your hectic careers, you and Bokuto managed to find love in each other. But can you both sustain that love through the shared demands of life?

Notes: chubby black fem/afab reader.

Warnings: Mild angst (work/school related stress, depictions of relationship loneliness), cursing, fluff (pet name usage, physical affection, words of affirmation), smut (foreplay, cunnilingus, face-sitting, spanking, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamic, etc). [18+ ONLY: MINORS/NO AGE IN BIO=DO NOT INTERACT]

Word count: 3.6k

Masterlist

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Bokuto Koutaro may not be your first everything, but he is your first serious relationship. Your first as in something new, something new as in the unknown; uncertainty. 

It was foreign to you, the way Bokuto saved you a ticket to the biggest game of his career. It was foreign to you, the way he paid for every date or picked up a hobby you like to get to know you better. It was foreign, the way he made you feel safe enough to be mean and crack jokes at his expense. The way he opened up his heart like it’s nobody’s business because he trusts you that much. It’s still foreign, the humbling way he understands that love is never really for free.

Before even dating Bokuto, you were just good friends. The intimacy was never rushed because while his eyes were set on the prize of making volleyball history as a Black Jackal, your eyes were set on pursuing a PhD in Education. 

You were--and still are in some ways, at a point in your life where romance was a distraction that could delay your success. You thought projecting this belief onto Bokuto after meeting him would protect your heart when it only further encouraged him to earn the right to call you his woman. Even if that meant acquiring a vulnerability that tested his ego.

So with time, he enmeshed his tight schedule with yours; he invited you to his practice games and accompanied your study sessions, even when he didn’t have a clue what you were researching. During brain breaks he’d give you massages, keep you hydrated, and even took the time to ask how you felt about your hard work. If it weren’t for this man literally inserting himself into your life, you wouldn’t have completed all of your coursework before the deadline.

However, being a professor takes years to achieve. The amount of time that decides when you’re ready is severely unknown, severely uncertain.

No matter how many steps you take towards that prize, you can’t even see it in the far distance. A reality so crippling you don’t even realize how deeply it affects you. The only dates you’ve been on lately are at home because you’re too buried in your journals and dissertations to go outside. 

Even when you’re together–-when you’re in the same room, sharing the same space, Bokuto feels alone. And as much as he respects your drive, he could sense the growing disproportion of time and energy between you two. He may never truly understand why the stakes are so high for you, but he knows you’re slipping right through his fingers because of it.

And here he is, sitting across from you on a shared couch, watching you review some boring ass conference on your laptop instead of watching the movie you picked with him. He turns up the volume to see if you’ll pick up what he’s putting down, yet your tired eyes remain glued to the screen on your lap.

It doesn’t matter how many times your faces are a hair’s width away, you will never not shudder when those golden brown eyes bore into yours, how his body dwarfs your smaller one, or how the warm scent of his natural musk and sweet cologne occupy your senses.

And he smells so expensive–you can’t help but feel like you’re invading his personal space, despite being practically eclipsed by him from the rest of the world.

“Hey, Teach!” He teases, yet you can hear the concern laced in his warm timbre.

His breath graces your lips in a way that ignites goosebumps. All you simply have to do is lean in and taste him. 

But I don’t.

I can’t.

You return the stare to act unfazed, but you know you’re wrong for emotionally flaking on your date–regardless of how patient Bokuto is or tries to be. He slowly shuts the laptop and places it on the coffee table beside you for this very reason. He leans back to cross-sit, mirroring your sitting position. 

“I thought it would be just us today,” Bokuto prompts with a raised brow.

“No studying, like you promised.”

And he’s so fucking close, hefty thighs exposed and on display–but you gotta focus and muster up a reasonable response. No matter how mind-numbing it feels to try.

“I’m sorry, Kouta. I…” you look up to maintain steady eye contact with your boyfriend, letting him know that you honor his concern. 

“I’m so used to getting things done on my own. Cause that way… no one can let me down or hold me back.”

That’s all you’ve ever known. And it’s not like you haven’t lived a beautiful life, but you also know a period of deep disappointment. Deep despair. Those limiting beliefs never leave, they just change shape with time.

Bokuto’s eyes frown with a pout. Why would he ever want to make you feel like he’s holding you back? Why would he not revere your vulnerability just as much as you do his? He did not commit himself to you just to watch you lose commitment to yourself. Bokuto grabs your shoulders with urgency.

“Remember when I lost that big game I invited you to?”

What’s that got to do with anything? 

“Yes?” You respond quizzically.

“Do you know how humiliating it felt to lose a game that important in front of your girlfriend?” He continues.

“…”

Bokuto sighs to brace himself, his eyes descending to the couch beneath him.

“I tried so hard to keep it together that day, but you just wouldn’t let me.”

His thumbs caress the skin on your arms as if it’s soothing him too. 

“You knew how much it hurt and you made space for that. I haven’t cried that hard since high school, and you held me through the whole thing.”

He still remembers it like it was yesterday: the way you held his hand and kissed it while watching him fall apart, the way you sweetly whispered how proud of him you were as his suppressed sobs echoed through the empty locker room.

This revelation grounds something in you, something you didn’t even know persisted. The amount of limiting beliefs your boyfriend spontaneously shattered is something you’ll have to study later. His bravery, his vulnerability--it makes you want to be brave and vulnerable too. 

This is what you’ve needed all along, this light warmth blooming in your chest. This feeling of true security. You lift your hand to cradle the side of his neck, letting your thumb gently trace his jaw.

“How could I not, Kouta?” You beam a weak smile that could bring your boyfriend to his knees. 

“We're a team. We grow together.”

Bokuto’s eyes gloss over as he marvels at you and everything that you are. All he can be is grateful that you chose him to provide for you. His hands fall to your knees, the heaviness of them reminding you of the power they hold on the court. 

How can that power be translated into pleasing you? 

Bokuto slowly runs those warm, wide palms up your thighs.

Fuck. A man hasn’t touched you like this in years. The way your pussy immediately clenched at his touch is proof that you forgot how absolutely starved you are of physical intimacy.

“And since we’re a team, I want what you want,” Bokuto confesses while watching the worry start to dissipate from your weary eyes. 

“So what do you want, baby? And don’t tell me what you think you should want. Tell me what you actually want.”

Bokuto continues massaging, feeling the pudge of your inner thighs seep between his fingers. He carefully kneads the velvety skin in a way that ignites those adorable little goosebumps of yours.

His movements are tantalizing enough to boil that primal heat in your belly. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths as you try to cope with the growing arousal. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, analyzing how you yelp when he gives you a sudden pinch. Cute.

“C’monn, tell me angel!” Bokuto purrs, the bass rumbling through his deep voice causing another insane pussy clench that you know is definitely ruining your panties.

“I wanna make you feel good.”

His slender fingers expertly rub away the previous sting before inching towards your outer hips. He slips them underneath the hem of your shorts until they reach the silky smooth flesh of your ass.

A delighted little gasp escapes your lips when he grabs some good handfuls and spreads your cheeks apart, making your cunt feel exposed even though you’re not even naked.

“K–Kouta…” now it’s your turn to plead, feeling your back arch with wanton need as you anchor your elbows on the arm of the couch.

“I love it when you say my name like that, pretty.”

He continues kneading until his fingers approach your outer lips. 

“You like it when I play with you like this?”

You nod your head to confirm a yes, too scared of how whorish you’ll sound if you open that mouth. But that’s fine, he’ll have you singing for him real soon.

“Want me to play with you some more?” 

“Y–yes,” you try to hide the whimper slipping out. 

“With… with my panties off.”

“Good girl. Communicating your needs n’ shit,” he hums at your unraveling state.

“You deserve a reward.”

“I’m not a dog, Kouta,” you chide.

“You like it when I treat you like one, though.”

Bokuto hooks his fingers under the band of your shorts and panties, completely slipping them off your legs. Just a peak of your puffy folds goes straight to his near-painful erection. 

Despite being so bare, you still feel the need to censor yourself and close up. Your man places his hands on each of your knees and gently pulls them apart at a pace he knows is comfortable for you. Bokuto feels his leaking head twitch with burning desire: you’re just pretty everywhere.

“Sweet Jesus,” he whispers to himself.

The sight of your chubby lil cunt alone has his slit leaking like a faucet. 

Dark brown folds curtain your swollen clit wondrously as they glisten with the arousal you so desperately tried to hide. And your scent–fuck you smell so intoxicating. You smell so you.

Bokuto just wants to bury his face in it, but he’s gotta be patient. He’s on your time. You look away, unable to bear how his hungry eyes eat you up. You could burst into flames at this point. His knuckles skim your coarse pubic hair, causing his broad shoulders to sink with a hopeless sigh.

“I’m gonna take real good care of you, 'kay?”

He takes a nearby pillow and tucks it behind your back, “Relax for me.”

“Okay,” you whisper absentmindedly, too caught up in his deep voice melting your brain.

Your beloved drags his dull nails down your thighs one last time for good measure, before pressing a firm thumb right against your clit.

“Hnngh—shit!” you whine at the languid way he circles the stiff nub, letting your wetness catch onto his finger.

“Does that feel good, Teach? Hmm?”

He already knows the answer to this question, but he’ll never let up a chance to talk you through a moment as sacred as this.

Bokuto continues massaging, causing rushes of heat to pump throughout your lower region as the spiking pleasure threatens to consume you. Your man lets his thumb sink into the entrance of your drooling slit before dragging it back to the top of your vulva, and your thighs quiver at the electric shocks pulsing through you.

He rolls your sensitive nub between his index and middle finger, before pulling back the hood just to have a proper look at her deep pink hue. He blows a low whistle at the sight.

“God damn,” Bokuto’s free hand skims up the cute fold of your tummy before reaching the swell of your tit beneath your baby tee. He squeezes the delicate mound, rolling your nipple between his index and thumb until it pebbles with friction. There are too many sensations happening all at once, you can only squirm as your toes curl.

“F–Feels good, Kouta,” the heightened pitch of your voice signals you’re getting closer to cumming.

“Please don’t stop.”

Bokuto notices your hips bucking up into his hand for more of his ministrations, listening carefully to how noisily your folds squelch in tandem. Your sticky juices web onto his fingers as he continues expertly working your pussy. He’s got you nice and soaked for him.

And that’s why he’s willing to endure the way your face contorts painfully when he retreats his hand from where you need it most.

“Wha—whyyy?” You mewl pitifully, but before you could finish your temper tantrum your boyfriend pecks a kiss on your glossy lips before wrapping your legs around his waist to hoist you up from the couch.

You watch him carry you to the bedroom, wondering with a fucked out brain what he could possibly be cooking in his head.

He carefully lowers you on your side of the mattress and sits beside you. You anchor yourself on your elbows to look up at him and he’s already watching you. Not your half-naked form, but your face.

“Have you ever sat on someone’s face before?”

Your eyes widen in shock before avoiding his gaze.

“…No.”

But I’ve always wanted to.

“Have you, though?” You pry back.

Bokuto notices the lust across your features sober with apprehension. It pains him to learn that the men in your past weren’t eating you right.

“No, but someone sat on my face before,” the athlete shifts to lay on his side, head resting on his hand for more direct eye contact.

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

Your thighs clench together at what he’s insinuating.

“And if you’re worried about whether you’re too heavy or if I’ll be able to breathe, news flash–none of that is your problem.”

