He lies on his stomach across his bed, one arm folded beneath his pillow and the other holding his book open in front of him. His hair is still slightly damp from his shower, the ends curling against the back of his neck, and he has somehow managed to remain completely focused despite the fact that you are sprawled directly on top of him.

Your cheek rests between his shoulder blades. Your legs are stretched over his, your arms loosely folded beneath your chin.

For several minutes, neither of you says anything.

Then Megumi exhales slowly. “You’re heavy.”

Your head snaps up. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I weigh practically nothing.”

“You’re crushing my lungs.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I can feel my spine compressing.”

“You fight curses for a living.”

“Curses usually don’t lie on me while I’m trying to read.”

You settle your full weight against him out of spite. Megumi makes a quiet, irritated sound.

“There,” you say. “Now I’m heavy.”

“You were already heavy.”

“Wow.”

“You asked.”

“I did not ask.”

“You started the conversation.”

“You started the conversation by insulting me.”

“I stated a fact.”

“You’re so mean to me.”

Megumi turns a page. You stare at the side of his face, waiting for him to apologize. He doesn’t. 

“Megs.”

Nothing.

“Megumi.”

His eyes continue moving across the page.

“Megumiiii.”

“What?”

“I’m bored.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

“Entertain me.”

“No.”

“You’re supposed to care about my emotional well-being.”

“I care about it quietly.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It usually is.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What are you reading, anyway?”

“A book.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I wanted you to tell me about it.”

“You’d stop listening after thirty seconds.”

“That’s not true.”

“You stopped listening while I was explaining the rules of shogi.”

“Because there are too many little pieces.”

“There are forty.”

“Exactly.”

Megumi turns another page. You lift one hand and poke his cheek.

He ignores you. You poke him again.

His jaw tightens slightly. A third poke.

“Stop.”

“Pay attention to me.”

“No.”

Poke.

His eyes flick toward you. “Go find Itadori,” he says. “He’ll entertain you.”

You pause.

The answer comes a little too quickly, spoken with the same flat expression he uses for everything, but there is something underneath it. A faint sharpness you have noticed before whenever Yuji’s name comes up.

You pretend not to hear it.

“Yuji is with Nobara,” you complain. “They went to the moviiieeeesss.”

Megumi’s gaze drops back to his book. “Why didn’t you go too?”

“Because I don’t want to watch Human Earthworm 3 for the fifteenth time, Megs.”

“Itadori said the third one was the best.”

“Yuji also cried when the worm learned how to open a bank account.”

“It was apparently an emotional moment.”

“He made me hold his hand.”

Megumi’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the edge of the page. You see it.

Interesting.

“You two usually enjoy doing stupid things together,” he says.

“We do not do stupid things together.”

“You spent two hours trying to convince him that Panda had a secret wife.”

“That was funny.”

“You both followed Panda through the school with binoculars.”

“It was investigative journalism.”

“You nearly fell off the roof.”

“Yuji caught me.”

Megumi’s mouth flattens.

There it is again.

You smile against his shoulder, hiding it from him. “You could come do stupid things with us sometime.”

“No.”

“You’d have fun.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You smiled when Yuji fell into the koi pond.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was grimacing.”

“You laughed.”

“He swallowed pond water.”

“You laughed at his suffering.”

“It was a natural reaction.”

You grin and reach over his shoulder, placing your palm directly across the page. Megumi stares at the back of your hand.

"Take your hand off the page."

"No."

"I'm reading."

"I noticed."

"Then let me read."

"You've been reading forever."

"Twenty minutes."

"Exactly. Forever."

He tries to angle the book out from beneath your hand. You follow it, blocking the words again. Megumi closes his eyes. You can practically feel him counting.

"You are unbelievably annoying."

"And yet you let me in your room."

"You came in without knocking."

"And you didn't make me leave."

"You climbed onto my back before I had the chance."

"You've had plenty of chances."

He opens his eyes. You smile sweetly at him.

He looks at your face for a long second before returning to the same line he has now attempted to read four times.

You poke his cheek again. He shifts his head away. You follow. He shifts farther. You stretch over him, trying to reach, and your mouth ends up close to his shoulder. An idea occurs to you.

Megumi senses it one second too late. "Don't."

You bite him gently through his shirt. His entire body goes still beneath you. You immediately let go, laughing as you drop your chin back onto his shoulder blade.

"Did you just bite me?"

"Maybe."

"What is wrong with you?"

"You weren't paying attention."

"So you bit me?"

"It worked."

Megumi looks over his shoulder at you. His eyes are narrowed, but there is color beginning to creep across the tops of his cheeks.

You smile wider. "You're blushing."

"I'm irritated."

"Your ears are red."

"Get off."

"No."

"Fine."

Before you can ask what that means, Megumi plants one hand against the mattress and abruptly rolls onto his side.

You make a startled noise as his shoulder disappears beneath you. With nothing supporting your weight, you slide off his back and land beside him, flat on your back.

"Megumi!"

He resettles on his stomach as if nothing happened.

"You told me to get off," you accuse.

"I solved the problem."

"You threw me."

"You fell six inches."

"I could have died."

"You're still talking, so unfortunately, you didn't."

You turn your head toward him, openly offended. Megumi continues reading. For a while, you stare at the ceiling.

The room feels strangely quiet now that you’re no longer draped over him. Your shoulder rests close to his, but he seems farther away somehow. Maybe you really are annoying him.

It had felt different when you came in. He had looked tired, and you had thought bothering him might pull him out of his head. Usually it did. Usually he pretended to hate it while subtly shifting to make room for you.

Maybe today he actually wanted to be alone. You fold your hands over your stomach and stop moving.

Megumi turns a page. Then another. You know he's not reading anymore because he’s been staring at the same paragraph for nearly a minute.

Finally, he glances sideways at you. Your lips are pushed into a small pout as you stare at the ceiling. His expression changes slightly.

Not much. It is Megumi. But you notice.

"Why do you want to bother me so badly?" he asks.

You continue looking upward. "I don't know."

"You could be doing anything else."

"I know."

"I'm not fun."

That makes you turn your head. Megumi is watching you now, his book still open in front of him. There's no sarcasm in his face. He genuinely seems confused.

You blink at him.

"Megs," you say, softer now. "You're the most fun to bother."

His eyes narrow. "That doesn't sound like a compliment."

"It is when I say it."

"You bother everyone."

"Not like this."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Megumi goes quiet. So do you.

Neither of you looks away until Megumi finally drops his gaze back to the book.

"You and Itadori are always climbing on each other," he mutters.

You stare at him. "Excuse me?"

"He carries you around."

"Because I jump on him without warning."

"You play-fight constantly."

"He's fun to hit."

"You watch movies in his room."

"Nobara is usually there."

"Usually?"

Your mouth slowly curves. Megumi realizes his mistake too late.

You roll onto your side, propping your head up with one hand. "Are you jealous?"

"No."

"That was very fast."

"Because the answer is obvious."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"So you don't care that Yuji carries me around?"

"No."

"You don't care that we watch movies together?"

"No."

"You don't care that he held my hand during Human Earthworm?"

Megumi's jaw flexes.

You beam. "Megumi."

"Stop."

"You are jealous."

"I'm trying to read."

"You haven't turned the page in three minutes."

He turns it immediately.

"You skipped half the chapter."

"I'll go back later."

You push yourself closer and poke his cheek. Megumi leans away. You poke him again. He catches your wrist this time.

His fingers close around it, warm and firm, stopping your hand inches from his face. Your smile falters. Not because you're scared. Because he’s looking at you differently now.

The irritation is still there, but it's quieter. He watches you from beneath his lashes, his hand still wrapped around your wrist.

"You really don't know when to stop," he says.

Your pulse jumps beneath his thumb.

"Maybe I don't want to stop.”

Something passes over his face.

You lean back before you can lose your nerve, twisting your wrist free and pushing at his shoulder. Megumi rolls partly onto his back, more from surprise than force, keeping his book raised above his chest.

You follow him.

One knee lands beside his hip, then the other, until you’re straddling him over the blankets.

Megumi freezes. The book is still open between you, held in his hands. You look down at him. His eyes are wide. His breathings changed, though he’s trying very hard to pretend it hasn’t. 

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Bothering you."

"This isn't bothering me."

The words slip out. Megumi's expression goes blank.

Your eyebrows lift. "Oh?"

"That isn't what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"You know what I meant."

"I really don't."

"Yes, you do."

You lean forward and place both of your hands over the pages of his book.

Megumi's gaze flickers downward, catching briefly on the way your shirt falls away from your collarbone, then snaps back to your face.

You notice. He notices you noticing. His ears turn red again.

"Put it away," you whisper.

"No."

"You're not reading it."

"I was before you attacked me."

"I didn't attack you."

"You bit me."

"Barely."

"You climbed on top of me."

"You told me to find a way to entertain myself."

"I did not say that."

"It was implied."

"It absolutely was not."

You begin pushing the book downward. Megumi resists.

"Megs."

"No."

"Megumiiii."

"Stop whining."

"Put the book away."

"Get off me."

"You don't want me to."

His hands go still. Your heart slams hard enough that you're certain he can feel it through every point where your bodies touch. Megumi looks up at you. The playful edge begins to disappear from your smile.

Even with all of the teasing, you suddenly feel exposed. You’ve spent months climbing into his space, stealing his food, sleeping against his shoulder during movies, and pretending none of it means anything.

Maybe he really does think you want Yuji. Maybe you've hidden it too well.

"You really think I came in here because Yuji wasn't available?" you ask quietly.

Megumi's brows draw together. "You said you were bored."

"I was."

"That's what I mean."

"No, it isn't."

His eyes search your face. You press the book flat against his chest, not fighting to take it from him anymore.

"I could have gone with them," you say. "I could have found Panda. Or Maki. Or literally anyone else."

Megumi doesn't move.

"I came here."

His throat shifts as he swallows.

"Why?"

You smile, but it's smaller now. Nervous.

"Because you're here."

Megumi stares at you. The room feels painfully still. Then, slowly, he closes the book.

Your breath catches. He reaches toward the nightstand and sets it down without taking his eyes off you.

"There," he says.

You glance at the empty space between you. "There what?"

"You got what you wanted."

"I wanted your attention."

"You have it."

His hands settle carefully at your hips. All of your teasing disappears at once. Megumi's thumbs press lightly through the fabric of your shirt, almost tentative, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You don't.

His eyes flicker across your face. "You don't have a thing for Itadori?” he asks. 

You shake your head. "No."

"Then who?"

You stare at him in disbelief. "You're supposed to be smart."

"I want to hear you say it."

The confidence in his voice does something dangerous to your stomach. You lean down until your nose brushes his.

"You," you whisper. "Obviously."

Megumi closes the remaining distance.

His mouth meets yours with none of the uncertainty you expected from him. His hands tighten at your hips as you sink against him, your fingers sliding into the damp hair at the back of his neck.

The kiss starts slow, but it doesn't stay that way.

Megumi rolls you beneath him without breaking it, and your surprised laugh disappears against his mouth. He pulls back only long enough to look down at you, his face flushed and his breathing uneven.

"You're still annoying," he murmurs.

You tug him closer by his shirt. "And you're still no fun."

His eyes darken. "You're about to find out."

Megumi's mouth finds yours again before you can catch your breath, and this time there's nothing tentative about it. His tongue slides against yours as his weight settles more fully over you, pinning you to the mattress. One hand catches both your wrists and presses them into the pillow above your head.

You gasp against his mouth.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark blue eyes searching your face with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

"Tell me to stop," he says quietly.

"No."

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"Megumi." You arch up against him, testing his grip on your wrists. His fingers tighten. "I've wanted this for months."

His grip on your wrists loosens for a second. Then his hand slides beneath your shirt, his palm hot against your ribs.

"Months?" he repeats, his voice rough. "You've been driving me insane for months." 

"Good."

He makes a sound low in his throat and kisses you again, harder this time, his teeth catching your bottom lip. The small bite of pain makes you moan, and you feel him shudder against you.

"Every time you touched Itadori," he murmurs against your mouth, "every time you laughed at his jokes, every time you…" He breaks off, his hand sliding higher under your shirt. "I wanted to…"

"What?" You're breathless, straining against his hold on your wrists. "What did you want to do?"

His thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra.

"This," he says simply.

Then his mouth is on your neck, hot and open, and you arch into him with a gasp. He bites down gently where your neck meets your shoulder, then soothes it with his tongue, and the combination makes heat pool low in your belly.

"Megumi—"

"Say it again."

"What?"

He releases your wrists to pull your shirt up and over your head, and you help him, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against yours. Your bra follows, and then his hands are on you, palming your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you're squirming under him.

"Say my name again."

"Megumi," you breathe, and he rewards you by taking one nipple into his mouth.

Your fingers tighten in his hair as he works you with his tongue and teeth until you can’t keep your breathing steady. He moves to the other breast, his hand replacing his mouth on the first, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh through his sweatpants.

You reach down between you, palming him through the fabric, and he groans against your skin.

"Fuck," he mutters, pulling back. His breathing is uneven, his lips flushed from kissing you. "You have no idea how many times I've thought about this."

"Tell me."

He catches your hand, pressing it more firmly against his erection, and the heat of him even through layers of clothing makes you dizzy.

"Every night," he says, his voice low and rough. "Every time you fell asleep in my room. Every time you wore those shorts that barely cover anything. Every time you bit your lip when you were concentrating." His hips rock forward into your palm. "I'd lie here after you left and touch myself thinking about you."

The image of it—Megumi in this bed, his hand wrapped around his cock, your name on his lips—makes you clench around nothing.

"Show me," you whisper.

"Not yet."

He pulls your hand away and pins both wrists above your head again with one hand. The other goes to the waistband of your pants, and he pauses, looking up at you. 

"Please," you say before he can ask.

He strips you quickly, your shorts and underwear gone before he even bothers with his own clothes. His eyes drag over your bare body, and your legs spread wider beneath the weight of his stare.

His hand slides slowly up your inner thigh.

"So eager," he murmurs, but there's no mockery in it. His fingers brush through your folds, and his breath catches. "Fuck, you're so wet."

"I know," you breathe, letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "I can't believe this is actually happening."

"Good." He circles your clit with one finger, light and teasing, and you buck against his hand. "I want you like this. I want you desperate for me."

"I am," you gasp, almost laughing because the admission feels ridiculous now that he is actually here. "I have been, which is honestly a little humiliating."

Megumi's mouth brushes your jaw. "Doesn't seem like it."

"You are so irritating."

He slides one finger inside you, and whatever you were about to say disappears beneath the sound that leaves both of you. Megumi goes still for half a second, staring down at you like he’s just as affected by this as you are.

Then he starts to move his fingers. Slowly at first, watching every change in your expression as his thumb finds your clit. When he adds a second finger, your hips lift instinctively to meet his hand.

"Megumi," you breathe.

"What?"

You give him an exasperated look, although it loses most of its effect when his fingers curl inside you.

"You cannot seriously be making me—ah—ask."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Ask what?"

"Oh my God."

He kisses you before you can insult him, swallowing your frustrated sound as his hand finally gives you what you were trying to ask for. The stretch pulls a broken gasp from you, and Megumi's teasing expression vanishes.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth.

His fingers curl again, finding the place that makes your entire body tense beneath him.

Your head falls back against the pillow, a soft, broken moan slipping out when he presses there again.

Megumi stares at you, visibly stunned for a moment, then does it again.

“I made you sound like that?”

"Please don't get smug right now."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Mmm."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and keeps his hand moving until you can’t bite or another smart response. The pleasure builds too quickly, sharpened by months of wanting him and never quite believing you would actually have him like this.

Your hands squirm against his grip. Megumi releases them immediately, bracing himself over you as your fingers clutch at his shoulders. Your fingernails leave red crescents in the muscles there.

"Megu—mi—ahhh," you gasp, your voice breaking around his name.

His eyes flick over your face. Whatever he sees makes him look hungry for more. 

"You're close."

You let out a breathless, almost offended laugh. "Obviously."

His mouth twitches, but then his fingers curl more deliberately and every trace of humor disappears from you.

"Oh, fuck."

Your nails dig harder into his shoulders. You try to pull him closer, even though there's barely any space left between you as it is.

Megumi lowers his forehead to yours, watching you with an intensity that would make you self-conscious if you could think about anything other than his hand.

"Don't stop—please—don't—" you start to babble. 

"I'm not."

He keeps the same rhythm, his fingers pressing into that spot with every slow curl while his thumb works over your clit. Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, and the pressure pulls tighter until your thighs start trembling around his wrist.

"Megumi," you gasp again. "I'm going to…" The rest dissolves into a moan.

The orgasm rushes through you before you can finish the sentence, your back arching as your body clenches hard around his fingers. His name is torn from you, followed by breathless sounds you can’t hold back as your nails drag down his shoulders.

Megumi stares at you.

His fingers keep moving, carrying you through it even when your thighs close around his hand and your body jerks beneath him. Every slow curl draws another helpless noise from you until the pleasure becomes too sharp to bear and you catch his wrist.

"Okay," you gasp, half laughing as you try to breathe. "Okay, fuck."

That’s when his fingers stop. Neither of you moves. You lie under him shaking, your chest rising and falling against his while Megumi watches your face like he's forgotten everything else in the room.

"What?" you ask weakly.

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

You let out another unsteady laugh. "Did I break you?"

"No."

"You look a little broken."

"Don't start."

His voice is rough enough to make your stomach tighten all over again.

Your hands go to his shirt, shoving it upward, and he pulls back just long enough to drag it over his head. Then you're touching him everywhere you can reach, running your palms over his chest, his shoulders, the lean muscle of his arms.

Megumi catches your mouth again, but his hand slips back between your thighs. You jerk against him the second his fingers press inside you.

"Megumi," you protest breathlessly. "I just came."

"I know."

His forehead settles against yours as he begins moving them again, slower than before but no less deliberate.

You stare at him in disbelief. "Then what are you doing?"

"Do it again."

A startled laugh escapes you. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

The blunt answer makes your stomach tighten.

Megumi watches your face as his thumb brushes over your clit, taking in the way your breath catches despite your attempt to glare at him.

"You were staring at me," you say.

"I know."

"You're still staring."

"I know."

His fingers curl, and whatever else you were going to say breaks apart into a soft, helpless moan and Megumi's eyes darken.

"That," he murmurs. "I want to hear that again."

Heat rushes into your face. "Oh my God."

"And I want to see it again."

You open your mouth, though you have no idea what you plan to say. His thumb circles your clit again before you can decide, and your hips lift into his hand.

"There," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Those pretty little sounds."

"You can’t start talking like that…." You whine.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't think when you say shit like that."

The corner of his mouth lifts, barely there. "I noticed."

"You're awful."

Megumi kisses you before you can say anything else. His free hand cups your jaw, keeping you close while his fingers settle into a steady rhythm.

It’s almost embarrassing how quick the pleasure starts building again.

Your body is still sensitive from the first time, every pass of his thumb is sharper now, every curl of his fingers pulling another broken sound from you. Megumi catches them against your mouth until he finally pulls back, breathing hard as he looks at you.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“What?”

He shakes his head, his eyes still fixed on your face. “Nothing.”

