Frolic with Me

That little band is wrapped so neatly around him, its color pure as snow, its silky texture tortuous against his heated flesh. It’s so hard, both his body and the will to breathe. He begs for mercy. He begs for release.

“I wish you could hear yourself right now,” you murmur into his ear. A tease of a smile brushes the shell of his ear. “My beautiful darling, how melodic you sound…”

You know exactly what you’re doing to him. Giyuu is easy to please, easier to taunt. His ragged gasps say as such, his flushed chest pushing high towards the ceiling.

A kiss greets his sternum. “Breathtaking… You’re such a beauty, you know that? My dear Giyuu, such a good boy for me…”

Your praise makes his head swim. He twitches pathetically, clear droplets running down the side of his length. Your kisses trace down his body, breath fanning over the divots of his abdomen, the shallows of his ribs. Goosebumps cover the entirety of his body. Although he doesn’t say anything outright, the sheer pleasure radiating from him makes the air heady.

A gasp escapes from his pretty lips as you kiss his sensitivity, mouth getting covered in his wetness. So delightfully desperate he is, yet he needs more. He can’t stand it.

Mouth bleeding gold, he bucks into your touch, silently pleading you to finally take mercy on him. You merely laugh, a slight puff against the hard flesh, but it’s more out of amusement than mockery.

“I can watch you like this for hours, my dearest,” you coo, shifting upwards, mouth brushing against his ear once more. “Coming undone… Crying, begging… You’ll give me what I want, right? A little show just for me?”

He swallows thickly. “Please.”

You kiss away a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. “Be more specific, Giyuu.”

“Please let me cum,” he whispers in a rush. He’s unbearably red at both ends; tears well up in his eyes, making those lustrous sapphires a sweeping ocean. You can see your reflection clearly.

“Can you beg for me? Hmm?”

“Please!” he cries. “Please, please, I want to so bad, I need-“ He cuts himself off with a pathetic whimper.

You merely coo, hand reaching down and undoing the bow tied around him. The light touches from your fingertips send him careening off the edge; his entire body arches as pleasure overtakes him, tears streaming down his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes shut.

There’s a mess left in his wake.

With a tsk, you trace your finger over him, a slight pout appearing on your features. “Oh, Giyuu… I never said you were allowed to cum, did I? Now look what you’ve done… Bad boys deserve to be punished, don’t you agree?”

Giyuu licks his lips, gaze snapping to yours-

“Let’s continue to fight for all eternity!” Akaza screams.

His voice is nothing short of a toe-curling, hair-raising rage, the sheer raw power of it enough to leave Tanjiro and Inosuke trembling in their place. Smoke hangs heavily in the air, the glowing embers of the now derailed train a shining beacon in the night.

Of course an Upper Moon had to show up right when they were done dealing with Enmu. Kyojuro would’ve loved to rip the bastard’s head off himself, but he’s proud of his underlings for taking care the issue. Besides, now that he’s here, Kyojuro would rather have the two onlookers run away with their lives.

His body, still as a rock and calm as water, embraces its defensive position. Nichirin blade before him, stance wide – Kyojuro can go all day. Never mind the blood pouring into his eye or the sickening scent of death hanging in the air, it doesn’t matter. What matters is stopping Akaza, right here and right now. If this damned demon gets away, it’ll only amount to more dead bodies and hell on earth.

Taking a deep breath, Kyojuro shifts his stance, preparing himself for a Flame Breathing attack. Akaza mutters something, his body tensing. There’s a deafening boom, followed by a monstrous cloud of dust. Kyojuro’s breath hitches in his throat. He can’t see, he can’t hear, what the hell did Akaza even do-

Until the dust settles.

Akaza is standing right before him, his fist pressed right against his abdomen. Heart dropping to his stomach, Kyojuro’s one good eye widens.

Bring the sword down! his mind screams, yet his body won’t comply.

Akaza is staring up at him with an unreadable expression. This entire time, his mouth has been stretched in a psychotic smile. He’s been egging Kyojuro on, telling him that he’d become even stronger as a demon. Now, though, that smile is gone.

“Why did you…?” Kyojuro trails off, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you really want to die that badly?” Akaza taunts. “I stopped myself just in time, no?”

From railing my fist through your torso.

The fist turns into a flat palm. Akaza gives a mighty shove, causing Kyojuro to lose his balance in his stupor and fall squarely on his ass. He merely gawks up at Akaza; Tanjiro and Inosuke are yelling obscenities from the distance, but they fall on deaf ears. Akaza just stares, his lips twitching into a knowing smirk.

“I want to see you suffer more,” Akaza murmurs. “Become a demon, Kyojuro. My lord would welcome you with open arms.”

Kyojuro draws back, heaving a deep breath-

-And spits in Akaza’s face.

Akaza’s features twist into a grimace, a vein in his temple twitching, yet he doesn’t do anything to end Kyojuro’s life. Instead, he takes off, his bounds wide and fast. Tanjiro screams after him, cursing him to high hell and to not run away like a coward.