Despite how tranquil and inviting his tone is, something about that dark timbre urges you to keep your gaze at bay. Bokuto gently grabs your chin so you can see the unwavering gleam in his determined eyes.

“Okay, princess?”

You gulp and take a deep breath to try and ignore the growing slick between your legs.

“Do… do you want me to ride your face, Kouta?”

“Only if you’re willing.”

You nibble on your lip, feeling the growing heat in your body threaten to possess you.

He’s really making me spell this shit out.

“Lie on your back for me then.”

Bokuto feels his already aching cock jump with giddiness at your command. He wastes no time and obeys, making sure to cushion his neck with a pillow so he can give you the best possible experience. He folds his hands behind his head and shoots you a cheeky grin.

“Claim your throne, baby.”

You snort out a giggle while carefully swinging a leg over his head. Your thighs tense up as you hover over his mouth, panic creeping in when his hot breath hits your cunt. Calling this moment heaven when he can see your primal glory this close is a severe understatement. 

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs dreamily. “I’m beyond privileged.”

All of that relentless fear melts away with those words alone. Bokuto wraps his arms around the thick of your thighs and holds you down. He massages your cheeks with gratuitous squeezes before pulling each one apart. He loves the way you jolt as he sinks his teeth into your inner thigh, just to lick on the faint bite mark immediately after. You place your hands on his broad chest to anchor yourself.

He takes his time pressing wet kisses on the outer lips of your pussy, just a few centimeters shy of where you need him most. You can even hear him take a generous whiff of your essence. You want to tell him to hurry the hell up so bad, to bring your throbbing clit some release so he can tame this agonizing lust. But you wait as silently as you can and remain in position.

Bokuto traps one of your folds between his moist lips, daring to gently pull at the slippery flesh and letting it recoil back into place. Every teasing touch coaxes a visceral quiver out of you, steadily dissipating all awareness of anything that isn’t Bokuto.

Your man pulls you down a bit more to drink in your juices and he groans: you don’t have any particular flavor, but the seamless way your viscous nectar coats his throat could make him cum in his briefs. Nothing can compare to your taste.

To reward your patience, Bokuto flattens his tongue and licks up a long stripe from the top of your vulva to the base of your entrance. Your jaw drops at the hot pleasure searing up your spine. He does it again, feeling your muscles jerk against his hands with every long, determined lick he gives you.

You shiver as he moans shamelessly into you, obsessed with how your clit swells against his taste buds. The tip of his tongue swirls around the pink nub, every light flick making you squirm away any restraint you had left.

“Oh, my Goddd—fuck!” You cry out, tightening your grip on Bokuto’s shirt.

No man has ever… touched you like this before. No man has ever introduced such saccharine sensations to you. No man has ever made you feel this adored. No man was ever safe enough to. That’s why Bokuto is dedicated to fucking you so good you’ll never settle again. 

He’s so messy and loud too; every indulgent drag of his tongue induces more cream to spill from your spasming slit, despite his efforts to lick you clean. All you can do is sink lower into his mouth and chase more of that delicious friction. He runs his hands up the pudge of your soft hips and tummy, taunting you with sensual rubs that pay extra attention to your rolls.

You feel your hips bucking on their own, your labored breaths reducing your arms and knees to jelly as they struggle to hold your posture. They ultimately give out and you collapse on top of your man’s stomach. Bokuto revels at how your moans and whimpers increase in volume. He revels in your gradual surrender to him, more importantly to yourself. 

This pleasure he provides is simply too powerful, too relentless for resistance to prevail. You need him to feel good too. In a debauched daze, your shaky hands reach for the hem of Bokuto’s shorts. You steadily pull them down, littering featherlight kisses on his stunningly toned V-line.

Before you could fully set his dick free, Bokuto raises an open palm and spanks your ass with a quickness. That sharp pain–only a fraction of the force he applies to a ball on the court, is more than enough to make you holler.

You huff and give your man a helpless glare, feeling the sting add fuel to your erupting delirium. But Bokuto knows this isn’t about him. He doesn’t need to have sex right now. He just wants to focus on one thing and one thing only. 

So he slips his tongue all the way up and inside you, unable to breathe as he explores your silken walls. You instantly lift your hips, petrified of how hard you’re going to cum on someone’s face.

Your boyfriend keeps you restrained against him, making sure you remember how his depraved groan reverberates through your sopping cunt. He loves how you taste slightly saltier when you approach that final edge. 

Bokuto wraps his lips around your clit one last time–every gentle suck vacuuming all thought in your mind into a distant blank. You finally let go and start grinding on him with all you have left, chasing that ecstasy like it’s your ancestral birthright. The bed creaks under the plunge of your unrestrained hips, and his eyes roll to the back of his head at the force.

“…Suck that clit, Kouta.” Bokuto’s cock strains against his briefs at your commanding praise. 

“Suck that clit—fuck!”

You sound like a pornstar in the best possible way. And the orgasm that hits you is haunting; you squirt directly into his mouth—dispersing all the tension, stress, guilt, and fear that built up until this point. Bokuto moans as you soak him, anchoring you tightly as you writhe uncontrollably in his hold.

The athlete pries your folds apart, admiring how preciously your clit twitches as you recover from the best orgasm you've ever had. Yup, you are never settling again in your life.

“Such a good girl,” he coos. “You did so well.”

As you gradually come down from your high, Bokuto helps lift you off of him and turns you on your back. He kisses you up the valley of your breasts, up your neck, and on your chin. When your lips meet, you can taste yourself on him. You like it. Your beloved lay beside you, trailing his fingertips over your tummy. You return his worshipful gaze.

“You uhh… you staying the night?”

Bokuto chuckles endearingly at your invitation before pressing a long kiss on the crown of your head. 

“Love to, but you have an assessment tomorrow. And I have early morning practice.”

“Right… right.”

Your man strokes a loving thumb on your cheek, infinitely grateful that you honored him with the most intimate access to you. Why would he rush that?

“But this weekend though? Oh, it’s on,” he promises.

You giggle at his raunchy determination and kiss the palm cradling your face.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Chapter 3: Connie Springer

Synopsis: Your first trip to Puerto Rico was beautiful but tainted with past emotional wounds. You want to return to your boyfriend’s homeland healed and present, but you’re stuck at your city. How will Connie help alchemize your pain into a miracle?

Notes: chubby black fem/afab reader. And if you still don’t know, Connie is Puerto Rican in this chapter.

Warnings: Angst (tears, mentions of past trauma, mental anguish), fluff (pet names usage like “mami” and “papi”, words of affirmation), smut (mating press, p-in-v penetration, dirty talk, toe-sucking, dom/sub dynamic, cursing, etc). [18+ ONLY: MINORS/NO AGE IN BIO=DO NOT INTERACT]

Word count: 1.4K

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Previous Chapter Next Chapter

You’re on the phone with your boyfriend, Connie, when a particular worry incessantly eats away at you in the dead of night.

“Talk to me, bebita. What’s wrong?” You can tell he was sleeping before you called, his deep voice much raspier, and sending warm tingles down your spine.

It’s a long story, but to keep it short, you’ve always wanted to vacate out of the country. And the one time you finally got to was tainted by underlying darkness. You went to Puerto Rico in high school expecting a good time.

What you weren’t expecting, however, was a public anxiety attack that would haunt your memory after you graduated. You know it’s not your fault, not even in the slightest. Shit happens when you least expect it. But for some reason you feel played, like you missed out on truly getting to know a beautiful country and its people because you were too busy suffering.

Connie listens intently to every word pouring from your plump lips, a deep frown tugging on his own when he realizes how serious this matter is to you.

“I hate it, Con,” you sniffle quietly.

“I don’t wanna stay in this city for the rest of my life! Jesus, why am I like this?”

“Hey, hey, hey–don’t beat yourself up like that, mami,” your man croons as he sits up from his pillow.

You curl into a ball amid your satin sheets, holding your phone close to your chest as tears uncomfortably stream down the side of your face.

Connie rubs his jaw while looking down at his lap in deep thought. 

“Don’t let one bad experience defeat you. Baby, you da strongest woman I know–besides my moms n’ shit.”

A chuckle jumps out of your mouth before you can stop it, which of course, relaxes Connie with a smile of his own–aching to see your pretty face.

“Every time you in a rut, you pick yourself back up like it’s nobody’s business,” he continues.

“If anyone deserves a vacation, it’s always gonna be you. ¿Siénteme?”

That’s the first thing about Connie you fell in love with: his ability to change your perspective. Because of his simple nature, your boyfriend has always been the type to forge his own reality, to not accept the limits people place on him and themselves. So of course, he would encourage you to do the same.

“…Yeah,” you warble weakly.

“Matter fact,” Connie reaches over his nightstand for a perfectly rolled joint. 

“I got family in San Juan. I ain’t seen ‘em in a minute, and their home’s big enough for two more. Why don’t we fly over there for the summer?”

Now it’s your turn to sit up from your pillows, “Connie are you serious? C--Can we do that?”

Your man lights up his joint and exhales a long tuft of smoke.

“We can do whatever we want, mami.”

-

And by anything, he means having you butt-ass naked and laid out on the Puerto Rican sand after finally taking you on the trip you’ve patiently waited for. You’re face-up, ass-up in a devious mating press as your boyfriend holds your knees against the swell of your tits. He takes his time bullying that flushed, fat head of his dick past your soaked folds and he has to. He has to make sure you reap all the benefits that come with being his good girl.

“P–Papi wait!” You plead in a hopeless panic and push your hands against Connie’s broad shoulders, against your lust-driven delirium.

This man’s size completely overwhelms you; his chiseled body alone eclipsing your view of the orange sunset painting his tan skin. All you can see are his low, hazel eyes obsessing over your adorably scrunched up eyebrows and tear-stricken cheeks.

“No, bebita. No more waiting,” he coos sternly, groaning at how your needy little hole swallows the rest of his thick length as he steadily sinks all the way into you.

His knees are planted on each side of your plush hips, making sure he has the balance necessary to fuck you exactly how you deserve, making sure you remember everything about this moment.

“So fucking pretty, mami. Fuck,” Connie pulls out just until his reddened tip rolls over your clit, causing the sensitive nub to twitch with an arousal that makes you quiver.

All it takes is a sharp snap of his hips to plunge every inch of hard cock he has right back into your sopping pussy. You cry out—throwing your weak arms around his neck at how this particular intrusion creates an immobilizing stretch, reaching areas you didn’t even know existed. And Connie could cum just like this: letting your tight heat milk him for all he’s worth while watching the cute fold of your swollen tummy, watching you struggle and fall apart underneath him.

But he has something better in mind.

He starts off moderately slow, fucking you hard into the lush beach towel until you squeal for mercy, but he knows his baby can take whatever Papi gives her. Despite how close he is to cumming, that excellent stamina keeps his thrusts calculated and suave.

Those sculpted abs you adore so much flex with every sweltering drive of his hips, and now you really don’t think you can handle the feeling of him in your stomach without spiraling into love’s oblivion. Connie’s silver Jesus piece dangles right above your head as he fucks you with a force that can only come from the primal need to hear you scream. It fills your mind with Connie and nothing but Connie.

You chant his name like a desperate prayer, whiny voice pitching higher and higher as he lowers his head to lick a long stripe up the valley of your breasts before sucking hickeys on your neck. He can tell you’re close, with the way you tremor at his every touch.