“That is clearly not nothing.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You stare at him, caught completely off guard.

Then his thumb presses down harder, and whatever you might have said disappears as your whole body tightens under him.

“Oh, fuck. Megumi, I’m…”

“I can tell.”

There’s no smugness in his voice now. He sounds almost dazed.

His hand doesn’t stop. You clutch at his shoulders as the pleasure builds too quickly, and your thighs tighten around his wrist.

Then the orgasm hits you hard. Your back lifts off the mattress as you come, his name breaking apart on your lips while your fingers dig into his shoulders. Megumi watches your face the entire time, his lips parted and his breathing uneven, like he can’t believe he’s the one making you look like this.

His fingers keep moving until the pleasure becomes too much and you grab his wrist to stop him again. You fall back against the mattress, breathless and still trembling beneath him.

Megumi is still staring.

“What?” you manage.

His thumb brushes once over your cheek.“You really look like that because of me.”

Your face heats. “Megumi.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

His eyes move over your face again, his breathing still uneven.

“And you’re making those sounds because of me.”

You stare at him, suddenly way too aware of how closely he’s been watching you.

“There is something seriously wrong with you.”

“Probably.”

His thumb drags across your bottom lip. “I want to hear you do that when I’m inside you.”

Your stomach turns upside down. You reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down slightly. 

“Take these off.”

Megumi pulls his fingers from inside you, and brings them to his mouth. You watch him. His eyes stay on yours as he brings his fingers to his mouth and slowly licks them clean, and the sight sends another sharp feeling through you.

“Megumi.”

“What?”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “You know what.”

The faintest hint of a smile touches his mouth before he sits back and pushes his sweatpants and boxers down together. Your eyes drop before you can stop them.

His cock is long, and thick enough to make your thighs press together on instinct, the tip flushed and already leaking.

Megumi notices you staring. 

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

You look up at him. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You reach for him instead, wrapping your hand around his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath, his hips jerking into your touch before he catches your wrist.

“Wait.”

“You were just inside me with three fingers...”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I’m already trying not to embarrass myself.”

You blink, then laugh softly. “Megumi.”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t care how long you last.”

“Well, I do.” He pins your hand beside your head, his face flushed as he settles back between your thighs. “I’ve thought about this too many times for it to be over immediately.”

Your mouth twists into a smirk. “You’ve thought about this?”

“Not discussing that right now.”

“You brought it up.”

“I know. That was a mistake.”

You are still smiling when the head of his cock slips through your wetness. The smile disappears when he presses against you and then stops. Your hips lift instinctively. Megumi pulls back just enough to keep you from taking him in.

“…Seriously?”

His eyes search yours. “Say it again.”

“Please.”

“No.” His hand comes up to your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “What you said before.”

You know what he means, but the uncertainty in his expression makes your chest tighten.

“You’re still worried about Yuji?”

Megumi looks away for half a second. “Just answer me.”

You catch his face and turn him back toward you.

“It’s you,” you say. “It’s been you this whole time.”

His eyes hold yours.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then he kisses you and sinks into you slowly, his mouth muffling the broken moan that slips out when you feel him fill you completely. 

You both break the kiss with a sharp breath. Your fingers tighten around his shoulders, and Megumi goes still immediately, his eyes searching your face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You shift beneath him, breathing through the stretch. “Just give me a second.”

He nods, but his breathing is already uneven. He holds himself completely still until the tension starts to leave your body, then slowly sinks the rest of the way in.

His forehead drops against yours. “Fuck.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “That good?”

Megumi closes his eyes. “Please don’t make me answer questions right now.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. His hips press into you on instinct, and a strained sound catches in his throat.

He stays buried inside you, his body tense above yours, while you try to process that this is actually happening.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Megumi."

"What?"

"Are you planning to stay like this all night?"

His eyes open. "You said you needed a second."

"I had one."

"That was not a second."

"You know what I mean."

He draws back carefully, and the slow drag makes your breath catch. Then he pushes into you again, just as deep, his jaw tightening like moving slowly is taking everything he has.

You grip the back of his neck. "You know you don't have to be this careful, right?"

His eyes lift to yours. "I'm trying not to hurt you."

"You're not hurting me."

Megumi gives you another slow thrust, watching your face the entire time.

"Megumi."

"What?"

You pull him closer until your lips brush his. "I'm not going to break."

His hand tightens slightly on your hip. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

He kisses you as he thrusts into you again, harder this time. The sound that leaves you is swallowed by his mouth. Megumi immediately starts to pull back, but your legs tighten around his waist Megumi immediately starts to slow down, but your legs tighten around his waist.

"No," you breathe. "That was good."

His eyes search yours. "You made a noise."

"Yeah, because it felt good."

"You sounded surprised."

"I was." Your nails press into his shoulders. "I wasn't complaining."

His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your next gasp as he gives you another deep thrust, then another.

The careful pace starts to slip away. His grip on your hip grows firmer as he settles into a rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last. You cling to him, still half dizzy from the fact that this is actually Megumi above you, inside you, looking almost as overwhelmed as you feel.

"Still think I'm no fun?" he asks against your mouth.

A laugh catches in your throat. "Getting a little smug there, Megs.” 

"You started it."

"I was bored."

"And now?"

He presses into you harder, and whatever answer you had disappears into a moan. Megumi's mouth twitches.

"You know exactly what you’re doing," you breathe.

"Maybe."

His rhythm gets faster, the bed rocking under you. Your nails drag down his shoulders as his mouth moves from yours to your jaw.

"Say it again."

You know immediately what he means.

"It's you."

His breath catches against your skin.

"Megumi…"

"Again."

"Only you."

The rough sound that leaves him goes straight through you. His hand slips under your thigh, pulling it higher as he presses deeper, and the next thrust knocks the breath from your lungs.

He keeps the same pace, each thrust pushing you closer before you have time to catch your breath from the last. Your body is already so sensitive, and it doesn’t take long before the pleasure starts building higher and higher again. 

Megumi notices the change in you immediately. “You’re close.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Obviously.”

His hand slips between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. Your hips wiggle under him.

“Oh, fuck.”

“There?”

“Yes.” Your nails dig into his shoulders harder, drawing blood. “Don’t stop please.”

“I won’t.”

His hips keep driving into you with the same deep rhythm while his thumb slides over your clit in circles that match his pace, and the combination wipes every thought from your head. You hold onto him, your legs tightening around his waist as each breath turns into another soft, broken sound. Megumi’s breathing grows rougher against your cheek.

“Megumi,” you gasp. “I’m going to…”

“I know.”

The orgasm hits before you can finish that thought. 

Your body locks around him, your back lifting up to press into his frame, as his name breaks apart on your lips. You clench around him again and again, unable to stop the breathy moans spilling out with every wave of pleasure you feel. 

Megumi curses against your neck. His hips falter once, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes through it, still thrusting into you while your body shakes beneath him. Each deep stroke drags the pleasure out longer, pulling another desperate sound from you.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You're making this impossible.”

You’re too far gone to do anything but cling to him.

"I'm not doing it on purpose," you gasp.

"You're squeezing me."

"I'm coming," you gasp. "What do… you want… from me..?”

He lets out a noise that might have been a laugh. Your body tightens around him again, the last wave of your orgasm pulling another groan from your throat. Megumi’s rhythm finally gives.

He manages one more deep thrust before stopping with his hips pressed tightly against yours, his face dropping into your neck. His whole body is rigid above you, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

You lay there under him, still shaking, your legs loose around his waist.

“Megumi…”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t lift his head.

Your fingers slide weakly into his hair. “Did you…”

“No.”

The answer comes out strained enough to make you smile.

“No?”

“Trying not to.”

Another aftershock makes you clench around him. Megumi groans into your neck, his fingers tightening hard against your thigh.

“Fuck.”

“.. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” His voice is almost gone.

He stays buried inside you, breathing through it while you try to come back to yourself. Your chest rises against his, both of you damp and trembling, neither of you quite able to separate.

Eventually, he lifts his head. His hair is falling into his eyes, his cheeks flushed deep pink. He looks wrecked. You probably do too.

“You okay?” He whispers. 

You nod once. Then his gaze drops to your mouth.

“Good, because I’m not done with you.”

Your stomach tightens all over again.

“Oh.”

Megumi gives you a tired, suspicious look. “What?”

“Nothing.”

"That wasn't nothing."

"I just liked that."

His face flushes deeper. “Of course you did.”

You shift under him, and his eyes close immediately. “Stop.”

“I barely moved.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m lying here.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smile and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Megumi kisses you again as he draws his hips back. The drag of him inside you makes your fingers curl into his shoulders, a soft sound slipping from both of you. 

He presses back in slowly. Your body is so sensitive that even that feels almost unbearable. Your lips part against his, and Megumi pauses just long enough to watch your face.

“Okay?” he asks.

You nod quickly. “Again.”

The next thrust goes deeper.

Your head tips back against the pillow. “Fuck.”

Megumi’s mouth finds your throat, his breath turning uneven against your skin as he does it again. He tries to keep the same restrained pace, but it lasts only a handful of strokes before his grip tightens on your hip.

You pull him closer. “Megumi…”

He lifts his head.

“Harder.” The word barely leaves you. Something in his face changes. His next thrust knocks a gasp from you.

Megumi stops for half a second, eyes searching your face, but your nails dig into his shoulders before he can say anything. 

“Yes,” you breathe. “Just like that.”

He does it again.

Your cry disappears against his mouth as he kisses you, his hips finding a harder, deeper rhythm. The bed rocks beneath you, the headboard knocking steadily against the wall while you cling to him. while you cling to him and try to hold on.

There’s no room left for conversation. Only his breathing against your lips. Your name, half swallowed. The sounds he pulls from you every time he presses into you just right. Megumi’s hand slides under your thigh, lifting it even higher over him. The new angle makes your whole body jolt.

“Oh, fuck—Megumi!”

“I know.”

He sounds barely coherent himself. His forehead drops against yours. His eyes stay half open, fixed on your face even as his thrusts start to turn uneven.

You can feel how close he is, the muscles in his thighs tightening against yours as his rhythm turns frantic. His breathing grows ragged, his jaw clenched like he’s fighting his own body.

Your fingers twist into his hair. “Megumi…“

“Yeah?”

You can’t finish the thought. You don’t know what you were going to ask for anyway. His hand slips between you, and the first brush of his thumb makes you shiver. 

Megumi groans. “You’re so sensitive.”

“Don’t stop.”

“I’m not.”

His thumb circles you again while his hips keep driving into you, and the pleasure comes back almost violently. Your body has not recovered from the last orgasm, every nerve already raw and awake.

You clutch at him. “Fuck, I’m…”

Megumi presses his forehead harder against yours. “I can feel it.”

His voice cracks on the last word. Your thighs tighten around his waist. He keeps going. Even when your breaths turn into helpless, uneven moans. Even when your body starts clenching around him again and his own rhythm stutters. 

“Megumi.”

“I know.”

“Please…”

His mouth catches yours. The next thrust sends you over. Your body locks around him again, tighter this time, your legs pulling him even closer as you come with his name breathed against his lips. The pleasure rolls through you hard enough to leave you shaking, every pulse tightening around him again and again.

Megumi makes a wrecked, strangled sound. He tries to hold on. You feel it in the way his body goes rigid, in the way his hips falter and then force themselves into one more deep stroke.

His mouth falls open against yours as he comes, a broken groan leaving him while he presses as deep as he can. His whole body trembles above you, one hand gripping your hip and the other braced beside your head. You hold onto him through it.

Neither of you can kiss properly. Your lips keep brushing together between gasping breaths, both of you are too far gone to do more than stay tangled together while the last waves pass through you.

Megumi finally gives up trying to hold himself above you. He drops against your body, his face buried in the side of your neck and his heart pounding wildly against your chest.

You lie there under him, boneless and sweaty, your fingers dragging lazily through his hair. Neither of you says anything until your breathing begins to settle.

Then you murmur, "Still think I'm heavy?"

A weak laugh warms your skin. "Extremely."

You blink at the ceiling. "You're literally crushing me."

"I know."

"Megumi."

He tightens his arms around you. "No."

Despite yourself, you laugh, tired and breathless, and feel his mouth curve against your neck.

Finally, he rolls onto his side and pulls you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand moves slowly along your back while both of you continue trying to catch your breath.

Megumi lifts his head slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say softly.

He kisses your forehead, then your temple. When he reaches your mouth, the kiss is quiet and lingering.

Afterward, he stays close enough that his nose brushes yours.

"You meant it?"

You know exactly what he is asking.

"That it's you?"

He nods once.

"Yes, Megumi." You trace your fingers along his chest. "I meant it."

His shoulders loosen against the mattress.

"Okay."

You smile. "That's all you have to say?"

His arm tightens around you. "Stay."

"Obviously."

"Good."

You settle against him, your fingers drawing idle patterns over his skin. After a while, his mouth brushes the top of your head.

"For the record," he murmurs, "you were never that annoying."

You lift your head. "That annoying?"

"You bit me."

"You liked it."

Megumi closes his eyes. “Go to sleep."

You smile against his chest. "I knew it."

He lies on his stomach across his bed, one arm folded beneath his pillow and the other holding his book open in front of him. His hair is still slightly damp from his shower, the ends curling against the back of his neck, and he has somehow managed to remain completely focused despite the fact that you are sprawled directly on top of him.

Your cheek rests between his shoulder blades. Your legs are stretched over his, your arms loosely folded beneath your chin.

For several minutes, neither of you says anything.

Then Megumi exhales slowly. “You’re heavy.”

Your head snaps up. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I weigh practically nothing.”

“You’re crushing my lungs.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I can feel my spine compressing.”

“You fight curses for a living.”

“Curses usually don’t lie on me while I’m trying to read.”

You settle your full weight against him out of spite. Megumi makes a quiet, irritated sound.

“There,” you say. “Now I’m heavy.”

“You were already heavy.”

“Wow.”

“You asked.”

“I did not ask.”

“You started the conversation.”

“You started the conversation by insulting me.”

“I stated a fact.”

“You’re so mean to me.”

Megumi turns a page. You stare at the side of his face, waiting for him to apologize. He doesn’t. 

“Megs.”

Nothing.

“Megumi.”

His eyes continue moving across the page.

“Megumiiii.”

“What?”

“I’m bored.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

“Entertain me.”

“No.”

“You’re supposed to care about my emotional well-being.”

“I care about it quietly.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It usually is.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What are you reading, anyway?”

“A book.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I wanted you to tell me about it.”

“You’d stop listening after thirty seconds.”

“That’s not true.”

“You stopped listening while I was explaining the rules of shogi.”

“Because there are too many little pieces.”

“There are forty.”

“Exactly.”

Megumi turns another page. You lift one hand and poke his cheek.

He ignores you. You poke him again.

His jaw tightens slightly. A third poke.

“Stop.”

“Pay attention to me.”

“No.”

Poke.

His eyes flick toward you. “Go find Itadori,” he says. “He’ll entertain you.”

You pause.

The answer comes a little too quickly, spoken with the same flat expression he uses for everything, but there is something underneath it. A faint sharpness you have noticed before whenever Yuji’s name comes up.

You pretend not to hear it.

“Yuji is with Nobara,” you complain. “They went to the moviiieeeesss.”

Megumi’s gaze drops back to his book. “Why didn’t you go too?”

“Because I don’t want to watch Human Earthworm 3 for the fifteenth time, Megs.”

“Itadori said the third one was the best.”

“Yuji also cried when the worm learned how to open a bank account.”

“It was apparently an emotional moment.”

“He made me hold his hand.”

Megumi’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the edge of the page. You see it.

Interesting.

“You two usually enjoy doing stupid things together,” he says.

“We do not do stupid things together.”

“You spent two hours trying to convince him that Panda had a secret wife.”

“That was funny.”

“You both followed Panda through the school with binoculars.”

“It was investigative journalism.”

“You nearly fell off the roof.”

“Yuji caught me.”

Megumi’s mouth flattens.

There it is again.

You smile against his shoulder, hiding it from him. “You could come do stupid things with us sometime.”

“No.”

“You’d have fun.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You smiled when Yuji fell into the koi pond.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was grimacing.”

“You laughed.”

“He swallowed pond water.”

“You laughed at his suffering.”

“It was a natural reaction.”

You grin and reach over his shoulder, placing your palm directly across the page. Megumi stares at the back of your hand.

"Take your hand off the page."

"No."

"I'm reading."

"I noticed."

"Then let me read."

"You've been reading forever."

"Twenty minutes."

"Exactly. Forever."

He tries to angle the book out from beneath your hand. You follow it, blocking the words again. Megumi closes his eyes. You can practically feel him counting.

"You are unbelievably annoying."

"And yet you let me in your room."

"You came in without knocking."

"And you didn't make me leave."

"You climbed onto my back before I had the chance."

"You've had plenty of chances."

He opens his eyes. You smile sweetly at him.

He looks at your face for a long second before returning to the same line he has now attempted to read four times.

You poke his cheek again. He shifts his head away. You follow. He shifts farther. You stretch over him, trying to reach, and your mouth ends up close to his shoulder. An idea occurs to you.

Megumi senses it one second too late. "Don't."

You bite him gently through his shirt. His entire body goes still beneath you. You immediately let go, laughing as you drop your chin back onto his shoulder blade.

"Did you just bite me?"

"Maybe."

"What is wrong with you?"

"You weren't paying attention."

"So you bit me?"

"It worked."

Megumi looks over his shoulder at you. His eyes are narrowed, but there is color beginning to creep across the tops of his cheeks.

You smile wider. "You're blushing."

"I'm irritated."

"Your ears are red."

"Get off."

"No."

"Fine."

Before you can ask what that means, Megumi plants one hand against the mattress and abruptly rolls onto his side.

You make a startled noise as his shoulder disappears beneath you. With nothing supporting your weight, you slide off his back and land beside him, flat on your back.

"Megumi!"

He resettles on his stomach as if nothing happened.

"You told me to get off," you accuse.

"I solved the problem."

"You threw me."

"You fell six inches."

"I could have died."

"You're still talking, so unfortunately, you didn't."

You turn your head toward him, openly offended. Megumi continues reading. For a while, you stare at the ceiling.

The room feels strangely quiet now that you’re no longer draped over him. Your shoulder rests close to his, but he seems farther away somehow. Maybe you really are annoying him.

It had felt different when you came in. He had looked tired, and you had thought bothering him might pull him out of his head. Usually it did. Usually he pretended to hate it while subtly shifting to make room for you.

Maybe today he actually wanted to be alone. You fold your hands over your stomach and stop moving.

Megumi turns a page. Then another. You know he's not reading anymore because he’s been staring at the same paragraph for nearly a minute.

Finally, he glances sideways at you. Your lips are pushed into a small pout as you stare at the ceiling. His expression changes slightly.

Not much. It is Megumi. But you notice.

"Why do you want to bother me so badly?" he asks.

You continue looking upward. "I don't know."

"You could be doing anything else."

"I know."

"I'm not fun."

That makes you turn your head. Megumi is watching you now, his book still open in front of him. There's no sarcasm in his face. He genuinely seems confused.

You blink at him.

