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Please please can we get a part two to the pregnancy fic where the baby comes??
Zuko, who had faced down armies without flinching, looked like he might pass out. “She’s so tiny..” he breathed, his voice cracking as the midwife placed the squirming bundle into your arms. The baby’s face was scrunched and red, her dark hair plastered wetly to her scalp, but when she blinked up at them with golden eyes, his eyes—Zuko’s knees actually buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the bed, his fingers trembling as he brushed the back of one knuckle against Izumi’s cheek.
The first time Izumi laughed, it was at the Fire Sages. One of the elder sages. a man whose beard had gone from black to gray in service to the throne—had been droning through a ceremonial blessing when Izumi, perched on Zuko’s lap, let out a delighted giggle. Her tiny hands smacked against the scroll he was holding, sending it tumbling to the floor in a cascade of ember-red silk. The sage blinked, his ceremonial headpiece slightly askew, and Zuko, Firelord Zuko, conqueror of his own destiny*—bit his lip so hard it bled trying not to laugh.
"You're supposed to be a dignitary," You whispered later, pressing a damp cloth to his mouth as they sat in their private garden. Izumi was sprawled across Zuko’s chest, her fingers tangled in the sash of his robes. "Not a conspirator with a six-month-old."
"She has taste," Zuko muttered, shifting Izumi higher so he could press a kiss to her forehead. "That scroll was outdated anyway. The Fire Sages still haven’t updated the lineage records to include your family name."
Izumi chose that moment to sneeze, a tiny explosion that left a trail of drool on Zuko’s collar. You burst into laughter, leaning forward to wipe it away. only for Izumi to grab her wrist with surprising strength. The baby’s golden eyes narrowed, studying your fingers with the intensity of a scholar deciphering ancient script.
The first time Izumi firebent, she set the nursery curtains ablaze. It happened at dusk, when the last embers of sunlight painted the palace walls in molten gold—fitting, really, for a child born of fire. One moment, you were adjusting Izumi’s swaddle, murmuring about the evening’s visit from Uncle Iroh, and the next, a tiny fist shot free from the blankets with a spark that ignited the silk in a whoosh of crimson flame.
The first time Izumi asked for a sibling, she did it by dragging a baby turtleduck into the throne room during Zuko’s morning petitions. The delegates from the Southern Water Tribe barely had time to react before the three-year-old deposited the squirming creature onto the polished obsidian floor with a wet *plop*. "Daddy," she announced, pointing at the turtleduck with one sticky finger, "I want this but human."
Zuko choked on his tea. The Fire Sages, already scandalized by the interruption, turned varying shades of purple. You. The firelady, who had been discreetly nursing a headache behind her fan, snapped it shut so hard the ivory ribs cracked. "Izumi," you said slowly, "where did you get that?"
"Pond," Izumi said matter-of-factly, as if smuggling wildlife into state functions was perfectly reasonable. The turtleduck, sensing an opportunity, began waddling toward the Earth Kingdom ambassador’s ceremonial robes. "Uncle Iroh says babies come from love. You love daddy lots," She demonstrated by throwing her arms widec knocking over a ceremonial urn of fire lilies in the process. "So make another one."
The resulting silence was so profound they could hear the turtleduck pecking at the ambassador’s hemline. Zuko’s scar twitched. "We’ll discuss this later my dear.," he hissed, just as the turtleduck relieved itself on the Earth Kingdom’s finest silk.
The turtleduck incident was only the beginning. Izumi, now four and armed with the terrifying persistence of a child who'd discovered the power of repetition, had turned "daddy, when?" into a daily refrain. She greeted Zuko at breakfast ("When can I have a baby sister?" as she dripped honey onto his treaty scrolls), interrupted council meetings ("When,daddy?" bellowed from the courtyard where she'd scaled a pillar), and echoed through the palace corridors at bedtime ("When? When?" chanted like a war drum until you resorted to bribing her with extra fire flakes).
Zuko was beginning to understand why his ancestors had built soundproof chambers.
The palace settled into a heavy, humid silence after Izumi finally drifted into a charcoal-smudged slumber. Zuko sat on the edge of their expansive bed, the crown of the Fire Lord discarded on the nightstand. He rubbed his temples where the weight of the gold had pressed all day.
"The delegates are still talking about the turtleduck," Zuko muttered, his voice raspy.
You stepped out from behind the silk dressing screen, her robe hanging loose. "At least they weren't talking about the tax code. She brought levity to the throne room."
"She brought animal droppings to the Earth Kingdom ambassador’s boots," Zuko countered, though a smirk tugged at his scarred cheek. He looked up at you as he approached, his golden eyes darkening.
"She won’t stop asking, you know. She’s as stubborn as a badger-mole."
"Then let's give her what she wants," You whispered, your fingers sliding into his dark hair.
Zuko groaned, a low sound that vibrated against your stomach as he pulled you between his knees. "Are you sure? Another one like her might actually burn the palace down."
"We'll buy fireproof curtains this time," you teased, tilting his head back to kiss the line of his jaw.
Zuko didn't hesitate. He stood, his hands finding the tie of her robe and yanking it free. The silk slid to the floor in a crimson puddle. He shoved his breeches down, his turgid cock springing free, thick and already leaking a bead of clear pre-cum that glistened in the firelight. He pushed you back onto the mattress, his weight a familiar, grounding heat.
"I want to feel every bit of you," he growled, his breath hot against your ear.
He spread your legs wide, the damp heat of your pussy beckoning him. He didn't use his fingers; he wanted the immediate friction of skin on skin. He guided the broad head of his dick against your slit, smearing your natural cream upward toward your clit. A wet, shlicking sound echoed in the quiet room as he slid home, the girth stretching her tight walls.
"H-hah.. oh fuck..” you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back.
“Tell me if I'm too much," Zuko panted, his hips beginning a rhythmic, forceful grind.
"Never. More. Give me more," you urged.
The pace quickened, a messy, squelching rhythm taking over as sweat-slicked bodies slammed together. Air hissed out of you with every deep thrust. At one point, his cock slipped out from a particularly vigorous upward tilt of your hips, the head slapping against your wet thigh with a meaty thud. Zuko didn't wait; he gripped your waist, his thumbs bruising your skin, and shoved back inside with a guttural roar.
The sound of their union became a frantic cacophony of wet slaps and heavy breathing. You felt the blunt pressure of him hitting your cervix, a sensation that sent sparks through your vision. "Zuko, I'm... I'm close!"
"Stay with me," he commanded, his movements becoming frantic.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as his seed erupted inside you— in hot, thick pulses. You shrieked, your internal muscles clamping down on him, milking the last of his heat. They lay there for a long time, the only sound the crackle of the hearth and the heavy, synchronized thumping of two hearts.
"Do you think it worked?.." Zuko asked breathlessly, his forehead resting against yours.
You smiled, tracing the curve of his ear. "If it didn't, we'll just have to try again tomorrow."
idk if this has been done yet, but husband!zuko x reader. but he bends us over his throne surrounded by flames. can be semi-public or not 🔥
A/N
Ohhh yes… thank you for giving me an idea🙏🤤
!firelord zuko fucking you infront of his closest advisors.
Below the dais, three elderly advisors hovered over a sprawling map of the Earth Kingdom colonies, their voices a discordant drone of logistics and trade tariffs.
"The northern shipping lanes remain clogged with ice-floe remnants, Fire Lord," Councilor Kyo stated, his voice thin and rasping like dry parchment. "The cost of spirits and timber will skyrocket by the spring equinox if we do not redirect the fleet."
Zuko didn't look at the map. His gaze remained fixed on his wife, You, who stood near the peripheral pillars, your fingers tracing the crimson silk of your robes. The way the firelight caught the curve of your throat made the air in his lungs feel like molten lead.
"General Shinu," Zuko barked, his voice cutting through the Councilor’s drone. "What is your assessment of the naval escort?"
The General stepped forward, clearing his throat. "We lack the coal reserves to sustain a full escort for the merchant vessels, Firelord. Unless we tax the coal mines in the caldera, we are at a stalemate."
You moved closer to the dais, your footsteps silent on the polished stone. "Perhaps the stalemate isn't in the mines, General, but in your lack of imagination regarding the wind currents."
The advisors shifted, their stiff robes rustling. Zuko’s lips curled into a sharp, dangerous smile. "Come here, my firelady.”
You walk towards zuko, the heat radiating from the eternal flames surrounding the throne intensifying with every step. Zuko reached out, his hand snaking around your waist to pull you flush against his armored chest. The smell of you, jasmine and woodsmoke, overwhelmed the sulfur in the air.
"You have a suggestion for the General?" Zuko whispered against your ear, though his eyes remained locked on the men below.
"I think the General should learn to multitask," You replied, your voice low and challenging. You leaned back against him, your hips grinding subtly against the rising heat in his lap. "And I think you’re far too tense to be making decisions about coal."
Zuko’s hand tightened on your hip , his fingers digging into the silk. "Kyo, continue with the report. Do not stop until I tell you."
"But firelord, the specifics of the-“ Kyo started, his eyes widening as Zuko stood, pulling you around and forcing you down onto the cold, golden metal of the throne.
"I said continue," Zuko commanded, his voice a low growl.
The flames surrounding the throne roared, leaping ten feet into the air, creating a wall of shimmering orange and red that blurred the advisors' vision but didn't hide the shapes behind the fire. Zuko gripped your hips, flipping you so you faced the back of the throne, Your chest pressed against the ornate dragon carvings. He hiked your skirts up, the red fabric bunching around your waist, revealing your bare, damp thighs.
"The... the harbor repairs in Yu Dao are... are behind schedule," Shinu stammered, his voice shaking. He kept his eyes glued to the map, though the sound of a zipper and the rustle of heavy silk echoed through the hall.
Zuko fumbled with his trousers, his cock springing free, thick and already leaking a bead of pre-cum that glistened in the firelight. He didn't use any finesse. He reached down, his fingers slicking through your folds, finding you already dripping. He shoved two fingers inside you, hearing the wet, squelching sound of your pussy gripping him.
"You’re so wet for them, my love," Zuko hissed, his breath hot against your neck.
"No.. I’m wet for my husband," you gasped, your fingernails clawing at the gold leaf of the throne. "Do it, Zuko. Make them hear how much you want me…”
Zuko didn't hesitate. He guided his crown-shaped head to your opening and shoved forward. The friction was immense, his foreskin pulling back tight as he buried himself to the hilt. You let out a sharp, jagged cry that echoed off the high rafters.
"Councilor," Zuko called out, his voice strained as he began to pull back and thrust again. "What was that about the shipping lanes?"
"The... the lanes, firelord," Kyo’s voice was an octave higher now. "They require... ah... immediate intervention."
Zuko hammered into you, his hips slapping against your buttocks with a rhythmic, fleshy thud. Shlicking sounds filled the gaps between the advisors' panicked sentences. Every time he lunged forward, his balls slapped against your taint, the sound sharp like a whipcrack in the quiet room. He could feel your internal walls pulsing, your cervix taking the brunt of his overzealous thrusting.
"They’re watching the shadows," Zuko groaned, his hand reaching around to find your clit. He rubbed it vigorously, his thumb sliding through the overflow of her juices and his own pre-cum. "They’re listening to me take you…”
"Let them," you moaned, your head tossing back. "Harder, Zuko. Fuck me until I can't hear them..”
He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming frantic and messy. His cock slipped out for a moment, sliding against the side of your thigh with a wet, smacking sound before he guided it back into your soaking heat. The air was thick with the smell of sex and salt. Your pussy was a riot of friction and fluid, the air being pushed out of you with every deep stroke, creating a soft, rhythmic puffing sound.
"The tax... the tax is... oh gods," Shinu whispered, his shadow trembling on the floor.
"Don't stop reading, General!" Zuko roared, his voice breaking as he hit his limit.
He lunged one last time, pinning you against the throne as he began to pour his cum into you. He came in great, hot spurts, the feeling of his cock throbbing inside you making you scream his name. You followed him into the abyss, your own orgasm clamping down on him, milking him dry as you both collapsed against the dragon-carved gold.
Silence fell, save for the crackle of the dying flames and their heavy, ragged breathing. Zuko stayed buried inside you for a long minute, the mess of your union dripping onto the dais.
"You may go," Zuko said, his voice regaining its icy authority despite the sweat dripping from his chin. "Have the reports on my desk by dawn."
The sound of three pairs of feet scrambling toward the exit was the only answer he received. Zuko pulled out with a wet pop, watching as a mixture of his cum and your cream ran down your inner thigh. He leaned down, kissing your shoulder.
"Now," he whispered. "Where were we regarding the wind currents?"
Zuko—fuck—" you gasp as he sinks down in front of you, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide. There's no waiting, no teasing—his mouth is on you instantly, tongue sliding through your folds in one hot, wet stroke that makes your legs shake.
"So fucking wet already," he mutters, his breath warm against you as he looks up with those burning gold eyes. Then he's back at it, licking you in long, firm strokes, coating you with his spit until you're dripping.