Profound stroke after stroke coaxes the sticky slick pooling in your cunt to seep and trickle down your asscheeks. The sound it makes when webbing onto Connie’s heavy balls is filthy enough to remind you precisely where you’re being taken.

“You like it here, my love? Hm?” He grabs your dangling foot and kisses it, his tongue unhurriedly tracing the smooth skin until he pops a french-tipped toe in his mouth. The kind of shameless debauchery he’ll tease you about later.

There’s no way he can expect you to answer, right? Your screwed shut eyes and hung open mouth gasping for air should be self-explanatory enough, right?

Wrong.

Instead, he snakes a hand between your sweaty bodies to pinch the brown hood of your clit and you jolt with a pathetic mewl.

“Ahh fuck! Yes, Papi–don’ wanna leaveee.”

“That’s my princesa,” he praises sweetly, grinding his pelvis on you to soothe the sting. He fucking loves it when you sing for him. 

“Takin me like a champ, yeah?”

Your pussy flutters once more, forever susceptible to how he tantalizes you with his warm and honeyed timbre. His calloused hands cradle your face like fine porcelain, memorizing every curve, contour and mark. The sight of you alone could make him cry–a beautiful soul privileging him access to the softest parts of her. Simply connecting with you in this way is an honor in itself.

Your boyfriend sits back on his haunches, a glob of spit pooling in his mouth before he lets a string of it fall directly on your poor, abused clit. He thumbs at the quivering bud, so focused on rubbing it in small circles that he misses the way your eyes cross at the rush of molten pleasure rippling through you.

Before he knows it you’re writhing and gushing all over him, the force of your orgasm so strong that your thick thighs reflexively push him away. Sob after sob streams from your drooling mouth as he holds your legs together, leisurely fucking you through your high.

“Uhuh, that’s right cariño,” his balls feel like they’re gonna burst, dick twitching rapidly inside you as he ascends to his own high. 

“You don’t gotta worry bout shit with me. Don’t matter where we are in the world.”

Irreparably hypnotized by how he’s loving on you, you run your hands all over his hefty thighs, anything to feel closer to him. Connie hisses when he feels your hips bucking against him and he swoons because you’re trying to make him cum too.

“Just like that, baby," he praises hoarsely. "Fuck Papi back–shit!”

Connie lets out a deliciously wanton moan as hot ropes of cum paint your walls and you feel nothing short of full, nothing short of satisfied.

Best vacation ever.

Synopsis: This anthology frames iconic fictional men in devotional context to you as the reader. What each character does to add more beauty to your life is something you must see for yourself.

Notes: anthology series (different character each chapter), afab/fem/black chubby reader.

Warnings: Angst (mental health issues, anxiety, depression, tears), fluff (physical affection, pet name usage, jokes will be cracked), smut (variety of sex positions, filthy dirty talk, kinks, etc). 18+ ONLY [MINORS/NO AGE IN BIO=DO NOT INTERACT]

💅🏾💋Menu💋💅🏾

1. Onyankopon

2. Toji Fushiguro

3. Connie Springer

4. Bokuto Koutaro

5. Satoru Gojo

6. Kishibe

Chapter 2: Toji Fushiguro

Synopsis: You’re an excellent writer. So much so that even your husband, Toji Fusjiguro, knows of your gift. He also knows you’re tiptoeing the line between creative dedication and destructive self-isolation. Will he just sit back and watch your obsession deteriorate your health, or will he finally intervene?

Notes: chubby black fem/afab reader

Warnings: Angst (cursing, mentions of trauma, violence, mental anguish, covertly self-destructive behavior, tense confrontation, tears), fluff (physical affection, pet names: “mama(s),” “honey,” jokes will be cracked, aftercare), smut (mirror sex, full nelson position, p-in-v penetration, dom/sub dynamic, aftercare). [18+ ONLY: MINORS/NO AGE IN BIO=DO NOT INTERACT]

Word count: 3k

Masterlist

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

You are by far the most peaceful person Toji has ever married, besides his late wife. 

You value the quiet, a type of silence that brings comfort rather than the invisible death he’d associate it with. Toji didn’t know how he’d feel about it at first. He didn’t know how he’d feel about sitting on your shared couch reading a book you recommended. He didn’t know how he’d feel about watching you write your latest chapter while massaging your pretty feet. it took a long time until you were comfortable enough to show him your work.

But he really enjoys it. No–loves it even. He loves the way your eyes sharpen with unadulterated focus as you write, because he knows you’re in the process of creating some of the most immersive stories he’s ever read. He loves it even more when you’re not working, when you just lay on the bed holding each other while staring into one another's souls, talking about any and everything. Or nothing, there’s that too.

But there are also times when you get so loud–absolutely transfixed by whatever subject of conversation that piques your interest. Your takes have given him the most gut-wrenching bouts of laughter he’s had in a long time. The words that come out of your mouth make him think, they challenge the greatness of his own mind outside the world of violence he grew up in.

You just… have a way of making Toji feel completely naked, yet undeniably safe at the same time. You remind him that he’s more than his past.

However, that very peace Toji cherishes you for has always come with a specific price. A particular pain that many people may not understand. That very peace came from years of grueling solitude before meeting him. There was a time in your life when isolation was not the gift it turned out to be, and sometimes your body reminds you of that struggle: because it never left.

One of the most agonizing truths you’ve ever realized is that your relationships can’t save or fulfill you. You can only fulfill yourself. Learning this lesson paved a path of absolute loneliness for a certain period in your life.

But now, you treasure your alone time. You love making space for yourself where you don’t have to put on a mask or overextend for anyone. You love laughing at your corny jokes and going out on single dates. You can just exist. It may have taken a lot of bullshit to endure, but being alone is an ultimately beautiful thing.

And that’s why you’re so grateful for meeting Toji, for meeting a man who also understands that truth. If only you didn’t tend to forget that just because you’re used to being alone, doesn’t mean you actually are.

Like when Toji tries to get you to sleep after waking up at 3 in the morning to find you’re still working. Or when he takes extra shifts at his own job to spend a free day with his wife, only to be turned down because you’re too exhausted. Both of you are severely busy individuals, and you know how much your man puts in effort to make time for you.

But lately you’ve lost all balance and motivation in your daily life. Your agency requires you to finish an entire book in less than a month or else you don’t get paid. You’ve made a decent amount of money from the novels you sold, just enough to keep you comfortable–despite the fact that Toji pays the bills. But when demand gets higher, so do the stakes. And you refuse to lose your credit as a literary artist. You just won’t.

So you skip your meals, you postpone your rest days, you barely go outside anymore. And Toji hates it. He hates that you’re doing this to yourself, regardless of what your agency demands of you. Y’all haven't properly hung out together in weeks, let alone made love. At this point, Toji just feels like he’s living with a roommate and it’s actually making him sick.

-

It’s a Friday evening, so Toji doesn’t have work tomorrow. And neither will you.

You’re hunched over your laptop, endlessly typing away while rubbing sleep from your eyes every now and then. When you feel the need to take a break or lay down, you just stretch for a few seconds before going back to typing.

God, you don’t even enjoy writing anymore. You’re just regurgitating thoughts into a digestible format. You would take the time to proofread, but you’re so focused on finishing this chapter that you ignore your own intuition.

KNOCK  KNOCK  KNOCK

“I’m busy,” you insist irritantly.

Your man has his hand on the doorknob, yet he doesn’t turn it.

“Did you eat today?”

You pause typing to think, “Uhh, yeah.”

“What did you eat?”

“Hamburger,” you lie.

Toji leans his forehead against the door, shutting his eyes in frustration. 

“Come to bed, princess.”

The way he pleads for you makes your breath hitch, and you find yourself faltering. You think of the last time you slept on the bed instead of your desk or couch. Yet the idea of accepting that you miss it–that you miss him, urges you to continue typing.

“...I’m busy right now.”

Toji swings the door open so fast you thought its hinges came off. You jump with a squeak at the loud intrusion. The way he glares you in the eyes is paralyzing, you haven’t seen him this angry since some creep copped a feel from you. Toji had him hospitalized shortly after.

“I’m not asking,” he warns. 

You stare at him all wide-eyed and bewildered after weeks of avoiding his presence. Your thighs instinctively clench together at the sight of him. Fuck, he looks delectable in that wife-beater and low hanging sweatpants. 

“Toji, I’m almost done!” you whine in protest.

“Come. To. Bed.” He doesn’t even have to yell, untouchable authority laced in his chillingly low voice. 

And it’s not like you don’t want to, Toji can see your eyebags a mile away. Which is precisely why he’s putting his foot down now. But—

“I…I can’t,” you conclude defeatedly.

“Yes you can,” Toji takes a few cautious steps towards you. “Your work isn’t going anywhere.”

You scoff, aggravation jutting your knee, “...You don’t know that.”

Toji looks down at you with all the restraint he can muster. 

“This marriage won’t be going anywhere if you keep doing this to yourself. Do you know that?”

Your man is no therapist, but sometimes you are just a book to him. As he expected, that one remark was all it took to have your head drop in shame. You ball your fists and shut your eyes, anything to delay the inevitability of tears--at least until he leaves. But you know he won’t. 

Toji sighs at your crumbling state before kneeling down to see your pained face. He gently squeezes your calf, caressing the bare skin with his calloused fingers. You can’t even bring yourself to hate how lovely it feels.

“Look at me, mama,” he pleads once more. “Look at me.”

Your lips draw into a line to keep them from trembling as your chest braces itself for an incoming sob. But you open your eyes, and see him. You actually see him: your beautiful hunk of a husband and his stupidly sexy scar looking up at you with such vulnerable, shamelessly loving eyes. Your throat clogs up.

“Stop acting like I'm not looking out for you,” he reasons. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

This is it. You can run all you want, but where on earth are you gonna hide? From Toji? From you? 

“Please,” he whispers while wiping your tears with a steady thumb.

“I’m…” you croak while letting your cheek lean into his palm.

“I’m—I’m running out of time.”

Well, that’s a start.

“Are ya talking about deadlines?” He clarifies.

You nod in confirmation. 

Toji kisses his teeth irritantly. That fucking agency and their fucking contract. You literally bust your ass to stay on top, and all they do is wring you out to dry with next to no compensation. But not his baby. He’s not gonna let his queen destroy herself for some chump change.

“You…” Toji sighs tiredly. 

“You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone. And even if you miss it, I got you covered. I always got you.”

You snivel at how deeply he knows you, at his effortless ability to protect and nurture. But times will come where you need to let him. Times will come when you need to let yourself. So you weep and weep, not even noticing him closing your laptop.

“I’m really sorry, honey,” you slur woefully. “I’m—I’m just so fucking scared.”

He slips off your reading glasses and carefully places them on your desk, “I know.”

You feel his hand interlock with yours before slowly pulling you off of your chair. And that’s when something washes over you like a tub of ice water. An indescribable urge to do what you should’ve done many weeks prior. On his way out of your office, you tug his wrist and turn him around. 

Standing on your tippy toes, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a fervent kiss. Toji almost—just almost forgot how succulent your plush lips feel against his. He deepens the kiss with a carnal hum and swiftly picks you up so your legs swaddle his hips. 

He would carry you to your shared bedroom with a quickness, but he’d rather revel in how your thick thighs feel clutching his waist, how your soft and wet mouth feels as he dips his warm tongue in it, drinking up your cute little moans when he kneads your ass cheeks apart before squeezing greedy handfuls of them. 