"Megs," you say, softer now. "You're the most fun to bother."

His eyes narrow. "That doesn't sound like a compliment."

"It is when I say it."

"You bother everyone."

"Not like this."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Megumi goes quiet. So do you.

Neither of you looks away until Megumi finally drops his gaze back to the book.

"You and Itadori are always climbing on each other," he mutters.

You stare at him. "Excuse me?"

"He carries you around."

"Because I jump on him without warning."

"You play-fight constantly."

"He's fun to hit."

"You watch movies in his room."

"Nobara is usually there."

"Usually?"

Your mouth slowly curves. Megumi realizes his mistake too late.

You roll onto your side, propping your head up with one hand. "Are you jealous?"

"No."

"That was very fast."

"Because the answer is obvious."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"So you don't care that Yuji carries me around?"

"No."

"You don't care that we watch movies together?"

"No."

"You don't care that he held my hand during Human Earthworm?"

Megumi's jaw flexes.

You beam. "Megumi."

"Stop."

"You are jealous."

"I'm trying to read."

"You haven't turned the page in three minutes."

He turns it immediately.

"You skipped half the chapter."

"I'll go back later."

You push yourself closer and poke his cheek. Megumi leans away. You poke him again. He catches your wrist this time.

His fingers close around it, warm and firm, stopping your hand inches from his face. Your smile falters. Not because you're scared. Because he’s looking at you differently now.

The irritation is still there, but it's quieter. He watches you from beneath his lashes, his hand still wrapped around your wrist.

"You really don't know when to stop," he says.

Your pulse jumps beneath his thumb.

"Maybe I don't want to stop.”

Something passes over his face.

You lean back before you can lose your nerve, twisting your wrist free and pushing at his shoulder. Megumi rolls partly onto his back, more from surprise than force, keeping his book raised above his chest.

You follow him.

One knee lands beside his hip, then the other, until you’re straddling him over the blankets.

Megumi freezes. The book is still open between you, held in his hands. You look down at him. His eyes are wide. His breathings changed, though he’s trying very hard to pretend it hasn’t. 

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Bothering you."

"This isn't bothering me."

The words slip out. Megumi's expression goes blank.

Your eyebrows lift. "Oh?"

"That isn't what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"You know what I meant."

"I really don't."

"Yes, you do."

You lean forward and place both of your hands over the pages of his book.

Megumi's gaze flickers downward, catching briefly on the way your shirt falls away from your collarbone, then snaps back to your face.

You notice. He notices you noticing. His ears turn red again.

"Put it away," you whisper.

"No."

"You're not reading it."

"I was before you attacked me."

"I didn't attack you."

"You bit me."

"Barely."

"You climbed on top of me."

"You told me to find a way to entertain myself."

"I did not say that."

"It was implied."

"It absolutely was not."

You begin pushing the book downward. Megumi resists.

"Megs."

"No."

"Megumiiii."

"Stop whining."

"Put the book away."

"Get off me."

"You don't want me to."

His hands go still. Your heart slams hard enough that you're certain he can feel it through every point where your bodies touch. Megumi looks up at you. The playful edge begins to disappear from your smile.

Even with all of the teasing, you suddenly feel exposed. You’ve spent months climbing into his space, stealing his food, sleeping against his shoulder during movies, and pretending none of it means anything.

Maybe he really does think you want Yuji. Maybe you've hidden it too well.

"You really think I came in here because Yuji wasn't available?" you ask quietly.

Megumi's brows draw together. "You said you were bored."

"I was."

"That's what I mean."

"No, it isn't."

His eyes search your face. You press the book flat against his chest, not fighting to take it from him anymore.

"I could have gone with them," you say. "I could have found Panda. Or Maki. Or literally anyone else."

Megumi doesn't move.

"I came here."

His throat shifts as he swallows.

"Why?"

You smile, but it's smaller now. Nervous.

"Because you're here."

Megumi stares at you. The room feels painfully still. Then, slowly, he closes the book.

Your breath catches. He reaches toward the nightstand and sets it down without taking his eyes off you.

"There," he says.

You glance at the empty space between you. "There what?"

"You got what you wanted."

"I wanted your attention."

"You have it."

His hands settle carefully at your hips. All of your teasing disappears at once. Megumi's thumbs press lightly through the fabric of your shirt, almost tentative, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You don't.

His eyes flicker across your face. "You don't have a thing for Itadori?” he asks. 

You shake your head. "No."

"Then who?"

You stare at him in disbelief. "You're supposed to be smart."

"I want to hear you say it."

The confidence in his voice does something dangerous to your stomach. You lean down until your nose brushes his.

"You," you whisper. "Obviously."

Megumi closes the remaining distance.

His mouth meets yours with none of the uncertainty you expected from him. His hands tighten at your hips as you sink against him, your fingers sliding into the damp hair at the back of his neck.

The kiss starts slow, but it doesn't stay that way.

Megumi rolls you beneath him without breaking it, and your surprised laugh disappears against his mouth. He pulls back only long enough to look down at you, his face flushed and his breathing uneven.

"You're still annoying," he murmurs.

You tug him closer by his shirt. "And you're still no fun."

His eyes darken. "You're about to find out."

Megumi's mouth finds yours again before you can catch your breath, and this time there's nothing tentative about it. His tongue slides against yours as his weight settles more fully over you, pinning you to the mattress. One hand catches both your wrists and presses them into the pillow above your head.

You gasp against his mouth.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark blue eyes searching your face with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

"Tell me to stop," he says quietly.

"No."

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"Megumi." You arch up against him, testing his grip on your wrists. His fingers tighten. "I've wanted this for months."

His grip on your wrists loosens for a second. Then his hand slides beneath your shirt, his palm hot against your ribs.

"Months?" he repeats, his voice rough. "You've been driving me insane for months." 

"Good."

He makes a sound low in his throat and kisses you again, harder this time, his teeth catching your bottom lip. The small bite of pain makes you moan, and you feel him shudder against you.

"Every time you touched Itadori," he murmurs against your mouth, "every time you laughed at his jokes, every time you…" He breaks off, his hand sliding higher under your shirt. "I wanted to…"

"What?" You're breathless, straining against his hold on your wrists. "What did you want to do?"

His thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra.

"This," he says simply.

Then his mouth is on your neck, hot and open, and you arch into him with a gasp. He bites down gently where your neck meets your shoulder, then soothes it with his tongue, and the combination makes heat pool low in your belly.

"Megumi—"

"Say it again."

"What?"

He releases your wrists to pull your shirt up and over your head, and you help him, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against yours. Your bra follows, and then his hands are on you, palming your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you're squirming under him.

"Say my name again."

"Megumi," you breathe, and he rewards you by taking one nipple into his mouth.

Your fingers tighten in his hair as he works you with his tongue and teeth until you can’t keep your breathing steady. He moves to the other breast, his hand replacing his mouth on the first, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh through his sweatpants.

You reach down between you, palming him through the fabric, and he groans against your skin.

"Fuck," he mutters, pulling back. His breathing is uneven, his lips flushed from kissing you. "You have no idea how many times I've thought about this."

"Tell me."

He catches your hand, pressing it more firmly against his erection, and the heat of him even through layers of clothing makes you dizzy.

"Every night," he says, his voice low and rough. "Every time you fell asleep in my room. Every time you wore those shorts that barely cover anything. Every time you bit your lip when you were concentrating." His hips rock forward into your palm. "I'd lie here after you left and touch myself thinking about you."

The image of it—Megumi in this bed, his hand wrapped around his cock, your name on his lips—makes you clench around nothing.

"Show me," you whisper.

"Not yet."

He pulls your hand away and pins both wrists above your head again with one hand. The other goes to the waistband of your pants, and he pauses, looking up at you. 

"Please," you say before he can ask.

He strips you quickly, your shorts and underwear gone before he even bothers with his own clothes. His eyes drag over your bare body, and your legs spread wider beneath the weight of his stare.

His hand slides slowly up your inner thigh.

"So eager," he murmurs, but there's no mockery in it. His fingers brush through your folds, and his breath catches. "Fuck, you're so wet."

"I know," you breathe, letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "I can't believe this is actually happening."

"Good." He circles your clit with one finger, light and teasing, and you buck against his hand. "I want you like this. I want you desperate for me."

"I am," you gasp, almost laughing because the admission feels ridiculous now that he is actually here. "I have been, which is honestly a little humiliating."

Megumi's mouth brushes your jaw. "Doesn't seem like it."

"You are so irritating."

He slides one finger inside you, and whatever you were about to say disappears beneath the sound that leaves both of you. Megumi goes still for half a second, staring down at you like he’s just as affected by this as you are.

Then he starts to move his fingers. Slowly at first, watching every change in your expression as his thumb finds your clit. When he adds a second finger, your hips lift instinctively to meet his hand.

"Megumi," you breathe.

"What?"

You give him an exasperated look, although it loses most of its effect when his fingers curl inside you.

"You cannot seriously be making me—ah—ask."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Ask what?"

"Oh my God."

He kisses you before you can insult him, swallowing your frustrated sound as his hand finally gives you what you were trying to ask for. The stretch pulls a broken gasp from you, and Megumi's teasing expression vanishes.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth.

His fingers curl again, finding the place that makes your entire body tense beneath him.

Your head falls back against the pillow, a soft, broken moan slipping out when he presses there again.

Megumi stares at you, visibly stunned for a moment, then does it again.

“I made you sound like that?”

"Please don't get smug right now."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Mmm."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and keeps his hand moving until you can’t bite or another smart response. The pleasure builds too quickly, sharpened by months of wanting him and never quite believing you would actually have him like this.

Your hands squirm against his grip. Megumi releases them immediately, bracing himself over you as your fingers clutch at his shoulders. Your fingernails leave red crescents in the muscles there.

"Megu—mi—ahhh," you gasp, your voice breaking around his name.

His eyes flick over your face. Whatever he sees makes him look hungry for more. 

"You're close."

You let out a breathless, almost offended laugh. "Obviously."

His mouth twitches, but then his fingers curl more deliberately and every trace of humor disappears from you.

"Oh, fuck."

Your nails dig harder into his shoulders. You try to pull him closer, even though there's barely any space left between you as it is.

Megumi lowers his forehead to yours, watching you with an intensity that would make you self-conscious if you could think about anything other than his hand.

"Don't stop—please—don't—" you start to babble. 

"I'm not."

He keeps the same rhythm, his fingers pressing into that spot with every slow curl while his thumb works over your clit. Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, and the pressure pulls tighter until your thighs start trembling around his wrist.

"Megumi," you gasp again. "I'm going to…" The rest dissolves into a moan.

The orgasm rushes through you before you can finish the sentence, your back arching as your body clenches hard around his fingers. His name is torn from you, followed by breathless sounds you can’t hold back as your nails drag down his shoulders.

Megumi stares at you.

His fingers keep moving, carrying you through it even when your thighs close around his hand and your body jerks beneath him. Every slow curl draws another helpless noise from you until the pleasure becomes too sharp to bear and you catch his wrist.

"Okay," you gasp, half laughing as you try to breathe. "Okay, fuck."

That’s when his fingers stop. Neither of you moves. You lie under him shaking, your chest rising and falling against his while Megumi watches your face like he's forgotten everything else in the room.

"What?" you ask weakly.

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

You let out another unsteady laugh. "Did I break you?"

"No."

"You look a little broken."

"Don't start."

His voice is rough enough to make your stomach tighten all over again.

Your hands go to his shirt, shoving it upward, and he pulls back just long enough to drag it over his head. Then you're touching him everywhere you can reach, running your palms over his chest, his shoulders, the lean muscle of his arms.

Megumi catches your mouth again, but his hand slips back between your thighs. You jerk against him the second his fingers press inside you.

"Megumi," you protest breathlessly. "I just came."

"I know."

His forehead settles against yours as he begins moving them again, slower than before but no less deliberate.

You stare at him in disbelief. "Then what are you doing?"

"Do it again."

A startled laugh escapes you. "Are you serious?"

"Yes."

The blunt answer makes your stomach tighten.

Megumi watches your face as his thumb brushes over your clit, taking in the way your breath catches despite your attempt to glare at him.

"You were staring at me," you say.

"I know."

"You're still staring."

"I know."

His fingers curl, and whatever else you were going to say breaks apart into a soft, helpless moan and Megumi's eyes darken.

"That," he murmurs. "I want to hear that again."

Heat rushes into your face. "Oh my God."

"And I want to see it again."

You open your mouth, though you have no idea what you plan to say. His thumb circles your clit again before you can decide, and your hips lift into his hand.

"There," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Those pretty little sounds."

"You can’t start talking like that…." You whine.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't think when you say shit like that."

The corner of his mouth lifts, barely there. "I noticed."

"You're awful."

Megumi kisses you before you can say anything else. His free hand cups your jaw, keeping you close while his fingers settle into a steady rhythm.

It’s almost embarrassing how quick the pleasure starts building again.

Your body is still sensitive from the first time, every pass of his thumb is sharper now, every curl of his fingers pulling another broken sound from you. Megumi catches them against your mouth until he finally pulls back, breathing hard as he looks at you.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“What?”

He shakes his head, his eyes still fixed on your face. “Nothing.”

“That is clearly not nothing.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You stare at him, caught completely off guard.

Then his thumb presses down harder, and whatever you might have said disappears as your whole body tightens under him.

“Oh, fuck. Megumi, I’m…”

“I can tell.”

There’s no smugness in his voice now. He sounds almost dazed.

His hand doesn’t stop. You clutch at his shoulders as the pleasure builds too quickly, and your thighs tighten around his wrist.

Then the orgasm hits you hard. Your back lifts off the mattress as you come, his name breaking apart on your lips while your fingers dig into his shoulders. Megumi watches your face the entire time, his lips parted and his breathing uneven, like he can’t believe he’s the one making you look like this.

His fingers keep moving until the pleasure becomes too much and you grab his wrist to stop him again. You fall back against the mattress, breathless and still trembling beneath him.

Megumi is still staring.

“What?” you manage.

His thumb brushes once over your cheek.“You really look like that because of me.”

Your face heats. “Megumi.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

His eyes move over your face again, his breathing still uneven.

“And you’re making those sounds because of me.”

You stare at him, suddenly way too aware of how closely he’s been watching you.

“There is something seriously wrong with you.”

“Probably.”

His thumb drags across your bottom lip. “I want to hear you do that when I’m inside you.”

Your stomach turns upside down. You reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down slightly. 

“Take these off.”

Megumi pulls his fingers from inside you, and brings them to his mouth. You watch him. His eyes stay on yours as he brings his fingers to his mouth and slowly licks them clean, and the sight sends another sharp feeling through you.

“Megumi.”

“What?”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “You know what.”

The faintest hint of a smile touches his mouth before he sits back and pushes his sweatpants and boxers down together. Your eyes drop before you can stop them.

His cock is long, and thick enough to make your thighs press together on instinct, the tip flushed and already leaking.

Megumi notices you staring. 

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

You look up at him. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer.

You reach for him instead, wrapping your hand around his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath, his hips jerking into your touch before he catches your wrist.

“Wait.”

“You were just inside me with three fingers...”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I’m already trying not to embarrass myself.”

You blink, then laugh softly. “Megumi.”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t care how long you last.”

“Well, I do.” He pins your hand beside your head, his face flushed as he settles back between your thighs. “I’ve thought about this too many times for it to be over immediately.”

Your mouth twists into a smirk. “You’ve thought about this?”

“Not discussing that right now.”

“You brought it up.”

“I know. That was a mistake.”

You are still smiling when the head of his cock slips through your wetness. The smile disappears when he presses against you and then stops. Your hips lift instinctively. Megumi pulls back just enough to keep you from taking him in.

“…Seriously?”

His eyes search yours. “Say it again.”

“Please.”

“No.” His hand comes up to your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “What you said before.”

You know what he means, but the uncertainty in his expression makes your chest tighten.

“You’re still worried about Yuji?”

Megumi looks away for half a second. “Just answer me.”

You catch his face and turn him back toward you.

“It’s you,” you say. “It’s been you this whole time.”

His eyes hold yours.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then he kisses you and sinks into you slowly, his mouth muffling the broken moan that slips out when you feel him fill you completely. 

You both break the kiss with a sharp breath. Your fingers tighten around his shoulders, and Megumi goes still immediately, his eyes searching your face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You shift beneath him, breathing through the stretch. “Just give me a second.”

He nods, but his breathing is already uneven. He holds himself completely still until the tension starts to leave your body, then slowly sinks the rest of the way in.

His forehead drops against yours. “Fuck.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “That good?”

Megumi closes his eyes. “Please don’t make me answer questions right now.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. His hips press into you on instinct, and a strained sound catches in his throat.

He stays buried inside you, his body tense above yours, while you try to process that this is actually happening.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Megumi."

"What?"

"Are you planning to stay like this all night?"

His eyes open. "You said you needed a second."

"I had one."

"That was not a second."

"You know what I mean."

He draws back carefully, and the slow drag makes your breath catch. Then he pushes into you again, just as deep, his jaw tightening like moving slowly is taking everything he has.

You grip the back of his neck. "You know you don't have to be this careful, right?"

His eyes lift to yours. "I'm trying not to hurt you."

"You're not hurting me."

Megumi gives you another slow thrust, watching your face the entire time.

"Megumi."

"What?"

You pull him closer until your lips brush his. "I'm not going to break."

His hand tightens slightly on your hip. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

He kisses you as he thrusts into you again, harder this time. The sound that leaves you is swallowed by his mouth. Megumi immediately starts to pull back, but your legs tighten around his waist Megumi immediately starts to slow down, but your legs tighten around his waist.

"No," you breathe. "That was good."

His eyes search yours. "You made a noise."

"Yeah, because it felt good."

"You sounded surprised."

"I was." Your nails press into his shoulders. "I wasn't complaining."

His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your next gasp as he gives you another deep thrust, then another.

The careful pace starts to slip away. His grip on your hip grows firmer as he settles into a rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last. You cling to him, still half dizzy from the fact that this is actually Megumi above you, inside you, looking almost as overwhelmed as you feel.

"Still think I'm no fun?" he asks against your mouth.

A laugh catches in your throat. "Getting a little smug there, Megs.” 

"You started it."

"I was bored."

"And now?"

He presses into you harder, and whatever answer you had disappears into a moan. Megumi's mouth twitches.

"You know exactly what you’re doing," you breathe.

"Maybe."

His rhythm gets faster, the bed rocking under you. Your nails drag down his shoulders as his mouth moves from yours to your jaw.

"Say it again."

You know immediately what he means.

"It's you."

His breath catches against your skin.

"Megumi…"

"Again."

"Only you."

The rough sound that leaves him goes straight through you. His hand slips under your thigh, pulling it higher as he presses deeper, and the next thrust knocks the breath from your lungs.

He keeps the same pace, each thrust pushing you closer before you have time to catch your breath from the last. Your body is already so sensitive, and it doesn’t take long before the pleasure starts building higher and higher again. 

Megumi notices the change in you immediately. “You’re close.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Obviously.”

His hand slips between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. Your hips wiggle under him.

“Oh, fuck.”

“There?”

