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THIRD TIME'S A CHARM - kento nanami.

✩ — about. “my coworker is a wonderful person. they’re kind and sweet. they care a lot about others. recently, i’ve been having some…less than platonic feelings for them and i don’t know how to handle it." kento nanami never cared for workplace shenanigans. he never took his mind off of work. and he never thought he would develop feelings for his coworker, nor expect for them to feel the same way about him. what happens when he misses your three attempts to ask him out? perhaps reddit will know... ( 5.5K )

✩ — warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! sfw, fluff, angst, happy ending  - video banner ! AITA-verse!au, office romance!au, mutual pinining, cluelessness, misunderstandings, christmas time, mentions of alcohol, office worker!nanami, afab!reader.

✩ — things to note. happy monday everyone, i have for you yet another fic to go with my gojo one! this story was written as a gift for @antizenin bc i love her so bad !! can be read as a stand-alone but does make refrences to my AITA gojo fic !! thank you to @todorosie for beta reading! hope you enjoy beloveds <3 - series m.list ⋆ m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊ ⊹

my coworker is a wonderful person. they’re kind and sweet. they care a lot about others. recently, i’ve been having some…less than platonic feelings for them and i don’t know how to handle it. my chest feels tight when they’re away and whenever they’re nearby my heart beats so fast i feel like i might pass. it would be a pleasure to date them or to just stand by them… there’s only one problem. i’m not usually the type of guy who engages in workplace shenanigans, i hardly know how to interact with people outside of the confines of my work. my coworker has made a few advances, at least i think they have. i don’t know how to respond or whether or not i’m over-thinking this. do they even like me? is it all in my head? i could really do with some advice… how should i go about this and telling them how i feel?  TLDR: i have a crush on my coworker but i can’t, for the life of me, tell if they like me back. 

you’ve always liked your co-worker, kento nanami.

to those who don’t know him, he appears quite stoic and blunt, cold even. like the crisp weather at the start of winter, air that’s sharp and bites unpleasantly at your nose. nanami tends to act the same towards those he holds no affections for, blocking them out as if he were a fortress made of stone.

one may even paint a picture of kento nanami as a lone wolf — callous and uninterested in the buzz of the office. he stays late, works long hours, never engages with the gossip on your floor after work. 

that’s only the beginning of how the world sees your blonde co-worker.

but you have come to know nanami, in your short time working for Gojo Corporations. you’ve not been there very long, still adapting to the office culture and your brand new line of work, but in the few months that you have been finding your equilibrium in the office — you’ve gotten used to nanami’s demeanour, his ethic, his lifestyle. you’ve come to appreciate it, and him. 

the man works hard, with a quiet confidence about him that puts your mind at ease — a quality you only wished that you had. it makes you curious, how little he seems to care about what it is Gojo Corp actually does but how much of his time he puts into it and how much he cares for the people around him too. you’ve learned, by taking the desk to nanami’s left, that he’d risen pretty quickly in the company, he begrudgingly seems to be gojo’s (your boss’) favourite employee and that he’s surprisingly good at what he does for someone who hates it so much. 

he presents at meetings and debfriefs calmly, always gets through his tasks with an air of rationale and when you’d first started…nanami was kind, gently leading you through your own work as if he’d taken your hand in his and was guiding you to some place warmer — away from the chill of your nerves and self-doubt. in his own way, he cared. nanami was not as cold as one might think. 

there’s so much more to him than what meets the average human eye. ever since joining the company — you found yourself curious, wanting to know everything about him. what drives him, what pisses him off, where he wants to go and who he wants to be. beneath his calm, collected and commanding aura there is a man whose heart holds many secrets. a man you want to know… and might even want to be with.

the very thought of being with nanami makes you shy where you wish that you weren’t. maybe then, you could tell the blonde office man how handsome you thought he looked while concentrating on filing reports and paperwork. perhaps you could then steel your nerves and stop the shake in your voice while telling him how much you like the low dip in his own when he explains KPIs and stock markets to you. not to mention how hard he works on keeping his patience with not just you… but the interns megumi, nobara and yuuji as well (yuuji was the brother of someone your boss new very well back in college, apparently). the ways in which he’s taken the young trio under your wing, it’s a wonder you haven’t had baby fever yet.

nanami even extends the same grace to your man-child of a boss, he wouldn’t have stayed working for Gojo Corp and for satoru gojo if he didn’t. in some ways, they were like a little family at the company, and nanami was the responsible one always picking up gojo’s messes and holding the others together. 

especially on days when gojo came into work emotional over developments in his ex’s new life.

still, nanami stayed. 

and your crush on him bloomed like a light frost spreading across the double-glazed glass of a window. 

you felt your heartbeat speed up whenever nanami was close by and you could smell the ginger and cinnamon on him, not to mention, the hairs on the back of your neck would stand whenever your hands brushed over one another’s. nanami was warm on the inside, you knew that — he liked his interns, he cared for gojo especially when the days were tough (like when he holed himself up in his office after finding out his ex was getting engaged). he even brought lunch for the office floor. mostly soup for haibara whenever he got sick. 

you knew deep down that nanami was soft and loving — you felt that he needed love too. you wanted to be the one to give it to him, even if it was the last thing you did.

ATTEMPT #ONE - THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 

satoru gojo’s office holiday parties were far from what was considered appropriate for the workplace. 

with thousand dollar bottles of booze and jars of caviar dotted about the main conference room — it was hard for anyone not to be in high spirits. the notes of cheery christmas carols drift through your ears and the tinsel that your boss had thrown over your shoulders scratches at your neck uncomfortably. you’re not one for buzzing celebrations like this, they’re too noisy and loud, but gojo has made you promise to attend this year's party… and he was oddly convincing for a manager this unserious. 

ultimately, you were glad that you’d decided to come because while being spoiled by your boss was all good and fun — it provided you with the perfect social setting and opportunity to speak to your longtime crush, nanami. 

like you, he wasn’t a fan of forced mingling in the office, and had no interest in consoling his tipsy manager who was currently crying up a storm into one of his poor intern’s shoulders. the blonde office man kept to himself, tucked away by the bright lights of the christmas tree as he nursed a piping hot coffee — he wouldn’t be getting drunk on company time. 

you manage to break away from conversing with shoko and make your way over to the latter co-worker, swallowing down your nerves with a swig of the moscato satoru had so generously picked out for you — knowing that you liked the sweeter stuff and that it would probably loosen your lips enough for you to get this over with (he and those interns were fully aware of how much you admired kento nanami). sliding up beside the man, your long, embroided skirts swish against his ankles — only serving to pull his attention away from his work phone and onto you. 

taking a sip of your drink to warm yourself up with liquid courage and break the ice — you hum, quietly. “any plans for the holidays, kento?” you ask him simply, and though your deep and gorgeous brown eyes stay trained on the bubbles in your glass — you can feel kento’s own chocolatey pair land on the side of your face. whether they’re scrutinising you or admiring you, you can’t actually tell.

if you were looking, you’d be able to see the way that the sharp edges of kento’s usual expression soften across his face — the straight line of his lips are parted, his furrowed brows becomes relax and his posture no longer ridged, but instead, at ease. if you were looking you’d know that out of all of his co-workers (aside from the interns), kento is most comfortable around you. he find your meek and cautious demeanour adorable and the way that you sometimes awkwardly flutter around him in conversations is cute. 

“not much, just working.” he responds quickly and shortly. to anyone else, they would have taken nanami’s reply as cold and callous, but you? you smile softly, glad that he’s even taking part in your small talk. 

you’ve always been a little quieter than most colleagues at Gojo Corp, but you’ve always tried your hardest to make connections and bring the group together. you care for the interns so deeply, helping them to learn from your initial mistakes at the organisation and to do better. he likes that you’re good company, knowing just the right things to ask and when, allowing for comfortable silences when no one in the team feels like talking.

nanami likes you. 

and perhaps that’s what makes him awkward around you as well, the very fact that he can’t find fault in you — that you’re too sweet and kind and gentle to complain about like he would with nagging gojo. what does he say to someone as wonderful as you?

he doesn’t want the moment to end, however. “how about you?” 

the blonde says your name softly, as though he’s testing it out on his tongue — and you can’t help the warmth that blooms like a spring rose in your chest at the honeysuckle sound. you’re hot all over and you’re sure it’s not the alcohol. 

“f-family!” you squeak shyly, voice high pitched as you fend off excitement — having nanami elaborate on your conversations isn’t a usual occurrence. coughing, you take a sip of your drink and knock it down a notch. not that kento would want you to, since he finds your enthusiasm to chat with him so endearing. “i have family…coming. o-over the break! flying in from abroad, so it’s going to be special.”  the blonde’s brow raises with interest, and you latch onto the opportunity to speak with him further, basking in your quiet moment together. “i’m not usually one to cook, but my mother and i will be handling dinner together! so it’ll be a mix of all sorts of foods. traditional and from our home country too.” 

nanami slips his work phone away in order to give you his full attention. “that sounds…wonderful,” he settles on saying. he wonders what your family is like, if they’re as shy and endearing as you or louder like that of the dynamics at the office. he imagines you surrounded by love, by laughter and warmth… and can’t help but yearn for the same. “i do miss home cooking, christmas in new york isn’t quite the same as japan.”

“t-then you’re welcome to spend christmas with us!” you blurt before your mind can even process what you’ve said. now you really must be drunk, or tipsy at the very least. who just invites their coworkers over to their house without getting to know them first. “we’ll have more than enough to fix you a plate…if you’d like,” despite your overexcited blunder, you remain hopeful that nanami will accept your invitation or at least get the hint. that you want to know him better and spend more time with him. 

but nanami doesn’t take the hint, he can’t seem to figure out why you’d want to spend time with him outside of work, and so, puts up a respectful boundary. nanami smiles and puts down the coffee he’d been drinking. “i wouldn’t want to impose on your time with family.” 

you frown, the stacked bricks of your excitement coming tumbling down. “kento that’s not what i meant—“ 

“look!” gojo cuts in, slurring from across the room as he points a shaky finger at the two of you by the tree. “they’re standin’ un’da the mistletoe!”

both yourself and nanami look up in disbelief to find yourselves standing under calculatedly placed mistletoe — no doubt due to the meddling of your boss. though you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to kiss nanami, it was more of question as to whether or not he wanted to kiss you.

“gojo, you’re drunk. and i really should be getting back to work.” kento insists, clearing his throat and immediately looking away from you with a bashful blush. you’re perfect, and darling, and to kiss you really would make kento’s day…but he’d never want to make you uncomfortable or put you on the spot like this. “i have budget reports for your meeting in a few hours.” 

“fuck the reports, don’t you wanna kiss the pretty lady?” nanami looks to you, shying away from the conversation and squirming under the sudden attention of the office party-goers. “i wouldn’t want to make her uncomfortable.” 

“i-i wouldn’t be.” comes your hushed whisper. 

nanami coughs to clear his throat, flustered by you. “are you sure?” 

having had enough of your back and forth, dancing around one another like two teenagers confessing to each other on white day — gojo steps in, forcing his drunk yet authoritarian hand. “come on nanamin,” the white haired man drawls impatiently. “if you don’t kiss her! i will!” 

“no!” you and nanami bark adamantly in unison — causing gojo to smirk and stagger happily while megumi and yuuji hold him up.

 “then go ahead and kiss. or i’ll have to fire you.” 

the idea of losing your job over a trivial christmas tradition is enough to spook you into agreeing. that and you couldn’t imagine kissing satoru gojo… the thought makes you gag to yourself. “fine,” nanami grunts before looking to and addressing you next, “do you mind?” 

you nod once, breath shaky. “it’s okay.” 

“where are you most comfortable being kissed?”

“um, i haven’t… i’ve not had my first yet so…” 

“ah, i see. i won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable then.” hearing the news makes something weird… stir within the blonde’s firm chest. being your first kiss, his co-worker’s first kiss is an appealing thought — almost a little twisted and selfish for him. to have that honour, to be the one you would give it to, makes his head spin. 

gojo cute through his train of thought, however. “god, would you too hurry it up!”

nanami rolls his eyes at his boss (which would have gotten anyone else fired.) but let’s the corners of his pink lips quirk up into a subtle smile directed at you, and only you. cautiously, he leans down as though not to spook you like a deer in the woods, and takes your hand in his larger and more calloused one. “sorry about this.” he hums quietly, the rough pad of his thumbs traversing through the ridges of your knuckles. 

“i-it’s fine.” you repeat your earlier sentiment, holding your burning breath as kento drags the back of your hand up to his lips. dark brown eyes meet even darker ones — your gentle gazes meeting in the middle as the tensions rise within the conference room. your entire body melts like butter in a pan and your heart bursts out your chest with the crescendo of the christmas music in the background when kento nanami presses a soft chaste kiss to the back of your hand.

your kiss under the mistletoe. 

once he breaks eye contact and snaps out of it — nanami is quick to announce is departure, covering up his flustered expression. “now, i really must be getting back to work. thank you for the party gojo,  kids,”  he nods at you softly with an utterance of your name and leaves not long after, leaving you with a flurry of butterflies in your tummy. 

leaving you a sheepish, warm mess because while you had intended to ask nanami out and failed, you still managed to get somewhat of a kiss. 

you press your hand to your lips, feeling the warmth of kento’s lips embedded into the skin there. somehow, you find it within yourself to ignore gojo's whine for a proper mistletoe liplock in the background — choosing to focus on the lingering touch left by your crush.

“how about the receptionist, she’s into you!” you hear yuuji suggest, earning a cheer from your stupid silver haired boss. 

the three interns plus gojo disappear from the party after that, while you remain stuck in place like a statue made of stones— repeating the kiss in your head over and over again, in your thoughts drowning in images of kento nanami. 

ATTEMPT #TWO - THE SECRET SANTA.

“good morning, kento!”

“good morning to you too,” 

bristling from nanami’s warm greeting (as well as him calling you by your first name), you shuffle into the seat beside him with cold cheeks and bright eyes — doing your best to quietly shift out of your winter attire to make sure you don’t disturb the rest of the conference room. you’ve just snuck into the team meeting for Gojo Corp’s annual secret santa. this year would be your first time taking part and it took a hell of a lot of bribing (not really, just some locally made daifuku and the number of the receptionist gojo might be crushing on) to convince your boss to give you nanami for the special festive event. 

picking out a gift for your blonde haired and stoic presenting crush proved difficult at first. you already knew that kento spent a lot of time at the office, working hard and dedicating himself to hours of paperwork — but that wasn’t exactly useful to know when it came to gift giving. however, after weeks of gathering intel by tapping into whatever office buzz nanami was involved in and sharing short exchanges with him by the coffee cart outside of Gojo Corp, you’ve managed to learn two things about kento nanami.

one, his appreciation for something homemade or cooked — like the quaint family owned bakery not too far from the office. 

and two, his dream destination. the one place that he’s always wanted to vacation to — Kuantan, Malaysia. 

now you couldn’t exactly afford to just splurge and buy him a ticket over there, not to mention there was a considerate budget placed on gifts…but what you could do is bring nanami’s favourite things to the office. while gojo sets out the rules for staff, you gently place your carefully wrapped presents on the table before you, again, trying to avoid making a ruckus with the crinkling wrapping paper. 

“you’re a little later than usual.” nanami comments to you in a low tone, having been watching you this entire time. 

he would feel weird saying it out loud, but he notices that you’re always early into the office — clicking in around twenty minutes to nine every day and that you take your time in setting up your desk for the day. as though you have a routine to calm your anxieties.

“i had to stop by somewhere for a last minute gift.” you grin after a hushed quip. and nanami can’t help but find it contagious. you’re a warm ray of sunshine to him — one that he can’t help but want to bask under and be near, especially during this winter cold. you make kento feel at peace with your calm aura. the way you speak so tenderly and kindly. as he turns his attention back to a blabbering gojo, he finds himself growing jealous of whoever received your gift. whoever it is, he hopes that they appreciate your thoughtfulness.

after the rules are done, everything is exchanged between assigned pairs as gojo calls up who was responsible form who.

elation courses through nanami’s veins once he learns that his secret santa was you —  happy to know that he is about to be on the receiving end of your perfectly wrapped presents. 

“i hope you like them,” you bleat shyly, passing him the leopard print-covered gifts. the very sight makes him grin, since the paper matches his usual work tie.  

the blonde takes his time unwrapping each layer of paper — as if he doesn’t want to ruin all the hard work you put into presenting this perfectly for him. a strong wave of fondness crashes over your co-worker once the first present is revealed. nanami’s favourite, freshly baked sandwich from the japanese bakery downtown. the one he visits every day, and the same sandwich he orders every time. the one that fills him with nostalgia and reminds him of home. 

the next gift is even more thoughtful, and he fights off the urge to clutch his chest — as if cupid has shot an arrow right through his heart and made it yearn for you and your kindness. it’s a crocheted water lily, like those found in the Taman Gelora park in Malaysia. the same park that nanami has always wanted to go to. 

there’s a little postcard of the location too — with a note scribbled in your precise handwriting, wishing nanami a happy christmas. he tries not to dwell on the heart signed next to your name.

your saccharine voice slices through kento’s wild and appreciative thoughts delicately and he spares you a glance, watching your features as they illuminate with happiness from his reaction. you can tell that he likes your gift, and that fills you both with joy. “i heard from a little bird that you’ve always wanted to take a trip to Kuantan. and while i couldn’t get you a ticket myself, i figured these would be the next best thing. plus some food for your flight.” you joke while nanami thumbs the ridges of the yarn making up his water lily gift. 

he laughs then, remembering how yuuji had grilled him about his dream vacation weeks back. it must have been for you. 

you’re so selfless and thoughtful, it still blows the blonde office man’s mind that you would have gone through the trouble of getting him such a gift. most times, colleagues at Gojo Corp settle for fancy chocolates or snooty vouchers for department stores… but you used so much of your own time and effort to create something that kento nanami would truly appreciate. it drives him mad that he can’t seem to figure out why. why would you do something so nice for him? 

“i wish i could have gotten you something in return.” he mumbles fondly.

“i don’t need anything from you kento,” you say sweetly, making his heart race as you put your hand over his. “i appreciate you and you’re my friend. i don’t need anything more.” you figure now is a bad time to confess to him, in front of everyone. though you might have chosen the wrong words — because while you do want more from nanami, he now thinks that you don’t, pulling away from you slightly. “i… i appreciate everything you do for the company. a-and i like spending time with you. being your friend.” 

you facepalm internally, knowing you could have worded yourself better — but the realisation comes a little too late, for nanami is already pulling away from you, his once soft smile falling into place with the harsh lines of a frown. “thank you for the gifts,” he says, a little colder. now that he’s figured out why you truly made him those gifts. you see nanami as a friend, a good one. nothing more, like he had secretly hoped. “i must be getting back to work.” 

“o-oh but kento—“ he looks down at you icily, you have no idea why he’s being so cold. he hasn’t a clue either, it’s not like you know of his affections or fondness towards you. you thought that calling yourselves  friends would be just fine… at least until you found the confidence to confess properly. “nanami…did i offend you? i didn’t mean to pry with your gifts! i just wanted them to be perfect—“

“—you’re fine. just… duty calls. paperwork.” 

“oh, right.” you reply, weak and defeated, thinking that he’s mad at you. rejecting you again. “good luck nanami…”

“thanks,” he mumbles. “for this, and the gift.” 

“you’re welcome,” you say, mostly to yourself but before you can say more he’s disappeared from the conference room and gone back to his cubicle. 