You grind your clothed cunt on his chiseled abs, chasing that delicious friction you’ve denied yourself for too long. When Toji finally tosses you on the mattress, you shoot him an offended pout.

“I’ve done worse to you, sweetheart,” he taunts with a knowing grin.

You shrug off his teasing cause he’s right. You also shrug off your shirt, until you notice your man pulling a life-sized mirror from the closet and placing it at the end of the bed. You usually use that mirror to try on outfits considering its big stature, so you’re not sure why Toji would misplace it.

Until it dawns on you.

A protest sits at the tip of your tongue, “Toji…”

“Do you trust me?” He rests his hands on his hips.

Mirror sex is nothing short of intimidating to you; one, it’s something you’ve never done before and two, the idea of you watching Toji fuck your brains out is… 

…Kinda hot?

On top of the way he’s looking at you with that smirk he likes to wear when he feels like persuading you, the one he knows you can’t resist. It’s the least you could do considering what you've put him through lately. And if you get uncomfortable you can just use your safe word. 

Maybe it won't be so bad. 

So you nod your head to confirm your consent, but Toji shakes his head.

“Words, princess,” he orders.

“I…” you feel yourself squirming. “I trust you, Toji.”

“Good girl. Take everything off for me.”

-

“Look in the mirror, mamas.”

Your man’s got you folded in a mean full nelson: burly arms pinning your knees to your tits while his hands clasp onto your nape for security. He briskly pummels his dick up into you like you weigh nothing, intimidatingly thick girth stretching you out. Toji doesn’t even use his entire length to fill you up, knowing damn well that just a fraction is devastating enough.

And it absolutely is; your eyes squeeze shut with primal bliss, legs bobbing in the air from every powerful thrust splitting you open. You were always aware of Toji’s size. But the subtle upward curve of that cock, in addition to those pulsing veins, makes him feel so much bigger than your poor brain can handle.

You’re so delirious in your high that you can’t even speak, only broken mewls and adorable gasps of air escape your full lips. How are you supposed to express thoughts when Toji’s heavy balls repeatedly slap your swollen clit? How are you supposed to form words when you can’t even move and your only option is to take what he gives you?

And Toji knows you’re gonna cum, he feels and hears the way your sopping cunt spasms around him at random or when a shift in angle of his ricocheting hips reduces you to a babbling mess. But the thing is, he needs you to go back to being the good girl he fell in love with. And he will discipline her out of you if that's what it takes.

So, your beloved lifts you off his dick until it completely detaches with an audible ‘pop’. The rapture blazing in your tummy abruptly cools down to a pathetic simmer and you wail.

He ignores your mournful cries, “I’m not repeating myself, angelface. We have all fuckin night.”

You repeatedly bang the back of your head against his brick wall of a chest. But what can you do? You’ll be damned if you let your pride deny you another perfect orgasm.

So you crack open your eyes, and the first thing the reflection reveals is your sticky arousal dribbling down Toji’s glistening shaft. You see your quivering thighs and heaving chest, your tear-stricken face and sweaty forehead. And when your tired gaze ultimately meets his unflinching one–riddled with animalistic lust, you finally understand why he set up this mirror in the first place.

“There she is.”

You nibble on your bottom lip, pussy clenching wantonly at his shameless celebration of your most primal form.

“See how cockdrunk you are, gorgeous?” He praises through heavy breaths, those unabashedly worshipful eyes coupled with a tender grin stretching the scar on his lip.

“Now put it back in and you better keep those pretty eyes on me.”

You sniffle with a weak whine, carefully wrapping your soft fingers around his wet cock. You gently stroke it a few times just to watch him hiss, before nudging the bulbous head between your folds.

As soon as it catches onto your fluttering hole, Toji sheathes you right back on his dick and you emit the most hopeless sound of need. Your beloved throws his head back on the cushioned bed frame, a beautifully guttural moan pouring from his lips at how your velvet walls squeeze him—trapping him in for relief.

“Missed this chubby lil’ princess pussy.” His lecherous words go straight to your pebbled clit in electric shocks. He feels his disastrous effect on you when you squeeze him again. 

And again. 

And again.

“Toji—please.”

Your husband huffs out a hearty chuckle. 

“Please, what? Use that mouth.”

You writhe under his iron grip, straining your muscles to try and fuck yourself on him. But his hold is too merciless, there's simply no room for movement.

“Pl—Please move, Toji.”

His slit can't stop leaking when hearing your pretty voice rasp and plead for him. You're so perfect in every possible way, even when you think you aren't. And it utterly pains him because he knows you self-destruct the most when you feel you aren't enough. That's why he's putting you through this now–so you can remember how much of a delight you are when you let go of the control you never had.

God, your soft back pressing against him feels nothing short of divine. He feels like he can love you best when you’re this close. And he's not gonna last much longer, so he might as well just reward you now. Toji lets his head fall forward until his mouth is right beside your ear. 

“That’s my good girl,” he purrs as his hips begin building momentum.

This time he abandons his previously hasty approach, instead giving you slow and deep thrusts.

“Oh fuck—“ you squeal as his strong hips continuously grind against your ass, forming a visible ring of cream around his girth.

The stretch feels overwhelmingly different when set at a leisurely pace: the rapid bullets of pleasure he previously pierced through you transform into steady, all-consuming waves reverberating your pliant body. You can feel every pulsing ridge, vein, and contour stretch you out to the inconceivable brim. On top of him whispering sweet, filthy nothings into your ear because he knows you’re that close to exploding.

And you think you’re suffering, but Toji’s delaying his own release to make sure he chips away at the last remnants of your sanity with an ecstasy only he can provide. He pushes you closer, and closer, and closer to heaven until you both practically taste it.

And when the pleasure is too much your hands grab onto his shoulders. The same man so intimately taking you apart simultaneously grounding you in reality. This is what your negligence had you missing out on.

“To—“ your mouth hangs open when the orgasm hits you.

This particular climax is blinding and thorough; curling your toes as it takes its time ravaging you, spraying your juices on your beloved’s inner thighs and even the sheets underneath. You just can’t stop cumming.

“Fuuuuck—give it to me, mama. Give it to me,” Toji groans hoarsely as your pussy relentlessly sucks him in, dick twitching and twitching until a final snap of his hips stutters to an abrupt halt.

Hot ropes of cum shoot up your walls until there’s positively nothing left. You both take a much needed breather, processing the best sex you’ve ever had in the entire duration of your relationship.

Toji unlocks his hands from your nape and carefully slips his arms from the back of your legs, letting them fall to the bed.

-

You sit between Toji’s thighs in the bathtub while he’s rubbing on your sore muscles. 

When was the last time we even bathed together? 

Guess it doesn’t matter now, cause he’s got his wife exactly where he needs her.

“You uhh…you busy tomorrow?” He inquires cautiously.

You rest your head on his chest and look up at him with the most blissful smile he hasn’t seen in so long. You’re giggling too, as if he said a joke he didn’t even know he cracked.

“Nope.”

Chapter 1: Onyankopon

Synopsis: You lay in bed with your beautiful fiancé in the dead of night, but the war inside won’t let you sleep. Will you ignore your woes or let your husband-to-be hold space for your fears and growth?

Notes: chubby black fem/afab reader

Warnings: Angst (cursing, mentions of anxiety, the effects of trauma, mental anguish, addiction + sobriety), fluff (physical affection, pet names like “ma” and “wife”, words of affirmation), smut (prone bone position, p-in-v penetration, tears, daddy kink, dom/sub dynamic). [18+ ONLY: MINORS/NO AGE IN BIO=DO NOT INTERACT]

Word Count: 1.6k

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You lay beside your fiance on your shared California king bed. It's past midnight and the ajar windows that allow streams of cool ventilation should be enough to knock you out. Your eyes are shut, but your mind is wide awake–too busy bracing itself for the onslaught of unpleasant memories and intrusive thoughts that come and never go. Not only that but you’re horny, and the heavy snores flowing in your ears are enough to make you reluctantly ignore it.

It took you a long period of sobriety to realize that it's not because something is inherently wrong with you. And throughout that time sober, you’ve found healthier ways to cope so you’d transform into the amazing woman you are now. On top of building a decent support system amid your journey, you’d think that nothing could stop you.

But it’s just too much right now. The build-up of stress is reintroducing the urge to relapse, despite how profound your restraint has grown. This weight is not only starting to ruin your daily life, it’s interrupting your sleep.

How on earth are you supposed to rest if your nervous system is too busy fighting what’s no longer there? How on earth are you supposed to enjoy what you do for a living if you don’t have the energy to? And how on earth are you supposed to cum when your beautiful husband-to-be is out like a light?

It’s not like you can’t go into another room and finish your business there, but who wants to do that? Saying this really fucking sucks, is a gargantuan understatement. You sigh and look despairingly at the ceiling above. Maybe you’ll just settle with a toy for the night instead of bothering Ony.

“...Baby?”

The raspy drawl of his deep morning voice strikes lightning in your tummy.

Why is he up?

How long has he been up?

“I…I thought you were asleep?”

Ony turns his nude body to face yours. Ever since he found out you like to sleep naked he adopted the same habit and hasn’t changed it.

“I was… till you kept tossin’ and turnin’. Could practically hear yo thoughts,” he chuckles lazily.

Something warm radiates the space in your chest. When you can’t sleep, he can’t either. But that’s also exactly what deflates you.

“...sorry,” you whimper.

“No. Don’t do that,” Ony scoots closer to rub your upper arm. “Talk to me, ma.”

His long, slender fingers lead a trail of goosebumps as he caresses you, causing your inner thighs to quiver. An innocent touch from Ony is enough to make your nerves scream for more. Too exhausted to downplay it, you hold onto his hand for support.

“I’m…I’m really stressed out and I can't sleep because my mind won’t fucking turn off.” The burning sting in your eyes threatens to overflow.

Although he can’t truly relate to your lived experience, he immediately understands what you mean. And although he understands, he knows it’d benefit you if he challenged any possibly harmful core beliefs you may have about your turmoils.

“I mean, is it supposed to?” Inquires Ony.

You ponder his response and at first it sounded pretty dismissive, but you take the time to consider. And ultimately no, your mind is not supposed to turn off.

“Mm-mmh,” you agree tiredly.

“But I need sleep or I will not function tomorrow.”

You squeeze his hand tighter, “Everyday I am literally fighting for my sanity… but I don't think I can handle it this time.”

Ony does not like the little crack in your warbled voice. Nor does he like how the soft moon rays illuminate your pained face.

“Then I’ll handle it, princess.”

Ony holds your hand against his full lips and kisses every knuckle, without breaking eye contact.

“How you need me to handle it?”

You hear the way he pleads through his inquiry, and that instinctual willingness to improve your life as a future-husband melts away any remaining urge to deny him. It is his duty after all.

-

“Oh, fuuuck!”

Ony’s entire body lays on top of yours in a devastating prone bone as he cages you between his burly arms. He been putting in that extra work at the gym for luxurious moments like these. You can't help but feel like you’re being crushed in the most heavenly way possible.

7 inches of thick cock bullied into your warm, tight, and sopping walls–fucking you deep and slow into the mattress. Every languid thrust rocking you back and forth peels away every layer of self-doubt distancing you from him, and replaces them with jolts of paralyzing pleasure.