Your fingers tangle in his dark hair, tugging hard when his mouth finally closes around your clit. He sucks on it, hard and hungry, and you can't help the moan that tears from your throat. "Zuko—yes—don't stop—"
He groans in answer, the sound rumbling through you and making your hips buck. His hands grab your ass, yanking you even closer to his face like he needs more of you. It's wet and messy—you can hear every lick, every suck, feel his ragged breathing against your soaked pussy.
"Gonna make you cum all over my face," he says, his voice rough and needy. "Wanna feel you fall apart." His tongue starts moving faster, lighter flicks right on your clit while he pushes two fingers deep inside you, curling them just right to make you see stars.
"Zuko—please—I need you inside me," you whimper, still sensitive and trembling.
He pulls away, his lips and chin glistening with your wetness, his golden eyes dark with pure lust. "Yeah? You need my cock?" He crawls up your body, kissing you hard so you can taste yourself on his tongue. "You know what I need?"
You nod, breathless, knowing exactly where this is going. It's all he talks about when he gets like this—when the need takes over.
"I need to fill you up," Zuko growls against your neck, positioning himself between your legs. "Need to pump you so full of my cum that it's dripping out of you for days." His cock presses against your entrance, thick and hard and ready. "Gonna get you pregnant. Gonna watch your belly grow with my baby."
"Yes—please, Zuko—" you beg, wrapping your legs around his waist.
He pushes inside in one smooth thrust, both of you moaning at the feeling. He's so deep, stretching you perfectly, and he doesn't wait—immediately starting to fuck you with hard, steady strokes.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants, his hips snapping against yours. "So tight and wet for me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn't it? Made to take my cum and give me children."
"Yes! Yes, it was—" you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders.
Zuko's pace gets rougher, more desperate. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half so he can get even deeper. "Gonna breed you so good," he promises, his voice rough and strained. "Gonna fuck a baby into you right now. You want that? Want me to make you a mother?"
"Please—I want it—want your baby—"
That drives him wild. His thrusts become almost punishing, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room along with your moans and his grunts. "You're gonna look so beautiful pregnant," he says, one hand sliding down to press against your lower belly. "Gonna be so full and round with my child. Everyone will know you're mine. That I bred you. That this—" he thrusts particularly deep, "—is my pussy and I filled it with my seed."
You can feel yourself getting close again, the pressure building as he hits that perfect spot inside you over and over. "Zuko—I'm gonna—"
"Cum for me," he demands, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles. "Cum on my cock while I breed you. Milk me dry."
You shatter, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes through you. Your pussy clenches around him, squeezing his cock, and Zuko groans loud and long.
"Fuck—yes—that's it—gonna cum—gonna fill you up—" His rhythm breaks, becoming erratic as he chases his own release. "Take it—take all of it—get pregnant for me—"
He buries himself as deep as possible and cums hard, his cock pulsing inside you as he empties himself. You can feel it—the warmth flooding you, so much of it, just like he promised. He keeps grinding into you, making sure every drop stays inside, making sure it takes.
"So full," he breathes, finally stilling but staying inside you. "You're so full of my cum right now." He pulls out just slightly and you both watch as some of it leaks out. Immediately, Zuko pushes it back in with his fingers, then his cock, thrusting a few more times. "No wasting it. It all stays inside. Gonna keep you plugged up with my cock until I know you're pregnant."
You whimper at the sensitivity but don't protest. You love seeing him like this—possessive and primal and completely obsessed with the idea of you carrying his child.
"We're not done," Zuko says, his cock already hardening again inside you. "Gonna fuck you all night. Gonna pump load after load into this perfect pussy until your belly is swollen with my baby. Until everyone can see what I did to you."
adult fire lord zuko x wife!reader
warnings: 18+ nsfw, fluff, breeding kink, baby fever, daddy kink
wc: 726
summary: when fire lord zuko sees his wife holding babies, and with everyone constantly pestering for an heir, his mind can't help but reel to darker places.
“Fire Lord Zuko! When can we expect an heir to the Fire Nation?”
“Fire Lord Zuko! Are you and the Fire Lady expecting?”
“Who will take the throne as the prince now that you have been reigning for some time?”
The relentless questioning left Zuko restless. He had hoped the weight on his shoulders would ease once he transitioned from prince to Fire Lord, but the pressure had only increased tenfold.
You, on the other hand, were as cool as a cucumber.
As the beloved Fire Lady, you were adored by the entire nation. While Zuko was buried in council meetings and ledgers, you spent your free time at charities, local orphanages, and schools. To put it simply, you were constantly surrounded by families— more specifically, children.
Zuko watched from afar as toddlers wrapped their chubby arms around your skirts, peering up at you with wide, hopeful eyes. Parents took pride in seeing the Fire Lady cradle their infants, and even the fussiest babies seemed to settle the moment they were tucked into your arms.
“My! You would make such a wonderful mother,” one woman remarked.
“The Fire Lord is a lucky man indeed,” the citizens added. “A beautiful wife and a natural mother.”
While Zuko often flushed with embarrassment, you took every remark as an opportunity to tease him.
“Hear that, Zuko? It means we’ve got work to do,” you joked, gently rocking a sleeping infant while the crowd erupted into laughter.
It wasn’t until you were talking to one of the elderly ladies from a distance that the conversation took a turn, her voice not-so-quiet as she described the struggles of pregnancy.
“Pregnancy is a beautiful thing, but very, very tedious,” the elderly lady explained. “You’re constantly waddling around with a big, round belly. Your feet are swollen and bare, and your…” she motioned to your chest, “always swollen and aching.”
Your face flushed with embarrassment, but Zuko, on the other hand, found his mind admiring the idea.
He wasn’t in a rush to have kids, but the image of you—his wife, waddling around the palace barefoot in nothing but a flowy dress. Your belly, round from carrying his baby, and your breasts swollen with milk.
It was perfect.
And that was how you ended up here, sprawled across your shared bed with your legs hooked over Zuko’s broad shoulders as he held you folded in a mating press.
His cock—thick and swollen—pounded into you relentlessly, the air filling with vulgar sounds that made your eyes roll back and your ears burn.
“Zu—Zuko!” you cried out in pleasure.
“Gonna… get you…” Zuko grunted, his hips drawing back as he drove into you deeper. “Pregnant… gotta breed you—”
Zuko was a mess of incoherent babbling, muttering about keeping you full of his seed and the image of you walking around barefoot. His heavy body completely enveloped yours, his hands tangling into your hair to pin you in place, keeping you trapped in that vulnerable position.
“Gonna keep fucking you until it takes,” he promised darkly. “Until our kids are running around the palace.”
You were a moaning mess beneath him, your legs dangling in the air as he pounded into you, forcing you to take every deliciously agonizing inch of your Fire Lord.
“How many do you think we’ll have? One? Two?” Zuko laughed raspily against your ear, the vibration making your body tingle. “Or twins. That’d be nice—wouldn’t it?”
“So… so nice,” you managed to moan.
Zuko laughed again, adjusting his angle so he could fuck even deeper into your warm, aching core.
“Fuck. You gonna make me a daddy, baby?”
“Yes, Zuko!” you cried, nodding your head frantically against the pillows. “Yes—I’ll make you a daddy—”
“Shit,” he cursed, his body drawing tight as he felt himself ready to pump you full. “Say it again.”
“Daddy!”
Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
The sound of it was music to his ears. He tossed his head back, his long, dark hair damp with sweat against his bare skin as his cock pulsed deep inside you, pumping ropes of thick, hot cum into your aching pussy.
“God, that’s it,” he growled, peering down at you with lustful, golden eyes as his chest heaved.
“Gonna make sure it takes. You’re going to give me an heir, aren’t you? My beautiful, perfect, sweet wife.”
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frat!toji, who’s always liked his girls with a little spunk, someone who can tell him off—but he’s terrifying, tall as a tower, dwarfing almost everyone in his presence, his body practically sculpted from stone, most people don’t find it in them to tell him off.
frat!toji, who quite literally falls for you, you walk past him, heels clicking on the tiles, your hair trailing behind you, barely glancing in his direction and he practically drops to his knees, because he just has to get to know you.
frat!toji, who always thought you were such a doll, always dressed up in the cutest outfits, you hair always done to match, and you always smelled of something sweet—everything about you was mind numbingly adorable, a sharp contrast to your demeanour of absolutely walking all over him.
frat!toji, who expected you to be a shy, timid person, starting his conversations with you the way he would most girls only to have you glare at him, while eyeing him up and down with nothing but judgement in your gorgeous eyes, and he swears he can hear his heart stop beating for a moment—maybe he really was just a masochist.
frat!toji, who’s practically enamoured, spending every single one of his frat parties rambling on about how pretty you are, how you never give him any time of day and how that makes you so much hotter.
frat!toji, who has all his friends hype him up before he talks to you—he’s practically giddy like a teen when you give him even a moment. one conversation with you and he’s practically floating on cloud nine for the rest of the week.
frat!toji, who’s found a way to stalk you on every social media platform he could get his hands on—yes this freak also found your secret accounts, your tumblr, every single account you’ve buried underneath a fake name and he feels like a sick weirdo to have stalked you this far but there’s no way he’s going to stop.
frat!toji, who sniffs the air like a lovesick puppy when you walk past him, the whiff of your perfume making him a little dizzy, the blood rushing to his brain, while his friends stare at him, finally convinced that he’s lost his mind.
frat!toji, who nags you with stupid questions, just to watch you scoff, rolling your eyes at him, and gods he’s dreamed of that sight, visions of you writhing underneath him, your eyes rolled back—he’s a sick pervert but he just can’t help it. :(
frat!toji, who almost drops his drink when he catches you at a house party, the sight of you in a dress that barely left anything to the imagination had his head reeling and for the first time, toji fushiguro was stuttering while he tried to talk to a girl.
frat!toji, who’s so close to punching sukuna’s face when sukuna is burying you in compliments, watching you snicker before making your way through the place, drink in hand, before seating yourself on the couch and watching the entire party before you, your face a little flushed and your mind a little dizzy.
frat!toji, who’s practically sweating bullets while he seated next to you, you’re drunk, leaning over his shoulder while his arm is wrapped around you, and when you slur your words—
“what brings you here, handsome?” his breath catches in his throat, his mouth feels dry, and when you giggle? god he’s never heard a sound that pretty.
frat!toji, who can barely look you in the eyes, his mind always rushing straight to the moment you were leaned over him, all flushed and pretty and soft, for a moment then it felt like it was just the two of you. and he would kill to relive that again.
frat!toji, who follows you around campus, noting down your little habits—he’s pathetic he knows that, you’ve called him pathetic before. and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly that had him straining against his pants. he’s pathetic, down bad, and absolutely enamoured. but the one thing he knows for sure is that he’s yours.
frat!toji, who now makes sure he’s always seated next to you during classes, his menace of a fraternity always throwing little notes at him from the back of the lecture to tease him but he couldn’t care less, being around you, even if you barely pay attention to him is more than enough, he just needs to bask in your presence.
frat!toji, who actually starts taking notes, right after you yell at him, smacking him across the back of his head for being distracted all the time, how if he doesn’t pay attention, he’d fail all his classes—and sets him in line so quickly it’s embarrassing. all because he overheard a conversation where you mentioned that idiots weren’t your type.
frat!toji, who tries to tease you, only to have you snap right back—he isn’t used to you, isn’t used to all this attention, and he isn’t used to the way your eyes scan his body like you can see right past his stupid act.
frat!toji, who now has just fully accepted that he’s yours entirely, you may not know it just yet, and yes you mock him every chance you get, it just has him falling even harder. and he’s exactly where he wants to be.
last rotting draft ! repost because i had to tweak it >_0 !!
divider credits: @//pixopix .
all work belongs to @liliklei , do not copy, repost, translate or feed into AI !!
᭡୧ prof!nanami corrupting his A+ student into riding him ..
nanami’s thick cock splits you open so slow at first, the blunt head catching at your entrance before he rocks up and sinks in deep, stretching you wide around that fat length until your thighs tremble on either side of his hips.
you’re supposed to be the one in control here, teacher’s pet perched on top like you’re the one running the show, but the second he bottoms out your mouth falls open on a broken little moan and your rule about no kissing crumbles like it always does.
his big hands lock around the curve of your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, guiding you down until your clit grinds against the base of him and you feel every inch pulsing inside you.
“that’s it,” he murmurs against your jaw, voice low and rough like gravel, “ride it just like that, baby. show me how bad you need it.”
you try to keep it steady, hips rolling in tight little circles, but he starts thrusting up to meet you and it turns filthy fast.
skin slapping wet and loud, your soaked pussy creaming down his shaft every time you lift and drop, the obscene sound of it filling the room while your tits bounce under the thin fabric of your top. he yanks the neckline down so he can watch them, thumbs brushing your nipples until they’re stiff and aching, then he pulls you forward so your chest presses to his and your mouths crash together again.
you told him no kissing. you swore it. but nanami kisses like he fucks—deep, hungry, tongue sliding against yours while he grips your waist and fucks up into you harder, the slap of his hips meeting your ass echoing every time he drives in to the hilt.
your hands fist in his hair, tugging, because you can’t help it, can’t stop yourself from whining into his mouth when the angle shifts and his cock drags right over that spot that makes your vision spark white.
he breaks the kiss just long enough to bite your bottom lip, eyes dark and half-lidded under you.