ATTEMPT #THREE - THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS.

as mentioned before, your boss isn’t exactly the serious type.

satoru gojo is silly and often irresponsible in regards to work. he’s had a lot to deal with and a lot to learn, he covers his mistakes with charms and smiles, but he’s learning. and when it comes down to it, satoru cares for the company, the office and most importantly —  his staff.

which is why he makes it a rule that no one in his main team should work over the christmas period — with no exceptions. 

of course, the ever-dedicated kento nanami has always found a loop-hole in avoiding the festive rule and his manager’s simple christmas wish. which is why, much to your chargin, satoru has meddled a little bit and sent you into the office to send nanami home. usually you wouldn’t mind the opportunity to speak with your crush, but after your second rejection from him in such a short space of time, you’re not so sure your little heart can take seeing the man before the holidays. 

you’d agreed to satoru’s request nonetheless, your family didn't arrive until tomorrow and you couldn’t live with yourself if you let kento work through the night. you still had feelings for him after all. 

when you arrive at your office, it’s dark and dim — matching the evening and it’s weather outside. you assume that any cleaning staff have already gone home, instructed by nanami who would also hate to keep people behind on Christmas Eve. it seems like him to offer to clean up after himself.

rounding the corner, you spot him in the conference room, tucked away by the tree from your christmas party as he taps away at his work laptop — no doubt finishing the Q3 report. you push past the glass door and make your way inside, tugging your scarf, hat and coat off while you watch nanami work. you hang them all up on a nearby coat rack.

“i know you’re there,” he speaks into the dark silence. “is that you, satoru? i’m not going home.” 

“actually, satoru sent me in here to make sure you weren’t working on Christmas Eve.” you respond in an even tone, ignoring the slash of hurt over your heart when nanami fails to even spare you so much as a glance upon hearing your dulcet voice. 

he instead scoffs, returning to his work. “tell him that i’m fine. i don’t need to be babysat. i know when to take a break.” kento doesn’t why he’s being so harsh with you, it’s not like you knew of his feelings. calling him your friend had been a token of kindness, but he let his rationality slip away and acted out because… what? he was afraid of your rejection?

despite his mean words, you stand your ground and refuse to leave kento alone. “i figured you might say that, so i bought you some food. these are cookies from the bakery that you like and they should keep you going,” you rummage in your tote for a small of cookies — pushing them across the large conference table for your stubborn blond co-worker. “the girl that works there is sweet. maybe we should go sometime, we can take a break from your work and have some cold turkey sandwiches ahead of Christmas Day—“

“if i wanted sweets i would have called up that meddling boss of ours, satoru,” nanami seethes, losing his patience. the more he looks at you, those big brown eyes and your soft, beautiful face, the more hurt he feels, the more nauseated he feels knowing that you might not like him the way he likes you. as  just friends, instead of something more. “why are you here?” 

you blink back your suprise. “w-what?” 

“don’t you have family to be spending the night with?”

“i do it’s just… i worry about you, nanami. you work too hard, it’s christmas.” 

“i really, really would like to finish the report so i can go home.” 

your face scrunches up with rage and using that same fury, you march over the blonde man in three short strides — grabbing his chair and whirling him around to face you. you slam his laptop closed with enough power to shatter the damn thing, fixing nanami to look at you. ”what is wrong with you?” 

“pardon?” 

“i’ve… i’ve been trying all month to show you how much..how much i care about you and how much i like you. but it’s like you don’t even see me.” your voice warbles despite how angry you are, tears threatening to spill over the edge of your lashes. everything hurts, you don’t know what you’ve done to make nanami resent you in the way that he does now. perhaps if you were different, more confident and self assured maybe he would notice your gestures and implications. maybe he would like you back.

you wish for the darkness of the office to swallow you whole and make you disappear as you and nanami do nothing but stare blankly at each other. however, the lights on the obnoxious christmas tree continue to flash in the corner — illuminating the crystal tears clumped in your lashes and the slope of your features with a perfect golden glow. nanami sees you, he always has…but what good would a man like him be to a girl like you? sure, he wants to settle down, wants christmas with someone he loves, somewhere comfortable where he doesn’t have to worry about a thing — let alone money.

…but nanami is a tough nut to crack, he keeps to himself so much that even now you’re struggling hard to get him to speak his truth, and his feelings. he wouldn’t want you to give up trying even while he struggles to open up. 

“i see you.” finally, kento finds his confidence and admits his truth to you. “i always have.” 

he stands from his seat, towering over you and you stumble back. “do you? i’ve tried so hard… to tell you…”

the blonde leans down to your height and your words trail off, overwhelmed by him. “to tell me what?” 

he prays that you can’t hear the pound of his heart against his ribcage or the blood rushing through his ears… but nanami has never stepped out of line or taken a risk and if he doesn’t, break the rules, he could risk losing the one good thing at this god forsaken place. “that i… that i like you. kento. i-i’m fond of you.” you exhale through your words, succumbing to everything that makes up kento nanami. his scent, gingerbread and fresh mint, makes you dizzy, his proximity makes your world tilt on its axis and you’re so nervous that you latch onto the collar of his dark blue dress shirt to keep yourself steady. 

nanami seizes the opportunity to pour into you every emotion that he can’t bring himself to say. his large hands settle gingerly on the small of your back and his warm breath coasts over your fleshly lower lip, as if to ask for permission to kiss you properly. “may i?” comes his timbre voice, equality as shaky as yours had been earlier. you shake your head ‘yes’, giving nanami your consent to press his lips against your own in a life changing kiss. the action is tender, guiding you in all of the right places where you lack experience. the fists you'd formed in the collar of his shirt loosen the more that nanami works your lips in his gentle kiss — warming the frost over your little heart. 

“i’m quite fond of you too,” he says your name after finally giving you the room that you need to breathe and kento brushes a thumb over your the swell bottom lip before he kisses you gently again. “i’m sorry i didn’t say so earlier.” 

still holding onto him, a breathy chuckle escapes you as if you’re in shock. “w-what…what changed your mind? i thought you didn’t like me like that…”

“it wasn’t my mind that needed changing. it was the way i saw how you felt about me… i should have asked instead of assuming you only saw me as a friend. that was my mistake,” nanami explains carefully, choosing his words wisely. “you’ve been fair and kind to me, and i failed to give you the same grace due to my own doubts. i admire you, and should have confessed to you sooner but i—“ 

“but you wanted to finish working first, i get it.” you giggle and lean up to peck kento on the lips, stealing the words right out of his mouth. “just… please talk to me next time. i thought you were mad at me.” 

your blonde co-worker, crush and now.. partner? (that was to be decided) gives your waist an apologetic squeeze — acknowledging his mistakes. “i owe you that much,” he replies warmly, “now how about those turkey sandwiches you were talking about?” nanami questions you awkwardly, in his own charming way of asking you out for a date on christmas eve. 

after packing up and like a gentleman, he retrieves your scarf, hat and coat from the nearby coat rack by the door and gently pulls them over you one by one. like he cares, like he might even love you. he even zips you up to protect your cheeks from the bitter cold. nanami folds his own coat over the bend of his and grasps your hand firmly in his — keeping you close as you walk out of the office, a newly formed christmas couple. 

somewhere off in the distance, the boss of the Gojo Corp office watches with a sly grin. while satoru might not have gotten his holiday romance, he’s glad his little plan was enough to get yourself and nanami together. 

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[toji-bunny-girl]

@aesonsgirl @lihlyx @kyyyynziee @lxvies @sentientvex @persephvnes-elysivm @st9rz @enrydice @xxharumixx @venusianangel3 @iminlovewqr0w @fredswh0re @buttermilkhoney @tojislawyer @maybe-a-bi-witch @artemisthestar @ebbsyebs @sluut4toji @bmorgonzobean @cupidszvlvr @apchmon @rereena @yuutalvr @nr1slut @enchi-ladass @mikochiichan @l0v3m3-p13as3 @cofijelli @twochainsandrollies @lizrkive@cookiecrumblemoonster @sooberriesx @genderfluidnuggettt @x1aosg1rl @elliotellio @air3922 @xavlyzn @mcromer2999-blog @chososgf04 @hatekage @kd01r @reniberries @bisexualpanicwentoutforasmoke @strawberrycvmcake @bbygutp @wafflefries786 @alexelabc @ianirizz @i-am-bad-at-this-help @vannamarie21 @myxstical

𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇’𝐒 𝐁!𝐓𝐂𝐇

CHARACTERS— Grinch!Toji Fushiguro x sexy goddess goofy fem!reader SUMMARY— The thief of Christmas joy, the thief of children's gifts, and this time, the thief of your boyfriend's slutty surprise. WORD COUNT— 3k+ CONTENT WARNING— slight angst, swearing, goofiness, smut, porn with plot, adultery, bondage, size difference, orgasm denial, NTR, spanking, fingering, blowjob, oral sex, no protection, noncon A/N— I wanna get fucked dumb by Toji too (hope yall don’t notice the obvious bias in smut between this and the other two Kinkmas fics 🤭 this man just makes me 100000x hornier)

“You sure you can breathe in there?” Miya questioned your sanity, a frown etched upon her face as she stared at the way you shifted on your knees, tied up with red ropes in a Santa lingerie.

“I mean, there’s a few small holes I made at the back,” you pointed with your eyes, an awkward laugh skipping out of your throat.

“You’re fucking insane, (Y/N),” your best friend sighed, shutting her eyes to take a rest from your ridiculous sight. “All this for what? You’re not even sure if Mr. Vanilla likes kinky aah shit like this.”

“Never back down never what…” you softly mumbled, trying to keep yourself focused on what you’ve prepared for your boyfriend this Christmas. He’d return home from work to find a giant ribboned box on his bed. Inside would be you, all tied up in your new erotic red lingerie.

You’ve managed to convince yourself that this was all a wonderful erotic surprise for Seiji. When in reality it was nothing but a catalyst to excite your sexual relationship with him. The thing is—your boyfriend is the most vanilla partner you’d ever have, while without his knowledge; you were the kinkiest slut your friends had ever known.

Throughout your 9 months of dating, sex was infrequent and soft. To put things truthfully, the act with your boyfriend is boring. You’ve tried encouraging him to be more experimental with you—to lightly chock you or even slap your ass when he’s fucking you. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, and maybe that’s part of the reason you fell for him.

He’s gentle and kind, ever so careful to handle you like you’re a fragile piece of art. Seiji was nothing like your past lovers, with him you learned true romance. With the price of your sexual satisfaction and ardour.

So this Christmas, you thought of a plan to surprise him—his sexy girlfriend all tied up for him to use however he wanted. It’s every man’s dream come true to have a fervid hottie on their bed. But when it comes to Seiji, you could never be sure of it; he’s different than the others but he’s your Seiji.

“What’s the time now,” you raised your eyebrows as Miya peeked at her phone screen.

“6:56.”

“How’s my makeup? How’s my hair?” you dubiously asked, needing everything to be perfect as if you had just popped out of a Playboy magazine.

“Very sexy,” Miya assured under her breath as she brushed a wild strand of hair away from your face. Her eyes scanned your face to spot any smudged makeup, “As always, so pretty.”

“Thank you so much, Miya. Once Seiji fucked the shit out of me and get me pregnant—I’m naming one of my kids after you,” you frivolously said, leaving the girl chuckling at your words.

“Alright, I have to leave before Vanilla Man comes back,” she checked the time once more before grabbing the lid of the giant box. “But I gotta give it to you, this shit is low-key weird but original.”

“Thanks for your compliment,” you grinned at your friend, before feeling the light over your head gone and replaced by darkness.

“Bye, (Y/N). Don’t die in there!” Miya’s voice muffled through the cardboard as she tapped the box goodbye. Silence ensued and soon, you heard the front door slam close.

Seiji had better not be home late if he didn’t want his prurient surprise to turn into a horror documentary on YouTube.

Your joints were starting to ache within a minute of waiting, the kneeling position you chose obviously backfired. Sure, the pose is cute and all—but is it worth the growing pain in your knees? If you’re getting absolutely ravished by tonight; then yes.

By the next few minutes, you began to lament about the choices you had made. Your knees hurt so bad it felt like someone was flaying their whip onto your skin, and you were busy chanting your mantra just to stop your tears from flowing out and ruining your hours-spent makeup.

Never back down never what…?

“Fuck it,” you cried, leaning your weight sideways against the cardboard just to lessen the burden on your joints. But as much as you regretted everything, the box toppled to the side along with your body. “Shit! Oh my god, what the fuck do I do?! Help!”

You tried to wriggle yourself out of the giant box but with your limbs bounded tight, you could do nothing but writhe like a worm. You must’ve looked like a clown.

Then, you heard it. The soft shutting of the door and the floorboard slightly creaked with footsteps. Though, each stride seemed to be a thump—were Seiji’s feet ever so heavy?

But you don’t ruminate over that, you have a bigger problem on your hands right then. Your boyfriend was going to walk in on you awkwardly lying on your side, what seemed to be a lewd surprise became a scene of embarrassment; you looked as if you were kidnapped and tied up, and it wasn’t in any sensual form you desired.

The bedroom door creaked open and your pulse began thumping fast in your ears. You could feel your face scorching into scarlet red, and you squeezed your lips shut, trying not to make a sound. Perhaps you were drunk off the hot embarrassment, you thought perhaps if you were silent enough, he wouldn’t notice the giant Christmas-themed box sitting in the middle of his bed, right?

Then you felt yourself being hoisted up into the air, and confusion struck your being. What was Seiji doing? Did he know about you hiding inside the box? Now was he fooling around with you?

“Seiji…?” you softly mumbled, and you were met with long silence as a reply. What exactly was going on? Feeling yourself put down on the wooden floor, you heard shuffling before you were propelled backwards from a harsh kick. “Hey!”

This wasn’t Seiji. Never was he one to ever act so rashly upon anyone or anything. And your skin began to crawl with a newfound fear. If a burglar were to find you helpless and unable to defend yourself…you were lucid with what could happen to you.

Fuck, man. You internally cursed, God was obviously making fun of your dumb little idea. Fuck the originality, you wanted out more than anything.

“One of ya’ fairies stuck in there?” the stranger spoke gravelly, his voice gruff like the rough bark of trees. Then he let out a deep laugh, slamming a palm atop the box. “You guys should start tellin’ Santa he can’t be throwin’ all the hard jobs to the tiny elves and fairies.”

The lid of the box lifted open and you squeezed your eyes shut from the sudden prickling exposure of bright rays. Slowly, your sight adjusted to the light and you peeked your eyelids open to look at the intruder.

A Christmas suit, and a marked face of animosity—the male squatted over your tied form with a look of uncongenial nonchalance. “Not a fairy…nor an elf. A human?”

“No shit, you crazy bitch. My boyfriend’s coming back any second now, and he’d beat the shit out of you!” you tried to daunt the stranger, though with a single look at him—you knew it was improbable that Seiji could take on this guy.

“You can see me?” he sounded amused, hands slightly waving around his sides.

“What do you mean ‘I can see you’? You’re a ghost or something?”

“Not quite,” he sighed, and you could smell burnt tobacco from his breath. “You ever heard of the Grinch?”

“Yeah…?”

“Well, turns out Christmas isn’t fake,” you stared as he gave you a slight smirk, the dark scar down his lips rising.

“And you’re telling me you’re ‘grinch’?” your eyes narrowed, scepticism in your features.

“Smart girl.”

“When really, you’re breaking into people’s houses and trying to convince them you’re a Christmas character whenever you’re caught red-handed.”

“Mm, yer’ ain’t wrong,” his eyes wandered to the side.

“That makes you a burglar, man.”

“One that no one can see… except for you’,” his eyebrows drew closer into a frown. “How odd.” His features shifted all of a sudden, and he relaxed into a sigh. “Fairy dust?”

“What?”

“This,” he pointed at the glitter on your eyelids.

“Oh, this? I found them on my dressing table so I thought why not,” you shrugged, rendering the hulking male to crack into a chuckle of disbelief.

“These are fairy dusts. The fairies leave them the night before Christmas to spread joy and wonders to people, ya’ get me? Anyone who touches ‘em would be able to see us,” he spoke apathetically. “And my job…” his hand reached out towards you, thumb swiping over your eyelid, “is to steal these.”

“My makeup!” you shouted, trying to wriggle yourself away from him. “I spent 2 hours doing them!”

“Why would ‘cha put random glitter on yer’ eyes anyway,” he retorted, grabbing your much smaller face with his large hand and using the other to wipe the fairy dust off of your skin.

“I hate you, bitch!”

“The name’s Toji, sweetheart,” he purred, the lowest cadence of his voice scratching the itch in your eardrums. Your eyebrows knitted into a glare, trying to mask the dark heat on your cheeks with that lour look of yours.

“You’ve got your stupid ‘fairy dust’ now. Happy?”

“Nope.”

“What more do you want?!”

“I haven’t picked a present to steal yet…” something in his eyes coruscate, a sharp ray of emerald green hared by in volant flash. In that moment, you could feel something stormy, so wild and barbaric in him—something you’ve missed since Seiji.

“I-I’ve got nothing here,” you huffed, stammering over your words as you shifted your gaze away.

“Ain’t you one?” his eyes raked over your figure, cleavage pushed up for view, and soft thighs presented like a toy. You felt naked underneath him; and for for some reason your nipples began to perk against the thin fabric of the scarlet red lingerie, panties beginning to dampen with arousal.

This man looked like a good fuck—and boy did your body needed one. Your lips paused open to say something, but you were simply cut off by a sudden shock when you felt your body lifted into the air once more. Toji was carrying all your weight with a hefty arm, pulling you out of the box and settling you onto the floor.

“Gee, thanks. Shit was starting to feel claustrophobic,” you never knew you were holding so much breath in when the male began to untie the ropes that held you. To be more specific, the ropes around your body except your hands. “Think you missed a spot, buddy.”

“Didn’t miss it,” he stood, watching as your legs wearily crumbled onto the ground. “Never intended to free ya’.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head upwards to look at him. And now from your height, you’d never imagine the male to be this huge. Even through his clothes, you could visibly spot the bulking muscles underneath, and the undeniable bulge in his pants.

Toji let out a low chuckle when he caught your eyes, showing the whites of your orbs as you stared; your tongue wet from salivating what could be under those stupid Christmas pants, a quiet gulp as your clit throbbed.

“Like what ‘cha lookin’ at?” his hot palm rested over your head, slightly messing up your hair but you couldn't care less anymore. His thumb tucked down all the restraint over his cock, and the sight of it made your breath hitched.

Dark tip with a prominent vein running down the bottom of his shaft, your lips almost instinctively opened to fit what you could into your mouth.

“Good girl,” he grinned, feeling the way your saliva coat his cock, tongue flickering and flattening against his throbbing tip. You gently stuffed your mouth with his member, before hollowing your cheeks and bobbing your head around his length.

Toji sharply sucked the air through his teeth, one hand fisting your hair and the other pumping the part of his shaft where you couldn’t reach.

“Such a fuckin’ slut,” he groaned under his breath, peering down at the way your eyes closed shut in silent contentment, slowly inching more of him through your lips until his tip was bumping against the wall of your throat.

You threw your head back after gagging a while on his cock, a string of saliva connecting his member with your tongue. Your jaw was getting sore and you had to take a quick breather until you were forced down again by Toji’s palm.

“Didn’t say you could stop,” he spat, thrusting his hips forward and stuffing your throat full of him. He was so big, too much to handle and tears began to well around your eyes; yet you’re moaning to the thought of his size, how it’ll just reach perfectly deep in your hole.

“Mmhp!” you whined, muffled by his member but Toji didn’t pause until after a few long, deep pushes into your swollen throat. Stuffing your mouth full of his cum, leaking out from the edges of your aching lips.

You spat his semen onto the ground before he grabbed you up onto the bed, spreading your thighs open with his breath still unstable from his previous ejaculation. “Fuckin’ whore,” he laughed, a thick thumb rubbing over your pulsing panty-covered clit. “Suckin’ dick got ‘cha wet?”

“Speak for yourself,” you breathed, “staring at my body got you hard?”

“How ‘bout you fill that mouth with my name instead of yer’ smart words?” his eyes were like green gems under shades; dark, sensual emerald. Slipping your panty off, Toji clicked his tongue when his eyes settled upon your glisteningly wet pussy, a smirk riding the edge of his mouth up.

You let in a sharp inhale when he stuffed two thick fingers into your cunt, your essence already coating his digits within a few pumps, the calloused skin of his fingers spurring on tingles in your pussy walls. He was a maven with his hands, fingers ably searching for the spongey spot inside of you, long enough to reach where you couldn’t—nor Seiji.

