kisaya ✿ she ﾉ her twenty caribbean-japanese enfj

requests open , anons & taglist open ˙⋆✮ @fushiguava-alt

cw. explicit sexual content, phone sex, guided threesome (?), characterization might be a lil rough sowwy i tried my best, 1.9k words

your finger’s hovering over that logout button, the screen’s blue glow the only thing cutting through the dim haze of your apartment, and you’re thinking, fuck this shift, it’s been nothing but crickets and creeps who hang up after two minutes—might as well crash with some netflix and forget i even clocked in.

but then the line buzzes, sharp and unexpected, and hakari’s voice eases in like he’s got all the time in the world, that lazy drawl wrapping around your ear.

“yo, operator. you clocking out already? nah, stick around. we could use someone like you to stir things up.”

kirara’s voice slips in right behind, smooth and teasing, like she’s already got you figured out. “he means we’re bored and half-undressed. don’t leave us hanging—tell her how i’m sitting, hakari. make it super tempting.”

your stomach flips hard. a couple. not just some solo guy jerking off to his own voice. two people who sound like they actually like each other. your face burns and your thighs press together under the desk without permission.

you swallow, voice coming out smaller than you mean it to. “um… hi. still here. names? and… what’s the setup? if you want.”

hakari chuckles, low and easy, like he can hear the nerves. “hakari. this is kirara. she’s straddling my lap right now, legs spread over mine, rocking slow just to keep me hard. we’ve been at it a while. she wants someone to call the shots tonight. figured your voice might do the trick.”

kirara hums, softer now, almost gentle. “you sound sweet when you’re shy, operator. don’t be nervous. we’re not here to rush you. just… play with us a little? tell us what you want to see first. we’ll listen.”

god, her tone is so warm it makes your chest loosen a fraction. your fingers twitch toward your waistband because yeah, you’re already damp just from how casually they talk about it.

you let out a shaky breath, voice still quiet. “okay. kirara… spread wider? hook your ankles outside his thighs so he can’t… push up easy. then take just the tip. slow. for me, please.”

she makes a pleased little sound, breath catching. “mm, done. he’s already leaking, just the head and he’s pulsing. trying so hard to stay still for you. good start, baby.”

hakari’s voice stays lazy, amused. “she’s dripping down my balls already. your voice is making her squeeze tighter every time you speak. you touching yourself yet? sounds like your breathing’s getting pretty.”

he noticed. your cheeks flame hotter but your fingers are already circling slow over your clit through the fabric, matching the tease.

“maybe… a little,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “but you’re the ones who called. hakari… don’t move. tell her how it feels. be honest.”

he exhales slow, smirk clear. “kirara… your pussy’s so warm and greedy, just sucking the tip like you can’t get enough. clenching every time she talks. you’re the desperate one right now, pretty girl.”

kirara laughs softly, no mockery, just fondness. “listen to him trying to sound unbothered. his thighs are trembling under me, operator. you’re doing great—don’t stop. you’ve got us both hooked already. sink down another inch for me? let him stretch you while he bites your neck. slow. show him you’re in charge tonight.”

your heart stutters at the praise. she’s talking to you like you matter, like this isn’t embarrassing. your fingers slip under the fabric now, dipping shallow because the heat’s building too fast.

“yeah… do that,” you murmur, braver now. “hakari—bite her. mark her. and tell me both how it feels.”

wet slide, her sharp inhale, faint scrape of teeth. “oh—fuck, that stings perfect. he’s deeper, stretching me slow… throbbing so hard inside.”

hakari’s tone dips, still calm but edged with want. “she’s fluttering around me, hot and tight. marking up nice under my mouth. you’re killing us slow, operator. bet your fingers are soaked right now.”

kirara’s voice turns sweeter, coaxing. “you can tell us, you know. we like hearing you get worked up too. it’s hot. rub a little faster for us? please? you’re being so good already.”

her words melt something in your chest. your shyness cracks open wider—fingers speed up, circling your clit with more pressure, breath hitching openly.

“i… yeah. dripping. thighs shaking a little,” you confess, voice steadier. “now rock just the first couple inches, kirara. shallow. tease him. hakari… whisper how bad she wants more every time she pulls back.”

kirara’s rhythm starts. “he’s whispering filth—saying my cunt’s begging. it’s mean and so good. operator… more. please. you’re making this feel incredible.”

hakari laughs low, unbothered but strained. “she’s creaming all over me, acting tough but whining so sweet. you edging yourself too, shy thing? tell us. let us hear it.”