“Yes.” Your nails dig into his shoulders harder, drawing blood. “Don’t stop please.”

“I won’t.”

His hips keep driving into you with the same deep rhythm while his thumb slides over your clit in circles that match his pace, and the combination wipes every thought from your head. You hold onto him, your legs tightening around his waist as each breath turns into another soft, broken sound. Megumi’s breathing grows rougher against your cheek.

“Megumi,” you gasp. “I’m going to…”

“I know.”

The orgasm hits before you can finish that thought. 

Your body locks around him, your back lifting up to press into his frame, as his name breaks apart on your lips. You clench around him again and again, unable to stop the breathy moans spilling out with every wave of pleasure you feel. 

Megumi curses against your neck. His hips falter once, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes through it, still thrusting into you while your body shakes beneath him. Each deep stroke drags the pleasure out longer, pulling another desperate sound from you.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You're making this impossible.”

You’re too far gone to do anything but cling to him.

"I'm not doing it on purpose," you gasp.

"You're squeezing me."

"I'm coming," you gasp. "What do… you want… from me..?”

He lets out a noise that might have been a laugh. Your body tightens around him again, the last wave of your orgasm pulling another groan from your throat. Megumi’s rhythm finally gives.

He manages one more deep thrust before stopping with his hips pressed tightly against yours, his face dropping into your neck. His whole body is rigid above you, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

You lay there under him, still shaking, your legs loose around his waist.

“Megumi…”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t lift his head.

Your fingers slide weakly into his hair. “Did you…”

“No.”

The answer comes out strained enough to make you smile.

“No?”

“Trying not to.”

Another aftershock makes you clench around him. Megumi groans into your neck, his fingers tightening hard against your thigh.

“Fuck.”

“.. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” His voice is almost gone.

He stays buried inside you, breathing through it while you try to come back to yourself. Your chest rises against his, both of you damp and trembling, neither of you quite able to separate.

Eventually, he lifts his head. His hair is falling into his eyes, his cheeks flushed deep pink. He looks wrecked. You probably do too.

“You okay?” He whispers. 

You nod once. Then his gaze drops to your mouth.

“Good, because I’m not done with you.”

Your stomach tightens all over again.

“Oh.”

Megumi gives you a tired, suspicious look. “What?”

“Nothing.”

"That wasn't nothing."

"I just liked that."

His face flushes deeper. “Of course you did.”

You shift under him, and his eyes close immediately. “Stop.”

“I barely moved.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m lying here.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smile and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Megumi kisses you again as he draws his hips back. The drag of him inside you makes your fingers curl into his shoulders, a soft sound slipping from both of you. 

He presses back in slowly. Your body is so sensitive that even that feels almost unbearable. Your lips part against his, and Megumi pauses just long enough to watch your face.

“Okay?” he asks.

You nod quickly. “Again.”

The next thrust goes deeper.

Your head tips back against the pillow. “Fuck.”

Megumi’s mouth finds your throat, his breath turning uneven against your skin as he does it again. He tries to keep the same restrained pace, but it lasts only a handful of strokes before his grip tightens on your hip.

You pull him closer. “Megumi…”

He lifts his head.

“Harder.” The word barely leaves you. Something in his face changes. His next thrust knocks a gasp from you.

Megumi stops for half a second, eyes searching your face, but your nails dig into his shoulders before he can say anything. 

“Yes,” you breathe. “Just like that.”

He does it again.

Your cry disappears against his mouth as he kisses you, his hips finding a harder, deeper rhythm. The bed rocks beneath you, the headboard knocking steadily against the wall while you cling to him. while you cling to him and try to hold on.

There’s no room left for conversation. Only his breathing against your lips. Your name, half swallowed. The sounds he pulls from you every time he presses into you just right. Megumi’s hand slides under your thigh, lifting it even higher over him. The new angle makes your whole body jolt.

“Oh, fuck—Megumi!”

“I know.”

He sounds barely coherent himself. His forehead drops against yours. His eyes stay half open, fixed on your face even as his thrusts start to turn uneven.

You can feel how close he is, the muscles in his thighs tightening against yours as his rhythm turns frantic. His breathing grows ragged, his jaw clenched like he’s fighting his own body.

Your fingers twist into his hair. “Megumi…“

“Yeah?”

You can’t finish the thought. You don’t know what you were going to ask for anyway. His hand slips between you, and the first brush of his thumb makes you shiver. 

Megumi groans. “You’re so sensitive.”

“Don’t stop.”

“I’m not.”

His thumb circles you again while his hips keep driving into you, and the pleasure comes back almost violently. Your body has not recovered from the last orgasm, every nerve already raw and awake.

You clutch at him. “Fuck, I’m…”

Megumi presses his forehead harder against yours. “I can feel it.”

His voice cracks on the last word. Your thighs tighten around his waist. He keeps going. Even when your breaths turn into helpless, uneven moans. Even when your body starts clenching around him again and his own rhythm stutters. 

“Megumi.”

“I know.”

“Please…”

His mouth catches yours. The next thrust sends you over. Your body locks around him again, tighter this time, your legs pulling him even closer as you come with his name breathed against his lips. The pleasure rolls through you hard enough to leave you shaking, every pulse tightening around him again and again.

Megumi makes a wrecked, strangled sound. He tries to hold on. You feel it in the way his body goes rigid, in the way his hips falter and then force themselves into one more deep stroke.

His mouth falls open against yours as he comes, a broken groan leaving him while he presses as deep as he can. His whole body trembles above you, one hand gripping your hip and the other braced beside your head. You hold onto him through it.

Neither of you can kiss properly. Your lips keep brushing together between gasping breaths, both of you are too far gone to do more than stay tangled together while the last waves pass through you.

Megumi finally gives up trying to hold himself above you. He drops against your body, his face buried in the side of your neck and his heart pounding wildly against your chest.

You lie there under him, boneless and sweaty, your fingers dragging lazily through his hair. Neither of you says anything until your breathing begins to settle.

Then you murmur, "Still think I'm heavy?"

A weak laugh warms your skin. "Extremely."

You blink at the ceiling. "You're literally crushing me."

"I know."

"Megumi."

He tightens his arms around you. "No."

Despite yourself, you laugh, tired and breathless, and feel his mouth curve against your neck.

Finally, he rolls onto his side and pulls you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand moves slowly along your back while both of you continue trying to catch your breath.

Megumi lifts his head slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say softly.

He kisses your forehead, then your temple. When he reaches your mouth, the kiss is quiet and lingering.

Afterward, he stays close enough that his nose brushes yours.

"You meant it?"

You know exactly what he is asking.

"That it's you?"

He nods once.

"Yes, Megumi." You trace your fingers along his chest. "I meant it."

His shoulders loosen against the mattress.

"Okay."

You smile. "That's all you have to say?"

His arm tightens around you. "Stay."

"Obviously."

"Good."

You settle against him, your fingers drawing idle patterns over his skin. After a while, his mouth brushes the top of your head.

"For the record," he murmurs, "you were never that annoying."

You lift your head. "That annoying?"

"You bit me."

"You liked it."

Megumi closes his eyes. “Go to sleep."

You smile against his chest. "I knew it."

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Until You

Yuji doesn't know your name.

He doesn't know your favorite color, doesn't know where you're from, doesn't know why every sorcerer in this crowded district meeting seems to know exactly who you are while he's completely in the dark.

He just knows the guy flirting with you needs to leave.

Now.

It's irrational. Completely irrational. He's eighty-three years old—even if he doesn't look it, even if Sukuna's lingering influence keeps him frozen at twenty-something while the world ages around him. Eighty-three years should have taught him better than this. Should have taught him control, restraint, the careful art of not getting attached to people who will inevitably leave.

And they always leave.

Sometimes they age out—gray hair and laugh lines appearing while he stays exactly the same, until the gap between them becomes too wide to bridge. Sometimes they die before their time, because being close to him is dangerous, because curses are drawn to power and he's been a beacon for decades. Sometimes they just... break. Crumble under the weight of what knowing him means.

He has Nobara. He has Todo. That's it. That's the complete list of people who've survived in his orbit long enough to matter. Everyone else is gone—dust and memories and names he doesn't let himself think about anymore because thinking about them hurts worse than any curse ever could.

He's learned not to hope. Learned not to reach for things he can't keep.

So he should walk away right now. Should let the tall sorcerer with the perfectly styled hair and the too-bright smile continue his conversation with you, should disappear back into the crowd and forget he ever noticed you leaning against that wall with your arms crossed and that politely neutral expression that somehow makes you more magnetic than if you were smiling.

He should.

But he’s already moving.

And then you turn your head and Yuji forgets how to breathe for a moment. 

It isn't just that you're beautiful. It isn't the way the room seems to arrange itself around you, every sorcerer careful not to stare too openly.

It's your eyes.

He knows those eyes.

Hasn't seen them in decades. Not since Satoru Gojo laughed in his face, too bright and too untouchable, acting like the world couldn't possibly end because he was still standing in it.

Six Eyes.

For one awful second, Yuji isn't there in the room anymore. He's younger. Grieving. Looking at an empty space where the strongest used to be.

Then you blink, and the memory breaks. Because they aren't Gojo's eyes. They're yours. And somehow that makes it worse.

The recognition hurts more than it should—not the loss of Gojo, but the terrifying realization that you might actually be strong enough to survive him. That the Six Eyes might mean you won't crumble, won't age out, won't break under the weight of what knowing him costs.

Hope is dangerous. Hope gets people killed… But he's already hoping.

The crowd parts around him without him having to ask—maybe they sense something in the way he's walking, something predatory and single-minded that makes people step aside instinctively. He catches fragments of whispered conversation as he passes.

"—can't believe she's actually here—"

"—the Six Eyes, after all this time—"

But then the sorcerer's hand lands on your lower back—casual, familiar, presumptuous—and something ancient and possessive tightens in Yuji's chest so violently it steals his breath.

He's standing between you and the sorcerer before he's consciously decided to move.

"Move."

His voice comes out quieter than he intended. Flat. No anger in it, no heat—and somehow that makes it more dangerous than if he'd shouted. The sorcerer blinks, clearly not understanding what's happening, his hand still resting on your back like he has any right to touch you.

Like you're not already Yuji's.

The thought should disturb him. He doesn't even know you. Has no claim to you. No right to this surge of territorial possessiveness that's currently shredding through eighty-three years of carefully maintained control.

"Excuse me?" The sorcerer's smile is confused, still friendly. Still there. "I was just—"

"I said move."

Yuji doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. Something in his tone—or maybe in his eyes, in the way he's standing, in the barely leashed violence humming under his skin—finally registers. The sorcerer's smile falters. His hand drops from your back.

"Right. Yeah. I'll just—" He's already backing away, already disappearing into the crowd, and Yuji doesn't watch him go because his attention has locked onto you with an intensity that should probably scare him.

You're looking at him with raised eyebrows, more amused than intimidated. There's a slight curve to your lips that might be the beginning of a smile, and the sight of it does something catastrophic to his chest.

"That was subtle," you say, and your voice is exactly what he didn't know he'd been waiting to hear—warm and slightly teasing and real in a way that makes him want to hear you say his name just to know what it would sound like.

He should introduce himself. Should say something normal, something that doesn't make him sound like a territorial animal who's just claimed something that doesn't belong to him.

"He was touching you."

That's what comes out instead. Blunt. Possessive. Completely failing at the whole 'normal human interaction' thing he was going for.

"He was," you agree, and there's definitely amusement in your eyes now. "I didn't realize that was a problem."

"It is."

"For who?"

For me. For him. For anyone who thinks they can touch what's mine.

The thought is so immediate, so visceral, that it takes him a second to realize he can't actually say it out loud. You're not his. He doesn't even know your name. He has no right to the jealousy currently eating through his self-control like acid.

But when he looks at you—really looks at you, takes in the way you're watching him with curiosity instead of fear, the way you haven't stepped back or called for help or done any of the sensible things someone should do when a stranger gets territorial over them—something clicks into place.

Something that feels like recognition.

Like maybe you're the answer to a question he didn't know he was asking.

"For me," he finally says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended. "It's a problem for me."

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. "Why?"

Because eighty-three years of loneliness just shattered the moment he saw you. Because he's spent decades learning not to want things he can't keep and you've somehow destroyed that lesson in twenty minutes. Because when he looks at you, there's a terrifying thought taking root in his chest: She might actually survive me.

"Don't know," he lies. "Just is."

The corner of your mouth quirks up. "That's not much of an explanation."

"No," he agrees. "It's not."

The silence stretches between you, charged with something he can't name. Around you, the meeting continues—sorcerers talking, laughing, networking, completely oblivious to the fact that Yuji's entire world has just narrowed down to you and the space between your bodies and the desperate need to close that distance.

He should walk away. Should let you go back to your conversation, back to your life, back to whatever protection the Gojo Clan thinks they can offer you. Should save you from the inevitable heartbreak of getting close to someone who's going to watch you age while he stays frozen, or worse, watch you die because being near him is dangerous.

"Come with me," he says instead.

It's not a question. It should be—he should give you the choice, should let you decide if you want to follow a stranger who just scared off your conversation partner for no good reason. But the words come out like a command, rough and desperate and completely bypassing his brain's better judgment.

You should say no. Should tell him to leave you alone, should recognize that there's something wrong with the intensity in his eyes, the barely leashed need in his voice.

"Okay," you say.

His hand finds your wrist immediately—not forceful, just inevitable. His fingers wrap around it like they've been waiting for permission.

And just like that, he's doomed you both.

The bathroom door locks behind you with a click that sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence.

Yuji's hand is still wrapped around your wrist—not tight, just... there. Like he needs the contact. Like letting go isn't an option his body will allow.

He's staring at you, chest rising and falling too fast, and there's something almost panicked in his eyes. Something that looks like a man who's just realized he's made a terrible mistake but can't bring himself to fix it.

"I was going to explain," he says, voice rough. His thumb brushes across the inside of your wrist—once, twice—like he's checking your pulse. Making sure you're real.

Then he's kissing you.

It's desperate and claiming and nothing like the controlled person who scared off that sorcerer. His hands come up to frame your face, angling your head so he can deepen the kiss, and when you gasp he makes a sound that's half-groan, half-relief.

The kiss breaks. He pulls back exactly far enough to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, and you can feel him shaking.

"Fuck," he whispers.

His hand drifts up to cup your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone. He's looking at you like he's trying to memorize every detail, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he blinks.

Two seconds. That's how long he lasts before he's kissing you again.

This time it's softer. Almost reverent. His fingers slide into your hair, and the touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. When he pulls back again, there's something wrecked in his expression.

"I can't—" He stops. Tries again. "I've spent eighty-three years teaching myself not to reach for people."

His hand finds yours, fingers threading through yours like he needs to hold on.

"And somehow I've forgotten everything in the last twenty minutes."

You should probably be concerned about that. Should ask what he means, should demand an explanation for why a stranger is confessing decades of loneliness while touching you like you're something precious.

Should definitely ask why he just said eighty-three years when he looks like he's barely in his twenties.

But his hand is still on your face, and the desperation in his eyes is real, and you're still shaking.

He can't help himself.

His mouth finds yours again. The moment you're kissing him back, his control shatters completely. His hands are everywhere.. sliding into your hair, cupping your face, tracing down your neck, gripping your waist. Not rough, just... constant. Like he can't stop. Like every touch is confirmation that you're real and here and letting him do this.

"Sorry," he breathes against your mouth, even as his hands drift to your hips. "I'm sorry, I just—"

He doesn't finish. Just kisses you again, deeper this time, his body crowding yours back against the sink. You can feel him quaking—not with desire, though that's there too, but with something that feels like restraint breaking after decades of holding on too tight.

Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and the touch seems to undo something in him. He breaks the kiss to press his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

"Tell me to stop," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "Tell me this is a bad idea. Tell me—"

You kiss him instead of answering.

His hands tighten on your waist, and then he's kissing you back with a desperation that steals your breath. His mouth moves to your neck, and when he bites down—you can't stop the sound that escapes. That is all the permission he needs.

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't pull back or check in. Just keeps going, completely consumed now, his mouth moving back to your neck, biting at your collarbone, tasting your skin. His hands are gripping your waist, pulling you closer, and there's nothing controlled about it—just pure need.

His hands work at your clothes with an urgency that borders on frantic, and when his fingers finally touch bare skin, you both gasp.

"Fuck," he breathes. His hand slides up your side, shaking slightly. "You're so—" He stops. Tries again. "I don't think I've wanted to touch another person this badly in decades."

His fingers push beneath the fabric without hesitation. You're already wet, and that knowledge seems to undo him completely. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breathing hard against your skin.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You're—"

He doesn't finish the thought. His fingers are already moving, exploring, claiming. There's nothing gentle about it—just pure possession, pure need. He touches you with a single-minded focus, and when he slides one finger inside you, his other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to his.

"Look at me," he says, voice rough. "Need to see you."

You meet his eyes, and the intensity there steals your breath. He's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking for a long time.

He adds a second finger, and the stretch makes your breath catch. His thumb finds your clit, circling with just enough pressure that your hips jerk involuntarily, pleasure radiating through your core in sharp, electric waves. Your thighs tremble, and he watches every expression on your face—the way your eyes flutter, the way your mouth falls open—like he's cataloging each one.

"Don't hide," he murmurs. "Let me have this."

His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and you can't stop the moan that tears from your throat. He does it again, building a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, and his free hand keeps drifting—to your face, your neck, your hair—like he can't stop touching you.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You're—I can feel—" His words dissolve into something almost incoherent.

The orgasm builds faster than you expect, pleasure coiling tight in your belly with each thrust of his hand. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding on, and he leans in to kiss you—messy and desperate.

The orgasm crashes over you, and he swallows your cry with another kiss. His fingers work you through it, gentling but not stopping, drawing out every last tremor until you're gasping and shaking.

When you finally open your eyes, he's staring at you with something like awe.

His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing away the tear you didn't realize had fallen. He stares at you for a long moment, like he's trying to catalog this—the exact angle of your face, the way you look when you're undone.

Then he's dropping to his knees, and before you can process what's happening, his mouth is on you.

The first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. You're still sensitive from your orgasm, and the sensation is almost too much, but he's relentless—licking and sucking with a desperation that suggests he's been starving for this.

"Oh god," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "I can't—"

He pulls back just enough to breathe. "Not stopping," he says, and it's not a question. His breath is hot against your oversensitive flesh.

Then his mouth is on you again, and coherent thought becomes impossible. He eats you out like it's the only thing keeping him alive, his tongue working against your clit with devastating precision. His hands grip your thighs—hard, possessive—pinning you exactly where he wants you. You can't move, can't escape the relentless pressure of his mouth. He controls every second of it.

He works you through it with the same relentless intensity, wringing every last tremor from your body until you're limp. When he finally pulls back, his lips are wet, his eyes dark and hungry.

He rises to his feet, and immediately his hands are on you—gripping your jaw, sliding into your hair and pulling. His mouth crashes against yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.

His hands work at his belt, movements sharp and urgent. When he finally frees himself, your mouth goes dry.