“You know how proud Daddy is of you?” Ony buries his nose right in the crook of your neck so he can lick a fat stripe up your pulse point, before littering it with sloppy kisses.

“Hm? You hear me, wife?”

Your pussy clenches embarrassingly tight at that, and he rewards it with a delectable groan right beside your ear.

“Y-yessh… I know you are,” you grit your teeth while trying to formulate thoughts, but he’s giving it to you so good and the squelching noises from your juices leaking like a faucet is not helping.

Ony roams his wide palms over your voluptuous form, gripping any supple curves within his reach as he repeatedly sinks that heavy dick inside you. One thing that gets you so obsessed with your fiance is how he understands the importance of balancing pace and force. This wisdom is what has you burying your face in a pillow so he can’t see how absolutely fucked out you look. As if he would ever let that last.

“I always see you working on your passions, pursuing your purpose in life, staying sober…” he loves, loves, loves the way you stifle your whimpers so you can hear what he has to say. His dick twitches painfully for it, for his good girl.

“You should be proud too, ma. Tell me you’re proud of yourself. Can you do that for me?”

Ony has always been big on verbal affirmations, right next to acts of service. So it’s not surprising that he’d want you to love yourself in the same way. The only thing is, he knows your ego is quick to petrify you before allowing that vulnerability to be embraced.

Ony may not be able to cure you of your struggles, but he can at least face them with you. He never once stopped believing that to be in a relationship with you, he must enhance or add onto your life in some meaningful way. And if he’s not, then he’s just doing it wrong.

So when you fail to answer him on time, one particular swiveling snap of his hips makes your already sensitive clit catch onto the satin sheets in a way that immobilizes you. A zap of ecstacy so lecherous you cream uncontrollably around him, thrashing underneath his eclipsing form.

“Ony pleaseeeee,” you wail pathetically while clawing onto the sheets, and it’s music to his ears.

Ony cups your jaw and gently lifts your head so he can see just how addictively your features contort with raw, unfiltered bliss; furrowed brows, eyes squeezed shut, round cheeks glistening with tears, and pretty mouth hanging open for that adorable catch of breath.

“Talk to Daddy or you won’t cum,” he coos menacingly.

“I–mmph! ...I’m--I’m very proud of myself.”

Ony rewards you with a wet kiss on the cheek, “See that, baby? Knew you could do it.”

Despite how humiliated you thought you’d feel for verbally celebrating yourself while having your guts rearranged, that previous warmth radiating in your chest before comes back tenfold. You are irrevocably in love with this man. Ony releases your jaw and lifts his broad chest from your back so he can sit comfortably on your upper thighs.

His dick remains sheathed inside your silken cunt, one hand placed securely on the small of your back while the other gently holds your nape. The moderate pressure allows room for breathing, yet is constrictive enough to heighten all your senses. He is actually going to ruin you.

And he does, switching from slow pace to an unrecognizable speed as he fucks you once again. Every buck of his hips leaves your ass cheeks rippling like waves against his pelvis, and there’s nowhere to run.

Every carefully calculated thrust has his fat tip mercilessly pummeling that special spot deep inside, causing an endless stream of pornographic moans to tumble from your plump lips. The cacophony of skin colliding and bed-creaking that fills the air would shy you away, but you’re too hypnotized by the pulse and curve of Ony’s cock to care.

“S-Shittt... aww fuck yes! Fuck me, Daddy pleaseee,” You are now reduced to a sobbing mess, mewling anything that comes to the top of your head. Exactly how Ony likes it: when you finally let go and come back to him–to yourself, where you belong. And he’s falling apart just as fast, unable to keep himself from fixating on your unraveling state. He won’t even blink until you milk him for all he’s worth.

“Ooouuu shit--” Ony’s deep moan reverberates through you.

“Pussy so dangerous, ma. You gon nut on this dick? Hm?”

Every following second he continues taunting you, your pussy pulses and pulses until the rest of your body grows taught. God flashes before your eyes when the coil in your tightening stomach snaps, instinctively squeezing out all of your juices until they splash on your fiance’s lower abdomen.

You cum fiercely with a silent scream. Such orgasmic compression around Ony’s dick is enough to make his hips still as hot ropes of cum paint your sensitive walls. He stays on top of you for a few more moments to come down from his high. Lo and behold, right before he gets off he hears soft snores humming from below him. He chuckles bewilderedly, and smiles lovingly at your slumbering state.

“About damn time.”

Nirvana (COMPLETED)

Your dating life is terrible. Your friends’ marriage is fantastic. Your career as a medic is doing great, though. But you weren’t happy. However, after one quick trip to the Mighty Rock Dojo, you stumble upon the most magnificent man you’ve ever met- the taijutsu master- Rock Lee.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4 

Chapter 5

Chapter 6 

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Summary: You and Lee navigate his injury’s recovery as a couple, while also getting acquainted with your family. When you both finally return to the dojo, the taijutsu community celebrates your reunion! Now that everything’s back to normal, you and Lee finally feel safe enough to fully surrender to each other.

Notes: slow burn fic, afab/fem/black chubby reader.

Warnings: 18+, cursing, use of the n-word, emotional angst, teeth-rotting fluff, smut: foreplay, dirty talk, cunnilingus, anal play, spanking, p-in-v penetration, orgasm portrayal, aftercare, more teeth-rotting fluff. Enjoy ;) [18+ ONLY: MINORS/NO AGE IN BIO=DO NOT INTERACT]

Word count: 8.1k

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

It is now two months since Lee’s injury. Two months of being on the receiving end compared to his lifetime of giving. Guy, Neji, and even Sasuke help with looking after the dojo, per your boyfriend’s request.

While they handle that, you start taking the domestic reins: occasionally cooking his meals, helping out with tidying his house, driving him places to run errands—all while he’s keeping your bills paid. And you know how hard it is for him. You know he still runs every morning to stay fit, you see how reluctant he gets about accepting help.

That’s why when he ultimately does, you celebrate him every time; whether it be an indulgent kiss on his cheek or a warm-baked dessert, you need Lee to remember how deserving he is of service. After everything he’s done for you and his community, you just want him to reap the same benefits.

While peacefully eating together in his dining room, you use the shared quiet to scheme.

How can I best take his mind off that injury?

How can I help him remember?

“Honey?” you ask sweetly.

Lee swallows the last remnants of his food before meeting your gaze, “Hm?”

“I got to meet your family,” you prompt while fiddling with your napkin.

“I think it’s about time you meet mine.”

Your man takes a sip of his orange juice, nodding his head to show he’s listening.

“Are you referring to your parents?”

“God, no,” You chortle ruefully.

“I have a best friend. Her name’s Bria.”

Lee shoots you an eager grin as he places his glass back on the table.

Only one person, huh?

She must be special.

“I’d love to meet her!” Lee affirms. “Just set the time and place.”

You sigh in relief, feeling your back rest against the chair.

-

After notifying Bria, she agrees to meet Lee–says she can’t wait to meet the man who’s gonna finally make her an auntie. Her words, not yours.

The three of you attend a local music festival adorned in colorful decor, vibrant business booths, devoted indie bands, and a bustling crowd of diverse people. You all sit together at a table bench eating lunch, conversing amongst yourselves about what you bought, which band you liked listening to, what foods you want to try.

And yet as sweet as Bria is when getting to know someone, her authenticity still slips through the cracks.

“Wait till I find me a man who beats niggas up for a living,” she declares.

Lee guffaws at her choice of wording as you sigh hopelessly with a knowing smile.

Before second-guessing what comes out of his mouth, Lee blurts, “Then get ready for life-altering injuries and long months of recovery.”

Even though he framed it as a light joke, the brief silence that follows reveals the jaded attitude underneath. Lee notices the concern in your gaze, but he slouches and ignores it.

“I mean,” Bria takes a sip of her fourth mimosa to clear her throat.

“Before homegirl met you, she had been looking after herself her whole life.”

Lee raises his eyes to meet Bria’s at the mention of you.

“But now? She has someone financially supporting her indefinitely. If you ask me, she has officially redeemed her taste in men.”

“Bria!” You whine, mortified and appreciative of her honesty.

Lee feels the heaviness in his chest gradually disperse after hearing the casual conviction in her wisdom.

Ah. This is why she’s special.

This is why she’s your family.

“Thanks Bria,” says Lee. “I’ll keep that in mind from now on.”

“You can thank me by—by linking me up with one of your rich taijutsu friends.”

Your man fails to restrain his giddy chuckle, imagining how Neji would adapt to such a personality.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“We should also see our way out of this festival,” you intervene, knowing how uninhibited Bria’s mouth gets when she’s tipsy.

“Yeah, it’s getting late,” Lee agrees.

A guttural groan escapes Bria’s lips before she downs the rest of her drink.

Drama queen.

“Cockblockas,” she complains dejectedly.

-

After buying takeout for the night, you and Lee get settled in his car. You turn to face your beloved from the driver’s seat.

“Dinner at my place?” 

The corner of Lee’s mouth tugs upward at the candied tone of your soft voice.

“Anything you want, sweetness.”

You start the car and look ahead, anything as a distraction from how quickly your smile’s growing.

After finally making it home, you both remove your shoes before stepping foot in the living room. 

“Today was really fun!” Admits Lee while setting up dinner on the couch table.

You place your Jordan 1s by the front door, “Me too! Bria can be a handful when she’s drunk.”

“Well, I’m glad I got to meet her at least once.”

You sit on the couch and pat on a spot for Lee to sit. As you both settle together, you bless your food and he uses a dining cloth to protect his shirt.

“What are we watching, beloved?” You ask.

Lee’s already searching through your monthly subscriptions. You chuckle to yourself.

Someone’s made himself at home.

“Enter The Dragon,” he decides.

You gently gasp, “I loved that movie as a teen!”

“Hmph,” Lee lowers your remote as he waits for the film to load.

“Guess we’re both lucky, then.”

While enjoying your shared dinner, you both sit through the cinematic rollercoaster of a tragic martial artist who restores his murdered family’s dignity and justice. You and Lee’s combined laughter, equally insightful comments, and quiet moments when your knees touch all inhabit the domestic intimacy you’ve both prayed for— consciously or not.

“I am beyond full,” Lee pats his belly while releasing a belch loud enough to exceed the TV’s volume.

“Fucking gross,” you groan teasingly.

A lazy grin embellishes his face, “Sorry, princess. You still love me though.”

And you won’t argue with that.

When the credits finally roll, you pause the film with your remote.. 

“Speaking of love,” you prompt. “There’s this song…”

Lee notices the hesitation in your lowering gaze, the way your lips curl into a narrow line. He places his free hand on your knee, caressing its defined curve.

“What’s got you going all quiet on me now?”

His presence is so undeniably disarming. You just can’t possibly assume he’d refuse this request. Your spirit knows why. 

“There’s this song I’ve always loved, a song I grew up with.”

“Mhmm?”

Your man keeps quiet, holding space for you to voice whatever your mind is trying to withhold from him.

“Will… will you dance with me to it?”

Lee blinks a couple times. 

“Like a… like a rave?”

“No, silly,” you chuckle tentatively. “Like a slow dance.”

As wonderful as that sounds, the constrictive feeling of his cast smothers the words in his mouth. You feel the apprehension radiating from his silence—from the way he frowns down at his injury, and place a gentle hand over the one on your knee.

“Your arm doesn’t bother me, honey. And it never will, alright?”