“edging… yeah,” you breathe, bolder now. “can’t help it. kirara—touch your clit. slow circles. hakari—one deep thrust every time she moans. just one. then hold.”

she moans the instant he sinks in, high and pretty. “deep—right there—please—”

hakari’s control thins. “she’s gripping vicious. fluttering wild. operator… i’m holding, but she’s close. let me move soon.”

kirara pants, still sweet even wrecked. “he’s shaking too—don’t let him fool you. so full—his cock’s owning every inch. build it more, baby. we’re aching for you to say yes.”

their praise lights you up—fingers frantic, hips rocking because the tension’s unbearable and you’re not hiding anymore.

“another deep one,” you say, voice firmer. “kirara—tell me how stretched. hakari—wait for my word.”

she gasps as he obeys. “splitting me—throbbing everywhere—i feel him pulse—please—”

hakari’s voice roughens, serious for a beat. “your rules are breaking us slow. you’re right there too, aren’t you? fingers deep, clit swollen. say it.”

the words land heavy in your ear and your whole body clenches around the two fingers buried inside you, slick and aching. your clit throbs under the pad of your thumb, swollen and sensitive from how long you’ve been circling without letting yourself tip over. heat crawls up your neck, chest tight, breath coming in shallow pants you can’t hide anymore.

“yes,” you whisper, voice cracking open. “fingers deep… clit so swollen it hurts. i’m right there. please—”

kirara lets out a soft moan at your confession. her hips roll down harder now, taking him deeper without waiting for permission, slick sounds filling the line as she grinds in tight circles. you hear the wet slap of skin meeting skin, her thighs trembling against his.

hakari’s hands must clamp down on her hips because there’s a low growl—his control finally fraying—and he thrusts up to meet her, slow at first, every inch dragging out a choked gasp from her throat. the rhythm builds fast after that: deep, punishing strokes that make her breath hitch higher each time he bottoms out.

your own fingers match without thinking—curling harder inside yourself, thumb pressing firm circles over your clit until sparks shoot up your spine. your free hand grips the edge of the desk so tight your knuckles ache. every thrust they take echoes in your body like you’re the one getting fucked, heat pooling low and tight, thighs shaking under the table.

kirara’s moans turn sharp and desperate, broken little “fuck—fuck—there baby—” spilling out as hakari picks up speed. you can picture it too clearly: her back arching, nails digging into his shoulders, pussy clenching visibly around his cock with every pull-out. his hips snap forward harder now, possessive, no more teasing—just raw need driving into her.

your fingers plunge faster, slick dripping down your wrist, the wet sounds from your own hand mixing with theirs on the line. pressure coils unbearable in your core, clit pulsing under relentless circles, walls fluttering around your fingers like they’re trying to pull something deeper.

“cum with us,” kirara pants, voice sweet even when it’s wrecked. “let go, baby—feel it—cum—”

hakari’s next thrust must hit her perfect because she cries out, high and shattering, body locking up as she cums hard around him. the line floods with her broken sobs, wet gushing sounds, his low groan vibrating through as he buries himself deep and holds, pulsing inside her, filling her up while she milks every drop.

that’s what tips you—her cry, his grunt, the filthy wet rhythm of them riding it out together. your orgasm slams through you without warning: walls clamping hard around your fingers, clit throbbing violently under your thumb, whole body jerking forward as heat explodes outward in waves that leave you gasping, trembling, thighs slick and shaking.

your fingers are still sticky and trembling when you finally pull them away, the aftershocks leaving little sparks dancing under your skin. your thighs are slick, shorts pushed down just enough, chair creaking under the way your body keeps twitching even now. the line stays quiet except for the three of you breathing—slow, heavy, like everyone’s still riding the high.

kirara breaks it first, voice all soft velvet now, no tease left. “mm… you were so good for us. sounded like you needed that as bad as we did. you sounded so pretty coming undone like that.”

hakari exhales a lazy laugh, still hoarse. “yeah. felt that one all the way over here. good girl.”

“anytime you two… want this again,” you murmur, shy creeping back but softer this time. “i’ll pick up.”

your cheeks burn hotter at the praise, but it settles warm and heavy in your chest. you tuck a strand behind your ear even though they can’t see it, suddenly hyper-aware of how alone you are in this dim room while they’re tangled together somewhere else.