Kyojuro slumps in his spot, his limbs suddenly too heavy and limp. He attempts to draw himself to a stand, only to find that he can’t move. His vision blurs, all surrounding sounds only but a buzz. A flash of red eyes and a green haori floods his blurred vision. Must be Tanjiro. No… Tanjiro shouldn’t see him like this. He failed to take down Akaza, and he nearly died while doing it. Why Akaza didn’t deliver the finishing blow, he has no idea.

Pillars are meant to slaughter the Upper Moons. If Kyojuro can’t even live up to that, then what was the point? People are going to die because he didn’t slice down on Akaza when he had the chance. He just stood there, completely frozen, and did nothing.

Something hot and wet slips down his cheek, and Kyojuro has an inkling that it isn’t blood.

-

Ever since that fateful day, Kyojuro has been on the hunt.

Recovery had been easy enough, even though he was unconscious for several days. Adapting to having only one eye had been the real challenge, and even then, he got used to it quickly. It’s unfortunate Shinobu couldn’t save it, but it’s better than having his heart ripped out or something. Plus, Inosuke told him that having an eyepatch makes him look tough as hell, so he’ll take it.

The guilt of letting Akaza get away chews at him. The ceaseless gnawing keeps him up at night, as does the thoughts of his father yelling at him for being a complete waste of space. Master Ubuyashiki, on the other hand, was nothing short of patient, even going to the lengths of telling Kyojuro that he will get him next time. It wasn’t just said as a comfort – it was an order. Kyojuro will get Akaza and make up for that pathetic loss.

Killing demons serves more of a purpose now – a personal one. Normally, Kyojuro would never hesitate to bring his blade down on an opponent’s neck, but now he seeks for information, no matter how big or small. It’s always the have you seen a demon with white skin and blue markings? he asks when the tip of the blade is pressing its way into a demon’s throat.

And it’s funny, really, how true the saying goes – speak of the devil and he shall appear, right?

It started off as brief glances, the thought that the brain is only seeing things, but no, Akaza has been there the entire time. It’s only after a couple months since the train incident when Akaza makes his full appearance.

The moonlight beats down on him, standing right in the middle of the road Kyojuro travels on. His white skin practically glows, much like snow on a dire winter’s night. Blood would bloom so beautifully against it. It’d be so easy, making Akaza feel the shame and ache of defeat. Kyojuro’s hand finds the hilt of his Nichirin blade. Anger heats his insides, his belly twisting with nausea; he will kill Akaza, once and for all.

But.

It doesn’t happen.

Kyojuro should be impaling Akaza with his sword, yet here he is, impaling the demon with something entirely else. They tear at each other with wild abandon, Akaza scratching angry marks into Kyojuro’s back, Kyojuro littering Akaza’s neck with wicked markings. Their skin feels too hot in the chill of the night, their rapid pants coming out in visible puffs. And Kyojuro claims him, keeping Akaza pinned to the ground with a strong grip.

I’ve been watching you, Akaza tells him, the thing between them leaking and twitching.

Kyojuro’s gaze can’t leave where they connect. Akaza sucks him in greedily, head thrown back and laughing manically as cum and blood flows in small rivulets down his thighs.

I’ve been following you, Akaza tells him, never minding when Kyojuro forces him onto his hands and knees and takes him from behind.

I’m obsessed with you, Akaza tells him.

And he shouldn’t. Kyojuro should turn away, leave this damn monster rotting away, but he realizes, somewhere deep and ugly in his chest, that he feels the same.

-

The time spent in Akaza’s embrace blurs.

The hatred doesn’t simmer down, not by the least, but something does bubble under the surface. He often finds solace in wrapping his fingers around Akaza’s neck, cock buried to the hilt. They’re both disgustingly obsessed with each other, but to different extremes.

Akaza comes and goes, a mindless thought that flows in and out of existence. He appears when Kyojuro least expects it, watches him hunt demons down and save people from their demise. He’s nothing more than a passing enigma, so when Akaza doesn’t make his presence known, Kyojuro doesn’t put much thought to it.

He tries to ignore it, anyway.

It becomes unbearable when the itch crawls beneath his skin. Akaza is a cruel hearted thing, a creature that actively harms humans for the sake of because. It’s not like Kyojuro craves to see him. It’s a ridiculous thought.

During a late night, Kyojuro lies in a bed at a small inn. The air inside the room is too stifling to sleep with, even when the window’s shutters are flung open. A chorus of crickets sing into the night, occasionally joint by the lone croak of a frog. For once, the night is peaceful, and there aren’t any bloodcurdling screams breaking the silence.

A shadow disrupts the moonlight pouring through the window. Turning his head, Kyojuro is met with the silhouette of a woman; the backlight illuminates her snowy skin and the blue markings adorning her flesh. Her eyes glow in the dark, their heavy weight trained on Kyojuro.

“You came,” is all Kyojuro mumbles, his throat dry.