“broke your rule again,” he says, smug, voice wrecked, and then he’s dragging you down harder, forcing you to take every thick inch while your clit grinds against him with every thrust. you’re dripping, slick running down his balls, soaking the sheets, but he doesn’t care.
he just keeps fucking up into you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, one hand sliding between your bodies so his thumb can circle your clit in tight, mean little strokes.
your thighs burn, your cunt clenches around him so hard it’s almost embarrassing, but nanami groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt, hips snapping up faster, chasing that wet heat.
“come on, pretty girl,” he breathes right against your lips, “let me feel you come all over my cock. been thinking about this since you started explaining quadratic functions like i could focus on anything but how tight this pussy is.”
you try to answer but it comes out a sob, your whole body shuddering as the pressure coils tighter and tighter. he kisses you again, swallowing every desperate sound while he fucks you through it, relentless, until your orgasm crashes over you so hard your vision blurs and your nails rake down his chest. he doesn’t stop. he just grips you tighter, fucks you deeper through the aftershocks, chasing his own release with low, filthy grunts that vibrate against your mouth.
when he finally comes it’s with your name on his tongue and his cock buried to the hilt, pulsing hot and thick inside you while he keeps rocking up slow, drawing it out, making sure you feel every drop. you collapse against his chest, lips still brushing his, rule long forgotten, and nanami just smirks against your skin like he knew you’d break it all along.
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Inspired off of @halluvic Batfam Blurb about a nonchalantly neglected reader idea. Which I think is so much fun for such an angst-filled fandom! High-key my go to thought everytime a neglected fic is missing the revenge.
It’s so poetically perfect that the vigilante family that tends to forget you exist is oblivious to just how many adventures you have. Adventures that are more than the stiff and occasional reports from Alfred about your acrobatics to reach a cookie drawer. No, your adventures are borderline Constantine levels of wackiness and severity.
Think interdimensional bad-actors and fighting your own alternate versions! Before you’re even scraping double digits, you’ve saved the multiverse more than once. Your notoriety for nothing other than the first name you identify yourself with, being sung in tales of great legends. All for you to be tucked happily in bed by nightfall.
Bruce and the others are none the wiser. Thinking that when they occasionally see you and pat your little head, that you’re oblivious to their alternate identities and are living the normal life they’ve ordained to be proper for you. That’s exactly what they do when they have Alfred fetch you before they go on another business seminar ie, a Justice League level threat well beyond the Earth’s solar system. They barely give a thought to Damian, who’s just a few years your senior, is going but you—like the perfect little cutout they seem to think you are—don’t complain a single bit while they drive away. How perfect of you!
It isn’t until they’re well beyond the realm of anticipated villains, something far darker than just Darkseid attempting to destroy Earth again, but something that brings a threat to all of reality. The creature that’s summoned renders the Justice League to nothing but twigs as it bulldozes through Darkseid and his forces and the strongest among their ranks. With a single snap of it’s claws, it very well might destroy the Earth, and for once, even Batman is at a loss.
“WITH THIS I END YOUR–Oh wait, hold on! Hold the phone! Drop it and break it into a million pieces. Is this THE BATMAN?”
The gargantuan threat shrinks down and cartoonishly holds up Batman and the Robins, all the destruction coming to a stop as they coo at the entire Batfamily. Superman, Wonder-woman, and all in attendance can’t help but weakly watch as their greatest foe simply diverts into some reality-warping fangirl.
“OMG, so you guys must be the family to THE GREAT (Y/N)!? What an honor!”
They proceed to conjure various (Y/n) merchandise that they ask the family to sign, all for Batman to use their autographs as a bargaining chip to not tear this dimension and their planet to shreds.
“Oh yeah! Well of course, I won’t do that with (Y/n) here! Mad respect for that homie of mine! Anyway, tell them I said hi and I’m still healing from our time back in Earth #3495830485. Haha, good times.”
Balance is restored instantly, and the whole time home everyone is nursing their life-threatening wounds as they ponder. Specifically on WHO THE HECK IN GOTHAM CITY IS (Y/N)?! Because clearly, the people who claim to be your family genuinely don’t know you at all. And as much as usual scowl behind his cowl fools the JL about how much Bruce knows about his own kid, he’s forced to reconcile that he knows next to nothing. Alfred’s reports, as much as they’ve dwindled over the past year, just aren’t accurate enough to miss this huge part of your character.
“Welcome back, Master Bruce. I trust your trip went swell?”
“Where’s (Y/n)?”
“In their room, but they’re currently napping. Why the sudden interest?”
“....”
“(Y/n) somehow saved us from an Eldritch goddess of reality, just by mere mention of their name. We have a lot to talk about.”
“...I see, Master Damien. I’ll be bringing up some cookies for this conversation.”
Before they even speak to you, they’re already scanning you and holding you every which way to see some visible sign that you might be this intergalactic force that completely slipped past their radar.
“Talk! What have you been hiding!?”
“I…haven’t really been hiding anything.”
“Look (Y/n), this is a safe space we’re listening now.”
“...I’m literally not hiding anything.”
“Yeah, Kid, and I’m Lady Liberty. Spill.”
“Uh, pretty sure you died before, how bout you spill.”
“(Y/n), will you please tell me about yourself for real this time.”
“..hmm okay.”
It’s Bruce who really comes to terms with how much he’s missed, even before you tell him about that particular experience with that Eldritch entity. He sees the way you can’t look into his eyes for more than 5 seconds. Or how all your stuffed animals are near your bed like you cuddle up to them at night. Or the small, untouched spider web hanging near your bedpost.
It almost feels like when he lost Jason.
He failed. He has failed you. Having no choice but to come to terms when he hears you explain the intricacies of the multiverse and how you’ve gotten the majority of them to leave your world alone. His heart-stone-cold and walled up, melting when you talk about how the other universe’s batfamilies immediately embraced you. Doppelgangers who, by rules of the multiverse, should want to kill you, loving you in a way you’ve never been loved. Interdimensional entities coming to visit, teaching you the different parts of growing up that you had no one to talk to you about.
“I will be better for you, (Y/n). I promise.”
“Uh okay…Can you shut the door when you leave?”
“....yes.”
“Thanks.”
The reward that other Yandere Batfamilies receive with a reconciliation is the emotional prize. You’re in tears, your angry-blow-up, and the cold verbal smackdown that you deliver tells them that you’re broken and you desperately need them. Or you’re clearly so hurt that they have no choice but to forcefully soothe you’re aching feelings. But without the emotional getback, it leaves them reaching out constantly to soothe their own mounting guilt.
“Uhm (Y/n) do you maybe want to go for ice-cream with your big brother? I’ve got some extra time and I–’
“No thanks, I’m hanging out with DP today.”
“But it’s been so long–”
“Nope. Bye.”
—----
“Hey, Oracle and I are leading patrol. Today's an easy day so just this once we don’t mind bringing you with us—”
“Don’t wanna.”
“Uhhh, why not? Didn’t we say we were going to get to know each other?”
“You did. I didn’t, it’s cool I know enough.”
“Even about our cool hero lives?”
“Especially about your mid hero lives.”
__________
“Birth sibling! You will join me in this movie marathon! In order for success within the school I must be up to date on the Terminator movies.”
“I’ll save you the time. The past is always in danger all the time, and if you are Sarah Conner, change your name.”
“I think you forgot that Ra’s Al Ghul doesn’t allow failure. And this will double as time to get to know one another so you’ll be coming with me!”
“I think you forgot who has access to portals to leave whenever they want. So no.”
Needless to say, the family has their work cut out for them. Especially since you’re so much more than just a little kid. Your little kid with the world at their fingertips. Not to mention the other league members who feel like they should be aware of the powerful force their adversaries keep raving about.
higuruma hiromi is definitely the type to lie about not being a virgin when you come over so you don't think he's an absolute oddity.
he knows it would've been sensible to lose it by now, but he chickens out every time. what if he ends up hurting the person he attempts to have sex with? he's not the average man, he's huge, burly, his stamina is abnormal and he'll need several rounds to be satisfied, and he's worried his tight grip may bruise or break your poor little body.
not to mention how terrified he is of going through with it and regretting it. he's not some nervous teenager anymore, the longer he waits, the bigger deal it becomes. he needs to get rid of it and he wants it to be with someone he at least likes, and he's spent enough time with you to know that he definitely likes you.
the two of you are in his room and you're straddling him, both of you nude except for your underwear and his tight fitted boxers. "why are you so shy, hiromi?" you whisper into his skin, mouthing gently at his neck and cupping his bulge so you can rub the length as it starts to swell up. "you've done this before, haven't you?"
his cheeks burn furiously pink, and he shakes his head, voice coming out far too squeaky to go unnoticed. "ahem. of course i have. i'm... no, i'm not a virgin... i lost it ages ago, believe me."
you lightly scrape your nails down his chest, stopping your kisses to look into his eyes. "you sure? you know i don't sleep with virgins. they get all anxious and attached afterwards and i can't handle all that."
he freezes up at your words, his face nearly throbbing with how hot it is. he manages to shake his head, dark hair falling into his pretty eyes. he doesn't know why he's lying, but he just knows that this feels right. he's getting the gut feeling that this should be done with you. he likes you, he trusts you, he wants you to have the last of his innocence for yourself. he doesn't think it belongs to anyone but you, whether you know it or not.
maybe he'll tell you the day the two of you get married.
"okay..." you trail off, seeing the lost, dreamy expression on his face. he's in on his own head again. to bring him back to the present, you peel down his boxers and grab a fistful of his cock, hand pumping from base to tip and twisting along the way.
he sucks in a breath, eyes fluttering shut. he lets the pleasurable sensations overwhelm him, your hand practically milking pearly strands of precum out from his tip. he's worried he's going to cum too soon. he can feel his balls tightening and twitching each time the pads of your fingers stroke his tip or you squeeze under one of the veins lining his shaft, his brain working overtime to focus on other things so he doesn't finish before he's even inside you.
his eyes fly open suddenly when he feels you line him up with your entrance, walls sucking on his tip and wrapping around him as you lower yourself onto him. your panties are pushed to the side of your plump pussy, and your hand is braced on his chest. you wince at the immediate stretch, eyes shifting to him. his eyes are pinched shut and he's squeezing the fabric of his bedsheets, pleading with himself not to cum.
"hiromi-" you pant, patting his cheek after moving your hand up from his chest. "i... you're pretty thick, do you mind helping a bit?"
he jolts back to the present, looking up at you helplessly and babbling nonsense before deciding to just shut the hell up and not blow his cover (and his load). his broad hands settle on your body, one on your hip, the other on his cock to align himself with you. "uh... j-just hold yourself open," he awkwardly refers to your pussy, and notches his tip at your entrance, allowing the flared head to push inside you achingly slow.
you both gasp in unison, him from how tight you are, you from how big he is. just the first inch has you feeling the stretch. he whimpers, teeth quickly digging into his lower lip to stifle the sound. hopefully the pain will distract him.
he can't believe this is happening. his virginity's practically gone now, innocence floating away the further you sink down onto his cock. he bucks his hips a little to slip in deeper, thankful you're so wet that it might hurt a little less. he wonders why you haven't commented much on his freakish size aside from calling it "pretty thick." no, he's not pretty thick. his size is abnormal. maybe you want to spare his feelings.
after what feels like an eternity, you fully sheath his cock inside your silken pussy, your cunt sitting on his pelvis with none of him visible but his fluffy pubes. his virginity's gone.
he scrunches his face, feeling your pussy adjust to his size in real time, walls clenching and rippling around his cock to make room for him inside you. you're so warm and tight and wet inside, sucking him in so deep that he swears he's reached your womb. he pants, looking down nervously at where the two of your bodies meet, before dropping his head back down, the sight bringing him closer to the edge. he can't last. why aren't you moving? if you just sit there, he'll die, surely.
you look down at where he's struggling under you, leaning over him. you're in your pretty lingerie still, looking angelic as you cockwarm him. he can tell you're getting suspicious again about how squirmy and shy he is, thinking his behavior is too much like someone's who's never done this before, and in a haste to not get caught, he grabs your hips tighter and starts fucking you up and down on his cock, making you ride him with no rhyme or reason, just manhandling you onto his cock like you're a ragdoll.
he flips you around with no warning, pulling out only momentarily to get you in the new angle. he grabs your panties by the damp crotch part and uses it as an anchor to tug you down onto his cock, shoving into you raw and starting to pound into you hard enough for his balls to slap against the curve of your ass.
his other hand has a firm grip on your waist right beside where his cock is bulging in your tummy. he forces you in place as he ruts his hips into yours, cock pushing deep into your soft walls with with each angry thrust, cockhead bullying into your womb.
"hiromi!" you cry out, squirming on his dick. he shushes you and leans forward to put more of his body weight onto you, trapping you in place and forcing you to take every inch of his thick cock. "you still think i'm a virgin?" he hisses through a loud groan, the lies coming out smoother now that he's gained confidence.
"nooo, i don't i swear," your voice comes out high and pitched, swallowed up by girlish moans as he pounds your poor pussy silly, a creamy ring from your shared liquids forming a sticky, creamy mess where his cock enters you. he pulls you onto his cock with your sticky panties, his other hand moving off your hip to squeeze handfuls of your tits in his palm.