What if she doesn’t mean it?

Would I even mean it?

As lovely as your saccharine promise is, it isn't until you slowly lift his chin with your finger that his heart finally sees how much you mean it.

“Alright?” You reiterate, eyebrows furrowing together with reverent command.

I’m not giving up on you.

You matter too much.

Lee grabs your hand that holds his chin, and presses delicate kisses on your palm. While he’s more afraid than he’s willing to admit, he trusts you more than his own shame.

“What’s the song? I’ll play it on your TV.”

Your pretty face lights up at his decision to surrender, and that sight alone is all the “thank you” Lee will ever need.

“Greatest Love Of All by Whitney Houston!”

While your man uses your remote to search, you steadily push the couch table away from the big screen to make more room on the floor.

As soon as the first melody plays, you offer your hand and patiently wait for Lee to take it. He yelps when you pull him off his ass with a quickness, giggling cheekily at how he reorients himself.

You take a few steps toward him until he smells your tropical perfume, until he feels the warmth radiating from your body. Lee’s focus sharpens as he watches your calculated movements; you take his left arm and wrap it around your waist before gently placing your hands on each of his shoulders.

“Follow me as I follow the rhythm,” you instruct—voice low enough to reach his ears and reverberate down his spine.

Lee silently obeys as you both rock side to side with every step. He’s so focused on not fucking up the dance that he forgets to enjoy the steady beat of the ballad, he forgets to savor Houston’s angelic vocals. But when you pull him closer to rest your head on his chest, hearing you hum to such holy lyrics, his need for control evaporates instantly.

🎶I decided long ago🎶

🎶Never to walk in anyone’s shadows🎶

The music and the legacy it carries finally envelops his racing mind, and he tightens his hold on your waist until your tummy’s flush against his. Lee needs to feel as much of you as possible, in this sacred moment you invited him to share.

🎶No matter what they take from me🎶

🎶They can’t take away my dignity🎶

You lift your head to meet his gaze, and the way you look up at him— with that pure, unadulterated admiration, makes him want to fall to his knees for you.

“Remember what you told Bria after she mentioned dating a fighter?”

Your question snaps Lee out of his love-induced trance, “Y—Yeah.”

“It worries me,” you confess.

“Is there something I should know? Am I doing too—“

Your beloved leans his head against yours, immediately halting your self-questioning.

“If it weren’t for you,” his firm tone commands your attention. “Living with a broken elbow would’ve been a lot more unbearable than it already is. Sucks to admit, I know.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate when the love of my life sees me like this.”

You release a quiet exhale at his heartbreaking revelation before shutting your eyes to think.

How can I help him remember?

“When you first asked me out, I was weak too, no?” You prompt.

“I was in shambles: crying, sniffling, throwing up—“

Lee huffs out a laugh, “You were a mess.”

“Exactly! So what’s the difference now? Am I not allowed to be here for you like you were for me?”

Your boyfriend massages the smooth pudge of your waist with his free hand, and you lean into his tender movements.

“Of course not, angel,” he affirms, hypnotically tracing your lower back with his fingers.

“We’re in this together.”

You stand on your tippy toes, wordlessly asking for a kiss. And when his lips leisurely interlock with yours, he finally understands why you asked him to slow dance in the first place.

🎶Because the greatest love of all is happening to me🎶

🎶Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all🎶

As the song concludes itself, you whine against Lee’s mouth at the moment ending so soon. Under the assumption of him wanting to sit out, you reluctantly break away from the kiss. He watches you with confused disappointment as to why you’re attempting distance. So he snatches you back into his secure grasp. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” He chides, playfully pinching at your back roll until you squeal and squirm in his hold. Your shrieks of laughter fill the air and his healing heart alike.

Yeah.

These next two months are a breeze.

-

Two months later—after four months of recovery, Lee finally returns to the dojo, and you return with him. The bell jingles as he opens the door for you. You’re not even granted the time to put on your slippers–-instantly surrounded by a crowd of students hugging your legs with shrieks of joy and urgent questions.

“Where have you been?!”

“We got you presents!!”

“Are you staying for good?”

So many children were talking to you all at once, you just couldn’t keep up. Lee smiles endearingly at the way you hold them, despite how overwhelmed you are by their spontaneous bouts of affection. In some way, shape, or form, you’ve healed every single one of them. Kids never forget that.

“One question at a time, my loves!” You plead tentatively. 

Lee decides it’s time to go into sensei-mode and wordlessly summons the students to return to the mat. When you step inside your office, a bunch of flowers, gifts, and new medical supplies decorate the space. You drop your purse and cover your mouth, feeling your nose sting with incoming tears.

I just came back to this place.

Don’t go crying on me already.

“We can help you make room if you need.”

You jolt at the voice behind you and turn to find Sasuke and—

…Obito???

“Wha—“ your eyes almost bulge out of your sockets.

“You! How did you end up here??”

Obito scratches his head with a nervous chuckle, “Long story short, Sensei-Lee let me train here.”

After Madara’s career-ending loss, Obito finally reflected on his teacher’s abusive tendencies and decided to cut all ties with him. While Lee was hospitalized, the teen gave him a visit and bowed his head--humbly begging to join his dojo and learn his ways. Even though he expected total rejection, Lee warmly accepted him under the condition that he stay devoted to taijutsu philosophy.

You find your jaw dropping--not out of disdain, you’re just utterly moved by such courage. You rest a welcoming hand on each student’s shoulder.

“Welp, this office ain’t gonna clean itself!”

While the young men help you reorganize your space, you listen to the enthusiasm in Lee’s booming voice echo from the other side of the room, and the students eagerly reciprocate his energy. It lightens up your whole body, the sounds of shared joy.

During the rearrangements, you quietly notice Obito and Sasuke’s blooming friendship; the way they make everything a competition— from who can store supplies the quickest to bickering about their tournament fight. You can feel the growing respect beneath their rivalry. After finishing up, you show the boys gratitude for their collaborative effort and escort them out of your office.

But before you can shut the door, Sasuke holds it open with his hand.

“Thanks, Miss. For everything.”

The quiet sincerity lacing his warm timbre leaves you briefly speechless, but he walks off before you can properly respond. So you sit behind your desk and peacefully wait for any patient in need.

While the students are on meditation break, Lee sits by his front desk with Might Guy. He skims through his appointment book of private training lessons, until Guy interrupts his train of thought.

“I’m going to have a chat with your future wife,” declares the elder.

Lee’s cheeks go up in flames as the image of you in a white wedding dress claims his vision. 

We’ve been together no more than half a year.

We haven’t even talked about marriage yet.

But…

I already want to see you walk down the aisle.

Toward me.

The young master recuperates himself and clears his throat, “Try not to say that in front of her, please.”

“I’ll try my best,” Guy promises.

You devour a leftover breakfast sandwich while watching YouTube on your laptop, until a few sharp knocks beckon your attention.

“Come right in!”

Guy rolls his way into your office before shutting the door.

What a delightful surprise!

After swallowing the rest of your food, you pause the video and fold your arms.

“The last time a man that wasn’t Lee came in here, it didn’t end well,” you warn in jest.

Guy bellows a fleeting cackle, “And it better stay that way!”

You close your computer and clear some space before folding your hands on the wooden surface.

“So what brings you here, sir?”

Guy closes the distance until he’s right in front of your desk.

“Please drop the formalities. I know you’re family.”

His casual recognition of your importance feels like the first ray of light initiating sunrise: warm and inevitable. You can’t hide the shy smile spreading your lips.

“I feel like we haven't been properly acquainted yet,” Guy starts.

You unravel your hands, “The feeling’s mutual! And is also why I’d like to thank you for keeping my head in the game when Lee… y’know—“

“Got his elbow snapped in two? I wouldn’t be doing my job right if I hadn’t.” 

“…Yep,” you confirm warily.

Will I ever have a filter as non-existent as Guy’s?

The master decides to cut to the chase so no one’s time is wasted.

“I’m not sure if Lee’s shared this with you, but before you two met he hadn’t known a love that was faithful,” he confesses.

Your heart sinks to your stomach at what he’s referencing. There’s a shift in the air, a heaviness to the elder’s words that urge you to listen quietly.

“He’s not the man he used to be. I know he can handle himself.”

Guy recognizes the caution in your gaze, as if you’re subconsciously bracing for something. However, he refuses to not have this conversation with you—no matter how awkward it gets. The master leans forward so that you witness the long decades of hard-earned wisdom behind his eyes.

“But can you handle yourself in regard to loving my boy? Can I trust that you won’t betray yourself by betraying him?”

These questions unlock something in you; all the times you’ve been disregarded, all the times you’ve been let down, abandoned, and forsaken come rising to the surface of your expanding mind. But they don’t come in paralyzing resentment--they come in stark clarity. For just a fleeting moment, you imagine making Lee feel the same way Shikamaru did when he left you for someone else.

I’d rather die.

Your hands squeeze into fists, blazing determination surging through your veins.

“Your son’s heart is safe with me. I swear on my life.”

Your unwavering voice settles Guy’s spirit. He feels the unflinching truth radiating from your stare and leans back against his wheelchair with a conclusive smile.

“Then we’re going to have a good ol’ time!” He celebrates.

“Yayyy!” You cheer, laughing out any lingering tension from your chest. You’re forever grateful that the person Lee trusts the most is learning to trust you.

A few more hours pass until Lee finishes his final class. After folding his mat, he feels tempted to ask what you and Guy discussed. But when a tinge of guilt pulls on his heart strings, he pauses.

Sensei spoke to her privately for a reason.

I must respect that.

The young master takes a deep breath and carries the mat into the storage room.

While putting on your street shoes, Lee approaches you. You look up at his crooked smile and the sight makes you swoon.

“Are we still on for horror movie night?” He checks.

“Hell yeah!” You confirm, too eager to hide how much you cherish his time.

-

It’s 9:45 pm: you and Lee sit together on his living room couch watching the final scenes of Ari Aster’s Midsommar. You’re both on edge for what’s next--mildly traumatized too, but your shared knack for humor lightens the heaviness of every shot. 

You hold onto Lee, burying your face behind his shoulder when witnessing Dani’s drugged up boyfriend get burned alive in a bear suit. Your own boyfriend has his eyes on the screen, but he’s too busy enjoying how clingy you get when frightened.

“Woah…” Lee stares in awe at Dani’s unhinged smile right before the screen cuts to credit rolling.

“What a superb performance,” he commends.

“Is it over yet?” 

You feel Lee’s shoulder shake with laughter at your timid inquiry.

“Yes, my love. It’s over.”

You sigh with relief and melt against the couch cushions, damn near drained from watching such an emotionally heavy film.

“Did you at least enjoy it?”

You stare up at the ceiling in deep thought to process his question.

“The cinematography is gorgeous and the acting is as good as you deem it,” you begin.

“Butttt this may be the last time I watch it.”

Lee snorts at your flat delivery because he knows you mean every word.

Experiencing this side of you—easily scared and adorably pliant, feels like discovering a part of his home he didn’t know existed. Every intimate layer of yourself you choose to share with him makes every heartbreak he’s endured worth the pain.

“That’s okay,” your man affirms. “We have whole categories of film at our fingertips.”

“No more horror for the night,” you grumble exhaustedly.

Lee’s reactive chuckle sounds like honey this up close, and it feels nothing short of private. You’d listen to him like this for hours.