Seiji. Your mind began to plague with guilt for your poor boyfriend, you didn’t want to do him wrong but fuck—you just couldn’t stop when Toji had your sweet spot; rubbing over your clenching walls with a thumb busy swiping over your swollen clit.

Your pussy tightened around his digits as you cried for release, moans and whines filled the room as you buckled your hips. But as much as you wanted it, Toji refused to lead you through; a raffish smirk on his face as you swore at him.

“I was about to cum, asshole!” you gasped, visibly annoyed with the frown on your face. You raised a leg to facetiously kick him, but he caught your ankle in his grasp before dragging your body closer to him.

“Didn’t catch ‘cha beggin’,” a deep chuckle rumbled out of his lungs as his hands trailed up your thighs.

“I don’t beg for nothing,” you tried to play bratty.

“Oh, yea?” your body jumped up when he slapped the tip of heavy cock against your clit, your eyes seemingly dripping with desperation over your mask of a twisted frown. You wanted him inside of you so bad, and he could see it right through you.

Slipping a few inches his member into your folds, you could feel your cunt burn from the stretch, gripping onto his girth as he slowly forced himself in.

“Shit—” Toji swore under his breath, watching the way your pussy sucked him in, needy for him to fill your insides. You let out an exhale when his cock brushed over your sweet spots, your abdomen tingling when he reached deep.

He placed his arms on both sides of your head, hovering over your body with his, hips thrusting in and out of you. You could feel his warmth radiating towards yours, heating up your cheeks as you blinked up at him. His head dipped down to kiss you, sucking on your lips before sinking his teeth down, a hand slipping up to rest on your throat.

Your face began to turn red as he tightened his grip on your neck, his pace starting to roughen, the bed frame hitting against the wall so hard you doubted it wouldn't leave a mark. Your head was starting to get light, eyes blanking out with each blink and you could see stars popping in your sight.

You clenched your teeth as you shut your eyes, focusing on the pleasure building up in your womb, hugging Toji close with your thighs.

Just a little more, you thought as you peered down at where the two of you connected, his cock disappearing down your pussy and slipping out. Instead of filling your cunt with his length again, he let his hands hugged his girth, jerking himself off in front of you.

“Haah—fuck!” you swore, biting down your lower lip. “I was close, again!”

“What d’ya say?”

“Need your cock, please?” you cried, tired of the second orgasm he refused for you, and you were met with Toji manhandling you onto your knees, glistening cunt for his view as he stuffed a finger into your folds, teasing you with light stimulation.

That was until your phone buzzed with a new notification from your boyfriend, panic set in your being as you stared at your phone.

Sorry I’ll be a little late home, I had a quick meeting with the team :/ Don’t worry tho I just got out of the station. On the way home rn :) Miss you! 

“W-Wait! My boyfriend’s coming back…!” you tried to crawl away from him, but it was all in obvious futility as he held your hips, sinking his throbbing cock into your needy pussy.

“Shut yer’ mouth up and cum for me. Would ‘cha, pretty girl?” he groaned into your ear, his fingers sunk into your cheeks as he gripped onto your face, hips fucking deep into your sloppy cunt and fat tip kissing your cervix.

Your nerves were dancing upon fire, and you could do nothing but roll your eyes to the back of your head, your lips pausing open in pleasure as you let out croaked moans. Toji’s hips were positioning harder in and out of your sore pussy, his fingers swiping fast against your clit.

He could feel your walls clenching tighter than ever around him, and he shoved your head into the bedsheets to muffle out your screams, your bounded hands fighting against the restraints, and your back arching down towards the bed.

With his cock brushing over your G-spot and hitting your cervix for the nth time, your essence came squirting out of your core. You were silent for a second, sent to a heaven of pure ecstasy and your body twitched in pleasure you had never felt before.

Toji was still busy chasing his own high, simply using you as a fucktoy to be roughened up however he wanted—disregarding your overstimulated cunt and continuing to shove his cock into you. You could hear his groans starting to grow louder, feel his hips fastened and soon, warm spurts of thick cum filled your womb.

Your thighs shook in overstimulation as your whole weight fell onto the bed; sweat sticking your lingerie onto your skin and the bedsheets dirtied with your makeup. Toji had ruined you as he fucked, yet you’ve never found such contentment in sex.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he whispered, pasting a kiss onto your drooling lips, watching in satisfaction as your eyes blanked out from the fucking. “Tell yer’ lil’ boyfriend I said welcome.”

“(Y/N), I’m home!”

@coolpizzazonkplaid @byhuenii @idkmanimreallysleepy @stainednailpolishremover @jxnyi @peachtreexoxo @yaygurist @lalaloverss @aexlime @naruucore @sathavious @guillermowhatwedointheshadows @mistygrovesarchive @glittercums @altmoo @lollixgoddess @victoriak01 @kimminjulvr @ghostlyluminarycloud @satorminniett @someonewhotendstowrite @buhdussy @ichirasblog @kokomisworld @magiouu @bobbicore @xxshiino @urmommyzhot @jjkwhor3 @erostaeyong @tojisprincesa @edgyficuselastica @clemianna @fromthechaoticmind @idkcoolise @fallinlovewithbeelzebub @sirshitsalot12 @kuraa01 @awyunh @lxvegojo

[fuwushiguro-tags]

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Come To Me, Eternally

chapter three | masterlist

Shuuji Hanma x f!reader

Genre: Smut & Angst Notes: And so it ends Warnings: 18+, dubcon, alcohol consumption, smoking, gun stand off, major character death, mentioned violence against the reader, domestic abuse, graphic description of murder, vaginal sex, creampie, collaring. Words: 3.2k

networks: @planetonet @tometpd

Shuuji Hanma has never been a man to feel fear in his life. When others find themselves feeling alert and on edge, Hanma can do nought but laugh. But since leaving your place… The home that you share with your fiancé, his boss, he believes this may be the closest to panic he’s ever felt. In fact, he’d go as far as to admit he’s a little scared. Kisaki is a crazy fuck, like him. And also not to dissimilarly to Hanma, he’s calculated. He imagines that Kisaki has already gone out of his way to contact his subordinates and alert them of Hanma’s treachery. Hanma is brave, in the sense that he can stay in his penthouse like he didn’t reveal he’d been fucking his precious fiancé behind his back. He supposes you were right about one thing.

Shuuji Hanma is a dead man walking.

He’s been sipping his favourite whiskey since the minute he got home. But he isn’t stupid, he needs his wits about him, after all. He’s been nursing the same drink for a long while. He needs to consider himself. His next course of action. What has happened. What will happen. You entering his life after so long was an unexpected cog in his well oiled machine of existence. It had been so long since he’d thought about his favourite slut. His toy. He still can’t believe that he managed to forget you at all.

How could he forget someone he spent so long going out of his way to torment? Someone he forced to give her virginity to him. He was clumsy then, he’s sure you’ll agree. He had a little experience, more than most, so he knew what he was doing with you. But now, he is matured, he is a man. Despite the fact he sees women as devices to give him pleasure, he knows exactly how to please. And although it’s been so long since he played with your body, it is simply unforgettable. It is his. He’ll touch you just right and make you come undone with so little effort you’ll have barely taken a breath.

Is that why you run to him?

Is that why you’re back in his life?

Because you’re his, aren’t you? You won’t forget something so important like that. You’re always going to be his girl. Hanma’s Toy. It’s engraved in your flesh for that exact reason. But even without that permanent, black, ink. How could you forget someone you gave your virginity too? How could you forget all of the things he did and made you do? You couldn’t. You can’t. Even at such a young age, you wonder if he knew what he was doing. If he wanted to scar you so vehemently that you’d never be able to erase him from the recesses of your mind.

You’re his.

No one else’s.

His.

“Open the door, Hanma.”

It’s familiar. Why wouldn’t he recognise the voice of a man he’s been thick as thieves with for over a decade? With a cigar latched between his lips and his gun in his hands, he stands perfectly adjacent to the front door of his penthouse and points the weapon at the entrance. He has no doubt in his mind that Kisaki has brought an army with him to snuff him out and put an end to the memorable and insufferable Shuuji Hanma.

“It’s open, Tetta.” he responds. The use of his forename enrages Kisaki, a clear snub of his superiority and a lack of respect from Hanma.

He opens the door slowly… slowly… slowly… until they’re face to face with each other. And it’s unbelievable, but somehow, they manage to laugh. Kisaki is pointing his gun at Hanma, and Hanma’s is pointing right back. And for some reason, it’s so fucking amusing. How did things get like this? At one point or another, Kisaki would have trusted Hanma more than anyone else in the world. Even you. Fuck. You.

“Don’t tell me you came alone.” Hanma queries, refusing to let his guard down but still managing to take a tactical puff of his cigar.

“I did, believe it or not. I’m a reasonable man. Some might say, smart,”

“First I’m hearing about that.” Hanma jokes, earning a snicker from his former friend.

“I figure there’s history. And a simple explanation might just clear this all up. So, I haven’t told a damn soul about this. Pour me a drink.” Kisaki speaks and demands as he tilts his head and his gun in the direction of the tumbler of whiskey standing alone at Hanma’s lonely dining table.

“For real?”

“We’ll drink, and I’ll listen to what you have to say. And then I’ll blow your fucking head off for touching my little wifey.” he talks, calmly. The final sentence sounds like a joke, but his eyes are telling another story. He’s serious, deadly so.

Hanma clears his throat, refusing to lower his gun as he walks closer to the bottle of whiskey. He grabs an extra tumbler, pouring the bronze liquid into the glass while keeping his eyes and gun focused on his boss. Kisaki enters the penthouse, using his foot to close the door behind him.

It’s almost comical, really, how neither of the men refuse to put away their weapons. Even while sitting so close to each other. Their legs spread, a show of dominance, like men do, as they sit and find the most comfortable positions in their seats. It’s almost like a silent contest to display who needs more leg room, which of them has the biggest cock and balls.

It's Hanma.

Their gun holding arms turn to jelly as they enjoy their drinks. Resting the cool metal killing devices on their legs as they casually sip and slurp as if they’re indulging in last orders at a bar with close friends. A memory they’ve shared more times than they can count. But this is nothing like that complacent, relaxing vibe. This is tense.

“She’s missing, now. Have you, uh, seen her?” Kisaki queries.

“No. Why would I have? Doesn’t she have friends?” Hanma responds, calmly. Kisaki studies his eyes. Enough years in this line of work, and you can spot a liar with genuine ease. So, he stares and stares.

“I know she’s here, Hanma.”

Hanma takes another swig of his drink, clearing off the last remaining drops before pouring another for himself. But he shakes his head, adamant he has no idea what he’s referring to.

“You wanted to talk about her, you said. So, what went down after I left?” Hanma asks, a question he’s been dying to know after he fled. He has never felt guilt before. He thinks he might be a sociopath, most days. Or else he wouldn’t have put you through everything he did in the past. And yet, for the first time maybe ever, he felt bad for leaving you with him tonight. He turned your world upside down and threw you to the wolves. It was too much like the old him. A him he isn’t ashamed of, but he likes to think he is at least a little better than. So, he had to ask. What happened?

“Well. I was mad, you get that, right? It’s understandable, I mean—”

“Did you damage my toy, Kisaki?”

“Not yours, mine. But, yeah, so fucking what? I beat her black and blue. What sane man wouldn’t?” Kisaki questions. Hanma slams his glass down on the table, earning an explosive laugh from his boss. “Come the fuck on. I loved her, y’know? Spent a fortune on her. Gave her everything. Only for her to cheat with… you. Thought she was my princess, my forever.”

“No one will love her like I can. I’ve loved her since the day I set eyes on her as a kid. So, I’ll tell you one more time. My toy. My princess. My forever. I’ll find her and fuck her into the shape of my cock because she is mine. And my name is on her forever, to prove it.” Hanma monologues, it’s relaxed and pointed. Kisaki retains each and every word. An indescribable rage sears through him and he realises he’ll never have what you have with Hanma. History. But that fucking mark. It can be removed. It can be changed. He’s signed his name into your skin tonight in the form of blooming blue and purple blooms. It’s just a shame they aren’t permanent.

“You have to die, that’s a given. Yeah?” Kisaki chuckles, and even Hanma smiles.

“If you think you can kill me. If you think I will let that happen. Sure.”

“It’s a matter of pride, man. I loved… love her. And she is mine, no matter what you say or think. But what she did, I’ll never forgive. I’ll spend the rest of my life making her pay for it.”

“You won’t see her again for the rest of your life, Tetta. Only one of us is getting out of this penthouse alive and I intend on making sure it’s me.”

“She humiliated me. With you. I’m all for happy endings but not at the cost of my own. I can’t lose her to you, man, I can’t.” he tells him, a tone of finality filling his words. Hanma shakes his head, again. In his eyes, he has no choice.

“Do you know I took her purity from her? Even if I die, she’ll never forget me for the simple fact I took her virginity. You don’t forget your first. And, you’ll never be able to love her like I can. Like I do. You’ll have to kill me to stop me from claiming my toy back, but like I said, I have no intention of letting that happen.”

You wonder if it’s the sociopath in him. He’s thankful that Kisaki was looking at his drink when Hanma’s eyes widened, ever so slightly. His heart rate quickened, the organ was pounding as he tried to keep a neutral, poker face. He managed to steady the tremoring of his fingers as he tried to pretend nothing was happening behind Tetta Kisaki. Crossing one leg over the other as he smiled and drank his whiskey in such a nonchalant manner. It roused Kisaki’s suspicion to see Hanma become his usual, cocky self.

Bang.

That cocky, trademark smirk wiped off of Hanma’s face in an instant. Instead, he donned an unimpressed, almost bored thin lipped expression as the blood of your ex-fiancé spattered across his face. He smacked his lips together, attempting to discover whether he could taste copper on his tongue as he paid no mind to your former partners body slump out of his chair and collide with the ground.

You were a coward for killing him like that. His back to you and no way to defend himself. You got him right in the back of his head, and you could only assume there was an exit wound somewhere close to between his eyes as it pissed blood and puddled around his body and seeped into his expensive Louis Vuitton suit.

“S-Shuuji…” you whimpered.

“Shush.” he demanded, getting up from his seat and tutting you into a stunned silence. You murdered someone. Fuck. You, a regular fucking person, killed Tetta Kisaki. Hanma grabbed your shoulders, firmly, kissing your forehead and forcing you to look him in the eye as he spoke to you. “You did the right thing, baby.” he assures you.

“I… killed someo- no. Killing is… it’s never the right thing!” you feel like you are screaming but in reality your voice has almost died in your throat as you try and articulate your conflicting feelings. He would have probably killed you first. You thought he was going to, tonight. Hanma did some terrible things to you but he never beat you. You’ve never felt so sore, so pained. And yet so lucky to be alive. And Hanma, fuck, you can’t believe this is really Hanma. His touches are so tender and delicate. So sweet. He knows you’re hurting. He could see it in the bruises when you first stumbled into his home, yes, but he could predominantly see it in your eyes.

“Bastard deserved it and then some for doing this to you.” he states, you try to shake your head but you can’t. He stills your skull with two large palms, once again forcing you to look into his drowsy, golden eyes. “I’m a real piece of shit, but even I wouldn’t lay a hand on a woman. How could he hurt someone as precious as you?”

“I’m a murderer, Shuuji I can’t, I—”

“He didn’t tell anyone he was coming here. No one will know about this internal struggle. You know what that means? I’ll be taking over Kisaki’s role in the company. You’re mine, again, and everything is gonna be fine.”

“I don’t know…” you sigh, obvious concern in your voice. But again, he tuts, a feeble attempt of dismissing the worry from your body.

“Come.” he demands. “Into the shower, wanna wash this prick off us before I make arrangements to move him.”

“S-Shuuji, please. Please be—”

“I know, baby, I know.”

It is the most glamorous shower you’ve ever seen and will ever hope to see. The shower head is attached to the ceiling and you both fit inside with plenty of space surrounding you still. There’s even a small bench, made out of the same marble material as the walls you are standing inside of. Of course the door is glass, fogged completely with steam from the boiling shower as well as your rising body heats.

He sits, peacefully, allowing you to stand alone under the shower as you cleanse your naked, shaken body. You can’t help but giggle when you see his cock standing to full attention as he ogles you lathering your body in shower gel and allowing the water to cascade down your body.

You’d never of expected him to sit so patiently like this while he has you as his. You are officially his property and he isn’t doing anything about it.

Or so you thought.

The nice guy act soon wore thin, and you found yourself shoved against the glass door. You struggled, slightly, your bruises aching the further he forced himself into you and against the glass.

“H-Hurts, Shuuji, it, ah—!”

“Can’t wait anymore.” he informs you as he guides his cock head to your sodden cunt. “Need to make you mine again.” he tells you.

And with that, you realise this isn’t going to be about you. He knows how to fuck you. How to make you cum. And yet, he won’t. His priority is himself. Filling you to the brim with his cum and marking your insides officially as his.

“Always had such a tight little pussy, haven’t you? All mine. All fucking mine.” he practically growls in your ear as he begins to slam up into you.

“P-Please, Hanma. Slower! Slow…” you beg, pathetically silent it’s almost drowned out by the pelting drops of water cascading against the ground. A simple ‘tsk’ leaves his lips as he kisses your cheek and reaches around to fondle your clit.

“Wish I could kill him twice for making you so sore.” he hums as he allows his fingers to dance lightly across your battered skin. But it doesn’t stop him from pummelling against your body, if anything, he’s fucking into your sweet spot harder. He’s moaning, grunting, gasping almost, as he approaches his doom. He’s quick. He could easily lie and say it’s for your benefit, which it is. But it’s for him. The sooner your insides are painted white, the better. “Oh – fuck – ‘m cummin’, Christ ‘m cummin’ baby.”

And you feel it, God you feel it because he shoots his load directly into your womb, you think. They’re silent thoughts, but he’s already thinking about you carrying his child. He always pictured three or four with you. Three boys that give the two of you hell and one girl he worships with everything he has. Not now, he hopes. With your mental state so fragile and everything so new.

His cum dribbles down your legs. But the minute you step under the shower, it’s being carried down the plughole by the current.

Definitely not now.

He abandons you, a towel wrapped around his waist as he heads towards his bedroom. You find a towel for your body as well as your hair, doing your best to chase after him without slipping and falling in the process. He’s rummaging around in his drawers desperately searching for something. He looks back at you, briefly, as you enter, and then back again with more focus as he takes in what he’s seeing.

“Towel off sweetheart. No hiding your body from me, wanna see every inch.” he instructs. You do as you’re told, unwrapping the white, fluffy towel from your body and exposing your skin to the freezing, air-conditioned room.

“What are you doing?” you wonder, sitting on the edge on his bed eagerly as you wait from him to come over to you.

Finally, he finds what it is he’s looking for. “Stand up.” he tells you, hiding whatever it is behind his back. Once again, you comply, watching him come closer to you and sit himself down. “Sit on me.” he demands. You straddle him. He kisses each and every inch of your body within his reach. He smooths his hand over the sickening blue blotches delivered to your skin by Tetta. You gasp, erotically, as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth as sucks sweetly.

“Shuuji…” you moan, losing yourself to his touch. “What’s behind your back?”

“Somethin’ very special, it’s old but looks like new.” he smiles into your body. “I got you it years ago, didn’t get the chance to give you it.”

“I wanna see.”

He reaches behind his back. And it’s odd, the look in his eye is almost hesitant. Like he doesn’t want to give it to you. He isn’t sure of himself. Is he worried that you won’t like it? But, your pleading gaze wins him over.

“I… I want to hate it, but I don’t. I, I love it.” you giggle. It’s a collar. A beautiful pink collar with your name engraved on the silver bone. “Oh God, I really love it.”

“There’s a leash too.” Hanma laughs. He raises it to put it around your neck, and you find yourself letting him with not a single complaint. Maybe you’re in a state of unknowing because of what you did to Kisaki. Nothing matters and nothing feels real. But for whatever reason. You are obsessed with this new accessory. And it’s sick, because it feels romantic. In days gone by, you were known as nothing to him other than Hanma’s toy. But this… has your fucking name on it.