"good-" he pants, finally realizing he can't take much longer inside you while holding back. he wishes he had the time to warn you, but he doesn't, and his balls draw up before he empties them into your puffy cunt, fucking into you as he does so you don't wonder why he came so fast. determined to keep the rouse going, he keeps fucking you animalistically, pushing his cum deeper in you even as it keeps splurting from the tip. you're letting out squeals and moans under him, hands scrabbling to hold onto his shoulders.
he can hear you partially whining about being too full, how its too much, how you feel all stuffed inside, but he just tugs you forward and throws your legs over his shoulders, drilling his cock into you from above like he's got something to prove.
and he does. you won't be leaving that bed until the word "virgin" is wiped from your mind.
THOUGHT YOU WERE MAD AT THEM. YOUR PUSSY DISAGREED — various jjk men.
★ SUMMARY : leaving them for a few hours after you had a heated argument, just to see them waiting for you and fucking it into your brain that they want you.
★ NOTE : not proof read i was rushin for u guyss 🥹 THANK YOU FOR 1.5KKK
★ SATURO GOJO
“mmmfgh— baby, don’t do that shit again.” he mumbles it right into the crook of your neck, voice all gravel and wrecked, hot breath fanning over the bite mark he just sucked into your skin.
the bedroom smells like sex and the faint citrus of his shampoo you stole earlier. sheets are already twisted under your knees, headboard knocking the wall every time you drop down hard on his cock.
“you can’t just— fuck— leave after an argument like that,” gojo groans, long fingers digging bruises into your hips like he’s scared you’ll disappear again if he lets go. “had me losin my damn mind waitin’ for you.”
you moan out softly; just a roll your hips slower this time, deliberate, feeling every thick inch stretch you open again. his head tips back against the pillows, throat bobbing, pretty lashes fluttering like he’s about to cry or come or both.
“shit— yeah, just like that,” he hisses. one hand slides up your spine, tangles in your hair, yanks your mouth down to his so he can lick into you messy and desperate. “thought you were really gone this time… left me here achin’ f’ you.”
his other palm cracks against your ass— not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you clench around him. you gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down, tongue curling, whining low in his throat when your walls flutter.
“fuck, baby— tight— s’ like you’re tryna milk me dry,” he pants against your lips. hips jerk up to meet your next grind, sloppy wet sounds filling the dark room. “missed this pussy so bad… missed you ridin me stupid.”
you drag your nails down his chest, catch on the pale pink scratches you left earlier when you first shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top. he shudders under you, cock twitching deep inside.
“gonna— gonna fill you up,” he starts babbling now, filter gone, voice cracking on every other word. “gonna stuff this little cunt full till it’s drippin down your thighs— till you can’t walk tomorrow without feelin me. you hear me?”
you sink down harder just to shut him up. his eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, fingers flexing on your waist like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“m’ sorry— fuck— m’ sorry i yelled,” he chokes out suddenly, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “shouldn’t have— shouldn’t have let you storm out— never again, promise— fuck— baby please…”
he flips you so fast your back hits the mattress, knees shoved up to your chest in one smooth motion. the new angle has him slamming in deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every brutal thrust. you cry out, nails raking his shoulders, legs shaking.
“look at me,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his white hair onto your cheek. blue eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the irises. “look at me while i fuck my apology into you.”
and that’s all you did. can’t look away even if you wanted to. he’s wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, that cocky smirk long gone. just raw need staring back at you.
“g’nna— g’nna cum inside,” he whimpers, pace turning erratic, hips slamming so hard the bed creaks. “g’nna breed this pussy— make sure you feel me for days— fuck— c-can’t stop— can’t— baby—”
his whole body locks up. a broken moan tears out of him as he buries himself, his cock making-out with your cervix, pulsing hot and thick inside you. you feel every spurt, every twitch, walls fluttering around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper.
he keeps grinding through it, overstimming himself, babbling nonsense against your throat. “love you— fuck— love you s’ much— don’t leave again— please— m’ gonna be good— swear—”
he collapses on top of you after, still twitching, still leaking, arms caging you in like he’ll never let go. nose buried in your hair, shaky breaths fanning your ear. “stay,” he whispers, voice small now. cracked. “just… stay.”
you card fingers through damp white strands. feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. “of course, ‘toru.”
he exhales like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders. then a quiet, almost shy, “round two when you’re ready?”
you laugh. he grins against your skin.
possessive fucker.
★ TOJI FUSHIGURO
we all know toji would absolutely haaate you coming home late and try to play it off. he’d be looming over the counter, his facial expression showing all kinds of pissed-the-fawk off but as soon as he sees you he can’t even stay away for more than 5 minutes.
He’d be balls deep making you have your third orgasm scolding you like the naughty girl you are.
“thought you could just stroll in whenever the fuck you want, huh?” his voice is low, right against the shell of your ear while he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter. dishes still in the sink. your coat half-shucked onto the floor. keys somewhere under the table. doesn’t matter. none of it does.
one thick forearm banded across your stomach, pinning you flush so your ass can’t escape the brutal snap of his hips. the other hand’s fisted in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make your spine arch pretty for him.
“late again. no text. no call.” each word punched out with a mean thrust that makes your toes scrape the tile. “had me sittin’ here like some worried bitch waitin’ on his girl.”
“toji—“ you try to moan an apology but it comes out fumbled—muffled against the crook of your own arm.
he’s so deep the head of his cock’s bullying that gummy spot that turns your brain to static. your thighs are already trembling from the first two times he made you come—once on his fingers while he growled about how soaked you were just from hearing his voice on the phone earlier, once more when he shoved you face-down on the couch the second the door clicked shut.
now this. third round. no warmup. no mercy.
“look at you,” he mutters, breath hot on your neck. scarred lips brushing skin. “actin’ all innocent walkin’ in here smellin’ like that bitchy vanilla scent… but this pussy’s still grippin’ me like she missed daddy’s dick.”
he punctuates it with a slow grind—rolling his hips so the fat base drags over your swollen clit. your knees buckle. he catches you easily, hauling you higher onto your toes.
“stay up. you’re gonna take every inch while i remind you who the fuck you belong to.” his free hand cracks down on your ass—once, twice. sharp enough to sting, leaving blooming heat. you clench hard around him on instinct making him hiss through his teeth.
“fuck— there it is. greedy little thing. squeezin’ like you’re tryna apologize with your pussy.”
you’re dripping down your thighs. sticky trails cooling on your skin. the wet slap of his balls against your cunt making you cry out in the quiet kitchen. fridge humming. clock ticking. your pulse hammering in your ears louder than both.
“toji—‘m sorry—”
“sorry ain’t cuttin’ it, doll.” he yanks your head back farther, forces you to look at the dark window—reflection of you two like some filthy portrait. his broad frame swallowing yours. muscles flexing under scarred skin every time he bottoms out. your mouth slack, eyes glassy, mascara smudged from earlier tears of pleasure and pain. that same lewd expression he adores most.
“you see that?” he growls. “see how fuckin’ wrecked you look already? and you still got the nerve to come home late like i won’t do somethin’ about it.” he shifts—hooks one of your knees up onto the counter ledge, spreading you wider. new angle has him carving deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every punishing stroke. your nails scrape uselessly at the granite.
“gonna make this pussy remember,” he rasps. voice cracking just a little now—tell-tale sign he’s losing the cool he pretends to have. “gonna fuck you till you can’t walk straight tomorrow. till every step reminds you who waited up.”
his rhythm stutters when you flutter around him again—walls spasming, trying to pull him under. he curses low, filthy.
“shit— already? you’re comin’ again?” he chuckles.
you can’t answer. can only whimper high, broken—while the coil snaps for the third time. thighs shaking violently. gush of slick coating his cock, dripping onto the floor. he doesn’t slow down. fucks you through it meaner. harder.
“that’s it— give it to me— fuckin’ soak me— good girl— my nasty little slut.” his grip tightens. hips slamming erratic now. balls drawing up tight.
“gonna fill this cunt up,” he starts whining, filter now gone, voice wrecked. “gonna stuff you so full you’ll be leakin’ me all night— gonna make sure you smell like me tomorrow— fuck—”
you reach back, nails digging into his thigh. “inside— please— toji~”
that does it.
he slams home one last time deep inside, groaning long and low like it hurts. cock pulsing, swelling, flooding you with heat. thick ropes painting your walls. so much it spills out around his base, creamy white streaking down your thighs even while he’s still grinding through the aftershocks.
“fuck— take it— take every drop— mine— fuckin’ mine—”
he keeps rolling his hips—shallow, needy—milking himself empty while you tremble under him. overstimulated. his chest heaves against your back. scarred arms caging you in like he’ll never let go.
“don’t do that shit again,” he mutters. quieter now. almost soft. “hated waitin’. hated not knowin’ if you were okay.”
you reach back, thread fingers through dark strands. feel him shiver. “i really am sorry, toji.”
he huffs. kisses the nape of your neck—open-mouthed, lingering. “yeah. you will be.”
then—after another slow grind that makes you both hiss, “shower. now. ‘fore i decide round four happens right here.”
you laugh—breathless. he smirks against your skin. finally slips out with a wet sound that makes you clench around nothing. cum trickles down your thigh. he swipes two fingers through it, brings them to your lips.
“clean up your mess, baby.” you suck obediently. taste salt and him. his eyes darken again.
“good girl.” he scoops you up—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the bathroom. your legs dangle. thighs sticky. heart still racing.
“next time you’re late,” he murmurs against your temple, “i’m tyin’ you to the bed before you even think about leavin’.”
you roll your eyes then nuzzle yourself on his chest.
★ KAMO CHOSO
choso would absolutely be the last person you'd expect to corner you against the front door the second you walked in.
we all know choso — sweet, a little awkward, the man who asks "is this okay?" before he even touches your hair, who goes pink behind the ears when you call him pretty, who avoids eye contact for ten full minutes after you catch him staring too long. that's your choso.
and then you stay out three hours past when you said you'd be back, phone halfway dead, still pissed from the argument you'd storm out of, and now you begrundgingly walk through the door to find him sitting very, very still on the couch.
he doesn't yell. that's the thing that gets you first. you were braced for it, shoulders up, already rehearsing your half of the fight, and instead there's just silence.
his hands are folded between his knees, dark hair loose and hanging around his face, and his looking at you with those heavy-lidded eyes drowned in violet like he's been doing nothing but looking at the door for three hours. which, you didn't think about that part.
you open your mouth; an apology, excuse, something, and he's already standing up, you forget what you were going to say because he's so much bigger than you. he's always been tall, but right now crossing the room toward you he fills up all the space in a way that makes your heartbeat do something stupid.
he stops close. too close, not touching, the air between you smelling like him and whatever he'd been drinking trying to wait you out, and he just — looks at you. searching your face, his jaw tight.
"why didn't you pick up?" he asks, and his voice is still quiet, still careful, but there's something unsteady threading through it. not anger, exactly. something worse than anger. "i called you four times, baby."
baby. he only does that when he's upset. your stomach does a full rotation.
"choso, i—" but he cuts you off by reaching up and touching your face. just cupping your jaw with one big hand, thumb tracing your cheekbone, and you can feel that his fingers aren't fully steady.
"you scared me," he says softly, like it costs him something. "you left mad and then you just— you didn't—" he stops. his adam apple bobs. "why would you do that."
it's not even a question, really. it comes out like something he's been turning over in his hands for hours, worn smooth, and the look on his face is so sincere and so quietly devastated that something in your chest caves a little.
you say his name again, softer this time, and you watch his jaw tighten. he only warning you get before he leans down and kisses you, sudden and slow, and it's not gentle exactly, it's— it has weight to it. the kind of kiss that means don't do that again.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are darker now, something shifting behind them that sends heat straight down to your tummy. "i'm still mad at you," he says quietly, and his hand is still at your jaw, tilting you up. "y'know that."
"yeah," you manage, "i know—"
"good." and then his other hand finds your waist and he walks you backward toward the bedroom with this unbearable, focused patience, like he has a plan and he's going to follow it all the way through, and every time your back bumps something — doorframe, wall — he catches you with that big warm grip and keeps you moving, keeps you steady, keeps his eyes on your face the entire time like he's cataloguing every flicker of expression. does he know he's doing that. probably not. probably just choso, just how he looks when he's paying attention, which is somehow more devastating than anything else he could do.
"choso, wait—" you try, half a laugh, half something else entirely, and he pauses in the dark of the hallway, head ducking slightly.
"i'm not yelling at you," he says, like that's clarification. "i'm not— i don't want to yell. i just—" and here he swallows, something flickering across his face, almost embarrassed but not quite. "i need you to let me. okay? let me—" his hands tighten the smallest amount at your waist. "please."
the please ruins you. because it's still him, it's still choso who asks for things softly, who would never just take, and somehow that makes it worse — makes the heat travel from your tummy to you pussy, making it hard to remember why you were mad in the first place or what you'd been so stubborn about three hours ago.
"okay," you say, barely sound, and he exhales like he'd been holding that in, too.
he takes his time. that's the thing you weren't prepared for — this slow, deliberate patience layered over something that keeps slipping through, this tremble in his hands when he pulls your shirt over your head that he tries to steady and can't quite, his breath gone a little uneven despite himself.