Akaza drops into the room, her movements silent. Now that Kyojuro has a better look, it really is Akaza. The markings etched into her eyes tell him as such. The pink hair is the same, as are the bizarre eyes and skin. Akaza has always been a bulk of pure muscle, but in this form, she looks much more soft.

“I didn’t think you would want to see me,” Akaza says. Her voice is different now, too. It carries the same lilt as before, but the tone is completely changed.

Shuffling off from the bed, Kyojuro crosses to her; a hand tentatively brushes against her cheek. “Why would that be?” he asks simply.

Akaza’s eyes burn through the patch adorning Kyojuro’s face. “I like to be different sometimes.” Her voice is quiet. “Men get thrown away when they say they wish to live as a woman.”

Kyojuro hums. He’s never had the inkling himself, personally. He is aware of the whores lining the streets in the Red Light District, of how some aren’t necessarily equipped with a woman’s soft curves and sinful lips.

“Do you see yourself as such?”

“I’m just me,” Akaza tells him.

It’s a satisfying enough answer for the two of them.

Kyojuro’s calloused fingers find purchase in Akaza’s long hair, wrapping themselves around the braid and tugging it loose. He sheds her clothes carefully, afraid his eagerness will bleed into his actions if he moves too quickly. The bandages wrapped around her chest come off easily, revealing voluptuous breasts and perky nipples.

The dryness in his mouth only grows as Akaza steps out of her pants, full hips and thighs on display. She’s a masterpiece, even more so when the fundoshi comes off. Kyojuro practically salivates at the sight of her glistening lips – those sinful lips.

 Akaza’s back unceremoniously meets the bed, Kyojuro making a hungry noise as he slips in between her thighs. He spares not another moment to duck down and kiss her; like this, she tastes sweet, her lips full and tongue smaller than before. Kyojuro ravishes her mouth, fingers digging into her thighs as the front of his sleeping robes grows tight.

The noises slipping from her lips ring in his ears, her breasts pushing themselves up as he kisses down her sternum. He’s handsy, rough, possessive.

He’s obsessed.

Her lower lips are even sweeter, and her noises only grow breathier as he thrusts his tongue inside, his nose knocking against her clit.

She’s addictive.

What a fool for thinking Kyojuro wouldn’t enjoy this. Large hands fondle with her breasts as he fucks her with his tongue, lapping at the slick pouring down his chin and ruining the bedsheets. Her ankles are lightly crossed behind him, her strong thighs holding him in place.

They want more.

He can’t stop kissing her. Whether it’s her mouth or her pussy, Kyojuro can’t stop. Even when his cock finds home in that wet, wet, warmth, his mouth is all over her. His fingers clutch at her throat, teeth sinking into the swell of her breast.

She’s mine, mine, mine.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza sighs, fingers tugging at the curtain of blond hair falling into their faces. Her pussy sucks him in so sweetly, that delicious tightness never wanting to let go.

His thumb hooks into her mouth; she suckles on it immediately, teeth lightly snagging onto his knuckle. Kyojuro fucks into her harder, the bedframe rocking and banging against the wall with a dull thud, thud, thud. He doesn’t care that the inn’s owner will complain about the noise.

He loses himself to Akaza’s warmth more than once. In turn, Akaza cums around his cock numerous times, then even more on his tongue.

Insatiable.

“I’ll take whatever form, as long as you’ll have me,” Kyojuro mutters into her skin. The insides of her thighs are covered with marks. His marks. He has his own dotting his skin, their lingering sting making his insides warm.

At that, Akaza kisses him, her tongue slipping inside his mouth.

Rengoku Shinjuro, by all means, is not the soft, compliant type.

No, throughout his years, it’s always been Rengoku, do this or Rengoku, do that. Hailing from such a prestigious family, he’s never been granted a true taste of freedom, a true taste of himself. Ever since he was young, he’s been subjected to harsh training and grueling lectures of how terrible the real world is. For centuries, the Rengoku name has been a stone in the demon slaying world, and – quite literally – a pillar for others to look up to.

His personality became sour as thus. He was lucky enough to score himself such an incredible wife (at least that’s what the others whispered behind his back). Even more, that very wife bore two heirs. The Rengoku bloodline has never given birth to females; they always relied on outside sources to keep that pure bloodline flowing, to keep the locks of flames and sunburst eyes carrying from generation to generation.

Shinjuro should’ve been happy. He had a beautiful wife, a set of boys, was alive.

But.

And that’s what it is, the but that comes with everything in life.

He would never grow to know true peace. His sons, also born in this cruel, cruel world, wouldn’t be able to dream of it. They are Rengoku’s, after all, and they’d be damned if they didn’t carry on the tradition of their ancestors.

His bitterness only grew when Ruka, his beloved, passed. His sorrows could only be drowned out by limitless booze, the pain in his heart much too suffocating for him to bear. It didn’t take long after that for him to rid himself of the Flame Hashira title and close himself in from the world. He was no longer Rengoku Shinjuro, whoever the hell that even was. He was only the husk of a man, the pathetic wick left behind from a burned-out candle.