“Fuck. Hanma… ‘m really yours, aren’t I? Always been yours.”

“Yeah. Always been mine.”

© 2022 fuwushiguro

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just saw some art and had a sudden thought but. I think...I think ginoza would absolutely enjoy some blindfolded sexy time wherein he is the one wearing it.

and now thinking about riding him in the office, blindfold over his eyes and hands bound behind his back with his own tie (but somehow I feel like he'd still manage to remain in control of the situation) skfjlskd

lapdog | ginoza n.

PAIRING.  enforcer!ginoza x fem inspector!reader

LENGTH.  13.8k (also available to read on ao3)

PLAYLIST.  eat him up

SYNOPSIS.  poison comes wrapped in pretty pink.

CONTENT.  femdom & role reversal, power imbalance (reader is his superior; he also reveres her), strict / maneater reader, office sex, dubcon (not really, but he asks her to stop because he’s going to cum), accidental creampie.  m receiving / m focused -> [ begging, blindfolding, breathplay / choking (w/ belt), cum in mouth, dacryphilia, degradation (light), edging / orgasm delay, finger sucking, gagging w/ fingers, hair pulling, humiliation (light), impact play (light), orgasm denial, pet names (baby, good boy), praise, restraints (handcuffs), teasing, loss of control ].  body worship (in his thoughts, i also mean this quite literally), breeding / pregnancy kink, cockwarming, ma’am kink, multiple orgasms (f receiving), oral (f receiving), riding, scent kink (slight), spit, very little aftercare

OTHER NOTES.  lots of metaphor relating to dogs (b/c of his position in relation to her), lots of metaphor relating to purity, reader is a bit evil to him but he likes it, self deprecating thoughts, some toxicity / sleaziness (slight obsession, manipulation, mind games), a tiny bit of angst (he pines for the reader)

NOTES.  UMM... i might have missed the brief a bit because this fic is about total loss of control KLALKDS but. here it is .. baby’s first femdom fic!!! some parts were inspired by @venussins sub!choso fic, pls give it a read!! ALSO THE BIGGEST THANK U & all my love ALWAYS to fang @prettyboykatsuki for beta reading this and for listening to me yell about it and encouraging me as always !!!!

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING THE CONTENT STATED IN THE WARNINGS.

It’s late.

It’s been a long day, and Ginoza is tired. But there are just a few more things to do. Double check the reports, add some final notes. The paperwork after a big mission is always a pain. But he’ll stay after you; he’ll finish up the little things before he heads back to his quarters. You have a lot on your plate.

He feels for you. You handle the duties of an Inspector well, but he knows exactly what it’s like.

Well — he knew what it was like, once. So he helps where he can.

But he needs a break before he gets back to it. Even here, away from the desk, his head is pounding. It doesn’t help that he finds the selection of drinks in the vending machine in front of him a little overwhelming. The break rooms are well-stocked; there are more flavors than employees on this floor, probably.

He opts for a ginger ale. This brand is a little bland, but he’s not really craving something with a lot of flavor. It’s just that the water at the fountain always comes out lukewarm, and he wants something that’ll burst on his tongue. Something with carbonation. Something that’ll wake him up, at least for the rest of his shift.

He holds the can in the metal fingers of his left hand and cracks it open with his right, wandering over to the window. The tab lifts under his fingertips before the metal pops down under it — a little jump under his fingers, tactile. Ever since he lost his left, he thinks that his right hand has gotten more sensitive.

A little wisp of something snakes out of the can; beyond the window, the horizon begins to swallow up the sun. He takes small sips, watching night fall. It’s winter, and the sun is setting early.

The metal fingers of his prosthetic grow cold around the can, but of course, he doesn’t feel them. Just the fizzle of the carbonation in his mouth.

“Ginoza.”

He pauses with the can halfway raised to his mouth, ears perking up — a dog attuned to the familiar voice of its owner. His owner’s voice is stern, controlling, but it’s always that way. Somehow, he finds that comforting.

“Inspector.” His tone is formal — respectful. He abandons his drink, lowering the can as he turns to watch you enter the break room. “I thought you were heading out? I’ll take care of the rest of the paperwork.”

“Soon.”

You study the vending machine with a critical eye. He wonders if something there displeases you. If maybe you’re looking for a flavor that isn’t there.

“Is everything alright?” he asks. “Do you need anything?”

“No, no.”

The beep of a button as it’s pressed, the rattling of a can falling through the machine before it’s deposited in the slot. He averts his eyes when you bend over to get it, fixing his gaze on the fake plant in the corner of the room. He pushes the panel of his suit jacket back, slipping his right hand into the pocket of his slacks.

There’s a thin layer of dust collecting on the leaves of the plant; he wonders when the last time was that someone came to dust.

“You did very well today, Ginoza.”

His eyes are drawn to the pink of the can in your hand. A strawberry soda. How odd, he thinks. How odd for you. For a person who’s so formal, so severe, and so strict. Of all the things you could choose to drink, you chose a strawberry soda.

“I was impressed with your performance.”

He’s taken aback, doesn’t know how he should respond. In all the time he’s worked under you, he can’t think of one instance of praise. You don’t compliment him. Or anyone else, for that matter. You treat all of your Enforcers equally. A terse nod after a tough mission, maybe. If you’re feeling particularly generous, they might even receive a Thank you all for performing your duty.

But nothing like this.

Ginoza’s cheeks are hot. He’s flustered, for some reason, watching you take a sip of your strawberry soda. There’s a loose fiber in the pocket of his slacks; he pulls at it until it unravels.

He clears his throat. “It’s always a pleasure to work for you, Inspector.”

You sit on the couch, strawberry soda in-hand, and fix him with a lazy smile. “Is it really?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a smile on your face.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Inspector.”

As strict as you are, as unyielding, you’re efficient. You get things done. You’re a bit like he used to be, he thinks, but more level headed. Much more capable than he was. The control is out of his hands and in yours completely. Some might call your behavior uptight, but he respects it.

He likes it.

“I didn’t think you would,” you say. “You’re too earnest for that.”

You’re resting against the arm of the couch. He finds your posture almost slovenly. It’s usually rigid, upright. It’s usually tense. You cross your legs and sigh, and he sees your shoulders slump just a little. Then you cock your head to the side and fix him with a smile. Loose, he thinks — it looks unnatural on you.

His fist is balled up in his pocket. Nerves.

“This place is like a ghost town after six, isn’t it?” you muse. “Everyone just clears right out.”

Hunters like you don’t make small talk with their dogs, Ginoza thinks.

After a pause, he says, “It’s quiet.”

It’s empty.

“Am I making you anxious, Ginoza?”

“No, ma’am.”

In the pocket of his slacks, his trimmed nails dig into the skin of his palm. You gesture to the little couch opposite yours with your manicured fingers wrapped around the strawberry soda.

“Sit down, Ginoza,” you say. “You look a little stiff.”

Obediently, he rounds the couch and sits. Facing you, separated from you just by the little coffee table on top of which he sets his can of ginger ale. He hasn’t had even a quarter of it yet. The coasters on the table are gray. A muted earth tone, just like everything else in this room.

Except for the little strawberry soda in the little pink can.

You run a hand absently down your thigh. Your skirt is riding up, but he looks away as soon as he sees it.

“Kougami’s already gone back to his room?” you ask.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But you stayed after.”

“Yes, ma’am. I told him to go. That I’d handle the rest.”

Nerve-racking. That’s what he’d call every single interaction with you. He wonders if he’s done something wrong, something to displease you. He hopes not.

“He’s difficult sometimes, isn’t he?” you say.

You lean over to the coffee table, dragging his drink just slightly to the side, with one manicured fingernail on the coaster. He’d thought your nail polish was more muted. Some neutral color, something mundane. Closer up, the color is more pinkish. A trick of the fluorescent lights, maybe.

As he watches you place your strawberry soda next to the cold silver of his ginger ale can, he wishes he’d set his coaster in the right place. He hopes he hasn’t inconvenienced you.

The empty space of the tabletop is vast, broken up just by the two cans. They sit, one next to another — dead center, not even an inch apart.

You rise from the couch; he remembers to answer.

“Difficult?” he says in a small voice.

Watching you pass the coffee table, nearing the couch he’s sitting on, Ginoza feels like the dying sun just before it’s swallowed up by the horizon.

“Disobedient,” you say. “He’s not a team player, is he?”

Your hand trails over the arm of the couch as you pass him. He loses sight of you as you round the back of it. But he keeps his gaze straight as he listens to your footsteps behind him; he doesn’t have the nerve to turn around.

“I suppose not,” he says shakily.

Ginoza feels a hand on his left shoulder first, and then one on his right. Your hands, resting on his body, warm. He feels a chill, even as the heat of your fingers starts to seep through the fabric of his suit jacket.

“But not you,” you say. “You always help when it’s needed.”

The hands on his shoulders squeeze. Ginoza gulps, listening to you speak through a voice that doesn’t sound like your own. This voice is too sweet; the lilt is near-artificial, cloying enough to leave a strange taste in his mouth — a bite of dessert after he’s already overfull, or the lingering flavor of manmade sweetener.

“You’re always there to do whatever you’re told. And so much more. You’re a big help to me. Did you know that?”

The praise makes his cheeks burn, the squeezing of your fingers on his shoulders.

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I just want to make your job easier, Inspector.”

Your hands snake downward. Down, from his shoulders, down, skimming over the plane of his chest. You — his austere Inspector, his strict, unforthcoming Inspector — touching him. You, his withholding superior, bending over the back of the couch, leaning forward to cross your arms over his chest and tilt your head over his shoulder. You — looking into his eyes, with a little smile on your face.

“Ginoza.”

He can see your tongue in your mouth when you talk. Pink, a gradation of the label on your strawberry soda. He can feel your breaths on his jaw. Warm, just as warm as your arms crossed over his chest, just as warm as this embrace from behind — a close embrace, a familiar embrace so terribly unbecoming of his frigid, ungiving superior.

“Inspector,” he says breathlessly.

“If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it just between us?”

On the table — as close to your soda as you are to him — his ginger ale sits, warming slowly. A droplet runs down the side, slow at first, then quick, cutting a line of dark gray through the silver condensation. The path goes cold again a moment later; the droplet splatters onto the coaster.

“Of course,” he says. “Anything.”

He can smell the strawberry on your breath. He can smell your shampoo. Something sweet, with chemicals underneath.

“Of all my dogs,” you say with a lazy smile, “you’re my favorite.”

Your favorite. Ginoza’s heart pounds in his chest. The sweetness masks the chemicals until he can barely smell them at all.

“You know what I like about you, Gino?”

He smells toxins again; they prickle in his sharp nose. The nickname is foreign in your mouth. Hostile, almost. Off-putting, awry, like that little smile on your face — just the slightest bit crooked. You drink strawberry, but you’re oleander — a pretty pink flower in the middle of an unassuming forest. Beautiful, but lethal.

“What is it, Inspector?”

You tighten your arms around him.

“You’re so obedient,” you say. “You’re so good.”

Maybe he likes the proximity.

“You know just what I want. I never have to tell you twice. Sometimes I don’t even have to tell you at all.”

He does like the proximity, he decides. Maybe he likes the smell of chemicals, too, of toxins. Maybe it’s the combination of toxins that make you sweet.

“No one understands what I need like you do, Gino.”

The sweetness is that enticing; it makes his mouth water. He’ll ingest your poison even if it kills him.

“Anything for you, Inspector.”

And he means it.

“Tell me something…” you’re drawling.

He wants to shudder — pulse pounding, suddenly fearful. Your lips keep getting closer to him, and he thinks you might consume him, might eat him whole here in the middle of this bleak breakroom. You’re so blinding that he can’t even look at you; everything else is gray in comparison — wilting. On the table, your drink is still cold, condensation beading on the bright pink can, but his has gone warm; it’s too late, it’ll be flat soon, the carbonation bubbling down to nothing —

“Is there anything I can do for you — for my favorite — to make your job easier? More enjoyable? As your Inspector, it’s my responsibility to ensure that your working conditions are good. You can ask me for anything you like.”

A privilege. Special treatment. Gratitude, bubbling up, from deep in his chest, like carbonation.

Still, the answer is shaky. Demure. He wants to ingest your poison, to take it like medicine, but he’s afraid that it’ll hurt.

“Nothing at all, ma’am. I - I’m perfectly happy. I love working under you. For you.”

Your face twists into a pout. “Hm.”

The disappointment on your face makes his stomach drop, makes him sick. The thought of displeasing you makes something in his chest twist, and when you withdraw the warmth of your arms from around him, the twist becomes an ache.

He stands as soon as you’ve left him, turning to watch you pace to the window. You stand in front of it, arms crossed, looking outward — downward. The city is far below. Little dots of multicolored light, and you, standing far above it all.

“Inspector,” he says.

He approaches you the way a wounded animal might approach a human with a hand extended — keeping his distance, unsure if the upturned palm will wound or nurture. In the window, his reflection lingers far enough behind yours that, even though he’s much taller than you, he looks small.

At least, compared to you.

“Go ahead.”

“Is there anything I can do,” he ventures, clearing his throat, “for you?”

He thinks he can see you smile in the reflection. But he can’t really tell, because the fluorescent lights cast a strange shadow on your face.

“There is.”

His relief is multiplied when you turn to face him with a pleased expression.

“I need a favor,” you say.

“What is it?”

“Don’t be shy, Ginoza. If you want to help me, you need to come here.”

And even when he’s directly in front of you — even when he’s looking down at you — he feels small. He wonders if the smile on your face is genuine. But he supposes it doesn’t really matter, because he finds it pleasing to the eye either way. The alluring, unnatural, too-bright pink of an oleander flower. Just a single leaf will kill.

He loses sight of it as you round his body again. Circled by a great white, he thinks, treading blood-baited saltwater in a rusting metal cage. He’s read about people doing that for fun: apparently, some people pay to be lowered into the ocean in a little cage. Chum is thrown in the water, and sharks circle. People do it for the thrill.

He’s never seen the appeal of an adrenaline chase like that. He’s never been one to get off on a racing heart. Until now, maybe.

You grip his wrist from behind. Your hand on his, the little squeeze of your fingers on his veins. Pressing into his racing pulse.

You draw his hand behind his back.

“The Bureau has been issuing us new equipment,” you’re saying. “You’ve already worked with the improved Dominators, but, you know, I haven’t had the chance to try these yet.”

There’s cold metal on his wrist. A snap. Handcuffs closing. You grab his other wrist, fingers on the metal of his prosthetic as you draw it behind his back, too. The click of metal on metal — his left wrist restrained next to his right.

“These new handcuffs are supposed to be even stronger. Strong enough that even augmented prosthetics can’t break through.”

Your hand rests on the small of his back, just above his bound wrists. He watches you come back into view with ice shooting up his spine.

“How are they? Any give?”

He pulls his wrists apart, or tries to. The cuffs catch on the metal of his left wrist with a clink, and dig into the skin of his right. Unyielding, just like you.

“No, ma’am.”

He’s rewarded with a little smile.

“Ah,” you say. “That’s perfect.”

“Do you have the…”

“The keys?”

Ginoza nods. But he’s cursing himself. He’d stopped himself mid-sentence for a reason. It’s because he doesn’t know if he wants you to unlock the handcuffs.

A click of your strawberry-pink tongue. “Ah. Not on hand, I don’t think.”

Maybe it’s twisted, but Ginoza feels relieved.

He feels thrilled by the look on your face. It isn’t the look of someone who’s forgotten their keys. And, besides, you don’t forget anything. Every single thing you do is intentional.

“Is that a problem?”

He laughs nervously. “Of course not. We can always ask…”

He flounders. He’s in that little shark cage under the surface of an endless ocean. His oxygen tank is running low. The bars on the cage are flimsy. They’re placed too far apart, and the great white is starting to ram against them. The bait in the water isn’t enough; it craves something larger. Something whole.

Ginoza was afraid of the ocean as a child. He liked the shore, but there was always the nagging feeling that something was waiting in the depths. He remembers learning once about female great whites, and how they dwarf their male counterparts by several feet.

You cock your head to the side, eyes widening. Mocking.

“Who? Who can we ask, Ginoza?’

When something sharp enough lacerates the skin, the initial cut isn’t felt. There’s no sting until seconds after. Ginoza wonders how sharp your teeth are. How many rows you have. How long it’d take you to eat him whole, and if it’d start to sting before you devour him completely.

Even if it were to sting, he thinks, that kind of pain might be pleasant.

“Well…” he says.

“There’s no one here, Ginoza. It’s quiet. Like you said.”

A pause. A shaky breath.

“It’s just you…” you say, placing one perfectly manicured finger in the very center of his chest, “...and me.”

You smile. His heart jumps under your fingertip. And then you push.

A small push, just with the tip of your finger to his chest. Barely any pressure. But at the same time, there’s so much. He finds himself stepping backward with each step you take forward. He finds himself pushed back and back and back, until there’s the soft impact of the wall behind his shoulder blades, the little thunk of the handcuffs behind his back hitting it too.

Maybe it’d knock the breath out of his lungs, if he had any left. He’s already struggling for air — taking short gasps with his back to the wall. He’s supposed to be your hunting dog, but your teeth are so much sharper than his.

“Inspector?” he asks, face hot.

Your critical fingers come to his tie. They run down it, flatten it, neaten it — as if something about it is out of order. Just the slightest bit crooked, and you’d be displeased. He knows that. You don’t like things to be off. You put him in order with your fingers just over his pounding heart, and then look up at him. Right in the eyes.

Holding your gaze makes his head swim. It makes his knees weak.

So when you place your hand on his shoulder, when you apply the slightest bit of pressure, when you command him — Sit down, Ginoza. You look a little stiff. — his knees give with no resistance.

He yields under your palm. It’s so little pressure, but somehow, it’s so heavy. His back slides down the wall, metal cuffs scraping downward, until he’s seated on the floor, looking dizzily up at your towering form. To him, your presence is larger-than-life; your personality expands until it takes up the entire room, a stifling blanket nestled even in the corners, where dust collects. And his personality — it’s tiny, meager, folds in on itself, over and over and over, until it becomes infinitesimally small. No bigger, no more significant, than one of the dust motes floating through the air.

But his eyes are large and fearful.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Ginoza?”

A shaky breath. A dry swallow. A good boy. Praise from you is so scarce that just the slightest amount makes his chest ache.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why are you so good for me?”

His head is floating — full of so many reasons, too many reasons. I respect you. I admire you. I like you. I want you. But there aren’t enough reasons, because there’s not one that he has the nerve to say. Because here, between your legs, level with your crotch, looking up, at the underside of your tits, and the upward curve of your little smile — he feels too weak. Out of control.

And that makes him feel…

Good.

“Hm?” you prompt.

He feels too weak, but if you insist —

“Don’t make me wait for a simple answer to a simple question, Ginoza.”

If it would please you —

“Because,” he stammers, “because I like you, Inspector.”

“Is that all?”

“Because… ”

He gulps, eyes on the bottom hem of your skirt, eyes on your thighs, where the fabric is riding a little high.

“Tell me,” you say. “I’m waiting.”

“Because,” he says breathlessly, “because I want to please you, Inspector.”

“Because, because,” you tease, putting a finger under his chin and nudging it upward.

He looks into your eyes again, nearly flinches when your finger pushes his hair gently out of his face, nearly flinches when he suddenly detects the smell of something sweet — strawberry.

Strawberry lotion, on your bare, slightly spread legs. He imagines his bound hands free, running over your calves, spreading lotion over your skin.

Your heels press against the outside of his thighs, caging him in.

“Because you want to service me?” you smile lazily down at him.

A hazy nod, slow blinks up at you through long, heavy eyelashes. His head is spinning; the fingers of his right hand tingle, crushed into the cold metal of his left hand. And then —

“Because you want to pleasure me?”

To like you. To please you. To service you. Appropriate for a pet to its master.

Ginoza’s sharp nose detects another smell from between your spread thighs, a smell that’s equally as sweet as the strawberry on your legs and on your tongue.