"you're so—" he starts, voice hushed, and then stops himself, frowning faintly, this small frustrated furrow between his brows like he resents that you exist and are right in front of him and he doesn't have words for whatever's stuck in his chest. he settles for touching instead. spreads one big palm flat over your ribs, fingers spanning so wide it knocks the air out of you.
"choso," you breathe, and he makes this low sound, involuntary, and his jaw tightens.
"you s-scared me," he says again, quieter, like it keeps escaping him. "i kept thinking— i didn't know if you were—" he doesn't finish it. instead he puts his mouth on your throat and stays there, just breathing for a second, warm and still, and the gesture is so tender and so completely at odds with the size of him that your eyes sting a little. oh no. "i hate when you're gone," he murmurs into your skin. "hate it. even when i'm mad. still hate it."
getting him inside you takes time too... because he goes careful, this trembling careful that he's clearly fighting against, hissing low through his teeth as you stretch and your walls flutter helplessly around him and his whole body goes rigid.
"wait—" he grits out, and you're not sure if he's talking to you or himself, hips stilled, forehead pressed somewhere between your shoulder and the pillow. "wait." you can feel how much that costs him. can feel the tension humming through every muscle where he's pressed against you, thick and filling you so full your thoughts are already liquefying at the edges.
"'m okay," you manage, arching slightly, and he makes a noise like you've broken something.
"i know you are," he breathes. "i just— need a second. you feel—" and then he stops talking, which might be a first for this whole gentle careful thing, and starts moving instead.
slow. devastatingly slow. rolling his hips in this deep, grinding drag that hits something inside you that makes your toes curl and your back bow up off the mattress and a sound come out of your mouth you hadn't planned.
his breathing goes immediately ragged, plp plp plp of his hips meeting yours filling up the quiet of the room, and his hands find your thighs and hitch you up, adjusting the angle, and— fuck. your hands scramble for something to grip, sheet, his arm, anything, and he watches you, watches your face with this expression that's raw in a way that makes it hard to look at directly.
"there you are," he breathes, low and shaky. "that— yeah, that's—" and then he does it again, same drag, same deep roll, and your head drops back.
he gets meaner about it slowly. not aggressive, not cruel — just focused, this quiet intensity that keeps building, the pace still unhurried but heavier, deeper, and his grip on your thighs tightening until you know he's leaving prints and you don't care, can't care, not with how full you are and how the drag of him hits that sweet spot every time like he's learning you, memorizing you the same way he'd been reading your face in the hallway.
"you were gone so long," he says, almost conversational except for the slight crack in it, and his hips roll and you gasp. "why'd you stay out so long." it's not really a question. or it is, it's still a question, still that same wondering hurt from earlier, but now his voice has this low fraying quality like a wire pulled too tight. "why?"
"i don't— i wasn't—" you're already losing the thread of it, hips rolling up to chase him without your permission, and he notices, eyes dropping down to where you're joined and going briefly, almost comically blank.
"you're doing that," he says. faintly accusatory. faintly wrecked.
"why?" he asks again, later, when he's got you folded up and he's properly losing his mind about it, forehead pressed to yours, hair escaped from its tie and hanging around both of you, and the controlled thing has fully slipped now — hips snapping into something erratic that makes the wet slap of it embarrassingly loud and your voice keep breaking on his name. "why'd y-you—" and he stops because his voice cracks too, right down the middle, and he squeezes his eyes shut and makes this low broken sound and you feel him pulse inside you and
"choso—"
"m' sorry," he breathes, "m' sorry, i—" but he doesn't stop, can't, hips still working even as his whole body shakes and his breath comes in ragged little pulls. "baby." and god he sounds— he sounds completely undone, you've never heard him like this, this is new, this is the version of choso that three hours of sitting on the couch waiting for you made, and something about that makes you clench around him and he makes a sound that's almost pained.
"please," you hear yourself say, "please~"
"yeah," he gets out, barely, "yeah— i've got you— you're—" and then the words slip away entirely and he fucks you through it properly, stuttering and shaking and whispering things into your hair that might be your name or might be please or might be both.
overstimulation is a thing that happens to you after, when you're limp and wrung out and certain that you couldn't possibly, and choso is still moving — slowed to something deep and lazy, still filling you and refusing to pull out with this look on his face like he hasn't fully come back to himself yet.
"choso," you try, thighs twitching, "h-hey— i can't, i'm—"
"just," he says. stops. swallows. "just a little more. please. please, baby." and there's the question again, the soft asking even now, even like this, even with you already a destroyed mess underneath him. "you feel so good. can i— just a little more, okay? jus'—"
"mmgfh, choso~"
his face twists. "s-sorry," he starts, "i'm sorry, i'll stop, you just—" and then you clench, involuntary, body giving him the answer that your mouth hadn't gotten around to yet, and his eyes flutter and he exhales, "oh," very small. and keeps going.
★ HIROMI HIGURAMA
hiromi higuruma would absolutely find you still hunched over his desk at eleven-forty-seven at night, lamp cutting a yellow circle across a stack of files you've been reorganizing since he hung up on you four hours ago; you had nowhere else to go with how angry you were, and his office was right there, and spite has its own kind of logic.
we all know higuruma. composed. methodical. the man who won arguments with prosecutors using a single eyebrow raise and twenty seconds of silence. you didn't think he'd come back tonight. you should have thought about it more.
the door opens quiet. he doesn't announce himself, doesn't say your name — you just feel the shift in the room, the way the air changes when someone large and very still enters it, and your shoulders go up before your brain catches up with why. the click of the lock behind him is the loudest thing that's happened in hours.
you don't turn around. pride, mostly. also you're not done being mad, and you need at least another thirty seconds to build the wall back up before you look at him. you hear him set something down; keys, probably, the small ceramic bowl by the door making its little sound and then nothing. just the awareness of him behind you, standing there in that way he has, the way that makes rooms feel smaller without being threatening about it. his suit jacket is still on. he's been somewhere, then. or he sat with it on in the car for a while deciding whether to come in.
"you're still here," he says. low, even. not a question exactly.
"i work here," you say, turning a page you're not reading.
a beat of quiet that has weight to it, the kind higuruma deploys the way other people use words. then you hear him move, unhurried, the soft drag of dress shoes across the floor, and he rounds the desk and you still don't look up and his hand comes down over yours on the file folder — not gripping, just covering, warm and very deliberate. stopping you. "look at me," he pleads.
you do. because you can't not, when he uses that voice. he's close, closer than you'd registered, and his face is doing the thing where it's not giving much away but his eyes are — tired, a little, and something underneath the tired that's been sitting there all day working itself into a knot.
his expression is still unreadable. his tie is loosened exactly one button's worth. "you've been here this whole time," he questions, and it's not what you expect him to lead with, the what and the how of you sitting in his office reorganizing case files out of spite at eleven pm, and something about that catches in your chest.
"i wasn't going to go home while i was still—" you start.
"i know," he states. not dismissive. like he actually does know, like he turned it over the whole drive here and arrived at the same place you did. his thumb moves across the back of your hand, small slow arc. "i shouldn't have hung up."
oh. you blink. you'd been ready for the second half of the argument, had it half-loaded, and now it's just — sitting there unspent and awkward. "higuruma, i—"
"i know," he says again, softer, and then he takes the folder out of your hand and sets it aside and the edge of a brief that took someone three hours to assemble crumples under it and neither of you mentions it. his hands find your face, thumbs at your jaw, tilting you up the way he does when he wants your full attention, which you were already giving him, but that's not really the point of it. the point is the holding. "i'm sorry," he says, looking straight at you, and higuruma doesn't say that lightly, you know that, you've known that for a while now.
you open your mouth and he kisses you before you can finish the thought.
it's not rushed. that's his whole thing, always has been measured, intentional, like he's building a case for something with every action and the verdict is going to land whether you're ready or not. his hands stay at your face while his mouth works yours slow and thorough, and you're already melting by the time he pulls back, lips a little swollen, eyes darker than they were, and he looks at you for a second like he's checking something off an internal list. then he drops to his knees.
oh— "higuruma, wait—"
"sit on the desk," he says, already pushing your chair back.
"the— the papers—"
"sit on the desk." same tone he uses to deliver a closing argument. you sit on the desk. several documents that probably mattered crinkle underneath you and you can't bring yourself to care because he's parting your knees with both hands, slow and very matter-of-fact about it, and looking up at you from the floor of his own office with his tie loose and his glasses catching the lamplight, and the sight of him like that does something genuinely unreasonable to your brain chemistry.
he takes his time working you open through the fabric first. thumb pressing, tracing, watching your face for every twitch while you try very hard to look like you're not immediately losing the thread of every thought you'd had tonight.
god. "higuruma—" his name comes out embarrassingly soft and something in his expression shifts, the composure still there but thinned, something hotter running underneath it. he pushes the fabric aside and puts his mouth on you without preamble and you grab the edge of the desk hard enough that the stapler rattles off onto the floor.
he eats you out the way he does everything — thorough, unhurried, with this awful focused precision that doesn't allow for shortcuts or mercy, his tongue working your folds open before settling flat and heavy over your clit and just staying there, slow pulsing pressure, and you're already slick and aching from nothing but the last twenty minutes of him and the sound that comes out of your mouth is not dignified.
a stack of briefs slides off the corner of the desk. neither of you looks at them. his hands grip your thighs and keep you spread and still while you squirm and he hums against you, low, disapproving, and the vibration of it makes your hips stutter up helplessly.
"higuruma," you breathe, thighs trembling, "please, i need—"
he pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, and his eyes are very dark and very attentive behind the glasses. "come here," he says, rough at the edges now, and he maneuvers you. hands at your hips, repositioning, implacable until you're kneeling up on the desk above him, thighs on either side of his face, and you realize what he's doing half a second before he pulls you down onto his nose and mouth and —
the sound that comes out of you bounces off the walls. his nose presses against your clit and his mouth opens beneath you, tongue finding your entrance, and your whole body goes rigid with how good it is, too good, embarrassingly immediate, your hips rolling forward before you've even consciously decided to and he lets you, hands spread warm on your ass just guiding, keeping you steady, while you grind down onto his face in the lamplight of his own office with important legal documents crumpling under your knees.
oh my god. the wet sounds are filthy and specific and you can feel your face heating even as you can't stop chasing, hips rolling, riding the flat of his tongue and the pressure of his nose against that swollen knot of nerves until you're shaking and saying his name too many times and your thighs are clamping around his ears.
he doesn't stop when you cum. that's the thing. he slows, gentles, lets you ride it out — and then keeps going, tongue lapping patient and thorough while you twitch and gasp and try to pull back and his hands don't let you move far. "too much—" you manage, "higuru— i'm—"
"mm— i know," he groans into you, muffled, and then does something with his tongue that makes your vision go briefly static.
he gets you off twice on his face before he stands up. unhurried. glasses fogged at the edges, mouth and chin devastatingly wet, and he looks at you, completely fucked-out and wobbling on his desk amid the wreckage of the filing system with this expression that's almost quiet satisfaction except for how his chest is moving, how his hands go immediately to his belt with a precision that belies how controlled he's trying to look. there it is. "lie back," he says.
"the papers—"
"i'll reprint them." and he means it, the way he means everything, and something about the casual certainty of it makes you laugh, breathless, and you lie back in the papers.
the press of him in is slow, measured at first, and then your walls flutter around the thick stretch of him and his breath leaves him in a rush. "ah—" undignified, unplanned, and he stops for a second with his eyes shut and his jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk on either side of your hips, and you watch something in his face come loose. "you're—" he starts. stops. swallows. the glasses have slid down his nose and he doesn't fix them. "you feel—"
"hah," you moan, soft, and he opens his eyes and looks at you, and there it is; the thing under the composure, the thing that made him drive back here at midnight, the thing that'd been in his voice even when he was angry on the phone.
he starts moving and stops being careful about it within about thirty seconds.
the desk rocks. something else falls off it; a pen cup, the sound of pens scattering across the floor and you're scrambling to hold onto the edge while he fucks you into it, papers crumpling and tearing under your back, his thrusts rolling into something relentless and deep that punches the air out of you in little broken increments.
his glasses are properly crooked now and he doesn't spare a hand to fix them, both gripping your hips, and his voice when it comes out is low: "you stayed," he says, hips snapping, and it takes your brain a second to parse that he means tonight, means the office, means you sat in his space and reorganized his files instead of going somewhere he couldn't find you. "you stayed here—"
"w-what—" your voice breaks on it.
"don't do that again," he says, not a request, and his hips drive in and you keen, walls clenching, and he makes this rough sound in the back of his throat like it's punishing him too. "don't—" and then he's burying deep and staying there, trembling slightly, forehead dropping to your collarbone while his hips roll slow and grinding and he breathes through clenched teeth, "—god, you're so—" the sentence dies, unfinished, swallowed by the sound of his own breathing and the quiet ruin of every document on the desk.
you cum with your hand fisted in his rumpled shirt and his name said wrong, too many syllables, something that comes out closer to a sob than a word. he follows with his face in your neck, a low rough sound that he murmurs your name into, hips stuttering through it, and you feel the warm spill of him and his whole weight sinking into you and the desk groaning underneath and three case files sliding off onto the floor.
silence, for a bit. the lamp buzzes faintly. somewhere outside a car passes.
he lifts his head. looking at you. fixeing his glasses. "i'm reprinting all of this," he says, very quietly, surveying the destruction, and you start laughing and can't stop, and after a second his mouth curves too; not a smile exactly, but the shape of one, the thing that lives just next to composed, and he drops his head back onto your shoulder and stays there.