He's long and thick in a way that makes your stomach clench. For a moment you just stare, your breath catching as the reality of what's about to happen hits you. He's bigger than anything you've experienced. Your body recognizes it before your mind catches up—heat flooding through you despite the spike of nervousness.

He turns you around roughly, pressing your front against the sink. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—flushed and disheveled.

His hand slides up your spine, and you feel the tremor in his fingers even as his grip tightens—like he's trying to steady himself by holding onto you. "Look," he commands, voice rough and uneven.

The head of him slides through your wetness once, and then he's pushing inside—one hard thrust that fills you completely. The stretch makes you cry out, and he groans against your neck, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

He doesn't wait. Doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a brutal pace immediately. Each thrust is deep, claiming, like he's trying to convince himself you're real and here and not going to disappear.

"Fuck," he groans. One hand slides up to tangle in your hair, yanking your head back so you're forced to watch yourself in the mirror. He's watching too, jaw clenched, eyes dark and almost desperate. "Look at yourself. Look at—" His voice breaks. "I need you to see this."

The angle has him hitting that devastating spot inside you with every thrust, and combined with the sight of yourself in the mirror—completely undone, completely his—it's overwhelming. His other hand wraps around your throat, grip firm.

"Mine," he breathes against your ear. "Right here. Right now. Mine."

Your breath catches. You can't form words, can only take what he's giving you.

His hand tightens on your throat—enough to make your head spin, enough that you feel his palm against your pulse—and the combination of sensations pushes you over the edge. Your third orgasm crashes over you with devastating force, and you silently cry out, your body clenching around him.

The moment you clamp down on him, Yuji's entire body goes rigid. A groan tears from his chest—raw, almost pained—his grip on your hair tightens like he's afraid you'll slip away, his hips driving deeper, harder, like he's chasing something.

"Fuck, you feel—" His voice breaks. He pulls back just enough to thrust in again, and again, each movement desperate and punishing. "Not yet. Not fucking yet."

His breathing is ragged, his movements becoming almost frantic as he pushes you toward another peak. His hand stays locked around your throat. He doesn't let go. Can't let go. Just keeps driving into you with single-minded intensity, each thrust hitting deeper, harder.

You're already oversensitive, shaking, but he doesn't stop. Won't stop. His grip on your hair keeps your head tilted back, forcing you to watch yourself in the mirror as he takes you apart again.

When the fourth orgasm hits, it's almost too much. Your body clamps down around him violently, and you hear yourself cry out—broken, desperate.

That's what breaks him.

The moment you squeeze around him, Yuji's hand releases your throat. Both hands grab your hips hard and he drives into you with brutal force. Chasing his own release with the same desperate intensity he's shown since the moment he touched you.

He comes with a groan that sounds like it's been torn from somewhere deep inside him, his hips jerking as he buries himself as deep as he can go. You feel the heat of him, the way his entire body shudders against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, shuddering with aftershocks. When he finally pulls out, you feel the loss of him and whimper.

He turns you around immediately, and his hands are on you.

Your face first—cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Then your neck, fingers tracing the line of your throat. Then he's taking your hand, threading his fingers through yours, holding on. His other hand smooths your hair back from your face. Then returns to cup your jaw. Then drifts to your wrist, thumb finding your pulse point.

He's not thinking about it. Not pausing between touches. His hands move from one point of contact to the next like they have a mind of their own, like he's confirming something over and over.

You watch him for several seconds in silence. Then, quietly you say, "You keep touching me."

He freezes. Actually freezes.

Looks down at his hands like he's only just now realizing what they're doing. One is still holding yours, fingers intertwined. The other—his thumb is brushing your cheekbone again, that same gentle sweep he's done at least a dozen times in the last minute.

"I know." His voice comes out rough. Almost helpless. "I don't know how to stop."

The silence that follows is heavy. You can see something like panic flickering in his eyes—not fear of you, but fear of himself. Of what this means.

"I shouldn't want this," he says quietly. "But I can't stop." His voice breaks on the last word. He laughs once. Quietly, defeated. His eyes search yours like he's looking for absolution he knows he doesn't deserve.

The worst part? It wasn't the kiss. It wasn't bringing you in here. It wasn't even letting himself hope. It was this. His hands. They kept finding you. Your cheek. Your hair. Your wrist. Your fingers. Every time he thought they'd finally gone still, they moved again—reaching for you like his body had forgotten how to exist without touching you.

Eighty-three years of discipline had disappeared so quietly he hadn't even noticed it happening. And standing here with you looking back at him… He couldn't find it in himself to want it back.

"So," you say, leaning back against the sink. "Are you going to tell me what that was about?"

He should explain. Should tell you that he's not normally like this, that getting close to him is dangerous.

He doesn't.

"I kept telling myself to leave you alone," he says instead, and his voice comes out quieter now. Darker. He takes a step closer. "Kept telling myself this was a bad idea."

"What was?"

"You." Another step. He's close enough now to see the way your pulse jumps in your throat, close enough to catch your scent—something clean and sharp that makes him want to bury his face in your neck and just breathe. "Wanting you. Needing you."

His hand comes up, cups your jaw without hesitation.

"You don't even know me," you point out, but your voice has gone softer.

"Going to." The words come out like a promise. Like a threat. "Going to know everything. Your name. What you're afraid of. Why everyone out there treats you like you're made of glass." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can feel the barely restrained hunger in the touch. "Going to know what makes you gasp. What makes you beg. What you look like when you come undone."

"That's—"

"Mine." His other hand finds your waist, pulls you flush against him. "You're mine now. You know that, right?"

It should sound insane. Should make you pull away, should trigger every self-preservation instinct you have.

It doesn't.

"I was going to say presumptuous," you murmur, but your hands come up to rest against his chest anyway.

The touch makes something feral spark in his eyes.

"You have no idea what you've been doing to me all night." The confession spills out raw and honest and completely lacking any pretense of control. "I saw you across that room and something just—" He breaks off, his grip on your waist tightening. "I looked at you and knew."

"Knew what?"

His forehead drops to rest against yours. "That I wasn't letting you go. That I was going to keep you. That everyone else in that room could fuck off because you were already mine."

"I know it's selfish," he continues, voice dropping lower. "I know keeping you is dangerous. I know proximity to me gets people killed."

He pauses. Lets the weight of that sink in.

"Don't care."

The words are simple. Final.

His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, possessive and certain. "I'm going to keep you. I'm going to learn every inch of you. I'm going to take everything you'll give me and then take more."

You're quiet for a long moment, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes. Waiting to see if you'll try to run. Knowing he won't let you even if you do.

"What's your name?" you ask instead.

The question catches him off guard. Of all the things you could have said, all the ways you could have responded, you're asking for his name.

"Yuji," he manages. "Yuji Itadori."

"Yuji," you repeat, and the sound of his name in your voice does something catastrophic to his chest.

He kisses you before you can say anything else. It's not soft or sweet. His hands tangle in your hair, angling your head so he can deepen the kiss, and when you gasp against his mouth he swallows the sound like he's claiming it.

You kiss him back just as desperately, your hands fisting in his shirt, and the response makes something primal roar to life in his chest. Mine, mine, mine.

It's selfish. It's dangerous. It's the most honest thing he's felt in decades.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. Your lips are swollen, your hair mussed from his hands, and you're looking at him like you understand exactly what you've just agreed to.

"I need to know your name," he says, and his voice comes out wrecked. "Need to know what to call you when you're underneath me."

You tell him.

And when you do, he commits it to memory like it's the most important thing he's ever learned. Like maybe if he holds onto it tightly enough, you won't slip away like everyone else.

"Say it again," he demands, his hands still framing your face.

You do. And then again when he asks. And again.

His thumb traces your cheekbone. Then your jaw. Then back to your cheek. He's not thinking about it anymore. His hands just move. Your name sits on his tongue like something he's tasting for the first time.

He says it once more. Quiet. Almost to himself. His grip doesn't loosen.

Tomorrow he'll face what this costs. Tomorrow he'll deal with the consequences of wanting to keep you. 

But his hands are still on your face, and your pulse is still racing under his touch, and somewhere in the last hour the decision stopped being a choice.

The morning light filters through the curtains in soft, golden bands, painting stripes across the bedroom floor. You've been awake for twenty minutes already, watching Nanami sleep—something you rarely get to do. He's usually up before dawn, already dressed and making coffee by the time you stumble into the kitchen.

But today is different.

Today, you made him promise to sleep in.

He's on his back, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. His chest rises and falls in that steady, measured rhythm that's so distinctly him. Even in sleep, Nanami Kento is composed. No sprawling limbs, no snoring, no drool. Just quiet, controlled rest.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, studying the relaxed lines of his face. There's something softer about him like this—without the sharp focus he brings to everything else. The furrow between his brows has smoothed out. His jaw is slack. He looks... peaceful.

It makes your chest ache in the best way.

Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to his temple, then another to his cheek, then finally to his lips.

"Good morning," you whisper against his mouth.

His eyes open slowly, that warm brown gaze finding yours immediately. For a moment, he just looks at you, and then his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you down for a proper kiss—deeper, slower, the kind that makes your toes curl.

When he finally releases you, there's the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

"Good morning," he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.

You grin. "Happy birthday, Kento."

Something flickers in his expression—not quite discomfort, but close. He's never liked making a fuss about his birthday. You've known this for months. He'd spent the entire week leading up to today dropping subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints.

"Please don't make a fuss."

"I'd prefer something quiet."

"A normal day would be ideal."

And every time, you'd smiled innocently and said, "Of course not."

Now, watching him try to hide his unease, you almost feel guilty.

Almost.

"I have something for you," you say, reaching over to the nightstand where you'd placed the neatly wrapped box earlier. It's simple—cream-colored paper, navy ribbon, no excessive decoration. Exactly his style.

Nanami sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, and accepts the gift with both hands. He examines it for a moment, running his thumb along the edge of the ribbon, before carefully untying it. No ripping, no tearing. He unfolds the paper with the same precision he brings to everything else.

Inside is a watch—elegant, understated, with a leather band the exact shade of his usual suit. You'd spent weeks tracking it down, making sure it was perfect.

He stares at it for a long moment, then looks up at you.

"This is..." He trails off, and you see him swallow. "Thank you."

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart squeeze.

"You're welcome." You lean in, kissing his jaw. "You needed a new one anyway. The clasp on your old watch has been sticking for months."

"You noticed that?"

"I notice everything about you."

His gaze softens in a way that's almost unbearable. He sets the watch aside carefully, then reaches for you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, straddling his thighs, your hands coming to rest on his bare shoulders.

"Today's your day," you say, smiling up at him. Your fingers trace idle patterns against his skin. "Whatever you want."

It's meant to be playful. Light. An open-ended offer for breakfast in bed, or a quiet walk, or maybe just staying in and watching him read while you curl up beside him.

But Nanami goes very still.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, and when he looks at you, there's something different in his eyes. Something darker. More focused.

"Whatever I want?" he repeats slowly.

You laugh, because he sounds so serious. "Yes, Kento. It's your birthday. We can do whatever you—"

"Anything?"

But he doesn't respond. Instead, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. His dark eyes search yours, and you watch something shift behind them—a calculation, a decision being made in real time. His jaw tightens slightly. His thumbs press a little harder against your hips.

The silence stretches between you. Not awkward. Deliberate. Like he's weighing every consequence before making a decision he already knows he's going to make.

"Anything?" he repeats quietly.

The single word lands with surprising weight.

You blink at him, suddenly aware of the weight of his gaze, the way his thumbs are now stroking small circles against your hipbones through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. The air in the room feels heavier somehow.

"I... yes?" you say, though it comes out more like a question. "I mean, within reason. If you want to go somewhere, or—"

"I want you."

Three words. Simple. Direct. Devastating.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

"You... I'm right here," you manage, trying to laugh it off even as heat floods your cheeks.

"No." His voice drops lower, and one hand slides up your spine, firm and possessive. "I want you. Here. Now. For as long as I decide."

Oh.

Oh.

"Kento—"

"You said anything." His eyes haven't left yours. "Did you mean it?"

Your mouth has gone dry. You'd been thinking coffee. Maybe pancakes. A lazy morning together.

Not... this.

Except now that he's said it, now that you can see the intent written clearly across his face, you realize you should have known better. Nanami doesn't do anything halfway. And when presented with an open-ended offer, of course he'd take it literally.

Of course he would.

"I—" You swallow hard. "Yes. I meant it."

The smile that curves his mouth is small, controlled, but there's a predatory edge to it that makes your stomach flip.

"Good," he says quietly, and then he's kissing you again—deeper this time, more demanding. His hand fists in your hair, angling your head exactly where he wants it, and you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against you through the sheets.

When he pulls back, you're breathless.

"Then we have an understanding," Nanami murmurs against your lips. His free hand slides under your shirt, palm hot against your lower back. "Today, I'm going to be selfish. I'm going to spend today doing exactly what I want. And you're going to let me."

You should probably mention the surprise party.

You should definitely mention the surprise party.

But then his mouth is on your neck, and his hands are everywhere, and the only thing you can manage is a shaky, "Yes."

His teeth graze the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that makes him hum with satisfaction against your skin.

"There," he murmurs, voice dropping even lower. "I want to hear every reaction. Don't hold anything back."

His hands slide up under your shirt with deliberate slowness, palms warm and slightly rough against your ribs. He's mapping you out, relearning territory he knows by heart, but there's something different about his touch today. More possessive. More demanding.

"Kento—"

"I'm going to take my time with you," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want. "I'm going to touch every part of you. Taste every part of you. And I'm going to make sure you can't think of anything else."

Your breath catches. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'll—I'll tell you."

"That's what I need to hear."

The praise sends heat flooding through you, pooling low in your belly. He knows exactly what those words do to you, and the slight curve of his mouth says he's pleased with your reaction.

He sits up, pulling you with him, and in one smooth motion strips your shirt over your head. The morning air is cool against your heated skin, and you shiver—though whether from temperature or anticipation, you're not sure.

Nanami's gaze travels over you slowly, thoroughly, like he's committing every detail to memory. Then his hands follow the same path, tracing your collarbones, the curve of your breasts, down to your waist.

"I could spend all day just watching how you respond to me," he says quietly, almost to himself.

Before you can answer him, he's guiding you back down onto the mattress, positioning you exactly where he wants you—centered on the bed, arms above your head. His hand wraps around both your wrists, pinning them to the pillow. The oval diamond catches the morning light as he holds you there, the platinum band gleaming against your skin—a small, deliberate reminder of what you are to him.

"Keep them there," he instructs, his free hand trailing down your arm, across your shoulder, down to cup your breast. "Don't move them unless I tell you to."

"Kento—"

His thumb brushes over your nipple, and your back arches involuntarily.

"What did I just say?" His voice is still calm, still controlled, but there's steel underneath it.

"Keep—keep them there," you manage, forcing your arms to stay still even as your body wants to reach for him.

"Exactly." He rewards you by lowering his mouth to your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he takes it between his lips and sucks—hard enough to make you cry out.

"Oh god—Kento—"

He hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you. His other hand is working your other breast, rolling and pinching your nipple between his fingers with just enough pressure to toe the line between pleasure and pain.

"Tell me," he says, pulling back slightly. "Tell me how it feels."

"It feels—" You're panting now, struggling to form coherent words. "It feels so good, your mouth, your hands—please don't stop—"

"I won't. Not until I've learned exactly what you need." His breath is hot against your wet skin.

He switches sides, giving your other breast the same thorough attention while his hand slides down your stomach. His fingers trace the waistband of your sleep shorts, dipping just beneath the elastic but not going further. Teasing.

"Kento, please—"

"Please what?" He looks up at you, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "I need to hear you."

"Touch me," you gasp out. "Please, I need you to touch me."

"Where?" His fingers trace patterns on your lower stomach, so close to where you're aching for him but not quite there. "Here?"

"Lower—please—"

"Like this?" He presses his palm against you through the fabric of your shorts, and even through two layers of cloth, the pressure makes you moan.

"Yes—yes, like that—"

"You're already so wet," he observes, voice rough with approval. "I can feel it through your clothes. Is this all for me?"

"Yes—all for you—always for you—"

He makes a satisfied sound low in his throat, then hooks his fingers into your waistband. "Lift your hips."

You obey immediately, and he strips both your shorts and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him. The way he looks at you—like you're something precious and profane all at once—makes heat flood through your entire body.

"Spread your legs," he says quietly. "Let me see you."

You do, feeling exposed and vulnerable and desperately aroused all at once. Nanami settles between your thighs, his hands running up the inside of your legs, thumbs tracing patterns on your sensitive inner thighs.

"I know what you need." His thumb brushes over your clit—just once, just barely—and you nearly sob with the need for more. "But I'm going to take my time. I'm going to watch you come apart. And you're going to let me, aren't you?"

"Yes—yes, anything—"

"That's the answer I wanted."

Then his mouth is on you, and coherent thought becomes impossible.

He starts with long, slow strokes of his tongue, learning your taste, mapping out every fold and curve. His hands grip your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you, and when you try to close your legs around his head, he pushes them back open with firm pressure.

"Stay open for me," he says against your skin, and the vibration of his voice makes you whimper. "I want access to all of you."

"Kento—oh god—"

He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, not quite giving you the direct pressure you're craving. It's maddening, the way he's taking his time, the way he's so completely in control while you're falling apart beneath him.

"Please—please, I need—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath hot against your skin. "What do you need, love?” he asks quietly. 

"More—I need more—"

"More of this?" He licks a broad stripe up your center, and you cry out. "Or this?" His tongue flicks directly over your clit, and your hips buck involuntarily.

"That—yes, that—please—"

"I thought so. That’s the spot."

He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and the sensation is so intense you nearly scream. Your hands fly down to his hair, fingers tangling in the blonde strands, and he makes a warning sound against you.

"What did I tell you about your hands?"

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I couldn't—"

"Put them back." His voice is firm but not unkind. "Or I'll stop."

You force your hands back above your head, gripping the pillow so hard your knuckles turn white. It's torture, not being able to touch him, but there's something about the restriction that makes every sensation more intense.

"Much better." He rewards you by sliding one finger inside you, and you moan at the intrusion. "You're doing so well."

He starts a slow rhythm, finger curling inside you to hit that spot that makes you see stars, while his tongue works your clit with methodical precision. He's not rushing, not chasing your orgasm—he's building it slowly, deliberately, layer by layer.

"Kento—oh god, Kento—"

"That's it," he murmurs against you. "I want every sound you make for me," he murmurs against you.

"Mmmfuuck Ken—I'm so close—"

"Not yet." He slows his movements, pulling you back from the edge. "Not until I say."

You make a frustrated sound, and he chuckles—actually chuckles—against your sensitive flesh.

"Patience," he says. "I told you I was going to take my time."

He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the slight burn mixed with pleasure makes you gasp. His fingers are thick, filling you in a way that's almost but not quite enough, and he knows it. He's doing this on purpose, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall over.

"Please—Kento, please—I need to come—"

"I know you do." His voice is rough now, affected despite his control. "But you're going to wait. You're going to wait until I've had my fill of you."

His tongue returns to your clit, circling and flicking while his fingers pump in and out of you with increasing speed. The wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you mix with your desperate moans, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, your body responding to his every touch.