To pleasure you —

It’s not right, it’s not appropriate, it’s not his place. Ginoza thinks he might soil you — might dirty you with his hands. With the paws of a dog. They’ve been in the dirt, doing your bidding, and your fingers are clean. Like they should be. Your hands are pristine, sullied only by the indentations of your dogs’ leashes on your palms. But those indentations are temporary; they fade away, don’t stain the fingertips like iron in soil does.

“Because you want to make me feel good, Ginoza?”

Pleasuring you. Making you feel good. His cock stirs. It’s been growing for a while now, stiffening against his thigh. Slowly, because he’s been trying hard to curb the rush of blood between his legs. He’s too afraid he’ll disgust you.

But he just can’t help it anymore. The prospect of this — the privilege of being able to pleasure you — is too much. There’s an image of you whirling in his mind, a pretty one, an approximation of how he thinks your features might contort. He shouldn’t be imagining that, but it makes the blood rush to his cock, makes it stiffen. Fast, this time.

Your cold eyes are fixed on his crotch. It embarrasses him. It makes him harder.

“Yes or no, Ginoza?”

He’d die for it, he thinks.

“More than anything, Inspector,” he chokes.

You fix him with a woeful expression. An expression that makes him want to fix anything in the world that displeases you.

“But it looks like your hands are tied,” you pout.

His response is hasty. It’s pleading. “I can help you. I want to help you—”

But the words die on his tongue, go flat like soda, as he watches your fingers trace the bottom hem of your skirt. Fingernails lacquered in pretty pink slip under the drab gray, lift the drab gray, hike the drab gray up, revealing skin. Pristine skin, lovely skin — the skin of an untouched fruit before it’s broken by the teeth. Skin exposed to someone as undeserving, to someone as dirty, as him.

A treat dangled in front of a panting, sharp-faced shepherd. This shepherd is his master’s most obedient; this shepherd won’t move a muscle, no matter how close the treat comes. Not even if it bumps against his nose.

But he’ll track every single movement. Vigilant. A watchdog, a hunting dog, any kind of dog his master wants.

A lap dog, even. Something easily distracted, easily entranced. Hooked on every new glimpse of your skin as you hike the skirt up and up and up, until he can see the pretty curve of your spread thighs in front of him. Their apex, and the sweet space between them.

And the strawberry pink of your panties.

In the midst of all the dull gray in this break room — the gray carpet, the gray couches, the gray curtains, everything so gray it’s almost greenish under the fluorescent lights, greenish and cold — there are three points of warmth.

The first — that can of strawberry soda, long since warm.

The second — your neatly lacquered fingernails.

The last — your little pink panties. Your little pink thong.

Pink, the same pink as the inside of a ripe strawberry. Your thong is tiny like a strawberry, tight. And sheer.

Ginoza can see your pussy through the lace.

Damp lace grows wet, a dark spot spreading on the crotch of the fabric right in front of his face. The smell of strawberry spreads in his nose, the smell of pussy — the taste of anticipation for one or the other on his tongue. His mouth has gone dry, but his cock is leaking all over his leg.

You hook your pretty fingernails over the sides of your panties. He gulps, he watches, as you shimmy them down your thighs. Ginoza thinks he should look away; he thinks he shouldn’t sully your perfect body with his impure gaze. But he can’t look away. He has to watch — eyes stuck to you like the little gooey line of arousal that sticks to your panties before it breaks.

He has to watch you pull your thong all the way down our thighs, has to watch it drop down your strawberry-lotion-covered calves, has to watch it fall to the bottom of your heels. He has to watch you step out of the garment with your right leg, lift the left, and pull the damp fabric away from your heel.

You tuck your panties away into the band of your skirt — hiding the pretty pink in the gray. That point of warmth is gone, is out of sight, but there’s something much hotter in his vision. Your dog’s object permanence is fickle; he’ll forget about a hidden treat as soon as you brandish a bone.

Sleepy eyes, framed by long, feminine lashes. Dilated pupils, fixed on your bare pussy. His tongue itches for a taste, and his mouth is no longer dry; it’s watering — wet enough to match your glistening pussy. He sees soft, wet flesh; he sees flesh full to bursting with juices.

A fruit that’s plucked from its stem in the dead heat of summer, perfectly ripe.

Something a bad dog might devour with teeth bared. But obedient dogs don’t bite when they’re not supposed to; obedient dogs are gentle with toys their owners give them. Obedient dogs lick, don’t bite, at least not until their owner sics them.

Ginoza watches his owner play with the toy — watches your manicured fingers slide through the wet skin of your pussy, watches your fingertips brush over your seeping hole and gather up all your wetness right in front of his face.

Like a drooling dog, Ginoza waits for his owner to say fetch. In his slacks, his cock throbs, dribbles, gets his thigh slippery.

But he’s patient; he’s intent, concentration unbroken. He’d stay here forever in limbo — would never leave, if he had a choice. Maybe it’s not limbo, he thinks, but heaven, or maybe even the second circle of hell — the circle of lust, ruled by a pink-horned devil in gray clothing.

He’d stay here, patient, but his fingers don’t have the same restraint; they’re filthy, overwhelmed by the dirty instinct to touch. His wrists test the bounds of the handcuffs, pulling outward until the metal of his left hand clinks against the restraints.

“Are you trying to get away from me, Ginoza?”

Voice breathy in his sharp ears. He loves that sickly-sweet tone, the toxicity layered right beneath.

“No, ma’am,” he says hastily. Never, ma’am. He slackens his hands. “No. I just… I just want…”

To pleasure you. To make you feel good. To touch you, for you, so you can rest your pretty hands.

Pretty hands, he thinks, pretty fingers, suited to touch a pretty pussy. He licks his lips while he looks at it — at how wet it is, watches your fingers get slick and shiny with your own juices.

“You want what?” you tease, using two slippery fingers to spread yourself open in front of him. “This?”

A wet dream, he thinks. This is a wet dream — you above him, with your skirt hiked up around your waist, fingers sliding over your pussy before teasing little circles into your clit. Breathy moans float in the air, tumble down to him, fill his ears, make his cock pulse.

“Yes,” he says, “please.”

“Well,” you say, breaths hitching, “see, there’s a problem, Ginoza.”

“Let me help you,” he pleads. “What’s the problem, Inspector, what can I do—?”

But he’s cut off as your wet fingers leave your pussy to rest on his lips. He parts his mouth, takes them in immediately, with a needy whimper — a grateful whimper. He’s lucky, he thinks, lucky that you’ve finally blessed him with a taste. And it’s even better than he expected, tastes even sweeter than it smells; it’s a taste that makes his eyes go soft. Your towering presence above him blurs as he sucks your fingers clean, gets drunk from the taste.

You watch him through eyes slightly narrowed with amusement, your tone woeful — false — as you push your fingers a little deeper into his mouth.

“I just…”

You sigh.

“I’ve just been so busy, Ginoza. And I really, really,” — you pause, to push your fingers to the back of his throat; they hit his gag reflex, and the taste of you is deep in his mouth, is dripping down his throat, is coursing through his body, until it reaches his cock, making it so hard that his head spins — “really need to cum.”

Another whimper around your fingers — this time at the thought of making you cum. He’s so desperate that as soon as you take your fingers out of his mouth he’s already pleading, through lips covered in his own spit —

“Let me help you, Inspector, please.”

“Oh, but you already do so much for me. Staying late all the time. Always going out of your way. Taking care of all the paperwork without being asked. The least I can do is give you a break, right? Do you think… Kou would be willing to help me instead, maybe? I could always pay him a visit.”

“No.” Desperate, needy. Possessive — the bark of a guard dog.

You raise your eyebrows and smile down at him. A cruel smile, a severe smile, a smile that’s much more like you. But he’s already correcting himself.

“I’m sorry. Please let me…”

Pretty fingers swipe the spit from his lips. The action is soft, tender, full of warmth — so much warmth from his cold Inspector that his heart melts in his chest. His eyes drop back to your pussy, where you press your fingers to your clit again, massaging his spit around it. His spit, rubbed into you, deemed good enough to lubricate your pristine body, allowed to aid your fingers, allowed to please you and make you moan.

“Let you what, Ginoza?” you ask through a breathy sigh.

“Let me help you.”

“Be more specific.”

“I want to…”

He trails off, shaky. He can’t say it, not to you. You’ll think he’s filthy, you’ll think he’s disgusting, because he is.

“You’re not going to get anything if you can’t even say it,” you tease.

He takes a shaky breath. “I want to… I want to make you cum.”

His cheeks burn hot. Saying that outright to you is awful. It’s embarrassing. But something about it all — the words, the shame they bring him, the cruel smile he can hear in your voice from above when you laugh a little — makes his cock twitch in his slacks. They’re painfully tight; he’s painfully hard, soaking through the fabric over the tip.

“Mm…” Amusement and pleasure in your voice as you rub your clit lazily in front of his face. “...Do you really?”

“Yes. More than anything.”

It’s not even a want, Ginoza thinks. It’s a need. He needs to make you cum.

“How do you want to make me cum?” you muse.

He can’t meet your eyes. He can’t look at you when he says it, so he looks at your hand instead, watching you rub yourself. Hiding from you under long, heavy eyelashes, he forces it.

“I want to lick your pussy,” he says, voice sheepish and fast and trembling, “I want to make you cum in my mouth. I want to make you feel better.”

A soft laugh from above. He trembles, wondering if you’re disgusted with him.

But your touch is fond when you brush the hair out of his eyes. Fingers carding through, pushing strands backward, then tightening just above his hairline to tug. His chin lifts, head jerked back, eyes forced upward, meeting yours. And he groans. Maybe from the pleased look on your face, maybe from the sharp tug, maybe from your words —

“You’re so sweet. That’s why you’re my favorite, baby.”

Baby. He’s undeserving of the praise, of the honor of being your favorite, and especially of the nickname; the familiarity makes his heart swell.

“Thank you,” he chokes.

“Get my pussy nice and wet with your mouth,” you say from above. “Maybe I’ll ride your cock if you make me feel good enough. Understand?”

His heart races, the throbbing between his legs intensifying — his body responding as he imagines your pussy wrapped around him. Just the thought of being buried inside of you makes his mind go so blank he can barely even manage the breathy, desperate little Yes, ma’am, I understand.

“Good.”

Another tender touch — your fingers tucking stray hairs behind his ear before skimming around to the back of his head, where his hair is tied up.

“Are you good at eating pussy?” you ask.

He takes a shaky breath. He’s had several long term relationships; none that worked out, but over time he’s learned how to use his tongue. He’s never left a woman unsatisfied, because he’s patient, because he knows his priorities.

But he’d never build you up to disappoint you. And, besides, he doesn’t think that anything he could do would be good enough, if it’s done for you.

“I don’t know,” he stammers.

With a critical look on your face, you grip the rubber band holding his hair up and use it to tug his head back more. He whimpers, feels like a helpless animal — head pulled back, neck exposed, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at you.

He’s going to eat you, but he thinks you’ve already devoured him.

“Keep your mouth open.”

The closer you get, the stronger the smell of you grows, the sweeter. The scent of your pussy spreads, intoxicating — fills his sharp nose, fills his open mouth. He can taste the tang of you on his tongue and you’re not even in his mouth yet. More than anything, he wants to please you. He’s desperate to make you feel like the women who came before you.

No, he thinks, that’s not right. You’re nothing like the women who came before you. You’re better. So he has to make you feel better.

But does he know what to do? For some reason, in this moment, he can’t remember what to do. He feels like a virgin again: clueless, fumbling and unsure. He can’t remember anything from his past. He can’t remember anyone who came before you. What they were like, what they tasted like.

But, he thinks, nothing from his past could ever compare to his first taste of you.

The first lick to your clit is light, timid. But then he really tastes you — sweeter than strawberries, juices on his tongue, juices dripping from your entrance onto his chin. Then he really hears you — moaning, Can you make me cum, Ginoza? I really need to cum.

The request makes his eyes go hazy. The need to service you takes over; trepidation gives way to instinct, instinct gives way to hunger. His mouth waters for your pussy while he laps at it.

Even with his head in the clouds, even with his hands restrained, his tongue itches to service you. Muscle memory comes back; he knows what to do. He experiments with the placement first — starts with his tongue flat on your clit when he licks. And he keeps moving it slightly, changing the angle just the tiniest amount until he finds the spot that makes your moans sound the sweetest.

Every single moan is sweet to him, but he can hear where it feels best.

And once he’s found the right spot, he experiments with the speed. Starts slow, then builds up, until you give him the signs he’s looking for. He’s attuned to your body, always attentive, alert, will pick up on cues no matter how small. A relieved sigh, the slight tremble of your thighs. Hitching breaths, fingers tightening in his hair.

The right spot, the right pace, and consistency. He gives you that, and in return praise pours from your lips the same way arousal oozes from your slit into his waiting mouth.

Right there, baby, just like that, you’re being so good for me, keep going.

Sweet words get him high until he’s a mess for you, falling apart — more precum soaking through his slacks, more blood rushing between his legs. He’s so hard he’s lightheaded, but he’ll keep going, he’ll be good to you, he’ll do anything you ask. For as long as you need him to. For as long as you let him.

And it seems like the longer you let him give you that consistency — a steady pace on the same spot — the better your moans sound. Everything’s redolent, aromatic; juices burst on his tongue, pleasured sighs fill his head, and he can’t help but moan with you: soft, needy, open-mouthed whimpers against your pussy while he licks your clit.

He’s rewarded. More tension as you tighten your fingers in his hair, more of your juices dripping into his hungry mouth, more sweet words —

You’re good with your mouth, you like making me feel good, don’t you?

He moans, hazy, wishes he could get the words out to tell you that he does. He does like it. He likes it so much that his cock is aching to do more for you. He’d serve you with his entire body if he could; he’d give you more pleasure, make you feel even better. But he’s bound — hands held in place by the cuffs, head held in place by your hand. But even if there were no restraints, he wouldn’t dare move an inch. There’s no place he’d rather be than here, where you want him, servicing you with his tongue.

He thinks his tongue must be getting tired by now, but he doesn’t feel it at all; he’s too wrapped up in your body. Living to serve you, senses fixed on every part of you — ears up, eyes up, blinking at you through long lashes while he licks you.

He feels every change with every one of his senses, hears it clear as day when your moans get particularly lewd. Heavier, more breathy, longer-lasting. He feels his own stomach tightening in response, pleasure coursing through his untouched body.

A side-effect of the juices dripping onto his tongue.

Sweet nectar of a deadly flower, full of toxins. He’d been afraid to ingest your poison, afraid that it’d hurt. But it turns out that it feels better than anything.

There could be no death sweeter, no death more delicious.

There could be no sight more delicious than the one above him: pink fingernails skimming up your blouse, up to your chest. Your hand squeezes, kneads at your tits gently through your blouse while he eats you. His hands are so much larger, but he thinks they could be just as gentle. They could make you feel just as good, if you wanted. If they weren’t bound behind his back.

But maybe it’s good that they’re bound. Because to touch would be to defile. To touch would be to bring night to a day-blooming flower. He’s lucky he hasn’t already defiled you with his eyes, the impure gaze that observes every contortion of your face as his tongue massages your clit. Somehow, you’re still so pristine, even when you’re moaning filth downward.

Do you want to make me feel even better? Do you want to make me cum?

That you’d let him — that you’d give him the privilege — leaves him reeling. He’s so desperate to please you, so hooked on the sight of you feeling good above him, that he could cum just from eating you.

Just from watching you, from hearing your cresting moans. Just from your words and from the anticipation they bring.

Do you want my cum in your mouth, baby?

A hazy groan, an open-mouthed whimper against your pussy with his tongue still lapping at your clit — that’s all his mouth can manage. But his head is full of things.

Anything, he thinks, I’d do anything for it. I want it. I need it. I need you to cum.

But it’s not about what he needs. It’s about what you need, and he knows what you need. The consistency of his tongue on your clit, just a little more to make you cum; all the cues are already heightening. Your hand tight in his hair, your thighs trembling, your breaths picking up until each exhale is a moan.

Each moan is more lewd than the last — a cresting voice full of pleasure filling his ears, more of you seeping into his mouth. Everything that leaves you is sweeter than strawberries in the summertime.

You’re so good for me. I’ll give you all my cum, baby.

But nothing sweeter than that. A promise that makes his lower stomach twist and tighten up so hard he’s just a few moans away from cumming in his slacks. But he crushes the pleasure down, endures it, because this is about you. It’s all about you, about licking you until it’s enough to make you cum. He wants to be enough to send you over; he’d do anything to be enough.

But he can’t believe it when he is.

It starts like a sudden thought that occurs to the unoccupied mind on a lazy, humid summer evening. A thought that gnaws, that expands until it consumes.

Like something out of a fever — that final strangled moan fills his foggy mind, and then it starts.

You tighten your hand in his hair first, tugging his face forward against your pussy, And then he feels your clit pulsing on his tongue, juices flooding from your contracting slit and surging into his mouth. You allow him to indulge, allow him to lick your pussy through your orgasm, allow him to taste while you cum into his mouth.

More and more of you bursting on his tongue. Every drop feeds him, makes him moan. But he’s greedy, and every drop makes him hungrier, until he’s so desperate that little tears bead at the base of his long lashes — dew on grass. He’s not sated, doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough of you.

You’re too intoxicating. Even when it’s done — when he’s licked all of the pleasure out of you, consumed it all — it’s not enough. He’s even worse off now that he’s tasted your cum, he thinks; his cock is harder, the tip wetter, his stomach so tight that he could cum without a touch if he had the permission to.

But he doesn’t have the permission. So he’ll accept what you’re gracious enough to give him — your cum, and the sight of you when you pull back: your pretty pussy in front of him, dripping wet with his spit and your slick arousal.

Desire and tears hang in his fluttering eyelashes, weigh his eyes down; they’re sleepy, heavy, but they’re still fixed between your legs. Your skirt is still hiked up around your waist, your pussy is still bare, and his gaze is still hazy as he watches you drop down.

Down, until you’re crouching over his lap with your weight resting on your heels and your pussy hovering just a few inches above the tent in his slacks. You’re dripping onto the fabric, but it’s already wet, soaked through with his precum.

He doesn’t think his heart can race faster until he looks up at your face. You’re right here, right in front of him, so close to him. You belong so far up, but you deign to stoop to the level of a dog like him. Put yourself on his level, and he’ll worship every detail up close: the perfume lingering on your throat, the pleasure lingering in your voice, the condescension that takes its place.

“Sweetheart,” you say, “you’re crying.”

Your voice is as cloying as your touch — fingers coming up to cradle his face, soft eyes on you when you swipe your thumbs under his eyelashes, wiping the tears away. But you balance the tenderness with cruelty right after; you suck his tears from your fingertips — you consume.

You feed on Ginoza, you eat him alive — you chew him up and spit out cruelty in return. But when it’s your cruelty, he enjoys it. He’s grateful for it, groaning through gritted teeth when you finally grip his cock through the fabric.

“Do you really need to cum so badly it makes you cry?”

He shakes his head, panting. With each breath in, he can taste you lingering in his mouth.

“It’s not that,” he murmurs.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s that—” he says breathlessly, “—you taste so good.”

“Really?”

He nods, watching you settle onto his lap. He feels your pussy on him, pressing down on his cock through the fabric. The warmth bleeds through first, the wetness a moment later, and he throbs under you.

“Then let me taste it,” you say.

Your mouth on his, your tongue parting his lips; you’re too good for him, he’ll ruin you, he’ll cloud you — this intimacy is selfish, like plucking the petals of a flower only for the fleeting beauty before they wilt. But he can’t say no to you, not when you’re kissing him so deeply, licking the taste of yourself from his lips.

He’s so desperate that he thinks he could cry when you pull away.

“Did you like servicing me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, “so much.”

His voice goes breathy when you grind your hips down on his lap. Your pussy is so close to him, separated from him just by a few layers of fabric. He can feel it. The heat, the wetness. And the tension in his stomach is still so high.