He looks down at you, nibbling on his bottom lip.

Should I ask her?

Should I give it a try?

Your eyes crack open and notice this strange look in Lee’s gaze, you feel the longing radiate from it.

“What is it, baby?”

Lee snaps out of his hesitation at the worry lacing your question.

“Oh! Uhhh…”

Your man takes a deep breath as you look up at him with quiet patience.

If I’m gonna marry you, then we need to know each other a bit deeper.

“I want us to try something,” he confesses.

You blink a couple times, “Try what?”

“Relationships thrive on healthy communication," he prompts.

"And because of that, I don’t wanna guess what you’re thinking or assume what you need from me.”

“Mhmm,” you agree.

“I’d... I'd like us to try this exercise where we take note of each other’s boundaries by asking questions. For example: What makes you feel the most loved? What makes you feel unsafe? Y’know, stuff like that.”

You sit up and straighten your posture, the gravity of his request urging you to mirror his investment.

“And we take notes so that we’ll remember?”

“Correct,” Lee confirms.

Damn.

He’s really trying.

Harder than any man I’ve known.

You eagerly nod your head with an awestruck grin, “Let’s do it!”

The dormant warmth in Lee’s chest blooms into something euphoric enough to make him snag both of your phones from the couch table. He hands you yours, and you both take time accessing your document spaces.

“Can I go first?” 

“Of course you can,” he assures.

“Okay,” you avert your gaze to the small screen in your hand. 

“What are your main deal breakers?”

Lee doesn’t miss a single beat, “Infidelity, lying, and violence of any kind.”

“Same here.”

Lee watches you sit in a cross-legged position before continuing.

“How do you feel the most loved?”

Your man rests his arm across the couch’s back, eyes wandering in considerate thought. He thinks about all the things he couldn’t experience with Tenten, and even more so about what he can finally explore with you.

“Through the little things,” he starts.

“Like listening intently when I’m talking. Asking how my day went… Slow dancing.”

A smitten giggle disrupts your progress before you can hold it in.

“How do you handle fights or disagreements?”

“I like using ‘I’ statements to avoid imposing inaccurate narratives.”

You slowly nod with subtle approval.

Shika was never this mindful.

Never this attentive.

But how far is Lee willing to go?

Just how deep is he willing to dig?

All of Lee’s answers sound as perfect as your questions. And yet something is missing. Something you must know must come to light. After taking a deep breath, you exhale any lingering hesitance from holding you back.

“Do you have a therapist?”

“…” 

Lee shuts his eyes to brace himself.

I have to be honest.

She deserves that.

The eerily stoic look on your man’s face uneases you, but your thumbs stay hovered over your screen.

“I do have a therapist,” he begins.

“But I haven’t had a session since the tournament.”

You place your phone on your lap, letting his answer marinate in your head. You won’t guilt him for it. You won’t even ask him why. But you will protect yourself.

“If we’re going to continue this relationship, then you need to take therapy,” you gently assert. 

“If I’m the only one attending sessions, then it’s not gonna work out.”

The mere idea of losing you—especially due to his own ego, urges Lee to vomit in his mouth. But he swallows it all down because he knows this heavy boundary comes from a place of love.

“I’ll schedule the soonest session there is,” he promises, reaching to interlock his fingers with yours.

You give his hand a couple squeezes, letting him know that you know he means it.

“Good. You wanna ask the questions this time?”

“Hell yeah!”

You chuckle at his enthusiasm this late into the night. He reactivates his phone while you place yours on the couch table.

“What makes you feel unsafe?”

“Yelling, gaslighting,” you use your fingers to keep track.

“...Being ignored.”

Lee types your answers with a soft scowl, knowing damn well that you had to experience these offenses to name them out loud.

“What makes you feel the most loved?”

For some reason this question takes more time to respond. Your fingers tap on each knee as you let the answers arrive on their own.

“Calling me petnames, thoughtful gifts, physical affection.”

“Elaborate on physical affection,” he insists. “How do you like to be touched?”

“Uhh…” you fall silent as intimate thoughts flash across your mind.

I want to be seen.

“S—Stuff like holding hands, cuddling, and…”

You muster the courage to finally meet Lee’s unwavering gaze, and something about it says: It’s just us. We have all night.

I want to be craved.

“And m—making love.”

Your man pays the growing meekness in your tone no mind, “And how do you want to be made love to?”

I want to be worshiped.

You close your thighs while shifting in your seat and Lee notices. He notices everything. So when he finds you struggling to speak, when he finds you squirming amid the cushions, he puts away his phone and scoots close enough for you to smell his expensive cologne.

His arm resting on the couch’s back feels like it’s trapping you in his heat and your breath starts to shallow with need.

“How should I make love to you, flower?”

His deep, lowered tone makes you whip your head to the side. But your boyfriend is having none of that and gently grabs your jaw so you can face him. That piercing stare of his–blazing lust caged by casual self-restraint, simply makes your pussy cry. 

“What does my angel want, hm?”

Fuck.

And that’s when it hits you: the realization that you can no longer hide your pleasure or longing from him. This throbbing ache between your legs intensifies with every passing moment, no matter how tightly you keep them shut. 

“I can show you better than I can tell you.”

Lee’s eyes widen at your new bout of confidence and rewards you with the sexiest smile you’ve ever witnessed.

“Then show me.”

Without thinking you crash your lips onto Lee’s, letting his minty breath capture your senses. His feverish groan slips into the kiss because it feels different this time--this sense of urgency, like there’s more to come between you than this heated moment. 

The second Lee seamlessly slips his hot tongue into your mouth, your body responds before your mind can--swinging a leg over and straddling his thighs. They’re so thick and sturdy to sit on. Your man’s hands travel down your back until they settle on the pudge of your hips.

“Lower,” you plead between kisses.

His strong, calloused fingers grab greedy handfuls of your ass in a way that curls your toes—kneading and squeezing each cheek with generous reverence. All these sensations; his skillful mouth, his firm hands, how his solid body anchors your unraveling state--they dissolve the last iota of inhibition you cling to. You haven’t been properly taken by a man in years. There’s no going back now.

You grind down on his denim-clad crotch at a growingly fervent pace, anything to assuage the burning arousal inside you. His bulge massages your clothed clit just right with every desperate hump, and a sharp whine pours from your lips. Lee drinks up the sweet sound like water, taking everything you give him while memorizing how delectable your plush thighs feel trapping him.

He feels your hips getting sloppy as they speed up, he feels your breaths getting heavier, listens to the pleasure elevating your voice’s pitch.

She’s trying to cum.

And I want her to.

But not like this.

Lee abruptly lifts you off his dick and withstands your frustrated cries.

“Shit!” You keen.

“Let’s take this upstairs, ‘kay princess?”

Lee coos at your pitiful whimpers, at how you tremble in his arms while he carries you to the staircase leading to his main bedroom.

As he walks up the steps, you dig your nose in the crook of his neck and take a deep whiff of his luxurious scent. 

He smells too good...

…I need more!

Lee feels you litter a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses across the sensitive skin and he smirks to himself at your impassioned state. But when you start sucking a hickey on his pulse? And shamelessly moan at the taste of him? All Lee can do is ignore the painful tightening in his jeans until you’re on that bed.

Your man shuts the door behind him before carefully placing you on his king-sized mattress. Your hands sink into the soft comforter while visually taking in Lee’s most intimate space. The room is unsurprisingly well-organized with just enough personalization to make it lived in. You lean on your elbows and watch Lee drag an armchair to the foot of the bed.

He sits in front of you and manspreads across the seat.

“So how do you want to be taken, my love?”

Although he’s repeated this question several times, that doesn’t make it any less difficult to answer. You swallow the lingering spit in your mouth.

“Uhm—you know,” he watches your eyes wandering again.

“Look, I’m sure you’re a very experienced partner.”

Lee sighs at your attempt to deflect his inquiry.

“I am very experienced,” he leans forward to rest his elbows on each knee.

“But I can’t fuck you the way you deserve unless you talk to me.”

You nibble on your bottom lip, shutting your eyes to process the gravity of his insistence. You know he’s not trying to embarrass you. But his gaze is just too powerful to consciously embrace. The urge to cower from that unshakeable conviction is undeniable.

But I can’t run from him anymore.

And I don’t want to.

“I—I want,” you take a deep breath when the nerves threaten to silence you.

“I want you to eat my pussy. From the back.”

Despite his unbearable boner begging for relief at your words, Lee can’t help but reward you with a warm grin.

“Good girl. I know that was hard,” he praises.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes, yeah?”

You waste no time and shrug off your crop top. Your beloved assists you, hooking his fingers under the band of your shorts and pulling them off. 

You finish unclasping your bra until you notice him ogling at your crimson thong, the way it clings to your hips. He slips off the lacy red fabric before shamelessly tucking it in his back pocket. Your jaw drops.

“You perv!”

Lee sniggers at your bashful scolding, “Get on all fours for me, gorgeous.”

Your body responds to his gentle command with a quickness. You’re on your hands and knees, inwardly grateful that he can’t see you cringing with mortification.

I forgot to shave!

What if a pube gets in his mouth?!

What if I smell—

Lee presses a heavy hand on the small of your back, forming a deep arch so that everything is on display. You gasp at the weight of his palm, the heat of his skin. Your man scoots his chair towards you as closely as possible—making sure he enjoys this meal to the absolute fullest.

God, he doesn’t even know where to start with you. All he knows is that every single inch of you will be tended to by the end of this night.

He begins by letting his hands traverse your calves, watching you flinch at the languid movements. He elevates his focus and massages the fat of your thighs, hypnotized by the silky skin molding under his touch.

And how could he forget your sopping pussy? How could he miss the way your brown, puffy folds glisten with sticky fluid? 

“You’re a damn work of art, you know that?”

His tone is teasing but he means every word, your lack of response is proof enough. But he doesn’t need you to speak–-he just needs you to feel.

Lee leans forward to press searing chaste kisses across the supple flesh of your ass. Every sensual peck of his lips leave a blooming trail of goosebumps. He buries his nose in your pubic hair and deeply inhales your scent. He takes another sniff. 

And another.

And another.

So this is what she smells like.

You hide your face in the comforter at the sound of him smelling you. Lee carefully pries your lips apart for a better view of your cunt; the delicate, glistening pink opening contracting with primal need and your boyfriend swoons at the sight.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs to himself.

And so fucking mine.

He drinks up your arousal, eyes rolling to the back of his skull at the viscous texture of your nectar. You’re on the verge of demanding him to hurry the hell up. That is, until he plants featherlight kisses on the hood of your engorged clit. He’s so soft to the touch but it’s more than enough to ignite every nerve ending in your body.

And when he finally licks a long, fat stripe from the top of your vulva to the base of your entrance? You are gone. Lee moans into you as your dainty folds grace his taste buds. His mouth is glued to your pussy, lapping up any juices leaking from your entrance. He hears your trembling breaths quicken and it sears into his brain.

“Oh fuck,” you squeal, irrevocably haunted by a pleasure you didn’t know you were capable of feeling.

He takes his time ravaging you; that skilled tongue switching from slow, deliberate licks to light, spontaneous flicks has your legs already shaking. Loud slurping noises from his diligent mouth resonate through the room’s thickening air. He’s even audacious enough to tease your puckered anal ring with the swirl of his tongue. Where’d he learn that move? 

“B—Baby, wait. Please,” you whimper, morbidly aware of how embarrassingly close you are to cumming. 