“i… didn’t expect it to feel like that,” you admit, voice small again but honest. “usually it’s just… one person. never like this. never a couple.”

kirara makes a pleased little sound. “that’s what made it better. you fit right in. like you were waiting for us to show up and pull you under.”

hakari chuckles, low and satisfied. “she’s right. next time we’re not doing this over the phone.”

your breath catches. next time?

kirara picks up the thread smooth as silk. “no screens, no distance. just skin on skin. you telling us what to do… or maybe letting us show you exactly how grateful we are.”

hakari’s voice drops, that feral edge creeping back in but still lazy, like he’s already picturing it. “you’d look so fucking pretty spread out between us. shy little operator finally getting everything she’s been teasing herself to. we’d take our time. make you cum until you forget your own name.”

kirara hums agreement, softer. “we’d be gentle at first. let you set the pace. but once you open up… we’d ruin you so sweet. you’d leave marked up and smiling.”

your pulse kicks hard again, fresh heat pooling low even though you just came. thighs press together instinctively. the idea hits like a drug—hands on you, mouths, their bodies pinning you down while you try to keep control. fuck. you can almost feel it: hakari’s grip on your hips, kirara’s lips on your neck, both of them watching every twitch like they own it.

“think about it,” hakari murmurs, voice dropping darker. “text the line when you’re ready. we’ll clear the night. no interruptions.”

kirara whispers, almost tender. “we’ll be waiting, baby. just say the word.”

you’re not allowed to touch him.

you’re not allowed to touch yourself, either, which is somehow worse, somehow funnier to him, because he knows how wet you are—knows the second he spread your legs earlier, inspected the mess between your thighs like a disappointed landlord, hissed through his teeth and said, “look at this. pathetic,” you got wetter, like your body couldn’t even keep up the act of shame. like it knew you liked this.

so now you’re here. punished. folded pretty on the bed with your hands under your thighs like you’re sitting through a fucking seminar instead of having your legs spread for him. he’s in front of you, back against the headboard, hand slow and steady on his cock. one arm behind his head like he’s just relaxing, like this is what he does to unwind—like ruining you is a hobby. a fucking spa treatment.

“you’re learning,” he drawls, watching you from under lazy lashes, stroking slow. “not crawling into my lap. not whining. not crying—yet.”

his voice drops on that last word. like he’s daring you.

you flinch, just barely, and his lip curls.

“oh, don’t pout, princess,” he hums, tightening his grip. the veins in his forearm jump. “you earned this.”

and he means this—this awful, gorgeous performance, this leisurely show of him pumping his cock slow and deep into his own fist while you sit there like a good girl and take it. he keeps huffing these soft groans, all smug and dramatic, rubbing his thumb under the head like it doesn’t kill you every time it twitches. like he doesn’t know you’re watching with your mouth parted, thighs shaking, trying not to rut your hips against the mattress because that would be cheating.

the morning light filters through the half-open blinds in soft golden stripes across the sheets, warming the bare skin of your back where the comforter’s slipped down to your waist. you’re still half-asleep, face buried in the pillow that smells like satoru’s shampoo and last night’s sex—clean cotton and something faintly sweet, like the vanilla he insists on using even though you tease him for it.

a quiet clatter from the kitchen pulls you closer to awake. then the bedroom door creaks open, followed by the soft pad of bare feet and the faint scent of coffee and butter.

satoru doesn’t announce himself. he never does when he’s in this mood.

the mattress dips beside you. you feel the cool edge of a tray settle on the bed, then his long fingers brushing hair off your neck before his mouth replaces them—slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing from the nape down the curve of your shoulder.

“morning, pretty,” he murmurs against your skin, voice still rough from sleep and whatever trouble he got up to in the kitchen. “made you breakfast.”

you hum, not quite ready to open your eyes yet. “smells good.”

“mm. blueberry pancakes. extra syrup ‘cause i know you’re crazy about it.” another kiss, lower this time, between your shoulder blades. “coffee’s black. figured you’d want to wake up slow.”

you finally crack one eye open. he’s shirtless, low-slung gray sweats hanging off his hips, white hair a disaster, blindfold missing so those stupidly pretty blue eyes are locked on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at. the tray’s balanced on his lap: stack of pancakes dripping syrup, sliced strawberries arranged in a lazy heart (he’ll deny it if you call him out), two mugs of coffee steaming gently.

satoru gojo thinks he’s got you figured out.

he’s the strongest, after all. the one who walks into any room like he owns it, blindfold on, smirk sharp enough to cut glass, voice dripping with that lazy confidence that makes most people fold instantly. he’s tamed curses, tamed higher-ups, tamed entire battlefields with a flick of his wrist.

but you?

you’re his personal little nightmare.

the first time you brat out in front of him—full lip pout, arms crossed, “make me” dripping from your tongue like honey—he laughs. low, amused, like you just told the funniest joke. he steps closer, towers over you, long fingers tipping your chin up so you’re forced to look at those electric blue eyes (blindfold pushed up for the occasion, because he wants you to see exactly how fucked you are).