★ SUGURU GETO
we all know suguru geto doesn't chase. that's the thing about him — the thing you keep forgetting, keep testing the edges of anyway, like you enjoy finding out where the boundary sits.
he doesn't raise his voice. doesn't beg. and when you'd hung up on him three hours ago and stayed gone he'd sat with it, turned it over, and when you finally walked back through the door he was already standing in the hallway like he'd known exactly how long you'd need.
he didn't say anything. just looked at you.
that look. that specific one, dark eyes tracking your face, reading you in three seconds flat, mouth doing nothing. you'd opened yours to say i'm sorry or we need to talk or literally anything with words in it, and he'd crossed the distance and kissed you instead, one hand cupping your jaw and the other already finding your waist, and it wasn't gentle, wasn't rough either, it was decided. like the conversation was already over and this was just the next paragraph.
"sugu—" you tried, against his mouth.
"shhh," he hushes.
he takes his time undressing you, which is somehow worse than if he'd just ripped something. deliberate. like he's not in a hurry because he doesn't need to be, because you're not going anywhere and he's already decided how this ends. his earring catches the light when he ducks his head to mouth at your throat and your hands find his hair on instinct; loose tonight, the tie gone, black silk of it slipping between your fingers — and he hums against your pulse point, warm and approving, and your knees do something humiliating.
"you're so annoying," he murmurs, into your neck, without heat. just a fact. and then he bites down soft and you gasp and he soothes it with his tongue and keeps moving.
on the bed he gets his mouth between your thighs first, because that's suguru, because he'll take the thing apart slow before he's anywhere close to done. chin tilted up watching your face while his tongue works your folds open, flat and thorough, the wet sounds of it slp slp slp embarrassingly audible and he doesn't stop, not even when you're already shaking and grabbing at his hair and saying his name wrong, sugurusugurusugu— like it'll do something. his eyes stay on yours the whole time. that's the meanest part.
he edges you twice before he's even inside you, pulling back each time with this patient, infuriating composure, lips slick and dark eyes blown, watching you fall apart at the removal of his mouth like it's something he's particularly interested in studying.
"please," you manage, thighs trembling either side of his head.
"please what, pretty girl," he says, voice dropped to something that scrapes right down your spine.
when he finally pushes in the sound that leaves you is not attractive. not even a little. his cock stretches you open inch by slow inch and he watches your face the whole way, jaw tight, the composure held together by what looks like significant effort.
his breath heavier than he'd like, a muscle in his cheek pulling, and when he bottoms out he stops, hips flush against yours, and just. stays there. forehead dropped to yours. both of you breathing.
"you pissed me off," he mumbles, very quietly. "don't do that again."
your throat goes tight. "sugu—"
"i mean it." and then he pulls back and drives in and the words dissolve completely.
he fucks you with this horrible focused intensity — not punishing, not exactly, but not gentle either, hips rolling deep and grinding in a way that finds that spot every third stroke like he has it memorized, like he's been thinking about exactly this angle for three hours on the couch waiting for you.
plp plp plp of skin meeting skin fills up the room. his hair falls forward around both your faces and you reach up to grip it and he lets you, makes a low rough sound at the pull, hips stuttering into something harder before he catches himself and smooths back into that devastating rhythm.
"you gonna run off again?" he growls, above you, not quite a threat, not quite a question.
"no—" and your voice breaks on it because he angles up and hits something that makes your whole body jolt, "no, no, i'm sorry, i'm sorry—"
"i know you are," he says, low and raspy, like he was always going to get here, "i know, sweetheart, you always are—" and then his fingers find your nipple, pinching and caressing the sensitive bud.
he doesn't stop when you cum. the composure fully slips somewhere around the second time, hips losing the careful measured drag into something erratic and urgent, his breath coming apart in short rough increments against your temple.
"fuuuck—" quiet, almost surprised, like he resents how good you feel, voice cracking clean down the middle, "too tight, you're always so—" and he buries deep and grinds and his whole body shudders and the warmth of him spilling into you punches a moan out of you both. "fuckin' tight, my love."
he stays inside. grinds it slow. keeps going.
"sugu," you breathe, wrecked, "i can't—"
"you can," he says, into your hair, but it comes out rough-soft, the mean edge gone, and his arms pull you closer, hold you there, and it's not really an argument anymore.
★ NANAMI KENTO
nanami would be so fucking careful about it. that's the part that gets you. the part that's almost meaner than if he'd just been angry — because he is angry, you can feel it in the way his hands grip your hips with this controlled, deliberate pressure, can hear it in how measured his breathing is, how even, the specific even that means he's working very hard at it. he told you to be home by nine. it is past midnight.
and now he has you folded underneath him with his shirt half-untucked and his jaw set and his hips rolling into you in these long, thorough strokes that are technically gentle, paced, deep, no wasted movement, while your thighs shake on either side of him and you babble apologies into the dark of the bedroom that he doesn't acknowledge and doesn't stop.
"i-i'm sorry," you manage, wall flutter pulling a short exhale out of him that he smooths over immediately, "kento, m' sorry, i didn't mean to— i lost track of—"
he rolls his hips on the next thrust and the words collapse into a sound that isn't a word at all, just air, just the squelch of him working into you plp plp plp in the quiet room, unhurried, relentless in the way that only nanami can be relentless about something like it's a task, like the apology goes in one ear and out the other because you're saying it into his cock and not into his face and he knows the difference. "kento—"
"i heard you," he says. low. not unkind exactly. not kind either.
his thumb finds your clit and presses and you jolt, thighs snapping around his waist, and he looks down at you with this expression that is so carefully neutral that it circles back around to devastating, and keeps the pressure steady and keeps his hips moving and watches you come apart underneath him like he's noting every detail for the record.
fuck. you're already so wet it's embarrassing, has been since he'd pulled you in by the wrist the second you'd walked through the door — no yelling, no lecture, just his hand around your wrist and his eyes finding yours and something in his face going quiet in a way that was worse than any argument. you'd said his name. he'd said, very quietly, bedroom, and that had been the end of the conversation.
"you worried me," he says now, into the space between you, not quite looking at your face and not quite not looking at it either, gaze somewhere at your collarbone, and his voice does something strange on the last word; a slight roughness that he smooths out immediately after. the thumb at your clit circles once. you keen, high and broken, hips chasing without your permission.
"don't do that," he says, flatter now, though the hand at your hip tightens the smallest fraction. whether he means don't do that, stop chasing or don't do that, don't worry me again, you cannot parse with his cock buried this deep in you. probably both. nanami is efficient.
"m' sorry," you slur, wet-eyed now, his next thrust knocking it out of you in a rush, "m' sorry, kento, i know, i know i should've—" and then he shifts the angle, just slightly, just a precise deliberate tilt of his hips that drags the head of him across something that makes your vision white at the edges, and you stop making words and start making sounds.
he keeps going. same pace. same depth. same controlled roll of his hips that is technically, technically, not punishing you — except that it absolutely is, except that he knows exactly what he's doing and how it lands, and the smallest thing is happening at the corners of his mouth that might be satisfaction and might be guilt about the satisfaction and is definitely both. "can't— kento— please—"
"please what," he says. quiet. curious, almost. like he genuinely wants to know.
your brain presents you with nothing. please more, please stop, please don't stop, please say you're not mad, please keep looking at me like that — all of it jamming up in your throat at once while your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes a low sound and his jaw tightens and his hips stutter, just once, the first crack in the composure, before he smooths it back out and keeps going.
"you don't know," he observes, and there's something in it; gentle, ruthless, both, the nanami special, and his thumb presses down on your clit and holds and you cry out and your whole body arches up into him.
"i hate when you go quiet on me," he says, above you, and it takes you a fuzzy second to realize he means the argument, means the part where you'd gone cold and hung up and disappeared for three hours — not the current situation where you are physically incapable of coherent speech because he's fucking you through the mattress with his shirt still half-buttoned and his glasses somewhere on the nightstand and his face doing a very poor job of being expressionless.
"i don't—" and here he stops. his hips keep moving, the pace finally slipping into something less controlled, a little harder, a little less technically gentle, and you feel it in your teeth. "i don't like not knowing where you are," he finishes, very quietly, and the admission costs him something you can see him paying. his forehead drops to your shoulder. the careful breathing is gone. "i don't like it."
"kento—" and your voice breaks clean in half on his name, hands scrambling to grip something, his arm, the sheets, landing on both.
"i know," he says, into your neck. "i know, just—" and his hips snap and you both make embarrassing sounds and he mouths something against your skin that might be your name or might be stay.
you can't tell, you're too far gone, thighs shaking and cunt clenching rhythmically around him while he loses the careful measured pace entirely and fucks you like he's been holding it back since you walked through the door, which he has, which you both know, slap slap slap of his hips meeting yours filling up the bedroom while you babble his name and sorry and please into the dark above his shoulder.
he cums with his face still pressed to your throat, a rough bitten-off sound that he muffles immediately, hips buried deep, grinding slow through it, big hand spread at your lower back holding you against him like you might drift away if he doesn't. you feel the warmth of it and your walls flutter and he makes another sound, smaller, helpless, and his grip tightens.
"don't," he says, strained, into your neck. "don't move. give me—" and he doesn't finish that either, just holds you there, both of you breathing too hard, your lashes wet and sticking, his dress shirt damp at the collar from where his neck has been sweating through the last forty minutes of technically gentle.
the silence stretches. his thumb moves, small idle arc at your hip. slowly the grip loosens into something that's just — holding. the kind that doesn't have an agenda.
"i'm sorry, my love" you say again, into his shoulder. meant more, this time.
a long beat. "i know," he says, finally, and you can feel some of the tension leave his back under your hands. "next time." just that. next time — and you know what he means, have learned enough nanami to translate: next time call. next time don't go quiet. next time let me know you're alright. you press your face into his shoulder and nod into the fabric and he exhales, long and slow, and his hand moves to the back of your head.
he stays inside you until you both stop shaking. doesn't pull out. just — stays; somewhere outside it starts to rain and nanami breathes, even, finally, actually even, and his fingers card through your hair once like he's not doing it on purpose.
★ SUKUNA RYOMEN
sukuna would find it genuinely hilarious. that's what gets you first, not the anger you'd braced for, not the cold shoulder you'd half-wanted so you could stay righteous about the whole thing.
no. you walk through the door still rehearsing the second half of the argument and he's sitting there with that look on his face, the one that means he's already decided something, already filed it under your fault, my problem, and the laugh that comes out of him is low and short and not actually funny at all.
"there she is," he mumbles, like you're late to something he arranged. like he wasn't the reason you left.
you open your mouth. wrong move. he's off the couch before you finish the first word, and sukuna in motion is something your body responds to before your brain weighs in — every nerve pulling toward him even when you're still pissed, even when you're already saying.
"don't—" and he's already got a fist in the back of your hair, not cruel, just absolute, tilting your head back so he can look at your face properly.
"you left," he says, like it's an observation about the weather.
"you were being—"
"you left." same tone. lower. and the hand in your hair tightens and you feel your pulse jump.
he walks you backward into the bedroom without ceremony, lips at your jaw, your throat, the hinge of it, not kissing exactly, just pressing, sampling, the way sukuna touches things he considers his. the black marks on his chest are warm against your palms when you grab at him and he hums, pleased, like you've done something correctly by accident.
"always gotta make it difficult," he mutters, into your neck, and there's something in it that's almost fond and almost annoyed and fully neither.
your back hits the mattress. his weight settles over you and blots out the ceiling and you. shit, you stop being mad about the argument for approximately one full second.
he's not gentle about getting you open. two fingers, then three, working you slick with this bored, efficient focus while he watches your face like he's looking for something specific. the exact moment your hips start chasing, the exact shape your mouth makes before the sound comes out. finds both. says nothing about it. just pulls his fingers free and wipes them on the sheets and lines himself up and — oh.
the stretch of him pulls a sound from your throat that you immediately hate yourself for.
"every time," he says, pushing in slow, watching your expression fall apart in real time, "act like you didn't miss it." another inch. your thighs are shaking already. "like you didn't come back for this."
"that's not— kuna~"
"finish a sentence," he suggests pleasantly, and drives the rest of the way home.
oh fuck. white at the edges. you grab at his forearms, thick, tattooed, not moving anywhere, and your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes this rough sound through his teeth, jaw set, eyes gone a little dark, which is the only tell he has and he'd be furious if you said it out loud.
he stays buried, lets you feel all of it, lets the stretch of him sit there in your nervous system like a fire alarm, and when your hips twitch up toward him his smirk sharpens.
"there it is," he says.
he fucks you mean and slow, which is worse than fast, the drag of him pulling out and pushing back in at this deliberate grinding pace that has you leaking slick down your thighs and babbling in under four minutes.
plp plp plp. the headboard knocks the wall. he doesn't care about the headboard. he's got a hand spread at your lower tummy, pressing down just enough to feel where he's hitting, and the filthy sound he makes when he feels it from both sides does something genuinely embarrassing to you.