“But you didn’t cum?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It sounded like you were going to. So why didn’t you? You weren’t enjoying yourself enough?”

His heart drops, his cheeks burn — he’s displeased you, he’s ruined his chance.

“I wanted to cum,” he stammers. “I wanted to. But I was waiting… for you to cum. For permission.”

“Permission?” you laugh. “How obedient of you.”

He winces. But you’re smiling, fingers brushing over his chest, slipping under his tie to play with it lazily. He’s woozy, too aware of your weight on his cock, nestled tight between your body and his. It’s throbbing, aching, especially when you start to rock on it — moving your hips forward on his lap, then back, giving him friction.

Obedient dogs get treats, you say.

He’s so sensitive from holding out for long that it’s unbearable.

“But how am I supposed to give you permission to cum,” you smile expectantly, nimble fingers undoing his tie, “if you don’t ask me for it?”

It’s good that you’re loosening his tie, he thinks; it’s good that you’re pulling the ends apart, that it’s not so tight around his neck anymore, because he’s suffocating. The prospect of you letting him cum while you’re rubbing your pussy over his cock makes his breath come ragged. If you give him permission, he’ll shoot his cum all over his thigh as soon as you say the word.

“Can I,” he chokes through hitching breaths, “can I please cum?”

He feels selfish for it.

But you shake your head. And in some strange, twisted way, he feels relieved.

“No,” you smile, “I don’t think so.”

Tears fill his eyes again, his vision going foggy as you continue to move your hips in his lap. He won’t cum without permission, but your denial makes his own agonizing — your cruelty makes his cock throb.

And when you pull his tie loose from around his shoulders, when you hold it up in front of his face length-wise, and say —

“I want to fuck you blind, Ginoza,”

— he can barely keep himself from spilling his cum in his slacks.

Please, he says, please fuck me.

Good dogs don’t beg, but he just can’t help it — he’ll whine for the smallest scraps you have to give.

You pull his head forward and knot his own tie around his head, blinding him. The last thing he sees before the fabric obscures his vision is the smile on your mouth.

And then all he can do is feel. Out of control — his vision black, his head resting back against the wall, his hands bound behind his back. Everything in your hands. And it feels so good that way, it feels right that way, with everything in your hands. With his zipper in your fingers, pulled down until his cock is finally free from the tension of his slacks.

He groans a little, feels a little relief now that it’s free. It’s still constricted by the damp fabric of his boxers, but now that you’re pulling his slacks down his thighs, he’s so much more sensitive.

So when you wrap your hand around his cock and squeeze him through his boxers, a blind man sees god in white flashes behind the blindfold, like fireworks. He inhales, sharp, bites into his lip so hard that his teeth tear through the skin. A little blood spreads on his tongue. The rest rushes between his thighs.

Ginoza whimpers. You rub his cock through the fabric, move your hand up and down the pulsing length of it, and he aches for you in many more ways than one.

I’m so wet, baby. I need you to make me cum again. Can you do that?

Ginoza’s barely hanging on — but he aches to do whatever you ask.

“Anything,” he pants. “Anything you want to do to me.” Anything to make you cum again.

“I told you I’d ride you if you got me wet enough,” you tease, grazing your thumb over the leaking tip of his dick. “Should I?”

“Please,” he begs.

“Let me be clear. I’m gonna use you to cum. I’m gonna use this—” you pause, and there’s a hard squeeze to his cock that makes him whimper, “—to cum. Understand?”

His head spins. He wants to be of use to you; he could cum in your palm at the thought, spurt sticky liquid out all over his boxers, but he has to stay hard for you.

“Yes, Inspector,” he chokes.

“You can hold off, can’t you?”

Ginoza’s never been a liar. He’s not one to promise things he can’t follow through on. But he’s not thinking when he says, Yes, yes, ma’am, I can.

He’s blind. To himself — to his own needs. Blindfolded and bound, he can’t see you, can’t touch you. But every remaining sense is fixed on you. Heightened.

He can hear your grin. He can smell your pussy getting wetter. He can feel the little pattern on your fingertips as you pull his boxers down around his thighs, freeing his pulsing cock to jump up against his stomach. That little swirl on your fingertips. Unique to you, yours and yours only — just like him. Minuscule to most, insignificant. But to him, the pattern against his skin is a blessing. The touch of a deity.

A big glob of precum seeps from the tip of his bare cock and runs down the underside of the shaft. Your touch meets the trail of slick liquid starting at the base of his cock, fingers running upward to swipe it up.

You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.

He twitches at the touch. At the praise.

And it’s a quiet sound, but his senses are sharp; he hears it — the little pop of you sucking his precum off your fingers. And then a louder sound, the jingle of his belt as you pull it free from the loops of his slacks. Your hand on the back of his head, gently pushing it forward, so you can slip the leather of the belt around the back of his neck.

“Can I choke you, Ginoza?”

He could cry. His words come out like a sob — Please, ma’am.

The belt wraps around his throat: center flat on the back of his neck, two ends pulled tight around the front and held closed — held tightly together — in your fist.

Pulse hammering against the leather, he whimpers, quiet and needy.

“Do you like being choked?”

“Yes,” he says hazily.

“Does it make you wet, baby?”

Breathlessly — yes, yes, more, please, tighter, please.

The pounding of his pulse is everywhere: in between his legs, in the crook of his wrist against the metal of the cuff, at his throat against the leather of the belt. More pressure on his neck — his master is so good to him, he thinks — and more precum dribbles down his cock.

Everything’s lubricated, wet; where you’re straddling his lap, your pussy is dripping onto his thighs. And when you wrap your fingers around his bare cock and squeeze the tip, everything gets wetter.

You slide your fist down the shaft, your palm tight and slippery with precum — a quick jerk downward.

That’s all it takes to make his eyes roll back under the blindfold. He strains against the handcuffs and bucks his hips up desperately, fucking once into your fist. He’s whimpering, panting, begging, but his voice sounds strained in his own ears. It sounds small, strangled by the belt around his throat.

“Did I say you could move?”

Scorn in your voice; his cheeks burn. “No, ma’am.”

“I guess I should stop. Since you’re being so selfish.”

Tears bead on his lashes behind the blindfold; you’re right here, right in his lap — you’re so close to fucking him.

“No, please,” he stammers. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me. Use me.”

“Are you going to be a good boy?”

“I promise. I promise.”

Suspended in anticipation, in darkness, he waits. He doesn’t know if the promise is enough until he feels you adjust on his lap, lifting your pussy from his thighs — leaving them wet. And even then, he doesn’t know if it’s enough until he feels you wrap your pretty fingers around the base of his cock.

He pulses in your palm, waiting. You hold him in place.

A second of blackness, painfully empty — occupied just by his shaky breaths, the tingling of his fingers behind his back, and the warmth of your fingers on his leaking cock.

A dog waiting for its owner to drop a treat.

And then, he feels it.

He feels your pussy. Your hot, wet, tight little slit on the oozing head of his cock. His eyelashes flutter behind the blindfold; a breathy moan spills from his mouth just from the contact. He moans more, louder, as you give him more of your pussy — walls expanding just enough to fit him and then hugging him tight as you slide down the length. You’re gripping him tight, squeezing all the precum out of him, but it’s already so wet inside of you.

All for him, he thinks, before correcting himself — he’s all for you. Made to be swallowed up by you, encompassed, owned. You own every moan that’s choked out, every inch of him you sink down on.

Every inch is sensitive, hugged tight by soft walls, and he can feel all the ridges in your pussy leaking around him as you swallow him up. His head lolls back on his shoulders, but you tighten the belt, tug it toward yourself — forcing his head forward as you sink down past the halfway point.

Ginoza groans, gritting his teeth. His head is floating; it’s so foggy that he can’t think. But he doesn’t need to think. He just needs you. You, and the feeling of your pussy on him. But even as you give him more of yourself, you withhold. You deprive him of air, take more and more away from him.

But the more you take, the better it feels.

Ginoza’s a good boy; he doesn’t want to do anything to displease you. But the instinct in his trembling body is strong. It’s overwhelming and desperate; heels digging into the floor, he pants through gritted teeth, and jerks his hips up. It’s just a tiny movement to bury himself just a little deeper inside of you. It’s barely anything, but the fast friction on his aching cock brings him so much relief.

It feels good, he mumbles. It feels so good.

And then, immediately, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

But you’re already stopping, fingers pinching his cheeks together, and he’s whimpering a garbled, distorted apology.

A slap to his mouth, not hard — but it makes him jump, makes his lip sting, makes him moan. The belt tightens around his throat; he chokes out another pleasured sob with you hovering a little more than halfway down his cock.

“What makes you think you can fuck me, Ginoza?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I don’t. I don’t. It just feels so —”

Your hand on his pelvis, forcing him down, back into place. He yields under your touch, thighs trembling.

“I don’t care how it feels,” you say. “Stay down and sit.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I promise I will.”

“I’m going to use you to cum, and you’re going to stay right there while I fuck you.”

He sniffles, babbling in agreement, desperate to service you. To him, nothing sounds better — nothing could make his dick harder — than you using him to cum.

“That’s my good boy.”

Yours. The praise feels good; the ownership feels better. But nothing can compare to the feeling of your pussy, especially now that you’re sinking down all the way, sitting on the full length of his cock. Wrapped all the way around him, hot and slippery, gripping him tight.

Being buried inside of you, being yours — it’s unreal, it’s too sweet. It’s too tight in your pussy, it feels too good; pleasure swirls, heavily, in his lower stomach, in his upper thighs. The tension is high; he’s desperate.

He pants, open-mouthed, like a dog.

He’s tense everywhere — muscles clenched, tremors running through them. If he’s not careful, the tension might snap. If he’s not careful, he might cum inside of you.

And the thought of that — of you draining him of all his cum until your tight hole is pumped full of it — is too much. The way you’re slurring to him is too much.

Does it feel good, Ginoza? Do you like it when I give you my pussy? Do you like being fucked by your boss?

Your voice thick and sweet in his ears; he’s drunk on a nectar full of toxins. He’s drunk on your pussy, cock twitching inside of you with every lilting word.

Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am, thank you.

A little laugh in response. Delight in your voice, in your fingers, the belt tightening around his throat. With enthusiasm, this time. And that enthusiasm feels euphoric, sends his eyes rolling back under the blindfold. His face knits up: brows furrowing, mouth dropping open.

You’re so pretty, Ginoza.

Pretty — his cheeks go hot.

You look so pretty when your cock’s getting fucked. I could cum just from looking at all the little faces you make.

He gasps, but there’s barely any oxygen to take in; the belt’s too tight around his throat. The lack of oxygen dulls all the sensations in his body except for the spot between his thighs, where the sensitivity keeps growing, especially now that you’re grinding your hips with him buried deep inside.

He’s trying to focus on any other feeling — the sweat dripping down his chest, the ache of his arm behind his back, his fingernails digging into his palm — but it’s too intense. He’s so deep; he can feel the head of his cock pressing up against your cervix, and he can feel you squeezing your pussy around him, walls wrapped tight all the way around him.

“Does it feel good when I take you this deep?”

“Yes, ma’am. So good. It feels so good.”

“Does it make you want to cum inside me?”

Ginoza sniffles, gritting his teeth. He knows he can’t. It’s taking all the willpower and self-restraint he has, but he’ll hold off; he’ll do anything you ask. He’ll do anything to stay hard for you so he can be your toy.

“Answer me,” you press. “I want to know. Does being inside of me make you want to cum?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chokes. “So much.”

“Do you want to fill me up? Do you want to pump my pussy nice and full of your cum?”

Ginoza groans; tears wet the fabric of the tie over his eyes. He wishes he could see you, see those filthy words leaving your pretty mouth. But maybe it’s good that he can’t. Because if he could —

You tighten the belt around his throat. “What, baby? Yes? Or no?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he stammers finally; the words spill out with desperation, the only release he’s allowed. “I want to fill your pussy up so much, I need to give you all my cum, I need to fuck it deep, I need to —”

He cuts himself off. He’s getting too close — toes curling in his dress shoes, cock throbbing against your snug walls. He has to dig his heels into the floor again; he has to tense his trembling body, because every desperate fiber is telling him to move, to pump his hips up and fill you. But he can’t.

“You need to what?”

He can see it in his mind — what he needs: his cum spilling out, deep inside of your pussy, each spurt coating your cervix in white. The thought makes his head spin; strong instincts are overwhelming him, he needs to —

“I need to get you pregnant,” he stammers without thinking, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

“Oh.” He can hear the grin in your voice — cold amusement that makes him whimper. “But good boys don’t get their bosses pregnant, do they, Ginoza?”

“I know,” he pants, “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t — I didn’t mean it.”

You laugh. “Yes, you did. Would you really jeopardize my job to dump your cum in me? Are you that much of a filthy dog?”

His cheeks burn. “No, ma’am, I’d never—”

He’d never dream of jeopardizing something for you. Especially not this job. Not this position you hold over him.

“Do you like working under me?”

With gratitude in his voice — “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you won’t cum inside me when I move, will you? You’ll sit there and take it like a good boy, won’t you?”

“I’ll take it,” he whimpers. “I promise.”

Then your lips are on his — a tender kiss that tastes like strawberries. His heart pounds against the leather of the belt like it could escape, but he would never dream of escaping you. He loves it right here: bound, choked, blind. Buried deep in your pussy, with your tongue deep in his mouth.

Suffocating on you feels better than anything.

“Are you ready for me to fuck you?” you ask with your mouth against his.

One hand squeezing his shoulder, one holding the belt tight on his throat.

“Please, please, I…”

He’d beg some more, but the words catch in his throat; he feels you lift yourself up on his cock, your pussy tight and wet on the shaft as you glide upward. Friction, finally, that makes him groan. You drop back down on it, taking it all the way to the base — one deep, slow stroke before you start to bounce in his lap.

His breathing is ragged; he’s out of control, he’s used, owned, all in your hands. And he’s so hard because of that, because of you, and the way you ride him — fucking him hard, choking him so hard he can barely even hear his own desperate moans through the fog in his head.

It feels so good, please. It feels so good when you fuck me like that. Keep fucking me. Harder, please, harder.

“Like this?” you tease, bouncing harder, taking him deeper, pulling the leather even more taut. “Does this pussy feel good on your cock, baby? Does this belt feel good on your throat?”

“Yes, ma’am, yes.” And Ginoza knows this isn’t about him, but he can’t help but beg at your table like a selfish dog whining for its master’s food. “Can you choke me harder? Please, please.”

Somewhere in his hazy mind, he knows he’s being selfish — that he shouldn’t be feeling this good. But you’re being so good to him, so obliging, giving him more than he deserves even though this is all supposed to be about you.

You’re cooing to him so sweetly, even though he doesn’t deserve it — Anything for my good boy. You ask so nicely. Choking him harder, fucking him harder, squeezing around his cock until his thighs tremble with the effort of holding his orgasm back. You glide up, drop back down, take it deep every time — pussy swallowing him up, getting the entire shaft wet until you’re clenching on the base. It feels best when he’s nudged up against your cervix, a pressure on the sensitive head of his cock that makes the tension in his stomach knot up.

Oh, god, please.

He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for; he knows he’s not allowed a release, knows that no matter how much he wants to he’s not allowed to buck his hips up. He’s not allowed to fuck you, to fill your pussy with his cum, but the urge is so heavy. His moans heighten, needy, breaths hitching as you ride him. He wants to be obedient, he wants to be a good boy, he wants to be your favorite — but it’s all too much; his senses are overwhelmed with you.

Your fingers leave his shoulder, and he can hear you start to rub your clit, the wet sounds of you sliding your fingers around your pussy. He can hear it getting sloppier, messier, and he can feel you getting wetter around his cock, your walls dripping wet and fluttering on the shaft. It’s unbearable: the sounds of your breathless moans, the feeling of you pleasuring yourself while you’re fucking him.

Liquid drips down his cock to the base, a mixture of your wetness and his precum resting there, warm, until your fingers swipe over it and collect it.

Then your fingertips are on his lips again, forcing their way into his mouth. He accepts them like he does everything else from you, obligingly — sucking the fluids from them while you bounce on his cock, your pussy getting wetter each time it parts around him, greedy.

His mouth is greedy too, ravenous for the taste of your fingers. A mixture, your fluids and his; desperately, he wants to be mixed with you.

His head is clouded by thoughts of giving himself to you — of pumping all his fluids deep inside of you until the two of you are combined. There’s no thought more enticing in this moment, no instinct stronger, than to give you all of his cum. He wants to fill you, over and over and over, until he’s sure that it takes.

His seed in your womb, you pregnant with his kids — he groans around your fingers, spit dripping down his chin. If he keeps thinking about it, he doesn’t know if he’ll last.

But he has to, so he resorts to begging around your fingers, words garbled and small — Please cum on me. Please. I need you to cum.

He’s losing his composure, panting with his mouth full, trembling as he tries to stay still. It works for a little; he thinks he has himself under control, that he can hold off, until he feels you adjust. You reach behind your body, snake a hand downward, cupping his balls while you bounce on his lap.

They’re sensitive, heavy. They’re tight, and when you squeeze them, he whimpers.

“Do you need my cum, baby?” you tease. “Do you want me to cum all over your cock? Do you want me to get it all wet? You’re so needy, just look at you.”

He’s trying to hold off, but it feels so good — the way you ride him, the way your hand squeezes with just the right amount of pressure. He chokes out a groan around your fingers, loses his composure for a fraction of a second — just long enough to buck his hips up again. A quick, shallow thrust into your pussy, immediately followed by a shudder and a helpless sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I promise.”

You’re stern; you’re cold, unforgiving. “What did I say, Ginoza? I told you to sit down and take it, but you keep disappointing me, over and over.”

He hates to disappoint you, and he knows it’s wrong, but the scolding leaves him in even worse shape. And when you squeeze his balls again, he can’t help but jerk his hips up a second time. He’s throbbing, panting, trying to stop the feeling from building.

“Please, please, no,” he babbles around your fingers, “I can’t, I think I’m — I’m going to —”

You lift off his cock right before the coil snaps, leaving him panting as you remove the belt from his throat and your fingers from his mouth. The same fingers come to the back of his head, nimble, to pull the knot of his tie free.

He’s still murmuring apologies and blinking tears from his eyes as you remove the blindfold.

A tender touch first; your fingers brushing the hair away from his flushed, tearful face. And then a cruel one — your hand tightening in his hair, pulling his face back. He looks up at you through lashes still wet and heavy with tears, sniffling.

He’s still throbbing, still close. But some of his desperation is quelled, at least, by the sight of you on his lap. After being deprived of you for so long, it’s the first glimpse of the sun after a long winter.

But your voice is still frigid.

“Listen. You’re servicing me. What don’t you understand about that?”

His lips tremble. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I just want you to cum.”

“Good.”

A little softness in your voice — more mercy than he expected, more than he deserves. You really are so good to him, he really is glad to be your hound; he wouldn’t trade this position for anything in the world.

His eyes on you, his attentive gaze coming to your fingers, looking for cues. Your hands tug at the loose collar of your drab gray blouse, stretching it until it’s pulled under your tits. Underneath the blouse, your chest is framed by a skimpy pink bra — the same warm color as your skimpy pink panties. You tug the cups of your bra down too, and put your pretty tits on display for him.

His eyes linger on your tits even as you grip his dick and adjust on his lap. He doesn’t look away from them until you’re starting to sink down on the length of him again.

He bites his lip, moans through it, soft. Watching. Now that he can see — now that he can watch as your pussy takes him in — it’s so much harder for him to hold back. He can see how much you want him now, how wet and puffy your pussy is as you slide down his aching cock. The length glistens when you glide up, coated in more slick with each bounce.

Weight on the balls of your feet, heels on the ground while you fuck him. If his hands weren’t bound, he’d run his fingers up the patent leather of your stilettos, up the thin heel. Classy, he thinks — even when you’re fucking him raw there’s something about you that makes him feel so dirty in comparison.

He’s something that belongs under your heels. Maybe, if he were a little braver, he’d ask you to put the point of your stiletto on his chest.