“cute,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “real cute. but you’re gonna regret that in about… ten seconds.”

except ten seconds pass.

then twenty.

then he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter, skirt flipped up, panties yanked to your knees, and his hand comes down hard—once, twice, sharp cracks that make you yelp and arch.

and you still look back at him over your shoulder with that defiant little glint in your eye.

“that all you got, ‘toru?”

his cock twitches against the zipper of his pants so hard it hurts.

sylus never lets you top. not because he’s scared you’ll do a bad job. because he knows you’ll do too fucking well.

he’s a control freak. a snob. a bastard about it. he likes making you cry with your own pleasure, likes saying shit like “that’s it, sweetheart, use that brain for moaning instead,” while he’s got you bent over the desk he does diagnostics on.

he calls you greedy for asking and desperate for dripping, and then he lets you do both anyway, slow and mean, until you’re sobbing into the pillow and he’s wiping his cock on your thigh.

so when you ask—sweet as you can, pretty little “can i ride it?” like it’s innocent, like it’s not a death sentence—he just scoffs.

“you?” deadpan. flat. biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “you’d break in thirty seconds.”

you pout. he raises one brow.

“oh, please. you’d get on top and cry the second you sat down. i know you.”

you tell him fine. you dare him. and for some reason—maybe he’s tired, maybe he’s cocky, maybe he wants to watch you try and fail—he says yes. big mistake.

because you don’t just sit. and that’s where he fucks up.

because you don’t flinch. don’t squirm. don’t stall out like he’s always expected you to. you just climb into his lap like you’ve done it a hundred times, like you haven’t been dreaming about it with your hand between your thighs for weeks, like the wet spot on your panties hasn’t already mapped out every single bounce you plan to take.

you brace on his chest. guide him in slow.

and when the tip catches—you don’t pause, don’t gasp, don’t even blink. you sink down in one slow, syrupy motion, hiss out a breath through your teeth, and say, perfectly calm, “huh. thought it’d hurt more.”

his hand spasms. he looks up at you like you’ve cursed him.

you smile. “you good, baby?”

“don’t—” he says, voice already raw. “don’t call me that.”

“why not?” you lean forward, hips grinding, slick soaking his thighs. “you’re letting me ride it, aren’t you? isn’t that what good boys do?”

he twitches. cock jumps. his fingers dig into your waist like he wants to ruin you just to win a single round, but it’s too late. he’s already losing. he’s already so fucking deep it should be criminal, and you’re still rolling your hips in lazy little circles like you’ve got all the time in the world and nothing to prove.

“fucking—stop—”

“why?” you murmur, syrup-sweet. “scared i’ll make you cum?”

he’s panting now, red creeping up his throat. he looks furious. he looks gorgeous. he looks like he’s seconds away from breaking—so you bounce. once.

and he chokes. “fuck—”

“what was that?” you tease. “you like that?”

you bounce again. slow. drawn out. and his mouth drops open. hands flying to your hips. not to stop you—oh no. just to feel it. just to hold on.

you’re ruining him. you know it. he knows it. god probably knows it.

he’s trying to glare but his eyes are glassy and his jaw is slack and his brows are pinched like he’s trying not to moan, trying not to admit that you were right and he was wrong and you’re better at this than he is.

and you are. you are. you grind again, clench down mean, and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth just as you feel him throb.

“fuck—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“cum.”

“don’t—” he gasps. “don’t say that, i’m—”

“cum for me,” you whisper, and you swear to god he whimpers, full-body shudder, hips jerking once before he gives in, before he breaks wide open and spills himself inside you in hot, shaking pulses, cock twitching so hard you feel it in your ribs.

he pants. moans. melts beneath you like he’s been dismantled from the spine out. you don’t move. you stay seated. leaking. still smug. and you stroke his hair once, real gentle, just to twist the knife.

he doesn’t even know when he started crying. might’ve been when you made him take his shirt off. might’ve been when you told him to kneel. might’ve been the second he looked in the mirror and really saw himself—cock leaking all over your hand, breath hitching every time you gave a cruel little twist of your wrist, mouth hanging open like a fucking idiot. he doesn’t look powerful. doesn’t look like the guy everyone else sees. no smirk. no bark. just flushed cheeks and glassy eyes and a pathetic twitch in his thighs every time you whisper something low behind him.

you don’t say much. you don’t need to. it’s in the way you breathe against his neck, slow and patient, like you’re enjoying this more than you’ll admit. it’s in the way your fingers stay wrapped around the base of his cock—tight enough to keep him from even thinking about cumming but not tight enough to hurt, not really. you make him feel it. every second. every stroke. every time you remind him to keep looking at himself.