"You taste so good," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. "I could do this for hours. Would you like that? Would you like me to keep you right here, right on the edge, until you're begging?"

"I am begging—please, Kento, please let me come—"

"Not yet."

He's relentless, building you up and pulling you back, over and over, until you're shaking and sobbing and completely at his mercy. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body wound so tight you think you might shatter, and still he doesn't let you fall.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and there's something like awe in his voice. "So desperate for me. And I'm going to take care of you."

"Ken— I need to—“

"That's right." He adds a third finger, and the stretch makes you cry out. "I'm going to make you come so hard you forget your own name."

"Yes—please—please, Kento—"

"Now," he says, and seals his lips around your clit while his fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot with devastating precision.

Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with such intensity that you do scream—his name, over and over, while your body convulses and your vision goes white. He doesn't let up, working you through it, drawing it out until you're not sure where one wave ends and the next begins.

"That's it," he's saying, voice rough and approving. "Just like that. Give me everything."

You're sobbing now, overwhelmed by sensation, and still he doesn't stop. He gentles his touch but keeps moving, keeping you suspended in that space between too much and not enough, until you're begging again—though whether for him to stop or continue, you're not sure anymore.

Finally, when you're completely wrung out and shaking, he pulls back. His chin is wet with you, his eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of him like that—disheveled and affected—sends another pulse of heat through you despite your exhaustion.

"You respond exactly the way I know you would," he says, crawling up your body to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it should probably be embarrassing, but instead it's incredibly hot.

"Kento," you manage, voice wrecked. "That was—"

"We're not done." He's still fully clothed, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. "I told you—until I'm satisfied. And I'm nowhere near satisfied yet."

He sits back and strips off his shirt in one smooth motion. You've seen him shirtless countless times, but it never fails to make your mouth go dry—the broad shoulders, the defined muscle, the deliberate way he moves.

Your hands reach for him without thinking, and this time he doesn't stop you. Your fingers trace over his chest, his stomach, and he catches your wrist, bringing it to his lips.

"Feel what you do to me," he says quietly, guiding your hand down to the front of his pants. He's rock hard, straining against the fabric.

"I want you," you whisper. "Please—"

He's already unbuttoning his pants, pushing them down, and then he's finally naked above you. He helps you roll over, positioning you exactly how he wants you—face down, hips elevated, legs spread.

His hands run down your back, over your hips. "This way I can see all of you."

You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance, sliding through your wetness, and you push back desperately.

"Please—"

"I know—" And then he's pushing in, slow and deep, until he's fully seated inside you. You both groan at the sensation.

For a moment, he goes completely still. His hands tighten on your hips, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are closed. His jaw is tight. He looks like a man trying to memorize something.

"Kento?"

He opens his eyes, and the look on his face makes your breath catch. It's not dominance. It's not control.

It's want. Pure, unguarded want.

"I chose this," he says, voice low and rough. "I could be anywhere right now. But I want you."

Then he starts to move—slow, deep, deliberate. Each thrust hits something devastating inside you, and you're already building toward another orgasm.

"Yes—" you gasp. "Yes—"

His hand slides up your back, fisting gently in your hair, turning your head so he can see your face. "Look at me."

You do. His face is flushed, eyes locked on yours with burning intensity.

"I'm going to—"

"I know baby.” His other hand finds your clit, circling with firm pressure. "Let me feel it."

The combination is too much. Your second orgasm builds fast and hard, and when it hits, you scream into the pillow, your whole body clenching around him.

"Fuuuck baby—" His voice breaks on the word, hips stuttering. "You’re such a good girl.”

The praise sends another aftershock through you, and you feel him throb inside you in response. But he doesn't come. Instead, his grip on your hips tightens, and he starts moving again—harder this time, more demanding.

"Again," he says, voice rough. "I want to feel you come again."

"Kento—I can't—"

"You can." His thrusts are deeper now, more forceful. Each one pushes you slightly up the bed, your body sliding against the sheets. "I know you can."

He releases your hair to grip both your hips with bruising strength, angling you exactly how he wants you. The new position makes him hit even deeper, and you cry out, fingers clutching at the sheets.

"There," he groans. "That's the angle."

"Yes—oh god—yes—"

He increases his pace, fucking you harder, and now each thrust is pushing you further up the bed. You have to brace your hands against the headboard to keep from being driven into it. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his low groans.

"So perfect," he's saying, voice strained. "Taking me so well—"

Your arms give out, and your upper body collapses into the mattress, face pressed into the pillows. The new angle makes everything more intense—you're completely at his mercy, held up only by his strong hands gripping your hips, keeping your lower body elevated so he can keep driving into you.

"Oh my God—" you manage between thrusts. "Kento—fuck—I love—you—"

Each word is punctuated by another deep thrust, and you hear him groan in response.

"I love you too, sweetheart—" His voice is wrecked, breathless. "Mmmm—fuck—"

Then his hand comes down on your ass—not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to make you gasp. The sting sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you, and you clench around him involuntarily.

"Fuck—" He does it again, and you moan into the pillow. "You like that, don’t you?"

"Yes—yes—please—"

He's fucking you harder now, faster, one hand sliding up your spine to rest at the back of your neck, holding you down. The pressure is grounding, possessive, and it makes you feel completely owned in the best possible way.

"Fuck—" His voice is rough, focused. "Tell me you're here. Tell me you chose this."

His other hand slides around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that make you see stars.

"I'm here—“ you cry out, voice muffled by the pillow. "Kento—oh god—I’m all yours—"

"That's right." His fingers work your clit with devastating precision while he keeps pounding into you. "All mine."

The dual sensation is overwhelming. You can feel another orgasm building, bigger than the last two, and you're not sure you can survive it.

"Kento—I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he commands, voice strained. "Let me feel you"

Your third orgasm hits you like lightning, white-hot and all-consuming. You scream into the pillow, your whole body convulsing, clenching around him so hard you can feel every pulse, every throb.

"Fuck—" His control finally shatters. His hips snap forward one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and then he's coming with a low, broken groan. You feel him pulsing inside you, hot and overwhelming, triggering another small orgasm that makes you whimper.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, trembling with aftershocks. Then, carefully, he pulls out and rolls you over, gathering you against his chest.

"Are you alright?" His voice is soft now, concerned, one hand stroking your hair.

"Yes," you manage, voice hoarse. "That was—"

"Intense?"

"Perfect."

He kisses your forehead, your temple, your cheek. "You're perfect. Thank you for trusting me."

"Always," you murmur, already starting to drift in the warm, satisfied haze of post-orgasm bliss.

You lose track of time after that, dozing in and out while Nanami holds you. At some point, he gets up to get a warm washcloth, cleaning you both with gentle efficiency before pulling you back against him. The morning light has shifted, grown stronger, but you're too content to care about the time.

It's only when his phone starts vibrating insistently across the nightstand that reality begins to intrude.

Nanami reaches over without moving you from his chest, his arm extending to grab the phone. The screen lights up immediately, and you feel him go still.

"How many?" you ask sleepily, not bothering to open your eyes.

"Twenty-seven missed calls," he says quietly, scrolling through with methodical precision. "Forty-three unread messages."

You crack one eye open. "Oh no."

"Oh yes." There's something in his tone—a thread of amusement, maybe—that makes you lift your head to look at him.

His expression is perfectly neutral as he reads, but there's the faintest curve to his mouth. He scrolls through the messages, and you watch his eyes track across the screen, taking in every word.

Gojo (10:47 AM): Where are you two???

Gojo (10:52 AM): Nanami if you're late I'm going to be so mad

Shoko (10:58 AM): Tell me he didn't figure it out.

Ino (11:03 AM): Everyone is in position. Repeat, everyone is in position.

Gojo (11:05 AM): NANAMI

Gojo (11:07 AM): ANSWER YOUR PHONE

Shoko (11:12 AM): He figured it out. He 100% figured it out.

Ino (11:15 AM): My legs are cramping. How long do we have to hide behind this couch?

Gojo (11:18 AM): I'm going to kill him

Gojo (11:20 AM): I'm going to actually kill him

Gojo (11:22 AM): WHERE IS HE

Shoko (11:25 AM): He's definitely with her. Doing... something.

Gojo (11:27 AM): OH MY GOD

Gojo (11:28 AM): DID YOU SERIOUSLY TAKE "WHATEVER YOU WANT" LITERALLY????

Ino (11:30 AM): I can't feel my feet anymore

Gojo (11:32 AM): This is the funniest thing that's ever happened

Gojo (11:33 AM): I'm going to laugh about this forever

Shoko (11:35 AM): Please just answer so we know you're alive

Gojo (11:37 AM): NANAMI

Gojo (11:38 AM): NANAMI

Gojo (11:39 AM): NANAMI

Ino (11:40 AM): Everyone stop yelling in the chat, he's going to hear us

Gojo (11:41 AM): HE CAN'T HEAR US THROUGH TEXT YOU IDIOT

Shoko (11:42 AM): I'm leaving. My back hurts.

Gojo (11:43 AM): YOU WILL NOT

Ino (11:45 AM): Is anyone else hungry? I'm hungry.

Gojo (11:47 AM): FOCUS

Gojo (11:48 AM): He's going to show up any second now

Gojo (11:50 AM): Any second

Gojo (11:52 AM): ...

Gojo (11:53 AM): He's not coming is he

Shoko (11:54 AM): He's definitely not coming.

Ino (11:55 AM): My legs have fallen asleep. I think I'm paralyzed.

You watch Nanami's face as he reads through the entire chain. His expression doesn't change, but you can see the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—he's fighting a smile.

"What time is it?" you ask.

He glances at the clock on the nightstand. "11:58 AM."

"Oh god. They've been waiting for almost two hours."

"Two hours and eleven minutes, to be precise," he corrects, setting the phone down on his chest. "Since approximately 9:47 AM, based on Gojo's first message."

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. "We should probably go."

Nanami is quiet for a moment. Then: "No."

You blink. "No?"

"No," he repeats calmly, one hand resuming its gentle stroking of your hair. "We should not."

"Kento, they're literally hiding behind furniture—"

"I am aware." His voice is perfectly level. "I specifically requested not to have a surprise party."

You prop yourself up on your elbow, looking down at him. "You... knew?"

"I suspected." He meets your eyes, and there's definitely amusement there now. "Gojo is not subtle. Neither are you, for that matter. You've been coordinating with him for weeks."

"And you still—"

"I was presented with two options," he says, his hand moving to cup your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone with deliberate gentleness. "Spend my birthday entertaining Gojo and enduring whatever ridiculous surprise he's orchestrated."

He pauses, letting the weight of the alternative hang in the air.

"Or spend it with you."

Your heart does a little flip in your chest.

"I believe I made the objectively correct decision," he says, with the faintest hint of a smile.

You laugh against his chest. "Gojo will murder you."

"Mm." He pulls you back down against his chest. "Gojo will survive another hour. Everyone hiding behind furniture will survive another hour. You and I, however, have only just begun to properly celebrate."

"Kento—"

"One more hour," he repeats, kissing the top of your head. "And then we'll go be gracious about their party."

You smile against his chest. "You're going to act surprised, aren't you?"

you let satoru do as he pleases, threading your hands through his hair as his hand dips between your inner thighs. he hums into your neck when you scratch his scalp. “suguru,” you breathe, “how’d you two even get here? coach toji’s gonna kill you guys.”

“kiss,” satoru interrupts. you tilt your head towards him, eyes still on suguru as gojo presses his lips to yours.

suguru’s face twists in disgust, but he doesn’t comment. “satoru bribed him. paid him a couple hundreds to see you for five minutes.”

“right—” your voice strains when gojo gropes your ass once again. “and you followed him because?”

geto is already looking away. “he bribed me too.”

you snort, but it turns into a shiver as satoru sucks on your earlobe. he hums, pleased, when your fingers tighten in his hair.

“mmh… got an away match,” he kisses your jaw. “wanted to see my girl first.”

you’re not his girl, you know you’ll never be, but you still laugh when he squeezes your waist & presses hurried kisses to your cheek. you shove him away & his grin is cocky.

“gonna score for you,” he tugs you back, dipping his head to your ear. “and then you’ll treat me, yeah?”

you hum when his arms snake around your hips once again.

“only if you score the winning goal.”

2. POST MATCH SEXCAPADES !

satoru comes back too late.

you’re not sure exactly why—maybe overtime, maybe the team stopped somewhere to celebrate their win—but you don’t let the thought plague you. you’re more concerned about the fact that it’s nearly evening & you can hear a ball kicking against the gym walls. you’re still in your cheer uniform, tiny skirt & sheer top, standing at the metal doors as you watch gojo dribble on his own.

he stops dribbling to catch his breath, wiping sweat off his chin. and then he’s off to sit at the bleachers, letting water slide down his neck as he chugs from a bottle.

you take it as your cue.

you have your hands behind your back, padding all slow, steps soft as you make your way to him. gojo keeps his bottle pressed to his lips but he sees it. how your skirt clings to your thighs. how your breasts ripple under the thin material. he lets out a low hum as you sit yourself on his lap.

you loop your hands around his neck. “hi.”

his lip tugs. “hi,”

he squeezes your waist as you press yourself into him. your tits smush against his chest, nipples hardening, and his fingers are already tracing the hem of your skirt & gliding up your thigh.

“how was the match?” you mumble.

“was good,” he mutters, but his thumb has already found your panties underneath your skirt. he rubs a slow circle over the bud. “you miss me?”

“no,” you sass, but he presses his thumb into your clit & your hips stutter. satoru laughs.

“i know what you like now,” he hums, left hand gliding up your side as the other rubs slow circles over your panties. “know it only takes a little.”

his thumb finds your nipple through your thin shirt. he rubs a circle over the pebbled peak, slow, but then he raises a brow. “no bra?”

you can’t respond. your breath hitches as your head falls into his shoulder.

“so cute,” he murmurs softly. he lets you press against him, leaving your panties to grope your heavy tits in his palm. he squeezes and fondles, pressing light kisses to your cheek as you make pretty noises in his ear. your hips buck into him.

“needy,” he scoffs, but his hands come up to guide your hips as you rut against him. he’s already hard and your panties are soaked thin and you let the material cling between your folds as your clit rubs against him. he flips up your skirt to find you drenched & slobbering. he bites his cheek.

“fuck, baby,” he rasps, sliding your panties over your aching cunt. you’re still humping him. “why’s your pussy so fucking wet?”

you only whimper as he presses his thumb to your sticky clit, rubbing hard circles over the bud. his other hand gropes your hip, guiding you faster over him. your breathing shudders as his thumb circles your clit faster and harder, until your hips are stuttering & he’s cupping your pussy so you cum in his palm.

you whimper, tears pricking at your lashes as you come down from your high. satoru kisses your cheek slow. “mmh, good job, baby.”

he’s still rubbing his palm over your pussy, massaging your warmth all slow & lazy. your eyes drop to his bulge, his cock practically twitching in his shorts. you reach a hand to glide over it, palming him so his hips twitch. he inhales sharply, “fuck—”

“not in my uniform,” he steals your hand, kissing your jaw. “gonna be a nightmare to clean.”

you glare at him through your lashes. “it’s already dirty, idiot.”

he laughs at your pretty face glaring up at him. your cheeks are still flushed, lashes wet, and your lips are in a frown but satoru swears you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. he folds his hand over yours and dips his head to kiss you warm & slow. you gasp as his tongue pushes in, a soft moan leaving your lips as his tongue grazes yours.

“another time,” he murmurs against your lips. “no pouting, yeah?”

you pout anyways, and satoru kisses it off.

3. NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND !

satoru is driving too fast.

his jaw is tight, knuckles white against the steering as you clutch your seatbelt beside him. your heart hammers against your ribs but the engine soon slows, his foot easing down on the breaks as the car comes to a stop at a traffic light.

today’s match went bad, really bad, so bad to the point that afterwards you’d tried to console him and he’d simply walked past. you try not to let it get to you. you know how men are when it comes to losing in sports.

but satoru’s breathing settles beside you, so you try once more.

“you played good today.”

silence.

"i know you're upset," you continue, voice soft. "but it's just one game, and you'll get them next time.”

silence again. his jaw only ticks, face illuminated by the traffic light’s red glow. the seconds seem to stretch into minutes, and you fumble with your skirt.

“you did your best,” you turn to him. “that’s all that matters—“

“can you stop?”

you freeze.

satoru doesn’t look at you. his fingers tap against the steering as he lowers his foot to the gas pedal. he’s not speeding anymore, but the silence stretches & you can feel a lump clawing at your throat.

you bite your lip. and satoru’s mad, yes, but he’s got no right to talk to you like that or take his anger out on you. so you suck in a breath, try to correct him. “i was only trying to help. you don’t have to take it out on me—“

“do you ever get tired of talking?”

“what?”

but satoru continues. “you always have something to say, don’t you? you’re not my fucking girlfriend. and i don’t need your fucking comfort.”

you blink. the words don’t register at first, but soon your throat is closing up, and you’re nodding obediently before you can think any better of it. your skirt bunches in your hands as you try to keep your breathing steady. god forbid you give him a reason to snap at you once again.

“you’re right,” you try for sass but it fails. “and i won’t act like it again.”

but satoru sees you through the rearview mirror. your eyes are on your lap, like you’re still trying to process what just happened, your thumbs fiddling with the hem of your skirt. satoru only swallows, glances away. if he ignores you long enough, you’ll be just fine, right?

your breath hitches beside him and he crumbles immediately.

he’s already pulling over, unbuckling his belt to reach over the console. “no baby, i’m sorry,” he pleads, and maybe he shouldn’t because it only makes tears fall from your eyes. “shh baby don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so fucking sorry.”

he smushes your face into his chest, carding his fingers through your hair. you try to push him away but he takes your hand and presses it to his chest.

“didn’t mean to snap at you,” his breathing is ragged as he cups your face. “don’t cry baby, you know i hate it when you cry.”

you sniffle as he swipes a thumb over your wet lashes. “then what are we?”

satoru doesn’t answer. instead he presses his lips to yours, slow and warm, head tilting to deepen the kiss. “you’re my girl,” kiss. “my baby,” kiss. “my everything,” kiss.

he doesn’t say my girlfriend. but he doesn’t need to, right?

footballer!gojo doesn’t do relationships. and cheerleaders like you don’t make good girlfriends anyway. so you swallow the lump growing in your throat & let him part open your thighs.

SCORE, end

The door opens slowly. Yuta stands in the doorway, and he looks wrecked. Uniform torn. Dark stains you don't want to identify. Cut above his eyebrow already healing, bruises blooming along his jaw.

But it's his eyes that make your chest tighten. Dark. Haunted. Exhausted in a way that goes soul deep.

You're curled on the couch in his oversized t-shirt, and when his gaze lands on you, something shifts. The exhaustion is still there, but underneath it is something desperate.

He doesn't move. Just stands there, one hand on the doorframe like he needs it to stay upright.

His chest rises and falls. His jaw clenches. His knuckles go white.

"Yuta," you say softly, starting to stand.

"Don't." His voice comes out rough. "Just—stay there."

You settle back. He looks. Really looks.