Drinking became Shinjuro’s new passion. The bottle became his best friend. His fist rarely became lonely, knuckles long gone white from the ceaseless clasp. Both of his sons became strangers, struggling to withstand the man their father had become. The eldest, Kyojuro, eventually took his brother away, the two of them moving in with Uzui-sama, the smug bastard.

Things had never been easy. Not when he was a child, and certainly not when he grew into adulthood.

The strong pillar of a man became nothing more than a pile of rubble.

It began with a single drink and a prolonged stare.

Shinjuro (unsurprisingly) frequented many bars, usually too stir-crazy to stick with one for too long. It was only when he found a hole-in-the-wall that he finally settled, decided that this was it.

He’d spent too many nights staring into the bottom of empty glasses, wondering if he would pass out in the bathroom and never get up again. Perhaps someone would start a fight and try to swing a stool at his head – no, that wouldn’t work, he’d been beaten up by too many god-forbidden creatures for a stool to do any real damage.

Needless to say, when the bartender silently placed another glass of his go-to before him, Shinjuro was surprised. Normally, he would signal for another round with a grunt or a slew of drunken words. The bartender only gave him half a smile, his head jerking to the other side of the bar. Shinjuro’s eyes merely followed, a strong brow quirking up his forehead.

Hah.

You were just some punk ass kid, most likely the same age as his son. Granted, he kept his hair long, but that was about it when it came to feminine qualities. Thick hair, though blond, covered the entirety of his arms and chest, and his face was in a constant stage of stubble. Shinjuro knew he wasn’t a looker. Why had you looked at him from everyone else in the bar, he couldn’t possibly fathom. He figured it had to deal with the dim lighting.

But no, you took that glance as the greenlight and hopped from your stool, scurrying your way to where Shinjuro sat. You gave a simple May I?, body hesitant and eyes hopeful. Frankly, Shinjuro couldn’t care. A free drink was a free drink and if he was lucky enough, he would forget all about this encounter anyway.

Or so he hoped.

He wasn’t sure how it happened. One moment, you were trying to crack jokes and butter him up with saccharine words; the next, he was flat on his back on his mattress, in his home, with you in between his legs. Your pants were hot and heavy in his ear, lips skimming the stubble adorning his jaw as your cock pounded in and out of him.

Shinjuro would never.

He wasn’t the kind to lay dormant and let others take control of the reins. He was a Rengoku, for fuck’s sake. He used to be a goddamn Hashira. He’s a man, not some broken down little whore who’s prying for attention or money or-

And then he came, all hot and thick, coating his abs in a sticky feeling he’s not used to. His mind cleared, heartbeat shuddered, back ached – he’s not cut out for this shit.

But.

It’s always the fucking buts that come with life.

A good lay is a good lay, and god knew how long it’s been since Shinjuro had one of those.

Getting drunk is all that mattered, no matter the method.

­“I need you to relax, love,” you breathe into his ear.

A shiver ripples down Shinjuro’s spine. A shaky sigh graces the air as he snuggles further into the pillow. Splayed out on his stomach, Shinjuro’s completely at your mercy; you straddle his behind, hands slick with oil as they rub and dig into the many knots throughout his back. Unlike you, Shinjuro is bare naked. Your clothed groin grinds into the split of his cheeks, just barely a chub.

Glancing over his shoulder, Shinjuro catches the quick glint of the band encircling your finger. Heart leaping to his throat, his insides squeeze as water gathers in his eyes (it might be because of the particularly deep knot you’re pressing at, but still.)

The universe… finally decided he deserved a break.

After that fateful encounter that night (and the back-breaking sex), you somehow… got into Shinjuro’s good graces. You made breakfast for him the next morning, rubbed his sore muscles, joked about his bedhead and morning breath… It was so domestic. It had been too long since another soul had graced his home, and it was almost too overwhelming…

A date led to another, sex became a regular thing, and Shinjuro found that he enjoyed letting loose and having someone else take hold of the reins. There wasn’t any Rengoku, do this! screaming in his ears, only your gentle tone telling him to take it deeper and praising him for being such a good boy.

It didn’t take long for you to ask for his hand in marriage. For one, Shinjuro never dreamed of remarrying, much less to a person of the same sex. Two, for that someone to be just as kind and gentle as Ruka was, only to totally switch sides behind closed doors, was something else entirely. Shinjuro never pictured himself as the type to be physically or romantically involved with another man, but life had other plans.

“You’re tensing up,” you murmur, your voice stirring him away from his thoughts. You place a kiss to his spine. “What are you thinking about?”

What did I do to deserve this?

It’s not like Shinjuro is a kind man. He did his job, put another generation of Rengoku’s into the world, then sank into a depressed stupor full of alcohol when he couldn’t find the will to live anymore. So what did the universe see in him? What did you see in him?

“Shinjuro, answer me.” Your voice, although soft, carries a harsh undertone.

“I’m a piece of shit,” Shinjuro grunts. It’s all too easy to see your displeased expression in his peripheral.

“We’ve talked about this,” you tell him.