“don’t look away,” you say, quiet, like a warning, but not cruel. just tired, like you’re sick of telling him things twice.

his throat bobs, adam’s apple jumping, and you see it reflected there in the mirror—how hard it is for him to keep eye contact with himself when he looks like this. flushed and glassy-eyed, lips swollen from biting back too many sounds, the edge of a tear sitting stubborn in the corner of his eye. 

his cock jerks in your hand when you squeeze again, dragging your thumb across the slit like you’re trying to smear shame into his skin. he breathes out a little sob when you twist your wrist and lean closer, mouth brushing behind his ear, the way you always do when you want to unravel him completely.

“is that really how you look when you beg?” you murmur, and he shudders like it’s the most painful thing you’ve said all night. “no wonder i laugh at you.”

you say it without thinking. something about the guy from your orgo class. maybe it’s the slope of his shoulders, or the way he leans in when he talks. maybe it’s nothing. just a throwaway comparison muttered into naoya’s collarbone when you’re bored and undressing him. you say, he kinda reminded me of you, which is to say: he was your type before you decided naoya was. his reaction is subtle—at first. he doesn’t snap, doesn’t bite. just pauses for a second longer than usual, his shirt halfway off, expression unreadable in the dim light of your bedroom.

"mm?" he hums. too light. too casual. "you’ve got shit taste, then. unless you’re saying i’m hotter."

you give a slow blink. "i’m saying you’re replaceable."

he barks a laugh. walks you backward like it’s a game he’s already won. "that right? so why’s it me you keep crawling back to?" his mouth twitches, not quite smiling. "bet he doesn't even know how to get you wet."

you roll your eyes. “you think you do?” you hum. shrug. careless. and that’s what does it.

he watches you closely. too closely. still smiling. you scoff, turning your back on him, reaching for your water like the conversation is over. but the shift is there. it’s in the silence. in the way his hands find your hips again, possessive in that familiar, infuriating way. in the way his mouth finds your throat like he needs to mark it before someone else does.

he pushes you back onto the bed like he’s correcting a posture. climbs between your thighs, drags them open with his forearms, eyes already darker than before. “take your panties off,” he says, and you do, watching him closely now. something’s off. not anger—urgency. he’s breathing heavier than he should be.

katsuki knows the second she laughs at his joke that it’s not going to work.

not because she’s annoying. not because she’s boring. she’s fine. pretty, even. says all the right things. leans across the table in that practiced way like she’s read too many magazine articles about body language and how to be “irresistible,” lets her fingers brush his arm when she asks him about the gym. her voice is soft. her eyes linger. and all katsuki can think about is how off it feels. how cold. how completely unfuckingsexy it is to watch someone try so hard to be interesting. he finishes his drink too fast. smiles through the burn. thinks about how many more minutes he has to kill before he can leave without feeling like a dick.

he ends the night early. pays. walks her back to her car. listens to her offer something about “doing this again,” and nods even though he knows it’s a lie. he kisses her when she leans in, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do? it’s quick. dry. she tastes like lip gloss and vodka. he pulls back too fast and pretends he didn’t notice. tells her goodnight, watches her drive off, then gets in his own car and sits there with his head against the headrest and his jaw clenched.

he doesn’t even remember the drive home. just the sting behind his eyes from the streetlights and the throb in his cock that hasn’t gone away since halfway through dinner. not because of her. not even because of the dumb conversation or the tight dress or the low neckline. but because of what’s been crawling under his skin all day, ever since he woke up with morning wood and didn’t touch it. tried to push through a workout instead. tried to clear his head in the shower. nothing worked. and now it’s worse. now it’s fucking unbearable.

the second his front door closes, his belt’s undone. he doesn’t even make it to the bedroom. just drops onto the couch, drags a hand over his face, yanks his sweats down far enough to grip his cock, already half-hard and aching. he unlocks his phone without thinking. thumb taps open twitter like muscle memory. goes straight to the feed, already knowing it’ll be flooded with the usual shit—half-naked girls, grainy clips, skin and sound and desperation.

sweetie i guarantee that u have enough works for a masterlist pls pls pls make one i need easy navigation ily