"look at you," he murmurs, not unkind, "couldn't even wait to fight properly—" and he rolls his hips in and you arch up and he watches that happen with the expression of a man who feels very correct about something.
"wasn't— my fault—" you try, breathless, which is the wrong thing because—
"whose ring are you wearing," he says, flat, hips snapping once and your whole body jolts.
you stop arguing after that. he works you up to something that sits right behind your eyes, all squelch and wet heat and the low grunt of his breathing, and you're holding onto his shoulders with your nails probably leaving marks and he doesn't mention it or stop — if anything he fucks harder when you grip, because of course he does, because that's sukuna, because of course.
"gonna cum f' me?" he breathes, above you, and it's not quite a question, it's more like he's narrating what's about to happen because he already knows.
"yes—" and it comes out wrecked, barely a word, more just the shape of one.
"yeah," he says, very low, and his thumb finds your clit and presses and that's all it takes.
he cums with his face in your throat, biting down, not enough to break, enough to bruise, enough that you'll feel it tomorrow in the exact shape of his mouth, hips buried and grinding through the aftershocks of both of you, a rough sound that he muffles against your skin like he resents needing to make it.
you feel the heat of him spill and your walls clench again and he hisses, "don't—" and then does three more thrusts anyway, short and grinding and involuntary, because obviously.
silence. his weight settles. not off you, just — settled. which is sukuna's version of a blanket.
after a long moment: "you're not leaving again," he says. not a question. not really possessive even, just stated. the way he states everything that's already been decided.
your throat is dry. "that's not really how—"
"you're not," he says, into your hair, and the arm across your waist tightens by about ten percent.
you don't finish the sentence.
★ SHIU KONG
shui kong would let you walk through the door still hot with it. still jaw-set, still convinced you had the moral high ground, still replaying the argument in your head in the satisfying way where you win every time.
he'd be right there, jacket off, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, cigarette burning between two fingers like he's been sitting with it since you left, and he wouldn't say a word. just watches you come in. takes a drag. exhales slow.
that's it. that's the whole greeting.
the silence does something to you that you don't want to examine too closely, because it's infuriating and also your pulse has already picked up and you know he can tell, knows he always can, which is also infuriating. "don't start," you warn him, which is a stupid thing to say to someone who hasn't started anything.
the corner of his mouth moves. barely. "didn't say a word," he says, smoke still curling from the cigarette, voice doing that thing where it sounds perpetually bored and perpetually amused at the same time, pitched low and even, the kind of voice that gets under your skin precisely because it doesn't try to.
"you were thinking it," you say.
"yeah," he agrees, pleasantly. "i was."
he stubs the cigarette out. stands up. and there's a certain category of problem that shui kong moving toward you creates, because he's not fast about it, he's unhurried, which is different, which is worse and by the time he's close enough that you can smell the stale smoke and something sharper underneath it, the argument is already losing structural integrity in your head.
he looks down at you for a second. something in his half-lidded gaze tracking your face the way he tracks everything, cataloguing, unreadable.
"you done?" he asks.
you open your mouth. he tips your chin up with two fingers, not gripping, just placing, and kisses you, and the answer dies somewhere between your throat and the open air.
he gets your clothes off in a way that's efficient and sort of humiliating, like it's a task with obvious steps, like your indignation is a minor inconvenience he's accounting for. your skirt's gone before you've fully processed his hands at the zipper.
he backs you into the wall with one palm flat between your shoulders and mouths at your throat while his other hand slides between your thighs, and you're already embarrassingly wet and he finds it immediately and makes this low unimpressed sound directly against your pulse.
"how long you been like this," he murmurs. not a question.
"shut up—"
"since you left?" and there it is the meanness, the specific shui kong meanness that doesn't raise its voice, just turns the thing over in its hands and examines it while you want to dissolve through the floorboards.
his fingers move and you grab at his forearm and he keeps going, two fingers crooking inside you while his thumb finds your clit and applies exactly enough pressure to make your knees do something unreliable.
"shui—" and your voice comes out wrong, high and broken at the seam, and you feel him smile against your throat.
"there she is," he says, quiet, satisfied. "the version of you that's not full of shit."
you want to say something cutting. what comes out is a moan, squelch of his fingers working into you, plp plp plp embarrassing in the quiet of the room, and he brings you to the edge and keeps you there with this infuriating focused patience — just enough, never quite enough — until you're grabbing his shirt and making small desperate noises into his shoulder and your pride has fully evacuated the premises.
"please," you get out.
"please what," he says, mild.
"please just—"
"use your words," he says, "you were so good at them twenty minutes ago."
he fucks you up against the wall first, which you suspect is partially because he enjoys watching you scrabble for purchase, fingers dragging against the paint, heels slipping, entirely dependent on the arm hooked under your thigh to keep you from sliding.
the angle is something that rearranges your opinions on several subjects, his cock thick and pressing in deep where he holds you open and your mouth falls open on nothing, just air, just the squelch and slap of it slap slap slap and his breath rough at your temple, finally a little rough, finally something, the composed thing going uneven at the edges in a way that you'd feel smug about if you had any working brain cells left.
"still mad?" he asks, against your ear, hips driving up.
"—yes," you moan, which is technically a lie but also the only piece of self-respect you have left.
he makes a low amused sound and angles his hips and hits something that has you crying out, thighs locking around him, walls clenching so hard you feel him shudder, the first real crack — his jaw tensing, a rough "fuck—" that he doesn't quite swallow, muffled in your hair, hips stuttering before he pulls himself back into the rhythm.
"sure," he says, slightly strained.
he moves you to the bed at some point, not gentle about it; drops you onto the mattress, hooks your ankles up over his shoulders, and the new depth makes you sob a little which he watches with this expression like he's deeply privately satisfied by that.
the composure is mostly back. mostly. his hair's messed up and there's a flush along his neck he's definitely not acknowledging and his thrusts have that particular roughness that means he's closer than he wants to admit — slap slap slap and your whole body rocking up the mattress with each one, headboard kissing the wall, the sound of you soaked around him absolutely filthy in the quiet room.
"shui— shui, i'm—" and you're already shaking, thighs trembling either side of his head, clenching and fluttering and making his breath stutter again, "gonna cum, please—"
"i know," he says, and the certainty of it is so irritating and so hot that it tips you right over the edge.
he follows close behind, hips grinding in deep and staying, hand gripping your hip hard enough you'll see it tomorrow, a low rough sound that he breathes out through his teeth. the warmth of him fills you and your walls flutter uselessly and he hisses, grinds once more, twice, working it through with his eyes closed and jaw set like he's annoyed at himself for it.
silence. the ceiling. both of you breathing.
after a while he reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a new cigarette. doesn't light it. just holds it between his fingers and looks at the ceiling, chest still moving too fast for someone who'd like you to believe he's completely unbothered.
"we're not doing that again," he says finally, meaning the leaving part. the whole leaving part.
you turn your head to look at him. he's still staring at the ceiling. the unlit cigarette taps once against his knuckles. "which part," you say.
"all of it," he says, which means the leaving and nothing else, and doesn't elaborate, because that's all he was ever going to give you and somehow it's enough.
★ NAOYA ZENIN
naoya zenin would be insufferable about it. that's the whole thing — he'd be insufferable, leaned against the doorframe when you finally walked in, arms crossed, that particular smirk sitting on his face like it'd been waiting there specifically for you. hours. you'd been gone hours, long enough to cool down and heat back up again for entirely different reasons, and you walk through the door and the first thing out of his mouth is "took you long enough."
not i was worried. not where were you. not even a proper argument continuation. just that, delivered like a verdict, like you'd failed a test he'd designed.
you should not find it as hot as you do. you genuinely hate that about yourself.
"don't," you start, already bristling, dropping your bag.
"don't what," he says, tilting his head slightly, light eyes doing that thing where they track you with this lazy attention that isn't lazy at all, not really. "finish a thought, at least."
"don't be a dick about it—"
"i'm always dick," he smirks, like it's a point of pride, and it is, that's the problem, "that's not new information." he pushes off the doorframe. "you done sulking or d' you need another hour?"
"i wasn't sulking—" but he's already moved, already closed enough distance that you have to tilt your chin up to hold eye contact, and naoya at close range is a specific kind of problem because he's taller than you clock him for and meaner than you're ever fully braced for; his hand finds your jaw before you finish the sentence, not hard, just — there, thumb pressing the corner of your mouth, tilting your face exactly where he wants it.
"yeah you were," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "you always do that little thing where you go quiet and disappear and wait for someone to come find you." the smirk shifts into something with a sharper edge. "m' not doing that. you know where i am."
it's the closest naoya zenin gets to i was waiting for you to come back and you both know it and neither of you are going to say it.
he kisses you before you can respond, which is basically naoya's solution to any conversational situation where he's running out of winning moves — not that he'd frame it that way, not that he'd ever admit the conversation had gotten close to him at all.
his hands move fast. not frantic, nothing naoya does is frantic, but efficient in a way that has your shirt gone and your bra following it before your brain's fully caught up, and when you grab at his collar he makes this low approving sound like you've done something correctly.
"there she is," he murmurs, against the side of your face, "been waiting all night for the version of you that shuts up."
"naoya—"
"shhh," he says, which is incredibly rude, and his hand slides down your stomach.
he doesn't bother with the bed immediately. backs you into the wall, slap of your shoulders hitting it, and gets his fingers into you while you're still standing, two of them, crooking like he already knows exactly where to press which he does, he always does, which is its own humiliation.
you're already wet and he finds it and laughs, short and low, right next to your ear. "you went all the way out there," he says, fingers working a slow drag, "this pissed at me—" and you clench around him and his breath hitches, covered fast, "—and came back this worked up. what were you even doing out there, thinking about it?"
"i hate you—" and it comes out wrecked because his thumb grazes your clit.
"no you don't," he says, certain, almost bored about it, and crooks his fingers again and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound.
when he finally gets inside you it's with your legs around his waist and the wall doing half the structural work and his face buried somewhere between your jaw and your shoulder, the composed thing shredding at the seams almost immediately because you're tight and you clench the second he bottoms out and his whole body stutters.
"fuck—" not covered, and you feel his hips jerk forward on instinct like he can't help it. like he's been thinking about this since you walked out. he probably has. he'd rather die than say so.
"oh," you breathe, walls fluttering, and he makes a sound that is not remotely as composed as he'd like. "f-fuck"
"don't," he grits, jaw tight.
"don't what," you mumble, deliberately copying him, and feel him twitch inside you.
he fucks you mean after that, which was inevitable. slap slap slap of his hips against yours, rough and deep, one hand fisted in your hair yanking your head back so he can watch your face, which naoya always does — he wants to see it, wants to watch you come apart specifically for him, and he gets meaner about it the closer you get, running his mouth in this low relentless way that's half degradation and half the closest he gets to losing it.
"look at you," he breathes, eyes dark and fixed, "couldn't even stay mad properly— pussy' this desperate the whole time and you thought leaving was gonna—" and you clench hard around him on accident and his sentence dies, "shit—" hips snapping brutal once, twice, rhythm breaking into something rougher, less controlled.
"mmmgh— naoya~" your voice wet and high.
"yeah," he says, strained, "yeah, that's right—" and his free hand moves between you, thumb finding your clit without breaking pace, and your vision goes sideways.
you cum loud and messy and undignified, thighs locking around his waist, and the clench of it drags a genuine broken sound out of naoya zenin; not a grunt, not a controlled exhale, a sound, cracked right through the middle, his hips driving in and grinding, stuttering through it.
"f-fuck—" and then again, quieter, helpless, face pressing into your neck while he pulses inside you warm and deep and his whole body shakes with how hard he's trying not to make it obvious how gone he is.
he stays inside. breathing hard. the smirk is gone — just his face, flushed and wrecked and younger-looking somehow, eyes shut.
a long beat.
"you're not doing that again," he says, finally, into your shoulder. hoarse.
"what, leaving, or making you—"
"either," he says, fast, and the tips of his ears go pink and he absolutely does not acknowledge that you noticed.
★ MAHITO
mahito would think it was funny.
that's the first thing. you walk back through the door still pissed, still running the argument on a loop, still convinced you were right and he's right there, cross-legged on the floor like he'd been sitting exactly like that since you left, head tilted, those mismatched eyes tracking you from across the room with this expression like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all week. wide smile. the kind that doesn't mean what smiles usually mean.
"you came back," he says, and he sounds delighted.
not relieved. not apologetic. delighted, like you'd passed some test he'd set without telling you, like the whole three hours was a game with a conclusion he'd already predicted. you want to say something cutting and instead you say "don't make it weird—"
"i'm not making it weird," he murmurs, already unfolding from the floor, already moving, the way mahito moves was always so fluid and too-casual, like joints work slightly differently for him, like he's interested in the trajectory of a thing before it knows it's moving. "you left mad and you came back. that's just what happened." he's close now, head dipping slightly to look at your face, smile gone smaller and more specific. "you missed me."