And yeah, you did. He came clean about his trauma, about the demons plaguing the world, his dead wife, his estranged sons. You had some daddy issues of your own (surprise). The two of you were floating in dead space, drifting with the passing days. It was sort of a miracle when you two met.

“I know,” is all Shinjuro says, the words dissipating into a sigh.

Scooching off from his bottom, you easily push the muscular, hairy thighs apart and settle in between. Slicking up your thumb with more oil, you press the digit between his cheeks, slowly caressing the pursed hole.

“Obviously, we have to go over it again,” you tell him. “Tell me why I love you.”

Heat floods to Shinjuro’s face. Mind you, he never blushes. He stares hard at the wall across from him, thankful for the pillow smooshing the other side of his face. He knows he should answer. Last time he disobeyed, you bent him over your knee like a bratty child and spanked him until the skin matched the red in his hair. He almost craves for you to be rough with him, to put him in his place.

“I’m the father you always wanted to fuck.” It’s a poor attempt at a joke. Humor has never been Shinjuro’s strong suit. He does, however, receive a light swat against his behind in warning.

“Horrible answer. Try again.”

He grunts when you grasp onto a meaty asscheek, your hand roughly kneading it. Your thumb barely presses against his hole.

“Brat,” Shinjuro mutters. How ironic. If anyone is the brat in this relationship, it’s him. “Husband loves my physique, the hair on my chest, my ass-“ he wiggles his butt as he says this, “-and how I’m such a good boy.”

You reply with a snort. “Wouldn’t kill you to indulge me a little…”

A groan gets bit short when you abruptly grasp onto the loose strands of blond hair and yank. Shinjuro’s head cranes backwards, his neck screaming from the effort. Hot kisses land on his spine, the thumb encircling his hole dipping in slightly. Easing out and in, you tease him slowly, relishing in his heavy breaths and foggy eyes.

His cock stirs; Shinjuro wastes no time grinding it into the mattress, knees and hips raising to meet your touch. Hardened nipples graze the sheets, his heavy tits heaving with each ragged pant. It takes practically no effort anymore to get him stirred up, to have him hungry for your cock.

“My big, muscular boy,” you say, teeth skimming along the line of his spine, “so desperate to be fucked like a whore. Is this what a fall from grace looks like? To be on your hands and knees, waiting for someone to belittle you and make you theirs?”

Your dominance is unlike anything Shinjuro has ever seen. Usually, you’re all soft words and warm hands, willing to help him with anything. A perfect little househusband, you told him once, a giggle hanging from your lips. Someone to be there when you need them most.

But this…. This is something else.

You grope at the muscles of his back, his ass, his tits – you leave nothing untouched, besides his cock. A hand keeps his hips steady as you slip your cock inside, the hot resistance clasping down in a vice-like grip. Shinjuro moans weakly into the pillow, precum leaking from his neglected cock. You waste no time pulling back and snapping your hips into him, cock plunging in to the hilt. Your balls slap heavily against his ass, fingers moving from spreading his cheeks further apart to pulling at his hair.

“Mine,” you hiss into his ear, but then follow up with a quick kiss. “So soft, compliant… What a spectacle you are. I bet no one would ever have guessed that the former Flame Hashira would like getting cock so much…”

Blood thunders in his ears. With a slight whimper, Shinjuro buries his face in the pillow, shame and arousal making his skin simmer and cock leak like a faucet.

“Ah, ah, ah, honey, don’t hide your face, it’s just us here,” you say, tone switching to something buttery smooth and sweet. Your actions clearly contradict your words; you snatch his head back with a firm grasp, fingernails grazing against his skull. Your cockhead attacks his prostate with a deadly precision. Soon, Shinjuro is nearly sobbing, mouth lax and fingers clenching onto the sheets.

You fuck him to completion, his eyes rolling back in his skull as his balls pull tight and he cums in several long, drawn-out spurts. Your hands easily reach around his chest and clutch onto his pebbled nipples, your lips finding the side of his neck.

He expects you to finish inside him and leave it at that, but…

As he learned long ago, there are always buts.

Zenitsu has a crush.

He thinks so, anyway – what he means is that he finds his Literature teacher super fucking scrumptious, borderline breedable, but that doesn’t necessarily indicate that it’s a crush.

A crush (to Zenitsu’s delusional mind) is someone that the heart craves for, someone to swoon over. That someone is usually a really cute girl with slouched socks and an adorable, bobbed haircut, or a woman with lascivious curves and pouty lips. Truly, women are the ideal crush in Zenitsu’s mind, so what gives?

Well…

Let’s just say that Zenitsu’s teacher, Mr. Ōnamazu, has the fattest ass known to man. Obviously, Zenitsu would notice. Come on, with an ass like that, it’s no doubt Zenitsu would check it out! He is a man of taste and culture, after all.

It’s both a blessing and a curse that his assigned seat is in the back of the class, situated right next to the window. Normally, during any other class, he’d be too busy staring into the sky or watching girls running around whenever they have a gym class outdoors. That, or he’d be doodling away in a notebook, pretending to take notes while he’s actually drawing straight up erotica.