Your bare legs tucked beneath you. His shirt pooling around your thighs. The collar slipping off one shoulder. His throat works as he swallows.

After what feels like forever, he moves. Drops his jacket somewhere behind him. Crosses the room slowly, like one wrong step would shatter whatever this is.

When he reaches the couch, he stops. His hands hover near your face. Then settle against your cheeks. He lets out a shaky breath.

"…I missed you."

"I missed you too," you say, covering his hands with yours.

His forehead drops to yours. Eyes closed. Breathing you in. You can feel the tremor running through him. When he opens his eyes again, they're darker.

His fingers hook under the collar of the shirt, pulling it lower on your shoulder.

"Is this my shirt?"

You nod. Something in his expression cracks.

"Have you been waiting up?"

"Yeah."

"In my shirt?”

"Yeah."

His jaw clenches again.

He traces the line of your throat with his thumbs, feeling your pulse. Then lower, mapping your collarbones with deliberate touches. He stops at the neckline. Just looks.

"Nothing underneath?"

"Nothing."

He stares at you.

"I need—" He stops. "Can I—"

You lean up and kiss him. His mouth crashes against yours. The kiss is demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips. He tastes like mint and copper and something darker. Your fingers tangle in his hair and he groans.

He grips your hips, bunching the shirt higher. When his palms hit bare skin, he shudders. For a moment, he just touches you there—mapping your waist, your ribs.

The kiss gets deeper. You gasp, and he swallows the sound. One hand cradles the back of your head. The other grips your hip hard enough to bruise.

He's kissing you like he's drowning. When he pulls back, you're both panting. His forehead rests against yours. Eyes wild.

"I can't—" His voice breaks. "I can't be gentle right now."

"Then don't be.”

You pull him back down. This time there's no hesitation.

He tugs the shirt up over your ribs, palms hot against your skin. When his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts, you both groan.

He pulls the shirt over your head in one motion. You're bare before him. He just looks. The raw hunger in his gaze makes you clench.

"God," he breathes.

Then his mouth is on you.

He kisses down your throat, your collarbones, the space between your breasts. His mouth closes around your nipple, tongue swirling, teeth grazing. Pleasure shoots straight through you.

You arch into him. Fingers threading through his hair. He moves to the other breast, sucking and licking until you're squirming, thighs pressing together.

He grips your thigh, pushing your legs apart with his knee. His fingers trail up your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin. You're trembling before he even touches you. When his fingertips finally brush against you, you both groan.

"Fuck… you’re already so wet,” he breathes, circling your clit slowly.

His jaw clenches. Eyes fixed on your face.

"I missed this."

“Missed you" you gasp, hips bucking. "Yuuu— please—"

He presses harder, rubbing tight circles. His other hand palms your breast, pinching your nipple just hard enough to make you cry out.

When he slides two fingers inside you, the stretch makes you arch off the couch. He pumps them slowly at first, curling them just right. Your vision starts blurring. 

"More," you gasp, clutching his shoulders. "Need you, Yuuuu—“ 

He withdraws his fingers. Before you can whimper, he's sliding down your body, settling between your thighs. His hands grip your hips. Then his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you cry out. He groans against you, the vibration sending pleasure racing up your spine. His mouth is desperate. He seals his lips around your clit and sucks.

You nearly come apart. Your fingers tangle in his hair, hips grinding against his face. He grips your thighs harder, spreading you wider.

The sounds he's making—low groans, desperate whimpers—vibrate against you and drive you higher.

When he slides his fingers back inside, curling them while his mouth works your clit, it's overwhelming. The orgasm builds, coiling tight. He doubles his efforts.

"Yuta," you gasp. "I'm—I'm gonna—"

You shatter. Pleasure whites out your vision. You scream his name, thighs clamping around his head.

He works you through it, relentless. When you finally come down, gasping and shaking, he's watching you.

He presses kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones. His chin is soaked. The sight makes heat flare in your belly again.

He stands.

You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he strips off his shirt and your gaze falls on his lean muscle and the scars mapping his skin. Then his pants, his boxers.

His cock springs free. Hard and flushed and already leaking. He catches your hand and brings it to wrap your fingers around him.

You both groan. He's hot and hard in your palm. When you stroke him, his hips buck.

"That's—" he barely manages.

His hand covers yours, guiding you to stroke harder, faster. Pre-cum leaks from the tip. You use your thumb to spread it. His head falls back.

After a moment, he pulls your hand away.

"Please," he says roughly.

That single word carries everything. He guides you up, turning you around so you're bent over the arm of the couch.

His hands smooth over your back, your hips, the curve of your ass. Then he's spreading you open. The head of his cock nudges your entrance.

He pushes in slowly. Even soaking wet, the stretch is intense. He's thick, filling you inch by inch. When his hips are finally flush against your ass you're both groaning. He pauses.

His forehead rests between your shoulder blades. He just breathes.

"God, you feel—"

He can't finish. He pulls almost all the way out. You whimper. Then he slams back in. The force makes you cry out.

He sets a brutal pace, his hips snapping against your ass. Skin against skin. Your moans and his grunts filling the room.

One hand grips your hip, fingers digging in. The other finds your hair, pulling gently as he drives deeper with every thrust.

"Yes," you sob, pushing back to meet him. "Oh God, Yuuu—"

The angle has him hitting deep, dragging against that spot inside you, that drives you crazy. He's not holding back. His breathing is ragged, punctuated by low groans.

"So good," he pants. "You're so—"

Another orgasm builds fast. Your arms shake. Yuta notices. His hand slides from your hair to wrap around your waist to hold you up. The shift in angle makes him hit even deeper.

"Fuck—" you gasp. "Yuuu, I’m gonna—“

One hand slides around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles.

”Come, baby.. let me feel it.”

His voice cracks. The added stimulation sends you over. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first. You scream his name, body convulsing.

Your inner walls clamp down around him. He groans, fucking you through it, prolonging the pleasure until you're sobbing.

He pulls out suddenly. You whimper at the loss. Then he's turning you around, hands gripping your waist. He lifts you into his lap.

You sink down onto him slowly, both of you groaning as he fills you again.

Your faces are inches apart now. His hands settle on your hips, holding you still for a moment.

You're both breathing hard, flushed, skin slick with sweat. His eyes are dark and wild.

You reach up and cup his face. Run your thumb along his cheekbone. 

"Hi," you whisper.

It comes out soft. Almost shy. For a second, he just stares at you. Then something in his expression cracks completely. He laughs.

A real, genuine laugh that comes from somewhere deep in his chest, the kind you haven't heard in weeks. The sound makes your heart clench.

"Hi baby," he says softly.

He's smiling at you like you're the most incredible thing he's ever seen. You feel your own smile spreading, helpless against it.

"I missed you," you say quietly.

One hand slides up your spine. The other presses against the small of your back, holding you impossibly close.

"I missed you so much." His forehead drops to yours. "Every day. Every fucking day."

"Me too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You thread your fingers through his hair, and he leans into the touch like he's starving for it. "Counted them."

"How many?"

"Too many." Your voice cracks. "Don't leave for that long again."

He huffs a quiet laugh, and you feel it everywhere— in your chest, where you're pressed together, where he's still buried inside you.

"I love you," he says suddenly. Urgently. "God, I love you so much."

"I love you too." You kiss him softly. “So much it's stupid."

"How much?"

His eyes are lighter now. It makes your chest ache—how much you've missed these moments with him.

"This much." You spread your arms wide.

He catches your wrists, pulling them back around his neck.

"That's a lot."

"It's not enough," you say. "There's not a measurement big enough."

"Mmmm," he murmurs, but his voice is thick.

You brace your hands on his shoulders as he pulls you closer—one hand curling around your neck, the other splayed between your shoulder blades.

You shift slightly in his lap, and you both gasp. He's still hard inside you. Still filling you. He grips your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there.

He lifts you slowly—just an inch—then guides you back down. The drag of him inside you makes you moan into his mouth.

"Again," he breathes.

You roll your hips, and his eyes flutter closed. His fingers dig into your skin as he lifts you again. Slower this time. Letting you feel every inch of him as you sink back down.

"Fuck," you whisper.

He does it again. And again. Setting a rhythm that's unhurried but deliberate. Each time he lifts you, you can feel the muscles in his arms flexing. Each time you sink down, he fills you completely.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, meeting his movements. His eyes open, locking onto yours. Dark and intense.

"You feel so good," he murmurs. "So fucking good."

His pace starts to quicken. Just slightly. Lifting you faster, pulling you down harder. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room. Your breathing gets heavier.

His grip on your hips tightens, you know there'll be bruises tomorrow, and the thought makes you clench around him. He groans.

"Do that again."

You do, squeezing him deliberately as he thrusts up into you.

"Fuck—"

His jaw clenches. His eyes go wild.

He's fucking you harder now. Lifting you up and slamming you back down onto his cock with increasing urgency. Focused. Deliberate. Like he knows exactly what he needs.

One hand slides up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. The other stays on your hip, guiding your movements.

"Yuuuu—" Your voice breaks on his name.

"I know." His voice is rough. "I can feel you getting close."

He's right. The tension is building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every thrust.

He shifts the angle slightly, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"Oh god—"

"There?" he asks, doing it again.

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

He keeps that angle, pounding into you relentlessly now. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit. Rubbing tight, deliberate circles. You're so close you can barely breathe.

"Come for me," he says, and there's an edge of desperation in his voice. "Please, baby..”

His fingers press harder against your clit. His hips snap up to meet yours with bruising force. You can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel how close he is too.

"Yuta—I'm—"

"I know. I've got you."

The tension snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, and you cry out—his name, incoherent pleas, you're not even sure.

Your body clenches around him rhythmically, and you feel him everywhere. He doesn't stop moving. Keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking.

"Fuck—" His rhythm falters. "I'm gonna—"

He pulls you down hard one last time, burying himself as deep as possible. His cock pulses inside you as he comes with a broken groan.

You feel the hot rush of him filling you, feel the way he twitches with each wave. It triggers another smaller orgasm, and you clench around him again. He moans, hips jerking involuntarily.

His arms wrap around you, crushing you against his chest as the aftershocks roll through both of you.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just breathing hard. Hearts racing in sync. You can feel him trembling, still buried deep inside you. One hand cradles the back of your head. The other splays across your lower back. He makes no move to pull out.

"… Don’t want to move," he murmurs against your neck.

"Then don't."

You stay like that for a while. His face buried in the crook of your shoulder. Your fingers tracing idle patterns on his back.

His breathing gradually slows, evens out. You feel the tension bleeding out of his muscles.

Eventually he shifts, carefully standing with you still wrapped around him. Still connected. You gasp at the movement—the way it makes him press deeper. He groans softly.

His hands cup your ass, supporting your weight as he carries you to the bedroom. Every step makes you clench around him.

You can feel the mess between your legs, the slickness of his release and yours. He doesn't seem to care.

By the time he lowers you both onto the bed, you're both breathing harder again.

He rolls onto his side, pulling you with him so you're facing each other. One of your legs hooked over his hip to keep him inside you.

His fingers find the curve of your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

"Tell me about your day."

You laugh softly. "Really? Right now?"

"Yeah." He shifts slightly. Fingers threading gently through your hair. "Everything's too loud in my head. I need—"

He stops, collects himself.

"I need you to talk. About anything. Something normal."

So you tell him. About how Nobara dragged you shopping and spent two hours trying on sunglasses, insisting each pair gave her a "different energy."

"She tried on literally every pair in the store. The employee looked like he wanted to die."

Yuta's lips quirk. "Which ones did she get?"

"The first pair she tried on."

He huffs a quiet laugh against your hair. You feel his cock twitch inside you at the movement. His thumb traces lazy circles on your hip where his hand settles.

You tell him about Yuji challenging Megumi to see who could eat more convenience store onigiri.

"Yuji made it to twelve before he gave up. Just collapsed on our floor like a starfish, groaning about how he was going to die."

"Idiot," Yuta murmurs, but there's fondness in his voice. He strokes your hip slowly, mapping the bone there as he thickens inside you again, filling you more gradually.

"Megumi only ate three, but he looked so smug about it. Just sat there sipping tea while Yuji suffered."

Yuta's breathing has changed slightly. Gotten deeper. You shift your hips experimentally. He makes a low sound in his throat. He's definitely getting harder.

“Megumi had Divine Dog out during training today,” you murmur. “The black one fell asleep on your hoodie.”

“Traitor,” Yuta says, smiling against your skin.

He cups your breast, thumb brushing your nipple in slow, lazy strokes.

"He looked so comfortable I didn't have the heart to move him. I took a picture. It's very cute."

"Show me later."

His voice has gone lower, rougher. He's fully hard again now, thick and hot inside you. When his hips roll forward in a slow, deliberate thrust, you both gasp.

"Nobara also tried to convince me to get a tattoo with her," you say.

Your voice comes out breathier than you intended. He feels your heartbeat racing under his palm as his hips roll forward again, deeper this time.

"What design?"

He's moving now, slow thrusts that make you feel every inch of him. He anchors you with a hand on the small of your back, rocking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts.

“She said we’d ‘know when we saw it.’”

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

But he's smiling.

He rocks into you again, more deliberately this time. You can feel him dragging against your inner walls with every slow thrust.

"Yuuu—"

"Keep talking," he murmurs against your skin. "I'm listening."

You try to remember what else happened, but it's hard to think when he's moving inside you like this. Deep and unhurried.

His mouth finds your neck, kissing, sucking gently. His other hand traces a path down your stomach—feather-light—before settling on your hip.

"Yuji... he asked if you were coming to movie night next week..."

"Mm."

His rhythm stays slow, rolling his hips in deep strokes that make you feel every inch of him. Each thrust is deliberate, measured.

"What'd you tell him?"

"Said I'd—ah—I'd ask you."

"Mmm, we’ll be there."

Between your bodies, his fingers find your clit. Slow circles, making you moan. He groans in response, his cock twitching inside you.

"Anything else happen?"

You can barely think. His fingers on your clit. His cock moving inside you. The heat of his body pressed against yours. It's overwhelming in a completely different way than before. Intimate. 

"Gojo... stopped by. Ate all our snacks."

Yuta huffs a laugh. The vibration travels through you.

"Of course he did."

His fingers keep working your clit. His thrusts get slightly deeper, though still maintaining that slow, deliberate pace.

"What else?"

"He—"

You gasp as Yuta's fingers press harder against your clit.

"He tried to teach Yuji some new technique. Broke our coffee table."

"I'll fix it."

His mouth moves to your jaw, pressing kisses there. His hips roll forward in a particularly deep thrust that makes you both moan.

"Keep going."

"That's—that's all I remember," you admit.

Thinking is becoming impossible. The pleasure is building again—different this time… warmer, slower, spreading through your whole body.

"That's okay."

He kisses you then, slow and deep. His tongue sliding against yours in the same rhythm as his hips.

His hand never stops moving on your clit. Those slow circles driving you steadily higher. You can feel yourself getting close.

Your inner walls starting to flutter around him. He groans into your mouth. His rhythm falters slightly. He can feel it too.

"Yuta," you breathe against his lips. "I'm—"

"I know, baby.”

He increases the pressure on your clit as his next thrust goes deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

When you come, it's a slow build that crests gently. Rolling through you in waves. You bury your face in his neck, breathing his name.

He holds you through it, still moving, still filling you. His thrusts get slightly faster, more erratic. Then he's groaning low against your hair, his hips stuttering as he comes again.

You feel the warmth of him spilling inside you again. The way his cock pulses. The way his arms tighten around you. 

He still doesn't pull out. Just holds you closer. One hand stays tangled in your hair. The other traces slow patterns down your spine.

You can feel his release leaking out around where you're joined, mixing with the mess from before. Neither of you moves.

"You're—" he starts, then stops. Breathes. Then tries again.

"You're the only thing that makes sense after those missions."

You press a kiss to his jaw.

"I'll always be here, waiting for you."

His arms tighten even more around you. Within minutes, his breathing evens out. You follow him into sleep soon after. Still connected. Still tangled together.

The morning light filters through the curtains in soft, golden bands, painting stripes across the bedroom floor. You've been awake for twenty minutes already, watching Nanami sleep—something you rarely get to do. He's usually up before dawn, already dressed and making coffee by the time you stumble into the kitchen.

But today is different.

Today, you made him promise to sleep in.

He's on his back, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. His chest rises and falls in that steady, measured rhythm that's so distinctly him. Even in sleep, Nanami Kento is composed. No sprawling limbs, no snoring, no drool. Just quiet, controlled rest.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, studying the relaxed lines of his face. There's something softer about him like this—without the sharp focus he brings to everything else. The furrow between his brows has smoothed out. His jaw is slack. He looks... peaceful.

It makes your chest ache in the best way.

Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to his temple, then another to his cheek, then finally to his lips.

"Good morning," you whisper against his mouth.

His eyes open slowly, that warm brown gaze finding yours immediately. For a moment, he just looks at you, and then his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you down for a proper kiss—deeper, slower, the kind that makes your toes curl.

When he finally releases you, there's the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

"Good morning," he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.

You grin. "Happy birthday, Kento."

Something flickers in his expression—not quite discomfort, but close. He's never liked making a fuss about his birthday. You've known this for months. He'd spent the entire week leading up to today dropping subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints.

"Please don't make a fuss."

"I'd prefer something quiet."

"A normal day would be ideal."

And every time, you'd smiled innocently and said, "Of course not."

Now, watching him try to hide his unease, you almost feel guilty.

Almost.

"I have something for you," you say, reaching over to the nightstand where you'd placed the neatly wrapped box earlier. It's simple—cream-colored paper, navy ribbon, no excessive decoration. Exactly his style.

Nanami sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, and accepts the gift with both hands. He examines it for a moment, running his thumb along the edge of the ribbon, before carefully untying it. No ripping, no tearing. He unfolds the paper with the same precision he brings to everything else.

Inside is a watch—elegant, understated, with a leather band the exact shade of his usual suit. You'd spent weeks tracking it down, making sure it was perfect.

He stares at it for a long moment, then looks up at you.

"This is..." He trails off, and you see him swallow. "Thank you."

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart squeeze.

"You're welcome." You lean in, kissing his jaw. "You needed a new one anyway. The clasp on your old watch has been sticking for months."

"You noticed that?"

"I notice everything about you."

His gaze softens in a way that's almost unbearable. He sets the watch aside carefully, then reaches for you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, straddling his thighs, your hands coming to rest on his bare shoulders.

"Today's your day," you say, smiling up at him. Your fingers trace idle patterns against his skin. "Whatever you want."

It's meant to be playful. Light. An open-ended offer for breakfast in bed, or a quiet walk, or maybe just staying in and watching him read while you curl up beside him.

But Nanami goes very still.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, and when he looks at you, there's something different in his eyes. Something darker. More focused.

"Whatever I want?" he repeats slowly.

You laugh, because he sounds so serious. "Yes, Kento. It's your birthday. We can do whatever you—"

"Anything?"

But he doesn't respond. Instead, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. His dark eyes search yours, and you watch something shift behind them—a calculation, a decision being made in real time. His jaw tightens slightly. His thumbs press a little harder against your hips.