But, for now, he’ll be a good boy and take it. You ride him deep, fingers laced around the back of his neck. He’s never seen something prettier, eyes drawn everywhere — your contorting face, your bouncing tits, your dripping wet pussy. Slippery juices smear all over his thighs and collect, thick and gooey, around the base of his cock.

He can see how good you’re feeling, but you’re vocal anyway.

You’re making me feel so good. This dick is just what I needed, baby, it’s gonna make me cum so hard.

It’s too much; he feels it building up again — balls tightening, thighs trembling, toes flexing. Nothing in his mind except for your soft, sweet moans and the little wet smacks of your skin on his. You fuck him harder, and harder, and harder, until he can hear the desperation in his own hitching breaths.

He has to take it, but he doesn’t know if he can. He thought he could endure it for you, last long enough to make you cum — he thought he could be a good boy. It’s a simple task. But it’s not an easy one. And if you keep moaning filth to him, if you keep looking at him like that while you ride him — mouth open, pretty face knit up, he’ll —

“Please,” he whimpers, “please, no, I’m trying — it’s too fast — it feels too good —”

His eyes roll back; his head lolls forward, sweat snaking down his temples. His hands are balled up into fists behind his back, and he groans, but you keep torturing him, keep moaning as you drop down on his aching cock.

The words blur together. Filthy, tempting.

Oh, you’re gonna make me cum, right there, this cock feels so good, it’s so good when you let me fuck you, baby, I need to cum again, baby.

He can’t last like this; he doesn’t want to do anything without your permission, but if you don’t stop —

“Please,” he begs, tremors in his voice, “I can’t take it, please, I can’t hold it, if you don’t stop I’m gonna…”

“Gonna what?”

Another tease as you fuck him, and he sobs.

“I’m gonna cum,” he chokes, “I’m gonna fill your pussy if you don’t stop.”

The release hangs heavy, ready to burst in his lower stomach.

“Did I give you permission? Be a good boy, Ginoza. You’ll be good, won’t you?”

He squeezes his teary eyes shut, panting, Mhm. Mhm. Every ounce of willpower, but it’s not enough. He’s doing his best for you, but it’s not enough.

And you’re doing your worst to him — you’re being so cruel, making him feel so good. You keep fucking him with your fingers laced behind his neck, bringing your thumbs to the front of his throat. You press them into his pulse, suffocate him.

He groans, feels his cock pulsing, feels more precum oozing from the tip. It’s so wet inside of you, so soft and so tight — you’ll milk him dry, if he’s not careful.

“Don’t close your eyes,” you coo to him, “look at me, baby. I want you to look at me while I fuck you. Let me see your pretty face.”

His eyes flutter open and then, confronted with your euphoric face, watching the pleasure mounting in your expression, it feels like torture.

“Please stop,” he chokes, “please, I’m so close, you have to stop before —”

He lets out a needy whine, and right before he crashes over, you lift off of him, leaving his cock flushed and twitching. As soon as you’re off of him, he jerks his hips up desperately, thrusting into nothing.

“God,” he groans, vision swimming with tears, sweat dripping down his temples, “thank you, thank you.”

“You can take it, can’t you, baby?” you tease, squeezing the base. “You can take it until I cum. I’m so close. You’re doing so well.”

He nods hazily, but he doesn’t even have the chance to catch his breath before you level yourself over him and sink down again. More than anything, he wants to take it until he gives you what you need. He can see you getting close. The pleasure is right there in front of him; it’s everywhere — in your moans, written all over your face. You keep getting wetter and wetter around him, keep clenching, keep dripping all over his thighs.

And it’s all for him. All that relief, all that pleasure — face knit up, insides tensing around his cock — is because of him. Because he’s servicing you.

And in return for that he gets to hear your pretty moans lilt and get more urgent as you approach the edge. He gets to hear you moan, You’re gonna make me cum, you’re gonna make me feel so good, baby.

A few more desperate bounces, a few more lewd moans, and then you’re dropping over, moaning for him — I’m cumming, I’m cumming. It’s his privilege to feel you take what you need — fingers digging into his throat, walls spasming and dripping on his cock while you glide up and down.

It’s too much, it feels too good, it looks too good. He chokes on a sob, stomach knotted, pressure building up between his thighs, higher and higher with each bounce. You fuck him through your orgasm, and he wants to hold it, but it’s just too much.

“Please, please, please,” he murmurs, “I can’t—”

But you’re wrapped up, moaning while you use him, and he can’t take it — can’t be good for you anymore, no matter how much he wants to. One more attempt to snuff out the pleasure, but it doesn’t work; his cock is twitching, and each spasm of your pussy feels like you want to suck the cum out of him.

So he murmurs one more desperate plea — please, please, oh god, I’m sorry, it feels too good, I’m gonna cum — and lets it go.

It feels so good — an instant high to let it go after holding off for so long. He thinks the sudden burst of pleasure is more intense than anything he’s felt before; the tension in his muscles releases, and deep inside of you, his cock throbs. He feels the cum spurting out, shooting up into your contracting insides and coating your pulsing walls.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this; he’s babbling incoherent, breathy apologies, but he just has so much cum for you, so much to give you. And it feels so strong, so good to cum inside of you, where everything’s so hot and wet. He gives you so much cum that it drips out of your pussy, coating the shaft of his dick, collecting around the base.

And you’re letting him cum inside of you — you’re still fucking him, still cooing to him. You look him in the eyes, with your fingers pressing into his throat, while you take him deep. Over and over and over, until your tensing insides milk every last drop out of him.

You collapse onto his lap with a heavy sigh.

Face on his shoulder, breathing against his neck. It takes him a few moments to catch his breath. His arms are aching behind him, but the pleasure persists. He’s still inside of you, feeling your walls spasm every few seconds — velvety, warm around him, full of his cum.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” he stammers, “I really didn’t mean to—”

There’s a disappointed sigh against his throat, and his heart drops.

“Did I say you could cum inside me?”

Ginoza feels his cheeks burn. Embarrassment, regret. He had you for a moment, and now he’s ruined it.

“No, ma’am,” he sniffles, “I promise I didn’t mean to.”

The silence is heavy. He thinks you must hate him, that you must be disgusted with him, that he’s not good enough to even be your dog. He’s sick to his stomach.

But when you pull back, your face is soft. Your hands are soft when they move his hair out of his face. They’re warm. You’re warm. The only warm thing in the middle of this cold, gray office is you.

Your pretty hands cradle his face gently, tilting it upward; he feels your thumbs on his cheeks, brushing his tears away. With tenderness. With the warmth of summertime. Summertime sweat lingering on your skin, in the dead of winter — you’re a flower blooming at the very end of fall, after all the others have withered.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I’m really sorry.”

Ginoza wonders if animals can comprehend the concept of deities. He thinks that dogs might view their owners in the same way humans might view a god. As something inexplicable but perfect. As something to be revered without comprehension.

“Will you make it up to me?” you ask. Sweet, soft.

Maybe you’re not the lethal oleander flower, he thinks, but something harmless blooming in an identical shade. A lookalike without the same poison.

He supposes there’s only one way to find out.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll do anything.”

[peachesandmilktea]

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𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒯𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒫𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇 - 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝐼𝒱 [𝓕𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽]

Barbarian King!Bakugo x Priestess!Reader x Fire Diety!Dabi

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

You’d always known exactly what was to be your fate. Enter the temple of the fire god as a high priestess, serve Dabi in his every need, and dedicate your whole life to worshipping him. That fate slips between your fingers when invaders plunder the temple and King Katsuki takes you as a war prize.

TW : Yandere, War, Sexual Slavery, Implied Noncon and its Aftermath.

AO3 Link.

Her fingers brushed against his scar.

Warm, soft, deadly all the same.

“You disgust me,” she said.

And yet, the words still felt like raindrops after a long, deadly drought, like the sight of a flower blooming after an icy winter, like the stars she loved so much, sparkling in the night sky and making him want to reach out and catch them one by one. Each syllable brought life back into him, oxygen into his lungs and beatings in his harsh, greedy heart. Could she feel it strike harder against the walls of his ribcage, right under her fingers? Could she hear it, even, drumming in her ears like it was in his?

If he held her wrist a little tighter, her hand a little closer, he was sure she’d be able to reach into his chest and pull his bleeding heart straight out of his body. And it wouldn’t hurt more than it already did, wouldn’t feel any different than the way he suffered an eternity of hellish pain whenever she looked at him. Maybe it would even feel right, Katsuki thought, because what place did his heart belong to rather than the palm of her hands?

He smiled, cruel, triumphant.

“Doesn’t matter. You can say whatever the fuck you want to me.”

She frowned, flinched when he raised his free hand, gently stroking his knuckles against her cheek. He felt her shiver under his touch.

“At the end of the day, I still won.”

He leaned towards her, lips brushing against her ear as he chuckled:

“And you’re my sweet little prize.”

In a swift move, she pushed him away, and he stumbled back, not expecting the violence, the fury, the rage she put into the action. It was in her eyes, too, in her expression. In the way her lips were pulled in a thin line, in the way sparks of anger lit in her irises, in the way she raised her hands to strike him again if he dared take another step towards her.

As if she’d be able to stop him.

She would be, if she knew the thoughts that swarmed his mind. If she realized that he’d fall to his knees at her feet if only she gave in. If she somehow understood that he’d be her willing slave if only she gave herself to him in return, if only she let herself be held and cared for and loved by his hands, his eyes, his heart. A mere glance, the faintest, willing touch of her fingers against his skin would be enough, he was sure, to calm the inferno that burned in his chest, to soothe the excruciating torments that had taken over his whole being, to relieve him of the hurt, the pain, the suffering of wanting, craving, needing something he could never have.

But he could touch her as much as he wanted, now. Stroke her silky skin with rough, calloused fingers. Kiss her lips and see for himself if she tasted like the peaches she loved so much, or was it fresh almonds? Cage her into his arms, feel her tiny, frail form against his strong chest, take it all in and never let her go.

She was but a mere foot away.

Chained to his bed.

There was nothing he couldn’t do to her.

“I’m not yours to have,” she hissed, glaring at him.

Why, why, why was she never his to have?

But what she said didn’t matter. He held the power now.

“You will be,” he snarled, anger filling in heart once again at her refusal. “You will give me what I want, or I’ll find satisfaction somewhere else.”

Something sparked in her gaze; hope, wonder, surprise, maybe. She tilted her head, letting a few strands of her hair fall in front of her face, not caring to push them away when they made shadows dance over her cheeks in the faint light of the fire that burned in the tent still.

She looked like a deity herself.

The sight took his breath away.

“Somewhere else?” she asked after a few seconds of silence, letting the words fall from her lips like poison, disgust tainting her tone at each syllable.

He blinked, suddenly conscious again that she wasn’t a goddess, that she wasn’t some kind of higher being that could be worshiped but never seen nor touched. No, she was real, warm under his touch when he caught her chin and raised it so that his gaze dove into hers.

If he could have let himself drown in it, he would have.

“Remember that I’m a warrior, Princess. I kill, steal, plunder for power, hell, for fun, even. I’ll destroy that pretty country of yours before you can even plead me not to.”

His thumb rose to gently stroke her lower lip. The skin there was plump, silky.

He would have sold his soul for a chance to taste it.

“Unless,” he added. “I have something else to focus all of my attention on.”

You, he meant. Sweet, gentle, wanton little war prize.

As if he hadn’t plundered her kingdom exactly because he wanted her.

The disgust in her eyes when she raised them to meet his swallowed every ounce of his confidence. She was supposed to accept him, she was supposed to be willing, she was supposed to realize that she’d belonged to him all along. Him, the most powerful man on earth, the king who had defeated a god, the warrior born to destroy, and yet who craved for something as stupid and weakening as love.

Her love.

“It doesn’t have to change anything,” he said when she tried to push him away again, voice low and deep, treacherous feelings overwhelming his chest and threatening to spill through his lips. Despair, anger, powerlessness. Again, and again, and again, he drowned in them, breathless, reaching out a hand in the hopes that she’d take it and save him, that she’d pull him back to the surface of the inky ocean of despair that were his thoughts and dreams, and allow him to breathe in air at last. “Serve me just like you served him.”

Tears of frustration, despair, were pooling in her eyes now.

Her voice was faint, barely a whisper when she asked:

“What did I ever do to you, Katsuki?”

What hadn’t she done?

Like a goddamn thief in the night, she’d stolen all power from his hands, leaving him bare and defenseless. What use was there in being King when he knew that, deep down inside, he was weaker than a stupid, silly little priestess? That the tiny, frail little creature that she was could somehow bring him to his knees and make him wish for death by her hand? There was no freedom to be had when she’d stolen that power from him, and she kept him captive in her grip, never to be released unless she gave herself to him, wholly and fully, never looking back at the deity she’d left behind.

There was too much to be said and too few words resting on his tongue, never to be spoken.

You made me want you.

You enslaved me, leashed my heart to yours.

You made me yearn for you more than I yearn for life itself.

You shattered me, tore me apart, left me for dead in your wake.

And you made it so that I was fine with it, for my suffering is yours to give.

Instead, his fingers snaked around the golden chain that ran from her collar. It fell on his wrist as he tightened his grip, caging it in its embrace as if he were a prisoner too, captive of the same restraints that she was, the ones he’d had put on her himself just because he was too damn scared she’d fade from his grasp if he didn’t make sure she couldn’t.

He pulled her to him, cradled her face in his rough, cruel hands.

And kissed her as if she were love made flesh.

It was everything he’d dreamed of and more. Sweet like honey, soft like cotton, warm like embers in the dead of a summer night. It was heaven and hell and everything in between. A world void of everything except for the two of them, lost souls like two shooting stars never meant to collide, at least not until he seized fate itself into his own strong, merciless hands and bent it to his will so that she would be all his to have.

She didn’t push him away this time, and he felt the familiar tug of victory pull at his heart, the first sparks of a sick, triumphant sort of satisfaction exploding in his chest. She’d submit, of course she would, because how could she not? She’d kneel and he’d conquer like he conquered her country, like he conquered her people, like he conquered the world while she’d served her deity in her stupid little temple, away from the war and the tears, and the blood spilled by his hands.

“Your deity is as good as dead,” Katsuki murmured against her lips, and there was pride in his voice. It pulled at the words, at his lips, too, until they were stretched into a satisfied smirk. There were no more obstacles between them now. No other master to claim her, no other god for her to worship, no other man that could touch her and have her and love her.

“Yes,” she replied, and the word rolled on her tongue, sad and tragic and full of chagrin. “Yes, he is, all because of you.”

And Dabi’s perfect little priestess was Katsuki’s now.

He ravished her like he’d ravished her country, he stole everything from her grasp like he’d done to so many others before, he destroyed her life and remade it into his property, his to make it as he wished, for that is the law of the land of men as long as the gods are kept dormant, sealed in their temple, weakened and put to silence.

The most powerful one takes all.

And so, what could Katsuki do but what he was always meant to, the very reason why his body had been crafted by the hands of the gods in the beginning of time? The warrior that he was took everything, he plundered and stole from her, left her crying and sobbing in the darkest hours of night as she, too, did what she was meant to, the reason why she’d been born with such a voice, such a mind, such a heart.

To serve.

-----

She didn’t speak, not unless he asked her a direct question.

It had been weeks since Katsuki had heard a snap, a witty remark, a snarl at his attention spilling from her lips. It had been weeks since she’d looked him in the eye, preferring to marvel at anything and everything else instead. The trembling of her hands, the fabric of her gown, the sharpness of the blade that Katsuki wore on his belt. And even then, it was only when she really had to show him that she noticed his presence. Other times, she didn’t acknowledge it at all, spending hours in silence, eyes raised to the sky as if looking for an answer to her suffering among the fluffy clouds that littered the pastel blue expanse.

“Are you hungry?” He would ask at times, hoping for an answer, anything.

He’d slide a plate of freshly cut peaches towards her, and she’d simply shake her head, refusing both the food and his help. But she still wouldn’t say a word when he made her sit on his lap and slipped the fruits between her lips anyway, with no regard for her opinion because she’d starve herself if he let her. She didn’t care anymore, not for the food, not for her health, not for the sun nor the moon nor the stars, not for him.

She was a puppet without strings, and he’d been the one to tear them apart with his dirty hands.

“What would it take for you to smile again?” he wondered at night, stroking her hair away from her face as she laid next to him, her back turned and her gaze focused on the weakening fire burning in the hearth. Her fingers seemed to want to reach towards it, to touch and let her skin sear above the flames, as if she’d rather feel anything but Katsuki’s touch, no matter the pain or agony.

“A threat, probably,” she’d whisper quietly, with none of the bite that used to pull at her voice every time she spoke before he took her and made her his. “Threaten my country and I’ll do anything. But you already know that, don’t you, My Lord?”

Defeat dripped from her words and the title sounded empty on her tongue.

But if that’s what it took, he’d do it.

And so he let those threats spill from his lips, filthy menaces that had her shivering underneath him, avoiding his gaze when he leaned towards her to murmur them in her ear, voice soft and ever so cruel. Tales of her family’s blood coating his hands, stories of her fellow priestesses stolen from their temples and enslaved, tragic words of her beloved kingdom destroyed under the hooves of his army’s horses and the blades of his men.

She’d smile then, a sad, soft little smile, full of chagrin more than anything else.

But he’d pretend not to see, not to notice the tears pooling in her eyes, kissing her and drowning in her warmth until he’d forgotten that there ever was another name on her lips, one that wasn’t his.

And after all, what did it matter when Katsuki was the only word lingering in her mind now?

----

“Sunflowers,” he said one day, taking her to a little garden hidden behind his tent. “You like them, right?”

It had been months since he’d stolen her, and they’d moved what seemed like a thousand times, sometimes staying for merely a few days in one place before packing everything and leaving for another. Such was the way of life in Katsuki’s warrior tribe, and he couldn’t say he minded it, not when it’d been the only thing he’d ever known, conquering country after country, region after region, leaving a trail of blood in his wake and a reputation more terrifying even than the cruelest of gods.

But it didn’t fit her, not as he remembered her, with her gardening and her cooking, with her peach trees and her blackberry bushes. He’d seen her happiest with dirt coating her hands, the juice of stolen fruits dripping from her smiling lips, lost flower petals stuck in her messy hair.

And so, he’d decided that his men would settle for a while.

And he’d had a sunflower garden built for her right behind his tent.

She eyed the flowers, silent for a moment. Then, she took a step into the garden, and another, and another, never looking back at Katsuki. Her fingers softly brushed against the yellow petals and she let out a deep sigh full of nostalgia, as if remembering fonder memories that he was not a part of.

He wondered if, somewhere deep, deep inside her mind, the memory of their first meeting lingered too, only buried and forgotten, never to be thought of again.

“Why would you care what I like?” she asked then, raising her gaze to his for the first time in a while. Yet, there was a slight frown on her eyebrows, and some kind of worry, fear, maybe, swarming in her irises. “Is it so that you can threaten to take it away from me, too?”

Will you destroy the flowers once I start caring for them? she meant.

Will you steal every ounce of happiness from my heart? she didn’t say.

Katsuki almost barked a laugh at the idea, but the weight in his chest was heavy all the same. What wouldn’t he give to trample those stupid sunflowers and start again at the beginning, with her hitting him with her goddamn rake and him choosing to ignore her instead of staying long enough to let her ensnare him with her voice? He’d truly be the most powerful man on earth then, with no weakness to bring him to his knees, no inescapable agony torturing his mind, no overwhelming chagrin swallowing his heart every time he laid his eyes on her sad expressions.

“They’re yours,” he snarled, annoyed. “As long as we’re staying.”

She didn’t thank him for the kindness, because it wasn’t one, not really.

It was a stupid, desperate attempt at catching her attention.

For so long, he’d been convinced that having her, stealing her away from her god would be enough. He thought it would be easy, once he sealed Dabi. That she’d fall into his arms and forget about her deity just like she’d forgotten about Katsuki when he’d gone away and left her behind. That she’d accept her place by his side, that she’d start looking at him with anything other than anger or sadness in her eyes. That she’d start craving him just as he craved her. That she’d give in, offer herself willingly, be his in both body and soul.