But when Mr. Ōnamazu steps into the room, Zenitsu transforms into the moth attracted to light.  Mr. Ōnamazu tends to wear the cutest cardigans over the plain teacher drab, and his (oh so cute!) round face is always set in a bored, neutral expression – everything about him makes him look like a cuddly teddy bear! There’s something about his chubbiness, the effeminate shape of his body… Just thinking about it has Zenitsu’s cock stirring in his trousers.

He's aware of the issue with lusting after his own teacher. Yes, that’s exactly what it is – lusting, not crushing. If he ignores Mr. Ōnamazu’s kind personality and the fact that he genuinely gives a damn about his students, it makes things a lot easier to deal with. But, like, it’s weird, because sometimes Zenitsu swears that Mr. Ōnamazu looks back at him on purpose, his gaze lingering for a mere second too long.

It’s only when the sliding door to the classroom opens Zenitsu snaps out of his age-long reverie. His heartbeat quickens when Mr. Ōnamazu steps inside, a warm smile spreading his chubby cheeks apart. Today, he wears a dark green cardigan with little frogs sewn into it; it takes all of Zenitsu’s strength to not curl up on the floor and squeal over how cute his teacher looks in it. Either way, his female classmates compliment Mr. Ōnamazu on the piece of attire, some of them even going as far as cooing and pressing their palms to their faces.

“Mr. Ōnamazu, your cardigan is adorable! Where’d you get it?”

“Mr. Ōnamazu, what are we learning today? Are you going to read to us again?”

 Mr. Ōnamazu’s face gradually flushes from the onslaught of female voices chirping praises and excitement towards him. One hand pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose while the other fiddles with the cane clutched in his fist. He’s mentioned to the class that long ago he suffered from a spinal injury – apparently, back in his grade school days, he used to be a regular at martial arts competitions and made quite a name for himself. It didn’t take long at the beginning of the school year for the students to worm that information out of him; if anything, it only adds to his allure. Zenitsu admires him greatly for it, but also knowing that his teacher could easily put him into a chokehold does wonders for Zenitsu’s libido on a lonely night.

 Mr. Ōnamazu quietly hushes his students. They all snap to attention and hang onto silence, anticipating for what’s to come. “Are any of you familiar with Lolita? And no, I’m not talking about the fashion senses some of you may have,” Mr. Ōnamazu begins.

Zenitsu finds himself nodding along with his fellow classmates. Vladimir Nabokov’s classic involves the controversial tale of middle-aged man obsessing over his 12-year-old stepdaughter and is known to be one of the greatest pieces of literature of all time. While Zenitsu hasn’t read the story himself, its infamy has been widely spread from the West.

 Mr. Ōnamazu smiles. “I’d like everyone to view the story from a critical eye and decipher some of its deeper intentions. The school has graciously provided enough copies for each class to partake in reading. Aoi, if you’d please.”

The class’s representative, Kanzaki Aoi, rises from her seat and diligently sets to passing out the books Mr. Ōnamazu brought into the classroom with him. It’s a shame Mr. Ōnamazu couldn’t hand them out personally; due to his… voluminous hips, squeezing between the desks has become somewhat of an issue, and his cane doesn’t make things any easier. The first time his ass got squished from being pressed in between two desks almost made Zenitsu pass out due to blood loss.

“As I was saying,” Mr. Ōnamazu continues, “each one of you will be doing an in-depth examination of the book. Granted, the main purpose of the story was for it to be a cautionary tale, but I’d like to see your thoughts as to why Humbert Humbert obsesses over his Lolita in such a fashion. Naturally, we’ll be reading during class time and holding discussions. Any questions?”

Immediately, Zenitsu’s hand shoots up. “Is there any particular reason why we’re covering this story?”

 Mr. Ōnamazu’s eyes turn into crescent shapes behind his lenses. “How are we to learn anything or appreciate literature if we allow censorship to run amuck? Reading is one of the most wonderful things in the world, and we should be able to experience many different things. What says you, Zenitsu?”

Dear God, just hearing his name roll of his teacher’s lips is enough to have Zenitsu hot below the collar. His mind wanders, envisioning Mr. Ōnamazu subdue him and read Lolita to him while he shamelessly rides Zenitsu’s cock…

“Zenitsu?”  Mr. Ōnamazu calls.

Crap, he was spacing out for too long!

Hurriedly, Zenitsu clears his throat and blatantly ignores the growing weight and heat in his trousers. “I was just… thinking of how right Mr. Ōnamazu is. It’s a refreshing perspective.”

Eyes twinkling, Mr. Ōnamazu nods at Zenitsu’s response. “Thank you, Zenitsu. I appreciate it.”

The rest of the class passes by in a blur. The students fall silent as they read and take notes. Zenitsu, on the other hand, can’t focus worth shit. Every so often, he glances up at Mr. Ōnamazu, and he swears Mr. Ōnamazu quickly shifts his attention to someone else each time he nabs a look.