The silence stretches between you. Not awkward. Deliberate. Like he's weighing every consequence before making a decision he already knows he's going to make.

"Anything?" he repeats quietly.

The single word lands with surprising weight.

You blink at him, suddenly aware of the weight of his gaze, the way his thumbs are now stroking small circles against your hipbones through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. The air in the room feels heavier somehow.

"I... yes?" you say, though it comes out more like a question. "I mean, within reason. If you want to go somewhere, or—"

"I want you."

Three words. Simple. Direct. Devastating.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

"You... I'm right here," you manage, trying to laugh it off even as heat floods your cheeks.

"No." His voice drops lower, and one hand slides up your spine, firm and possessive. "I want you. Here. Now. For as long as I decide."

Oh.

Oh.

"Kento—"

"You said anything." His eyes haven't left yours. "Did you mean it?"

Your mouth has gone dry. You'd been thinking coffee. Maybe pancakes. A lazy morning together.

Not... this.

Except now that he's said it, now that you can see the intent written clearly across his face, you realize you should have known better. Nanami doesn't do anything halfway. And when presented with an open-ended offer, of course he'd take it literally.

Of course he would.

"I—" You swallow hard. "Yes. I meant it."

The smile that curves his mouth is small, controlled, but there's a predatory edge to it that makes your stomach flip.

"Good," he says quietly, and then he's kissing you again—deeper this time, more demanding. His hand fists in your hair, angling your head exactly where he wants it, and you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against you through the sheets.

When he pulls back, you're breathless.

"Then we have an understanding," Nanami murmurs against your lips. His free hand slides under your shirt, palm hot against your lower back. "Today, I'm going to be selfish. I'm going to spend today doing exactly what I want. And you're going to let me."

You should probably mention the surprise party.

You should definitely mention the surprise party.

But then his mouth is on your neck, and his hands are everywhere, and the only thing you can manage is a shaky, "Yes."

His teeth graze the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that makes him hum with satisfaction against your skin.

"There," he murmurs, voice dropping even lower. "I want to hear every reaction. Don't hold anything back."

His hands slide up under your shirt with deliberate slowness, palms warm and slightly rough against your ribs. He's mapping you out, relearning territory he knows by heart, but there's something different about his touch today. More possessive. More demanding.

"Kento—"

"I'm going to take my time with you," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want. "I'm going to touch every part of you. Taste every part of you. And I'm going to make sure you can't think of anything else."

Your breath catches. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'll—I'll tell you."

"That's what I need to hear."

The praise sends heat flooding through you, pooling low in your belly. He knows exactly what those words do to you, and the slight curve of his mouth says he's pleased with your reaction.

He sits up, pulling you with him, and in one smooth motion strips your shirt over your head. The morning air is cool against your heated skin, and you shiver—though whether from temperature or anticipation, you're not sure.

Nanami's gaze travels over you slowly, thoroughly, like he's committing every detail to memory. Then his hands follow the same path, tracing your collarbones, the curve of your breasts, down to your waist.

"I could spend all day just watching how you respond to me," he says quietly, almost to himself.

Before you can answer him, he's guiding you back down onto the mattress, positioning you exactly where he wants you—centered on the bed, arms above your head. His hand wraps around both your wrists, pinning them to the pillow. The oval diamond catches the morning light as he holds you there, the platinum band gleaming against your skin—a small, deliberate reminder of what you are to him.

"Keep them there," he instructs, his free hand trailing down your arm, across your shoulder, down to cup your breast. "Don't move them unless I tell you to."

"Kento—"

His thumb brushes over your nipple, and your back arches involuntarily.

"What did I just say?" His voice is still calm, still controlled, but there's steel underneath it.

"Keep—keep them there," you manage, forcing your arms to stay still even as your body wants to reach for him.

"Exactly." He rewards you by lowering his mouth to your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he takes it between his lips and sucks—hard enough to make you cry out.

"Oh god—Kento—"

He hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you. His other hand is working your other breast, rolling and pinching your nipple between his fingers with just enough pressure to toe the line between pleasure and pain.

"Tell me," he says, pulling back slightly. "Tell me how it feels."

"It feels—" You're panting now, struggling to form coherent words. "It feels so good, your mouth, your hands—please don't stop—"

"I won't. Not until I've learned exactly what you need." His breath is hot against your wet skin.

He switches sides, giving your other breast the same thorough attention while his hand slides down your stomach. His fingers trace the waistband of your sleep shorts, dipping just beneath the elastic but not going further. Teasing.

"Kento, please—"

"Please what?" He looks up at you, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "I need to hear you."

"Touch me," you gasp out. "Please, I need you to touch me."

"Where?" His fingers trace patterns on your lower stomach, so close to where you're aching for him but not quite there. "Here?"

"Lower—please—"

"Like this?" He presses his palm against you through the fabric of your shorts, and even through two layers of cloth, the pressure makes you moan.

"Yes—yes, like that—"

"You're already so wet," he observes, voice rough with approval. "I can feel it through your clothes. Is this all for me?"

"Yes—all for you—always for you—"

He makes a satisfied sound low in his throat, then hooks his fingers into your waistband. "Lift your hips."

You obey immediately, and he strips both your shorts and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him. The way he looks at you—like you're something precious and profane all at once—makes heat flood through your entire body.

"Spread your legs," he says quietly. "Let me see you."

You do, feeling exposed and vulnerable and desperately aroused all at once. Nanami settles between your thighs, his hands running up the inside of your legs, thumbs tracing patterns on your sensitive inner thighs.

"I know what you need." His thumb brushes over your clit—just once, just barely—and you nearly sob with the need for more. "But I'm going to take my time. I'm going to watch you come apart. And you're going to let me, aren't you?"

"Yes—yes, anything—"

"That's the answer I wanted."

Then his mouth is on you, and coherent thought becomes impossible.

He starts with long, slow strokes of his tongue, learning your taste, mapping out every fold and curve. His hands grip your thighs, holding you exactly where he wants you, and when you try to close your legs around his head, he pushes them back open with firm pressure.

"Stay open for me," he says against your skin, and the vibration of his voice makes you whimper. "I want access to all of you."

"Kento—oh god—"

He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, not quite giving you the direct pressure you're craving. It's maddening, the way he's taking his time, the way he's so completely in control while you're falling apart beneath him.

"Please—please, I need—"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath hot against your skin. "What do you need, love?” he asks quietly. 

"More—I need more—"

"More of this?" He licks a broad stripe up your center, and you cry out. "Or this?" His tongue flicks directly over your clit, and your hips buck involuntarily.

"That—yes, that—please—"

"I thought so. That’s the spot."

He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and the sensation is so intense you nearly scream. Your hands fly down to his hair, fingers tangling in the blonde strands, and he makes a warning sound against you.

"What did I tell you about your hands?"

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I couldn't—"

"Put them back." His voice is firm but not unkind. "Or I'll stop."

You force your hands back above your head, gripping the pillow so hard your knuckles turn white. It's torture, not being able to touch him, but there's something about the restriction that makes every sensation more intense.

"Much better." He rewards you by sliding one finger inside you, and you moan at the intrusion. "You're doing so well."

He starts a slow rhythm, finger curling inside you to hit that spot that makes you see stars, while his tongue works your clit with methodical precision. He's not rushing, not chasing your orgasm—he's building it slowly, deliberately, layer by layer.

"Kento—oh god, Kento—"

"That's it," he murmurs against you. "I want every sound you make for me," he murmurs against you.

"Mmmfuuck Ken—I'm so close—"

"Not yet." He slows his movements, pulling you back from the edge. "Not until I say."

You make a frustrated sound, and he chuckles—actually chuckles—against your sensitive flesh.

"Patience," he says. "I told you I was going to take my time."

He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the slight burn mixed with pleasure makes you gasp. His fingers are thick, filling you in a way that's almost but not quite enough, and he knows it. He's doing this on purpose, keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall over.

"Please—Kento, please—I need to come—"

"I know you do." His voice is rough now, affected despite his control. "But you're going to wait. You're going to wait until I've had my fill of you."

His tongue returns to your clit, circling and flicking while his fingers pump in and out of you with increasing speed. The wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you mix with your desperate moans, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, your body responding to his every touch.

"You taste so good," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. "I could do this for hours. Would you like that? Would you like me to keep you right here, right on the edge, until you're begging?"

"I am begging—please, Kento, please let me come—"

"Not yet."

He's relentless, building you up and pulling you back, over and over, until you're shaking and sobbing and completely at his mercy. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body wound so tight you think you might shatter, and still he doesn't let you fall.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and there's something like awe in his voice. "So desperate for me. And I'm going to take care of you."

"Ken— I need to—“

"That's right." He adds a third finger, and the stretch makes you cry out. "I'm going to make you come so hard you forget your own name."

"Yes—please—please, Kento—"

"Now," he says, and seals his lips around your clit while his fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot with devastating precision.

Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with such intensity that you do scream—his name, over and over, while your body convulses and your vision goes white. He doesn't let up, working you through it, drawing it out until you're not sure where one wave ends and the next begins.

"That's it," he's saying, voice rough and approving. "Just like that. Give me everything."

You're sobbing now, overwhelmed by sensation, and still he doesn't stop. He gentles his touch but keeps moving, keeping you suspended in that space between too much and not enough, until you're begging again—though whether for him to stop or continue, you're not sure anymore.

Finally, when you're completely wrung out and shaking, he pulls back. His chin is wet with you, his eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of him like that—disheveled and affected—sends another pulse of heat through you despite your exhaustion.

"You respond exactly the way I know you would," he says, crawling up your body to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it should probably be embarrassing, but instead it's incredibly hot.

"Kento," you manage, voice wrecked. "That was—"

"We're not done." He's still fully clothed, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. "I told you—until I'm satisfied. And I'm nowhere near satisfied yet."

He sits back and strips off his shirt in one smooth motion. You've seen him shirtless countless times, but it never fails to make your mouth go dry—the broad shoulders, the defined muscle, the deliberate way he moves.

Your hands reach for him without thinking, and this time he doesn't stop you. Your fingers trace over his chest, his stomach, and he catches your wrist, bringing it to his lips.

"Feel what you do to me," he says quietly, guiding your hand down to the front of his pants. He's rock hard, straining against the fabric.

"I want you," you whisper. "Please—"

He's already unbuttoning his pants, pushing them down, and then he's finally naked above you. He helps you roll over, positioning you exactly how he wants you—face down, hips elevated, legs spread.

His hands run down your back, over your hips. "This way I can see all of you."

You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance, sliding through your wetness, and you push back desperately.

"Please—"

"I know—" And then he's pushing in, slow and deep, until he's fully seated inside you. You both groan at the sensation.

For a moment, he goes completely still. His hands tighten on your hips, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are closed. His jaw is tight. He looks like a man trying to memorize something.

"Kento?"

He opens his eyes, and the look on his face makes your breath catch. It's not dominance. It's not control.

It's want. Pure, unguarded want.

"I chose this," he says, voice low and rough. "I could be anywhere right now. But I want you."

Then he starts to move—slow, deep, deliberate. Each thrust hits something devastating inside you, and you're already building toward another orgasm.

"Yes—" you gasp. "Yes—"

His hand slides up your back, fisting gently in your hair, turning your head so he can see your face. "Look at me."

You do. His face is flushed, eyes locked on yours with burning intensity.

"I'm going to—"

"I know baby.” His other hand finds your clit, circling with firm pressure. "Let me feel it."

The combination is too much. Your second orgasm builds fast and hard, and when it hits, you scream into the pillow, your whole body clenching around him.

"Fuuuck baby—" His voice breaks on the word, hips stuttering. "You’re such a good girl.”

The praise sends another aftershock through you, and you feel him throb inside you in response. But he doesn't come. Instead, his grip on your hips tightens, and he starts moving again—harder this time, more demanding.

"Again," he says, voice rough. "I want to feel you come again."

"Kento—I can't—"

"You can." His thrusts are deeper now, more forceful. Each one pushes you slightly up the bed, your body sliding against the sheets. "I know you can."

He releases your hair to grip both your hips with bruising strength, angling you exactly how he wants you. The new position makes him hit even deeper, and you cry out, fingers clutching at the sheets.

"There," he groans. "That's the angle."

"Yes—oh god—yes—"

He increases his pace, fucking you harder, and now each thrust is pushing you further up the bed. You have to brace your hands against the headboard to keep from being driven into it. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his low groans.

"So perfect," he's saying, voice strained. "Taking me so well—"

Your arms give out, and your upper body collapses into the mattress, face pressed into the pillows. The new angle makes everything more intense—you're completely at his mercy, held up only by his strong hands gripping your hips, keeping your lower body elevated so he can keep driving into you.

"Oh my God—" you manage between thrusts. "Kento—fuck—I love—you—"

Each word is punctuated by another deep thrust, and you hear him groan in response.

"I love you too, sweetheart—" His voice is wrecked, breathless. "Mmmm—fuck—"

Then his hand comes down on your ass—not hard enough to hurt, but sharp enough to make you gasp. The sting sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you, and you clench around him involuntarily.

"Fuck—" He does it again, and you moan into the pillow. "You like that, don’t you?"

"Yes—yes—please—"

He's fucking you harder now, faster, one hand sliding up your spine to rest at the back of your neck, holding you down. The pressure is grounding, possessive, and it makes you feel completely owned in the best possible way.

"Fuck—" His voice is rough, focused. "Tell me you're here. Tell me you chose this."

His other hand slides around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that make you see stars.

"I'm here—“ you cry out, voice muffled by the pillow. "Kento—oh god—I’m all yours—"

"That's right." His fingers work your clit with devastating precision while he keeps pounding into you. "All mine."

The dual sensation is overwhelming. You can feel another orgasm building, bigger than the last two, and you're not sure you can survive it.

"Kento—I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he commands, voice strained. "Let me feel you"

Your third orgasm hits you like lightning, white-hot and all-consuming. You scream into the pillow, your whole body convulsing, clenching around him so hard you can feel every pulse, every throb.

"Fuck—" His control finally shatters. His hips snap forward one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go, and then he's coming with a low, broken groan. You feel him pulsing inside you, hot and overwhelming, triggering another small orgasm that makes you whimper.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, trembling with aftershocks. Then, carefully, he pulls out and rolls you over, gathering you against his chest.

"Are you alright?" His voice is soft now, concerned, one hand stroking your hair.

"Yes," you manage, voice hoarse. "That was—"

"Intense?"

"Perfect."

He kisses your forehead, your temple, your cheek. "You're perfect. Thank you for trusting me."

"Always," you murmur, already starting to drift in the warm, satisfied haze of post-orgasm bliss.

You lose track of time after that, dozing in and out while Nanami holds you. At some point, he gets up to get a warm washcloth, cleaning you both with gentle efficiency before pulling you back against him. The morning light has shifted, grown stronger, but you're too content to care about the time.

It's only when his phone starts vibrating insistently across the nightstand that reality begins to intrude.

Nanami reaches over without moving you from his chest, his arm extending to grab the phone. The screen lights up immediately, and you feel him go still.

"How many?" you ask sleepily, not bothering to open your eyes.

"Twenty-seven missed calls," he says quietly, scrolling through with methodical precision. "Forty-three unread messages."

You crack one eye open. "Oh no."

"Oh yes." There's something in his tone—a thread of amusement, maybe—that makes you lift your head to look at him.

His expression is perfectly neutral as he reads, but there's the faintest curve to his mouth. He scrolls through the messages, and you watch his eyes track across the screen, taking in every word.

Gojo (10:47 AM): Where are you two???

Gojo (10:52 AM): Nanami if you're late I'm going to be so mad

Shoko (10:58 AM): Tell me he didn't figure it out.

Ino (11:03 AM): Everyone is in position. Repeat, everyone is in position.

Gojo (11:05 AM): NANAMI

Gojo (11:07 AM): ANSWER YOUR PHONE

Shoko (11:12 AM): He figured it out. He 100% figured it out.

Ino (11:15 AM): My legs are cramping. How long do we have to hide behind this couch?

Gojo (11:18 AM): I'm going to kill him

Gojo (11:20 AM): I'm going to actually kill him

Gojo (11:22 AM): WHERE IS HE

Shoko (11:25 AM): He's definitely with her. Doing... something.

Gojo (11:27 AM): OH MY GOD

Gojo (11:28 AM): DID YOU SERIOUSLY TAKE "WHATEVER YOU WANT" LITERALLY????

Ino (11:30 AM): I can't feel my feet anymore

Gojo (11:32 AM): This is the funniest thing that's ever happened

Gojo (11:33 AM): I'm going to laugh about this forever

Shoko (11:35 AM): Please just answer so we know you're alive

Gojo (11:37 AM): NANAMI

Gojo (11:38 AM): NANAMI

Gojo (11:39 AM): NANAMI

Ino (11:40 AM): Everyone stop yelling in the chat, he's going to hear us

Gojo (11:41 AM): HE CAN'T HEAR US THROUGH TEXT YOU IDIOT

Shoko (11:42 AM): I'm leaving. My back hurts.

Gojo (11:43 AM): YOU WILL NOT

Ino (11:45 AM): Is anyone else hungry? I'm hungry.

Gojo (11:47 AM): FOCUS

Gojo (11:48 AM): He's going to show up any second now

Gojo (11:50 AM): Any second

Gojo (11:52 AM): ...

Gojo (11:53 AM): He's not coming is he

Shoko (11:54 AM): He's definitely not coming.

Ino (11:55 AM): My legs have fallen asleep. I think I'm paralyzed.

You watch Nanami's face as he reads through the entire chain. His expression doesn't change, but you can see the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth—he's fighting a smile.

"What time is it?" you ask.

He glances at the clock on the nightstand. "11:58 AM."

"Oh god. They've been waiting for almost two hours."

"Two hours and eleven minutes, to be precise," he corrects, setting the phone down on his chest. "Since approximately 9:47 AM, based on Gojo's first message."

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. "We should probably go."

Nanami is quiet for a moment. Then: "No."

You blink. "No?"

"No," he repeats calmly, one hand resuming its gentle stroking of your hair. "We should not."

"Kento, they're literally hiding behind furniture—"

"I am aware." His voice is perfectly level. "I specifically requested not to have a surprise party."

You prop yourself up on your elbow, looking down at him. "You... knew?"

"I suspected." He meets your eyes, and there's definitely amusement there now. "Gojo is not subtle. Neither are you, for that matter. You've been coordinating with him for weeks."

"And you still—"

"I was presented with two options," he says, his hand moving to cup your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone with deliberate gentleness. "Spend my birthday entertaining Gojo and enduring whatever ridiculous surprise he's orchestrated."

He pauses, letting the weight of the alternative hang in the air.

"Or spend it with you."

Your heart does a little flip in your chest.

"I believe I made the objectively correct decision," he says, with the faintest hint of a smile.

You laugh against his chest. "Gojo will murder you."

"Mm." He pulls you back down against his chest. "Gojo will survive another hour. Everyone hiding behind furniture will survive another hour. You and I, however, have only just begun to properly celebrate."

"Kento—"

"One more hour," he repeats, kissing the top of your head. "And then we'll go be gracious about their party."

You smile against his chest. "You're going to act surprised, aren't you?"