"i didn't—"
"you did," he says, and the certainty of it is disgusting, and correct, and you hate everything.
he kisses you the way he does everything — like it's a new thing he's curious about, too much attention on it, one hand coming up to hold your face in place with his palms flat against your jaw so he can look at you while he does it, which shouldn't be as intense as it is.
his hands are always slightly cooler than they should be. you notice it every time. his thumbs press your cheeks and he pulls back just enough to study your expression at close range, eyes moving across your face like he's cataloguing something.
"still mad?" he asks, conversational.
"yes—"
"good," he says, and means it, and walks you backward toward the bed.
mahito likes you angry. that's the honest truth of it, the part you've stopped being surprised by — he likes the fight still in you, the flush of it, the way your eyes go bright when you're pissed off at him.
he says it makes you more interesting, which is terrifying on a fundamental level and also the most sincere compliment he has the architecture to give.
he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and uses the other to get your clothes off with this absorbed, intent focus, like unwrapping something he's genuinely curious about, and when he spreads you open with his fingers and finds you already wet his whole face does something that cracks the grin into something softer and much worse.
"heh," he breathes, delighted again, "you were thinking about it the whole time."
"mahito i swear—"
"you were," he says, fingers curling in, and your back arches off the mattress.
plp plp plp of his fingers working into you in the quiet room, the wet sounds of it embarrassingly loud, and he watches your face with this open fascination that would be uncomfortable in any other context and is uncomfortable in this one too.
his thumb finds your clit and circles and you stop caring about comfortable. "there," he says softly, more to himself than you, tracking the specific shape your face makes, the way your thighs want to close and his hand keeps them open. "there you are."
he edges you once. just to see what happens. pulls back when your hips are chasing and your voice has gone high and broken and watches you come down from it with his head tilted and his eyes bright. "mahito~" his name comes out lewd, "please—"
"please what," he says, genuinely curious, like he's collecting data.
getting him inside you makes him go briefly, wonderfully, undone — the composed curious thing cracking open at the stretch of you around him, a rough sound against your throat that he doesn't bother covering, just feels them and reports back.
"fuuuck—" drawn out, honest, his hips grinding the last inch in while his fingers dig into your thigh. you feel every ridge of him, the slight upward curve, and your walls clench helplessly and he makes another sound, this one shorter and more surprised, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"you always—" he starts, and stops. tries again. "every time you—" and stops again, which for mahito, who always has something to say, is saying something.
he starts moving before he finishes the sentence.
slap slap slap, his hips meeting yours, the pace building into something relentless and deep that knocks the air out of you in short punched increments.
his hair falls around both of you, long and bluish-grey and falling out of whatever loose hold it'd been in, and when you grab a fistful of it he groans loud, hips stuttering hard. his hand finds yours and keeps it there, keeps the grip, like he wants you pulling.
"yeah," he breathes, "yeah, mmm— harder—" and you're almost laughing except he snaps his hips and hits something deep that dissolves the laugh into a keen that bounces off the walls.
"mahito—" wrecked, too many syllables, your voice doing something it's not supposed to do.
"i know," he says, "i know i know, you're—" and he bites your shoulder, sharp, and you clench and he shudders and the rhythm breaks into something desperate and stuttering and completely out of the neat curiosity it'd started with.
he gets you off twice, which you were not prepared for, the second one rolling directly into the first before you've caught your breath, and he watches both of them happen up close with this half-lidded focus while his own breathing comes completely apart.
the second time your walls lock around him and your voice cracks on his name he tips over too — a low grunt sound, hips buried, grinding through it with his face in your neck and his hands gripping your hips hard enough you'll feel it tomorrow in the shape of his fingers.
warm spill of him, deep, and he keeps rolling his hips through the aftershocks because he can't quite stop, little involuntary rocks that drag sounds out of both of you.
silence. both of you breathing.
he lifts his head. looks at your face. the smile that comes back is smaller than usual, something genuine underneath it that mahito doesn't always let sit on the surface. "you're not doing that again," he says, meaning the leaving.
"that's not really your decision—"
"you're not doing that again," he repeats, patient, and his nose touches yours, and it's the closest he's getting to please don't leave and you both know it and he'd never say it with different words.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who purposefully likes to ragebait you. You're both in the debate club, and every session seems to deepen your distaste for the white-haired fiend even further.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who plays Devil's Advocate, casually stating that ethics was just an abstract concept. He knows you're in the research field, that you value the concept of upholding ethical standards in everything that you do. That's why he makes outlandish claims — it's fine to lie to your subjects every once in a while if it's for the greater good. That morality was just a social construct. That if no-one finds out, it didn't happen.
Hypothetically, of course.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who revels in the way your lashes flutter, an incredulous look crossing over your heated face before you go off on a rant. He simply sits there — chin resting on top of his palm and lips curving into a dopey grin.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who loves listening to you speak, whether it's you chewing him out or presenting your findings for your thesis — he sits there so clearly engaged like it was Einstein speaking before him, as if he isn't the renowned gifted kid himself. He hangs onto each and every word, even if it means you'll cuss at him later for staring at you for too long.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who escalates your debates right when you've calmed down. He's not above feigning boredom when you're about to win, dismissing your carefully thought out arguments with a mumbled 'yeah, yeah. You win' — which positively makes you seethe. He doesn't even defend himself, not until the room goes quiet and he's 'speculating' whether animal testing is unethical or not. He smiles innocently, watching you bury your face in your hands.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who doesn't even believe half the things he says. It's all just a ploy to get you to corner him later when you're away from the watchful eyes of your fellow classmates. The unnatural calmness in his tone is jarring, to put it lightly. You know he's pissing you off on purpose just to get a reaction out of you — and you fall for it every. Single. Time.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who suggests you should just take your frustrations out on him one day. He thinks he's pushed it too far when you fall silent — already trying to figure out how to play off his words as just a joke, just like he usually does.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who's letting out a chorus of whimpers when you drag him by the tie into some empty lecture room, and it's that same tie that's wrapped around your fist as he eats you out on his knees. His eager tongue is buried in your cunt as you rut against his nose, using his face to get off with each yank of the tie. His glasses fog up, and your sticky juices drip down the pointed angle of his chin — soaking into the collar of his crumpled shirt.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who has spent an ungodly amount of time studying human anatomy. He's watched enough porn to know how to flick his tongue against your aching clit just right, how to curl his fingers inside your walls in a way that makes you sing out for him. He's only grateful for the lack of students in that wing of your campus that day — what was the probability of that?
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who lets you bounce on his lap and take what you need from him. Every clap of your ass dropping back down onto his thighs has him seeing stars, and he's involuntarily fucking his hips up into you, hands pawing at your hips. You're still tugging on his tie, pulling him up until his lips meet yours. You find him better this way — when he's rendered dumb and not running his mouth.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who's choking on a groan when you cease your riding and swivel your hips in a slow, mean circle, denying him a much needed orgasm. Like this, he can feel your pussy spasming around his jerking length, feel you trying to milk him dry. "It's because you never learn your lesson," you say. You want an apology from the man. You want him to admit he's wrong, always wrong.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who cries fat tears, chest heaving as he babbles out a string of garbled 'sorry, 'm so sorry' in a desperate attempt to get you to fuck him again. He swears he won't piss you off again, that you were right and he was wrong. Your ego swells, and it's only then you resume your nasty rhythm with vigour. His head falls back, knuckles turning white as his fingers dig bruises into your hips, ass, waist — any inch of skin he can get his greedy hands on.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who thanks you profusely, breathlessly when you finally reward him with an orgasm. You shudder at the way he fills you up, potent ropes of cum painting your insides white. His thumb is shaky when it finds your clit, both of your breathing ragged as he coaxes your own release out of you with weak coos.
▸ 𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐝!𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨, who goes back to ragebaiting you during your debates, just so that you can let out your pent-up frustrations on him all over again.
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you’re already boneless on the mattress, chest heaving, thighs trembling from the third—maybe fourth?—round tonight. sweat sticks your hair to your forehead; every muscle feels like warm liquid. you can barely keep your eyes open, let alone lift your hips to meet him anymore.
but yuji’s still going.
his pink hair is damp, sticking up in wild strands. those big brown eyes are wide and bright, cheeks flushed, lips parted around soft pants like he’s just getting started. he’s braced over you, strong arms caging you in, cock still hard and thick inside where you’re swollen and sensitive.
“baby,” he breathes, voice all honey and concern even as his hips roll slow, deep. “you okay? need me to stop?”
you whimper. it’s too much—too full, too deep, every drag lighting up oversensitive nerves. your hands push weakly at his chest.
“yuji… i can’t… i’m done…”
he freezes instantly. brows knit. lower lip juts out in that heartbreaking little pout that always undoes you.
“really? but you feel so good… and you’re so pretty when you come for me…”
he leans down, nuzzling your neck, pressing tiny kisses along your jaw. one hand slips between you to circle your clit so gently it’s almost ticklish. his voice drops to that soft, pleading whisper he knows you can’t resist.
“just one more? please? i’ll be so careful… promise i’ll make it good…”
your resolve crumbles. he’s too earnest, too sweet, too fucking adorable with those flushed cheeks and hopeful eyes. you sigh, wrap shaky arms around his neck.
“okay… one more.”
his whole face lights up like you just handed him the moon.
“thank you, baby!”
he kisses you deep, slow, then starts moving again—careful now, measured, grinding just right while his thumb keeps petting your clit in lazy circles. you’re exhausted. wrecked. but when he groans your name like it’s a prayer and spills inside you for the last time, trembling and whispering how much he loves you…
mdni. fucking suguru inches from sleeping brother!satoru
“shhh, quiet little dove.”
suguru says it like you’re the one responsible for this mess of a situation—when he was the one dragging you closer in the bed, guiding your hips until his thick cock sank deep inside you with your brother sleeping right next to you.
one wrong sound and satoru will wake up. one wrong move and he’ll see his best friend balls-deep in his little sister.
“you take me so good. you want me to feel good, right?”
you nod because speaking feels impossible when every tiny shift of your hips makes his cock drag against your walls in a way that’s too much and not enough all at once. you try to move again—small, helpless rolls of your hips—but the stretch is too much, too full, too deep. every tiny shift sends sparks immediately racing up your spine.
you try to keep quiet but then a little whine slips past your lips before you can stop it. suguru sits up immediately, careful not to move the mattress too much, and presses a finger to your mouth.
“shhh,” he breathes. “let me help you.”
then he starts to rock his hips—tiny, shallow thrusts that barely move more than an inch in and out, but it’s enough. every nudge kisses your cervix, every drag rubs that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back. the angle is everything; you’re so full it feels like he’s rearranging you from the inside.
you start to squirm because it all feels too much, but he closes his arms around you, holding you flush against him so you can’t escape the thick pressure of his cock deep in your guts.
“easy,” he breathes against your neck. “you’ll wake him.”
you know it’s stupid. you know it’s dangerous. this thing between you and suguru has always been secret. satoru would kill you both—literally—if he knew. so you take every stolen moment you can get. but this—fucking you right next to your brother on a shared vacation bed—is reckless even for him.
and yet neither of you can stop.
because it’s stupid, but it also feels so so good.
his cock is stretching you to the point it almost hurts, every ridge and vein dragging along your walls with agonizing slowness whenever he rolls his hips in slow, controlled circles. forward—your clit grinds against the coarse hair at his base; backward—his cock stirs your walls, rubbing that perfect spot over and over without ever really pulling out so the head stays pressed deep, kissing your cervix with every backward motion, while the thick base grinds against your clit on every forward motion.
you whimper again, needier—hips trying to chase more of him, but his grip on your waist keeps you locked in place, forcing you to take only what he allows.
“shhh,” he soothes, one hand coming up to cover your mouth, while the other stays on your hip, pressing you closer. “quiet, little dove. you’re doing so well.”
slick drips steadily down his length, soaking his balls, the sheets beneath you both. the wet sound of your cunt dragging over his cock is loud in your own ears—you’re sure it’ll wake satoru any second. but suguru doesn’t seem to care.
“feel that?” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “how deep i am? how perfectly you open up for me?”
you nod frantically, tears slipping free now and whimpering softly into his hand every time he moves, forcing another inch of his thick cock deeper.
“that’s it. just like that. take every inch while i use you, okay?”
another lazy circle, another whimper muffled against his palm—and you feel yourself tip over the edge, clenching so hard around his cock that even suguru’s breath stutters.
“good girl—ngh… such a good girl.” then he buries himself deep one last time and you feel the first hot, thick pulse of his cum flood inside you, filling you so completely you can feel it leaking out around his cock.
“suguru—too much,” you whimper, squirming against him, but he keeps his arms locked around your waist and ribs so tightly that squirming isn’t even an option. every inch of skin pressed together while he fucks his cum deeper inside you.
the squelch is embarrassingly loud as his thick release gets stirred and pushed back inside you, only to leak out again in warm rivulets that drip down your thighs and pool on the sheets.
“stay still, little dove,” he whispers against your ear. “you wanna make me feel good, right? let it happen.”
so all you can do is push weakly against his chest as you feel yourself getting fuller and fuller of his cum—every deep thrust forcing more of it to squelch out around his cock, soaking everything beneath you while satoru sleeps on—not an arm’s length away.
you’re lucky he sleeps like the dead.
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