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. While Mr. Ōnamazu explained his reasoning for choosing Lolita as their next class segment, Zenitsu can’t help but overthink, like, everything. The story’s protagonist, Humbert Humbert, is a literature professor who lusts after someone significantly younger than himself. Indeed, Zenitsu isn’t as young as dear Dolores herself, but he can hope that there’s a deeper meaning to all of this. If Zenitsu pours every effort and braincell into this assignment, maybe he could impress Mr. Ōnamazu with his views and score some major brownie points.

 Mr. Ōnamazu, Zenitsu imagines himself saying, do you like me? Am I your Lolita?

The thought’s enough to make him shudder.

The end of class comes quicker than Zenitsu hoped. While the students settle and prepare for their next lesson, Zenitsu slinks from his chair and tries to casually make his way forward, hoping that his hoodie is long enough to cover his half-hard cock. He idles up to the desk sitting in front of the classroom, picking at his fingernails and taking deep breaths.

Noticing somebody else’s presence, Mr. Ōnamazu looks up from stuffing his satchel and offers Zenitsu a soft smile. “You seemed distracted during reading time,” Mr. Ōnamazu says, keeping his voice low. “Something the matter?”

Zenitsu clears his throat, his gaze dropping to his shoes. “Actually, I, uh, was wondering if you had free time this afternoon.”

One of Mr. Ōnamazu’s eyebrows twitches up his forehead.

“What I mean!” Zenitsu scrambles, heat flooding his face, “What I mean is that I had some questions regarding the material, but I was too embarrassed to ask…”

 Mr. Ōnamazu then offers a lighthearted chuckle. “If that’s the case, we can discuss things after school in the teachers’ office. How does that sound?”

Zenitsu breaths out a sigh of relief. “That would work perfectly. Thanks, Mr. Ōnamazu.”

“Anytime, Zenitsu. You can always come to me.”

Later that same afternoon, Zenitsu lingers outside of the teachers’ joint office, kicking his foot against the floor. Most of the staff has already left, and the dwindlers left are the students participating in clubs.  Mr. Ōnamazu is the only one sitting at his desk, hunched over a stack of papers with a red pen. He only looks up when Zenitsu quietly clears his throat.

“Ah, Zenitsu! I didn’t notice you there,” Mr. Ōnamazu says. He beckons Zenitsu into the office with a wave of his hand and sets the stack of papers to the side. “Now, you said you wanted to discuss Lolita?”

Now that he’s standing next to where Mr. Ōnamazu sits, Zenitsu’s eye home in on his thighs spill over the cushion on the office chair. Somehow, his ass looks even more plump sitting like that.

Oh, Christ.

“Would you like to sit, Zenitsu?”  Mr. Ōnamazu asks, but he’s already moving to get off his own chair as he does so.

Zenitsu quickly waves his hands, nearly begging for his teacher to sit back down, and then he kneels to the ground. He could take another teacher’s chair, but it would just feel wrong. Plus, looking up at Mr. Ōnamazu from this angle…

He swallows.

“Actually,” Zenitsu starts, his voice no more than a pathetic croak, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes, you said you were too embarrassed to ask during class.”  Mr. Ōnamazu cocks his head at him. “Are you sure you feel comfortable enough to ask me?”

Now that Zenitsu is finally here, basically being confronted about it, he isn’t so sure. Still, he’s made it this far. Clenching and unclenching his fists on the tops of his thighs, Zenitsu focuses on the lace of Mr. Ōnamazu’s shoe.

“Mr. Ōnamazu…. Did you really tell the truth when I asked you why you chose Lolita for Literature?”

“What exactly do you mean, Zenitsu?”

He keeps calling Zenitsu by name. He couldn’t be doing it on purpose, could he?

“Zenitsu… You don’t think that I chose Lolita because of you, do you?”

Zenitsu sucks in a breath but doesn’t say anything.

“Zenitsu, look at me.”

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Zenitsu tilts his chin up and meets Mr. Ōnamazu’s steady gaze. The usual kind, warm glow is gone; instead, they’re steely, cold.

“How pathetic,” Mr. Ōnamazu murmurs.

An electric shock traverses Zenitsu’s spine, leaves him jumping in his spot.

“You think I don’t notice you staring? You always get this dumb look on your face. Aren’t you going to say something, Zenitsu?”

His tongue darts across his lips. Zenitsu can’t believe his ears.  Mr. Ōnamazu has no goddamn right talking to him like this, but Zenitsu likes it. His heartbeat quickens, his breathing turns heavy, and the heat soaring in his lower abdomen – it’s too much.

A foot reaches out and presses directly against Zenitsu’s groin. He gasps at the light pressure digging into his cock, and his hands shoot out and wrap themselves around Mr. Ōnamazu’s ankle. He doesn’t push him away, no, he holds Mr. Ōnamazu tighter, a silent beg of please don’t move.

“Do I have to talk to you like you’re some dog?”  Mr. Ōnamazu continues. His murmur seems so gentle, yet the ice creeping below the surface is hard to miss. “Speak, puppy.”