You retract your hips to assuage his onslaught of ministrations, but he spanks your left cheek with a sharp palm and snatches you right back into his mouth. In a bout of panic, you grab the nearest pillow to bite into and stifle how pathetically pornographic your moans are.

Lee runs his dull nails over the skin of your soft tummy. When he starts tweaking your nipples until they pebble, your hips move on their own and buck uncontrollably against him. Your man groans to egg you on before dipping his tongue all the way down and inside you.

The sudden stretch combined with his thumb relentlessly rubbing your clit douses you in a soul-shattering orgasm, putting every single one of your past partners to shame. Lee has to hold down your spasming form as the pillow muffles your wanton screams. 

That’s it, flower. Take it.

Take everything.

You never intended to gush in his mouth so quickly, but you have no complaints. And as much as Lee wanted to see your face fall apart, hearing you sing so lewdly for him makes up for all that he missed. When you can truly take no more, his lips release your clit with a vulgar “pop”. Your beloved coos at how adorably the swollen bud twitches from faint aftershocks.

While taking a breather, you’re too out of it to notice your beloved undressing. So when you turn to rest on your elbows, you gape at him standing in all his statuesque glory—even if you’ve seen it before. His fingers skillfully tear off a condom wrap before rolling the latex down to the base of his thick girth. What’s left uncovered are his heavy balls.

To cope with how much you need him, you jest “You’re not a one-pump-chump are you?”

Lee huffs a dark chuckle that makes your knees slowly fall open.

“Don’t test me, princess.”

You grin at his playful warning before patting on an empty spot beside you. Lee registers the signal and obeys immediately, leisurely climbing the bed. He snags some pillows and carefully tucks one under your head.

You both face each other, horny and in love. You don’t hide how nervous you are, how your body starts to curl in on itself. And Lee doesn’t hide how happy he is, caressing your face with his knuckles. You scoot closer to him and run your fingers through his black tresses, memorizing the contours of his forehead, his baby hairs, and bushy brows. 

He looks even prettier without all that hair in his face.

“I hope I’m the man you’ve been waiting for,” Lee whispers mesmerically.

Because you’re the woman I didn’t even know I was dreaming of.

You trace the edge of his jawline before slowly kissing him, the only way you can respond to such touching words. You throw a tentative leg over his hip, and he wraps a firm arm around your waist to pull you flush against him. The combined skin-to-skin heat is nothing short of electric.

Your toes trace the curve of Lee’s foot up to his lower calf, claiming any canvas of living power you can reach.

You heave lecherously as his leg nudges between your thighs, feeling the toned muscle beneath his smooth skin flex against your bare cunt. You mindlessly hump him to chase the friction. He feels your wetness coating him, your fingers grasping onto his neck and the last of his chipping restraint is too alarming to ignore.

“How should I prep you?” He queries between kisses.

“Don’t need it,” you demand meekly. “Need you inside me.”

“Awww,” Lee kisses his teeth. “You can beg better than that.”

“Please fuck me, Sensei.”

The way you whine those words. The way you call him that name. The way you look like you’re about to cry if he doesn’t split you in half. It is the last straw, his final resolve melting into sweet nothingness.

Lee holds your leg up for more access while you bury your face in the crook of his shoulder—already accustomed to the carnal peace his scent brings you. Lee feels you jolt when the leaking head of his cock prods at your entrance.

Oh, God.

This is really happening.

“Just breathe, baby,” he reassures. “Relax for me.”

His flush-red tip swipes at your clit deliciously, you can’t help but grind against it for more. Lee takes this as a sign that your body’s truly ready for him and proceeds accordingly.

The bulbous head slowly pushes through your entrance and your eyes bulge out of your sockets at the stretch. You’re already mewling and Lee coos at you with tempered adoration. You place a hand on his chest but hold him close, ready to push if the sensation is too sharp.

Yet as soon as you manage to swallow his head, a devastated gasp rips its way through you.

“Fucking Christ,” you hurriedly hook your arm underneath his shoulder for support.

Lee feels your nails sink into his skin, and the sting drives him to lower your thigh over his hip, it drives him to massage the dip in your waist and litter kisses across your collar bone. And he doesn’t move an inch, accepting your current limit for what it is until your body says otherwise. 

He even pops a tit in his mouth, grumbling voraciously at how the supple mound graces his tongue. He greedily laps at your budding nipple—teasing it with his teeth. He’s so caught up in your softness, but still manages to notice your hips twitching for movement.

So Lee gives you more: languidly sliding a larger fraction of his length inside you and he can’t help but hiss at how your velvet walls swallow him in. He hears you struggle to slow down your labored breaths.

“You okay, flower?”

God, he’s too fucking thick!

Is he even halfway in?!

“…Y—Yeah, m’good,” even though you don’t sound too convincing, your body is in no shape to lie anyway.

Every pulsing vein, every twitch of his cock, it’s stretching your poor cunt to her absolute limit—and Lee can only pray that he’s doing right by you. He prays with every suck, every rub, every word he whispers in your ear.

This is as relaxed as she’s gonna get.

I’m not fucking this up.

When your beloved feels your hips moving again, he wastes no time and sheathes the rest of his dick inside until your pelvises finally collide. The most anguished, primal sound of need escaping your lips is nothing short of unforgettable. You are so full, so claimed, so ravaged and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

But you continue breathing just like he told you to, even if you feel like you’re going to combust at any moment.

“I know, sweetness,” Lee purrs hoarsely at your pitiful cries. “I know.”

You both hold each other in silence while he’s balls-deep in you. The stretch comes with a dull burn—which explains your trembling form, but it isn’t unbearable. In fact, the longer you sit with it the more at home his heftiness feels. 

All it takes is your clit brushing against him for you to start writhing and sounding like sin. Lee hooks a tactful arm under your knee and lifts it toward him so you can’t escape his movements. Your lover pulls his dick back until the tip teases your silken entrance once more.

The first thrust hits you like a shockwave, such controlled force forming a bulge in your lower tummy. He’s just testing the waters yet you’re already loud, panting, and utterly paralyzed. Your mind draws blanks, pliant body thrashing helplessly in his loving embrace. Every thoughtful, unhurried drive of his hips fucks a high-pitched moan out of you–a byproduct of his tireless commitment.

“You’re doing so good f’me—fuck,” Lee praises through labored breaths.

Your beloved whispers sweet nothings at the sound of your sniffles, kissing away any tears that roll down your cheeks. 

If you had to be more honest than you’ve ever been in your entire life, then sharing this moment with this man is all you’ve ever really wanted. Your pride will say otherwise, it’ll say you should want more from existence. But this is a part of your existence, and it stayed dormant–protected–until someone worthy enough could witness it.

The same goes for Lee; you have officially ruined him for everybody else. He’s never going to cherish another soul as deeply as yours. And even though you know he’s ultimately just some guy, you feel like a god is making love to you.

You open your mouth to verbalize how overjoyed you are, but you keep choking on words. So Lee shushes your disoriented babbling.

“Shhh–just feel it, angel,” he drags his lips down the side of your neck and leaves a trail of sloppy kisses over your shoulder. “Just feel it.”

And you do, relishing the way his chiseled abs flex with every lunge. So when you start fucking him back? When you decide to meet his increasingly fervent thrusts halfway, despite how unraveled you are? It drives Sensei into a deeper meditative state–the kind born from pure, animalistic devotion. Like he’s spiraling in you, and he’s bringing you with him.

Abandoning all semblance of restraint, Lee hurriedly pushes you on your back and you yelp at the sudden switch in position: your hips now encased between his strong thighs, your legs hooked over his shoulders, knees pressed against your boobs as his body eclipses you upon the mattress–all so nothing will stop him from giving you everything he has.

His hefty hips mercilessly buck into yours, a wet ‘pap, pap, pap’ echoing through the room every second he hammers his dick inside you. As loud as the creaking bed or shared squelching noises are, it’s your debauched sobs alone tethering Lee to his dwindling sanity. You hold onto his nape for dear life as he fucks you with uninhibited speed, your tits bouncing up and down from the power of each immobilizing thrust.

Lee presses his forehead against yours, his moans growing more desperate and louder by the minute. 

“Cum with me,” he whispers raggedly. It sounds like a command and humble plea all at once.

You go quiet when the orgasm seizes you, eyes squeezed shut and mouth hung open as your belly tightens with release. Your man bellows a raspy wail so beautiful, so haunting that the sound reverberates through your bones–permeating your muscle memory. You feel him twitching inside you as large spurts of cum soil the rubber for all it’s worth. 

Lee’s movements steadily slow to a stop, and you both catch your breaths through the final waves of ecstasy. When he finally garners the strength to raise his head from your embrace, you’re already asleep–quiet snores wheezing from your mouth.

He blissfully sighs with a tired grin before carefully untangling himself off of you. Your beloved slowly pulls out and silently pads his way to a private bathroom, disposing of the used condom before washing his hands.

Lee returns to you with a damp hand towel, gently wiping away any lingering sweat and discharge without waking you up. When he deems you clean enough, he activates the air conditioning and switches off all lights before joining you in slumber.

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

-

It’s the morning after your heated night together. The sun rays shine through vintage windows, cascading your deep complexion with silken warmth. You turn to avoid the light, burying your face in the pillows. Before you could fully slip back into sleep, you feel a dip in the mattress behind you. 

You flinch when soft lips peck your shoulder.

“Good morning, flower.”

Lee’s deep morning voice stirs that familiar heat in you, but you simply groan in response to your disrupted rest.

“I made breakfast,” he coos.

Your boyfriend’s tantalizing bargain makes you turn to face him, and he laughs at how easily tempted you are by food. He decides to lay beside you, watching how your eyes squint at the luminous space before zeroing in on him; he’s shirtless, just rocking some simple briefs that look so effortlessly hot on him.

“Hi,” you greet with a sleepy grin.

“Hey, baby,” his own smile is wider and giddier. ”Did you enjoy last night?”  

You sigh as the memories crash down on you like a waterfall. You shake your head in disbelief.

“I could’ve died happy.”

Lee chuckles at your honesty, because he feels the same way.

“Me too. You’re such a delight, y’know that?”

You nibble on your bottom lip at his unabashed affection, shyly nodding your head in agreement.

Lee inhales deeply, processing how to articulate the confession sitting at the tip of his tongue.

“...I dreamt of you during my coma.”

Your eyes widen at his revelation, at the recollection of that tournament and what it put his body through.

“What did I do in the dream?”

Lee hums as those past images claim his vision.

“You sat in this flower garden, wearing a pretty white dress. You watered the plants.”

Something warm in your chest swells at the tenderness behind his words.

“Wanna tell me all about it during breakfast?” 

Lee reaches to caress your cheek with his thumb, “I’d love to.”

Since your washed clothes are spinning in a dryer, you adorn yourself with one of Lee’s satin robes. You both head downstairs, basking in the delicious aroma of his homemade meal.

Author's Note: Damn, I actually finished this series. I've been working on this passion project for two years, since my junior year of high school. I didn't know exactly how this story would unfold, I just let the God within show me as I wrote. Nirvana is how I alchemized my pain, longing, and joy for literature. Thank you to everyone who's supported and/or read this fic, and I am even more grateful if you've made it this far. I hope I can make at least one person feel the way my favorite authors have made me feel. Our patience has finally been rewarded! :3