“I-I thought you chose it because of me,” Zenitsu admits, his voice just as soft as Mr. Ōnamazu’s. “I thought…”

“You thought what?”

“…I thought you liked me.” Zenitsu’s voice is barely above a whisper at this point. Any other time, it would go unheard, but since the two of them are alone, Mr. Ōnamazu can hear it perfectly clear.

 Mr. Ōnamazu quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Again, Zenitsu swallows. Slowly, he shuffles forward, keeping Mr. Ōnamazu’s foot against his crotch all the while. Another sharp inhale passes through his lips when Mr. Ōnamazu digs his foot in.

“I like you, Mr. Ōnamazu,” Zenitsu tells him, his head landing on Mr. Ōnamazu’s lap. It’s much softer than Zenitsu always thought it would be. Taking in a deep breath, he can smell the faint traces of Mr. Ōnamazu’s choice of soap and laundry detergent, but then there’s something… musky.

The weight of a hand drops onto the crown of Zenitsu’s head.  Mr. Ōnamazu combs his fingers through the shaggy blond locks, his fingernails scraping lightly against Zenitsu’s scalp. “Oh, Zenitsu… What am I to do with a sweet boy like you?”

The simple praise causes something to stir in Zenitsu’s gut. He discreetly ruts against Mr. Ōnamazu’s foot, his face drawing closer to the latter’s groin. The musky scent grows and Mr. Ōnamazu’s foot moves, grinding down against Zenitsu’s cock. A tiny moan slips from his mouth, his eyelids drooping.

His mouth waters.  Mr. Ōnamazu’s cock is right there, right in front of his face, and Zenitsu wants nothing more than to feel its weight against his tongue. The sheer size of Mr. Ōnamazu’s thighs encasing either side of Zenitsu’s head fuels his degenerative thoughts; it’d be so easy for them to squeeze the life out of him, choke him until he’s begging for air…

 Mr. Ōnamazu’s tits jiggle as his chest heaves. Besides the blush on his face, his expression barely shows a thing. Fuck, would Zenitsu be allowed to put his mouth on them? He wants his hands to be full of the plump flesh, to leave dark marks in places only known to him. He wants Mr. Ōnamazu.

“Sir, can I please,” Zenitsu pants. He feebly paws at Mr. Ōnamazu’s inner thighs. “I want to suck your cock…”

Finally, finally, Mr. Ōnamazu’s façade cracks. Nodding his head, he shoos Zenitsu away and draws to a stand. He quickly undoes his pants, lets them drops to his ankles. Zenitsu watches in a daze, not really paying to the fact that Mr. Ōnamazu took off his pants rather than just whipping his dick out. His hips, his thighs, his ass, they’re all so overwhelming, but fuck if Zenitsu doesn’t them to crush his skull. He dives in, not giving Mr. Ōnamazu another chance to move. He mouths Mr. Ōnamazu’s crotch, his tongue lapping at the stripe of wetness-

Zenitsu’s brain short circuits. Instead of the hard outline of a cock, his lips met the soft, plump lips of a pussy… Zenitsu moans, his cock kicking in his trousers. The front of them is already a wet mess, but he pays it little mind.  Mr. Ōnamazu’s boxer briefs are thin, and they do very little to hide the fact that he does, in fact, have a vagina. The sticky cloth clings to the puffy lips. Zenitsu tucks his nose straight against the slit and breathes, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

He urges Mr. Ōnamazu to take a seat, his hands peeling away the offending article of clothing.  Mr. Ōnamazu’s pussy lips are coated with sweet, sweet slick; Zenitsu dives in, clutching at Mr. Ōnamazu’s deliciously thick hips while his tongue laps at his core.

 Mr. Ōnamazu curses under his breath, his fingers finding purchase in Zenitsu’s hair and holding on tightly. Zenitsu eats like a man starved, brain devoid of any thoughts as he desperately licks and sucks at the treat before him. He gropes the thick thighs squeezing around his head, his cock leaking more and more the further they smother him.

Zenitsu, being the master that he is, has read enough erotic manga and watched enough porn to have a general idea of what to do. His lips wrap tightly around that little bud, and his fingers take the place where his tongue was.

Praise after praise spills from Mr. Ōnamazu’s mouth. He shamelessly grinds his pussy against Zenitsu’s face, his breath catching in his throat the closer he reaches to his climax. Zenitsu nearly creams in his pants when Mr. Ōnamazu lets out a high-pitched whine, his thighs suffocating Zenitsu further as he cums. Zenitsu frantically laps at the leaking wetness, his eyelids fluttering.

After a few moments, Mr. Ōnamazu finally spreads his legs and lets Zenitsu go from his grasp. His pink, sweaty face makes his eyes shine, and his reading glasses are delightfully fogged up.

“Does… that… answer your question?”  Mr. Ōnamazu asks as he catches his breath.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Zenitsu gradually nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good…”

“Mr. Ōnamazu?”

“Yes?”