But her soul was too hard to grasp in his bloodied, warrior hands, and he kept trying to reach towards it, fingers trembling and lips whispering silent prayers to whoever the fuck would listen to his pleas, hoping that sometime, someday, he would catch it and she’d be forced to love and ache and hurt like he did.

But his prayers went unheard, and he stayed powerless.

She took care of the flowers for a few weeks.

And when they moved encampments again, when he had her ride his horse with him, her form closely snuggled against his chest, she turned back, only once, towards that garden he’d given her and now forced to leave behind.

“I wish you’d leave me behind, too,” she whispered, her words meant for no one’s ears but her own.

But he’d heard, and didn’t reply.

Caught her hand in his instead.

Squeezed, hard, until she winced in pain.

They left the sunflowers behind, and she hadn’t smiled once.

-----

Two years passed before he took her back to her family’s castle.

He’d destroyed it, left it in ruins of what it used to be. Plundered the pretty rooms, stole the golden artifacts, killed every soul unfortunate enough to meet his eyes as he’d roamed along the hallways with his men, those same places he’d spent days lazing around in her company. Every sight of that stupid castle with its tall towers and flowery garden had reminded him of his own powerlessness and so, he’d ravaged it even before he’d gone and taken her from her temple.

And now, it was desolate of any soul except for his and hers.

He took her to that tower, the one she’d said she liked.

My favorite place in the world, she’d called it once, lifetimes ago.

Night had fallen hours before, and its dark inky coat stretched over the sky, swallowing the world all around. Silver freckles littered the view above them, little sparks of them reflecting in her gaze when she raised her eyes and looked up, up, up, towards the infinity of them like a sea of diamonds, gorgeous and beautiful and so magnificent it looked unreal.

It still paled in comparison to her.

You’re prettier than the stars, he wanted to tell her.

He longed to stretch his arms towards the sky and catch them one by one, put them in her hands and watch her expression as she marveled at the magic, at his power, at the knowledge that he’d do anything for her, capture the moon and sun and every star if only she would smile once more.

But she wouldn’t, that much he knew.

Prettier, but just as unreachable.

She frowned, let out a frustrated sigh. Turned to him, confusion replacing the lights in her eyes.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, some sort of anger in her voice. “I hate this place. I hate the stars.”

She said it as if he’d meant it as a punishment all along, as if he’d taken her hand and forced her to climb the stairs leading to that tower with the sole intention of finding another way to make her suffer at his hands. Tears filled with starlight pooled in her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. She’d bitten her lips so raw that drops of blood were staining the skin there.

He blinked, surprised.

Felt his heart sink in his chest.

Why couldn’t she ever accept any part of him? Anything he did for her?

She’d loved the stars, wished she could drown in the sight of them. She’d talked about their beauty for hours and hours on end as he had listened, drunk on the sound of her voice, eyes closed and a peaceful smile pulling at his lips, happiness in his heart and pure, raw, obsessive love weighing on his chest.

“No,” he replied, firm, mean. “You don’t. Have you forgotten, idiot? You love this place.”

She glared at him, wiping her tears away with a violent move of her arm, one that left her skin reddened and dirty. Her steps were filled with rage when she walked towards the balcony, gait graceful and soft like a cat’s. For a second, Katsuki thought she might jump over the railing and leave him there to die from rage and chagrin and pain, but she simply let her tightened fist hit the cold stone, angry, despaired, so damn sad that she was.

“This is the place I hate most in the world,” she said.

And he wanted to yell at her, to catch her arm and pull her to him and call her ungrateful, call her a liar, call her a silly little priestess, too dumb even to remember even the things she liked and the things she hated, too forgetful to recall that she’d been his before she’d even met her deity for the first time, but he didn’t.

He didn’t, because it was the first time she had truly reacted to something since he’d stolen her.

And so, he listened when she talked to herself as if he wasn’t there, low murmurs slipping from her lips, almost as quiet as the tears full of stars that rolled down her cheeks.

“It’s weird,” she whispered. “I lost something here, but I can’t remember what.”

The feeling was there, coating his tongue, too. Loss. Grief. Despair.

He felt himself drowning, just like that time he’d lost her, in the very same place, under the very same stars, eternities ago.

She raised her eyes, looked up at the sky.

He wished she’d look at him instead.

“Something that I loved,” she murmured.

The words were cruel, crueler than she’d ever spoken.

They stabbed through his chest, left him bleeding and aching and hurting, agony filling his mind, burning through his every thought faster than a summer forest fire. Her tongue was a blade that cut through his skin until he was covered in the crimson of his blood, the crimson of his obsession, of his love, of his hatred of himself, of her, of everything and everyone that stood between them and kept her heart safe from his thieving hands.

“Something that I wanted desperately and never got to have,” she breathed.

He wanted her to stop talking, wanted to kill her and feel her life fade away under his hands, for the suffering of losing her would surely be sweeter than the agony of knowing that in another world, in another life, she could have been his.

“Something that wasn’t meant to be mine, yet I craved all the same,” she sighed, never looking at him, gaze still lost in the stars above her.

He’d never stolen her, he realized.

She’d been stolen from him.

He’d been the weak, powerless victim all along. He’d lost her to her fate, lost her to the world, lost her to her own nature as a priestess, to her deity and everything and everyone else that had allowed her to be taken away from him. He’d even lost her to herself, for she’d chosen her destiny, had drowned and buried her own wishes and dreams until they’d gone silent in her mind, dead and forgotten, now only fleeting feelings that would disappear once they left that cursed tower.

He hadn’t stolen her, he had destroyed her instead.

He’d plundered her life and stolen any ounce of happiness, tore any hope from her hands. He’d taken anything and everything away from her, and only one thing now remained in her mind at the thought of him.

Hatred.

“Now, I hate the stars almost as much as I hate you,” she murmured when she turned to him at last.

He deserved it, deserved it, deserved it.

But he was King, and the world was to be as he wished.

He pulled her to him, leaned towards her until he could feel her warm breath tickling his collarbone.

“You can hate me all you want, Princess,” he replied, his voice so low it was almost a growl, slipping from his throat with violence and pain. “At the end of the day, you’re still mine.”

He spoke like a monarch, like a leader, like a deity, even, a being whose word was law over others, over her and her life and her fate.

It felt like a lie all the same.

-----

It was another year before they settled close to what used to be her temple.

He’d allowed her to look at it, sadness filling her gaze when it lingered on the old building now abandoned and almost swallowed by the nature around it, covered by the surrounding trees and thick ivy bushes. It was empty and silent, and she stayed quiet too, as they rode past it, past the place she’d found him wounded and dying, past the place he’d gone to and trained while still in her care, past places she knew by heart and others she’d never seen because she’d never been that far from her sanctuary.

She didn’t say a word the whole day they settled, as if afraid he’d make them ride away if she spoke, as if she’d rather enjoy the comforting sight of places she knew in silence than risk provoking his wrath.

And, when night fell, she let him kiss her by the fire, let him taste her lips as if it were the last time he was allowed to, let him cradle her into his arms so tight he was sure she’d break under his touch.

Are you thinking about him? he wanted to ask.

But there was no use speaking the words, no meaning in letting them prickle his throat and cut through his tongue because he knew the truth already.

Knew that he was all she’d think about, ever.

Dabi, her fire deity.

Not Katsuki, the warrior king who’d stolen her, but the god who’d enslaved her before she was even born.

He was the only man swarming her thoughts, the only presence she would ever crave for now that she’d forgotten all about her first love. He was the only one who would make her smile, who would fill her heart with the warmth Katsuki felt every time he laid eyes on her, who would have her melt under his touch and ask for more.

Katsuki would never know the taste of that power.

And so, he pretended to forget to lock her collar before he fell asleep by her side, pretended to let slumber swallow him fast and hard, pretended not to hear when she got up on trembling, clumsy legs and slipped under the tent’s fabric to step onto the grass of the clearing outside.

Pretended not to feel the tear in his gut, not to feel the anguish in his heart.

Pretended that he didn’t wish he would die before she left him.

When she was far enough, he got up and watched her run towards the forest, towards her temple, towards her deity. She would break the seal, he knew, for her bond with her god would allow her to, and she’d be with him again, serving him like she was always supposed to, like she’d wished for all along. He would protect her kingdom again, the very same one Katsuki had destroyed, and maybe she’d be able to rebuild it with Dabi’s help.

Katsuki didn’t care about it, now.

Every feeling tasted like ash in his mouth.

Her small form disappeared in the night, swallowed by the inky darkness of these woods she knew so well, concealing her from his eyes like it should have that time he’d stumbled into her care after being fatally wounded in battle.

He blinked, and she was gone.

And he cursed her, cursed her name, cursed her mere existence.

Cursed her for not killing him before leaving, cursed her for abandoning him to the torture that was to be his life knowing the hole in his heart would never be filled, knowing that he’d only be a shadow of a man and nothing else, knowing she’d stolen that part of his soul and would never give it back as long as he was alive.

She’d destroyed him just like he’d destroyed her.

His men were waiting for him when he exited his tent, fully dressed already, no matter how high the moon still was in the sky, no matter that night had barely fallen. Kirishima squeezed his shoulder in support, and he ignored the look of pity that the redhead threw at him.

An hour later, they were gone.

Just like she wished, he’d left her behind.

Never to see her again.

But in his dreams, he would.

He would kiss her and take her into his arms, feel her melt into his embrace.

And in those stupid fantasies, she always smiled and kissed him back.

Softly, tenderly, passionately.

Like she loved him, too.

Fantasies, fantasies, fantasies.

That was all they ever would be.

------

Tipjar!

I had planned to write a scene with Dabi and Reader and the end, but I just thought it would be better to end with Bakugo. Tell me if you'd like me to write it as some kind of epilogue though!

Ahhh it feels so weird ending this story. It's truly one of my favorite fics I've written, and I'm extremely grateful if you read it all. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Please, please, please tell me your opinion on this one. It means the world to me. I'd really like to hear your thoughts!!

[tteokdoroki]

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HIGH HEELS - ryomen sukuna.

౨ৎ — about. “sukuna knows those heels, he’s pulled them off of you a million times before during a haze of lustful kisses and sly touches. he has no idea why the sight of them turns him on so much.” as rough and rugged as he may seem, ryomen sukuna lives to see his girl happy. he loves to see her smile. he loves to know she feels as good as she looks…but when you end up looking a little too good in a certain pair of heels, he can’t be blamed for making you late for a dreaded dinner... ( 6.2K )

౨ৎ — warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! nsfw, smut, pwp — video banner. modern!au, rich girl!au, forbidden romance, reader has sisters, degradation, praise, pain play, fingering (f!receiving), exhibitionism, slight!daddy kink, hold the moan, unprotected sex, oral sex (f!receiving), masturbation (m!receiving), cum play, creampies, modern bf!sukuna, rich girl fem!reader.

౨ৎ — things to note. haii everyone ! it’s been a while since i posted a longer fic so im excited. this was supposed to be a thirst lol. i’m just testing the waters with my version of modern bf!sukuna ! many thanks to @yennified for the ask that inspired it all. i’d like to thank everyone for their patience ‘n i hope you enjoy mwah mwah <3 - m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪࣪𖤐₊ ⊹

“we’re going to be late, hot stuff.” 

“no we’re not, ryo. give me five minutes! i just need to —“ 

if there’s one thing ryomen ‘sukuna’ itadori had  learned from dating you, is that time management was never and never will be your strong suit.

if the phrase fashionably late could be embodied as a person, sukuna believes that it would definitely take the shape of you. you and your beautiful brown eyes that plead with him to give you a moment not even five minutes before you leave the house for dinner reservations. you and your sinful curves only accentuated the silk slip dresses you spend so long steaming before sukuna takes you out for the night. you and your perfect lips that have to be painted with the right gloss or lipstick to match your nails, purse and heels. 

all of you, and your beauty, make up the meat and bones of the phrase ‘fashionably late.’

just like right now, where you sit reapplying your hot chocolate lip gloss, perched on the edge of the luxurious king sized bed you’d demanded be in your hotel room. a room booked by your father for a family-oriented get-away. sukuna hadn’t wanted to come, as a man from humble beginnings, using your daddy’s money wasn’t something that he favoured — but the man liked to see his girl happy. sukuna lives to make you happy, even if he won’t admit it. 

“do ya really need five minutes to fix your lip gloss?” the pink haired man chides, sweeping a hand through his rosette locks in the mirror as he re-enters your bedroom. “i’ve seen you do it in less, gorgeous,” blood red eyes are quick to place you in the centre of the room — they never stray from you for too long, sukuna will always find you in a room no matter how busy or bare it is. your presence fills him with love and brings him comfort, even if he refuses to accept that as his truth. 

there’s a coldness to the look you give him over your compact mirror while you rub the swell of your lips together, spreading the pigment across them easily. it’s a warning not to rush you, a warning to your boyfriend who knows better. “i said, i need my five minutes.” 

ryomen drops the topic with a shrug, fixing his silky tie at the collar of his dress shirt — the one you’d so carefully picked because it matches the deep tone of his eyes and the colour of your slip dress. a mark of possession on your part. once he’s done, he takes to packing your designer clutch with all of your essentials from the dresser — blotting powder, your purse, any silver jewellery you’ll want to put on in the car. he slips on a couple of expensive rings to match with you too.

sukuna is more prepared for this dinner with your insufferable relatives than you are. he knows that tonight will be about your little sister and the rich lord she’s bagged as her boyfriend along with how soon they’ll be getting married. or it’ll focus on your older sister and her marriage that she’s trying so hard to keep together, despite it clearly falling apart. both of your siblings seem to think that they’re above you and your brooding, misunderstood boyfriend. 

but you don’t believe that. 

and you like to rub your love for one another in their bitter faces. 

“pretty girl,” sukuna purrs, his chest rumbling with affection once he takes note of your heels discarded to the side. their silver sparkles glint under the warm embrace of the lighting up above. sukuna knows those heels, he’s pulled them off of you a million times before during a haze of lustful kisses and sly touches. they’re expensive too — he has no idea why the sight of them turns him on so much. “if you don’t hurry up, we won’t be able to brag to your bitchy sisters about how in love we are.”

by no means is sukuna a man of weak resolve. his will is as strong as his exterior — coated in the scars of his rough past like the thick black tattoos that ink his arms. he remains strong in every scenario except for ones that concern you, one look from you and you’ve got that mountain of a man crumbling like an avalanche and falling to his knees. you cast your boyfriend an amused gaze, smacking your lips as you watch him sink to his knees before your very eyes. 

once again, your man takes the hint — thick fingers reaching for your glittery red bottom heels on the floor before he brings them up to the soles of your feet without a word. “you know how much i love the sound of that, ryo,” comes your dark hum, the colour of your eyes dimming with a desire ryomen sukuna knows all too well. “but i don’t see an issue with looking good while i do it.” 

“you’re right,” sukuna quips in a husky tone, taking one foot and slipping one of your expensive shoes onto it. “who cares if we’re late to meet your sisters. as long as you feel as good as you look — i couldn’t give a fuck.” his thick fingers that know the twitches and ticks of your body oh-so-well reach for the straps of your heels and slowly begin weaving them around your ankle, upwards. 

his blood red eyes remain hooked on your exposed thighs and supple skin, littered with a beautiful array of marks and scars from over your years of existence. some from before you even knew of ryomen, others from during your time together. “do you think i look good, baby?” you ask him innocently, leaning back on the bed with the palms of your hands lost in the whipped peaks of expensive cotton sheets — most exclusively found in this five star hotel. 

sukuna grins in that slow and sexy way which makes your stomach lurch with lust, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge. “fuckin’ gorgeous, they’ll be shakin with rage.” he says, praise melting on the tip of his tongue. his words, in a symphony syllables, are accompanied by an undercover tune of desire — sukuna is a hungry man with little patience and a big appetite. once he’s settled on something, he’s damn sure to get it. 

tonight; his prey is you. 

the hulking man with the contrastingly soft pink hair bends at the neck to press a chaste kiss to your knee cap, smoothing the rough surface of his palms and workman’s hands over your doughy thighs — massaging you, easing any knots and tension beneath the top layer of your warm skin. his lips, only slightly chapped, curl upwards with a knowing smile when you let out a pleased chirp. sukuna’s hands work wonders on your body — causing your mind to drift away from the family dinner that awaits you. 

tonight; you could very well fall victim to the claws and fangs ryomen sukuna possesses.

kisses quickly become open mouthed and wet, hot and slippery over your flesh — and soon, sukuna adds teeth to the mix once he reaches your inner thighs, littering the area with deep shades of purple and midnight blue. he had no intentions of ravaging you like this, at least not so soon, but with a woman this irritable and fiery and troublesome on his arm how could he not? they say that you attract what you put out and the mirthy look in your eye, hidden between beautiful brown flecks of innocence, tells sukuna that you’re exactly what his guarded soul has been looking for all of his life.

his pulse quickens beneath the calcium cage of his chest — heart beat rising as you allow his curious lips and pink fluffy hair begin to disappear under the silky fabric of your figure-hugging dress. sukuna can practically taste you, the air underneath your skirt is dewy and warm and your flavour (that he knows oh so well) lingers within its particles.

god, he wants you so bad. he doesn’t even care how this may look. 

a man like him on his knees, ready to worship you as if you spout riches and bleed liquid gold. 

except you do, you’re worth more than sukuna could ever hope to be. the weight of your net-worth unfairly tips the scales and he doesn’t even care. all because he loves you. 

“why’re we even goin’ to this stupid dinner in the first place?” your rough and ragged boyfriend ponders out loud, with his words slipping over the edge of his sneaky snake's tongue. said tongue, if ryomen inches forward enough, could drag over your budding clit — clearly outlined through the barely-there crotch of your lace panties. “spend the night with me, doll. don’t gotta go a place…” a thick finger pulls the string of fabric away from your sticky slit, toying with the material until your premature arousal glazes his fingertip. 

but before the man can reward himself with the goods between your perfect thighs — the sharp point of your heel digs into ryomen’s firm right pec. your shoes are clean so they won’t leave a mark, but he feels like you’ve left one on his heart, even as the bottom of your shoe pushes him back and away from your warmth. 

“oh ryo, you must be hungry for the wrong thing,” you laugh breathlessly with your head tipping backwards, the sound shooting straight down to the hardness beneath sukuna’s black slacks. you push at him further until he rests back on his haunches — expression crazed and like a starved animal. “you forgot the other shoe, love.” 

it turns out, you’re just as skilled a huntress as sukuna is. a vixen who stalks her prey and makes them beg for all her mercy. “how careless of me…” the man drawls, finding himself drawn to you like a moth to a candle’s flame. he craves your attention, he basks in it when you give it to him in the way that you do now. there’s not a moment where you’re not looking at him, admiring the shape and form of your man as if he’s the rarest piece of art in the world or a treasure more expensive than any diamond. 

within the depth of those enticing brown eyes lay the truest form of love — even when you’re seconds away from devouring each other, your love for ryomen outgrows any doubt planted in your heart by your bitter family. 

“y’must be so disappointed in me…” he goes on, lifting your second ankle in one hand and adjusting your foot into the perfect position to slip your other heel on.  “how can i make it up to ya, gorgeous?” sukuna’s voice is gravelly, laced with intonations of neediness as he laces you up and finishes the job with a hand clasped over your knee. “i’ll do anythin’, anythin’ you want.”

graciously, you remove your red bottom from his shoulder and part your knees like the Red Sea — giving the older itadori the perfect view of the small string of fabric nestled between your glistening folds. even with the way you play coy, you’re always ready for him — as if it’s coded into your DNA to yearn for his touch. 

the upper row of your teeth sink into your shiny bottom lip as you look down at your man with unadulterated hunger. “anything, ryo?” 

sukuna’s chest rumbles (like a storm) with pride, his watchful gaze noting how you twitch and writhe for more. he leans forward and lets his black painted nails sink into the surface of your thighs — dragging you towards his awaiting mouth. “anythin’ for you gorgeous.” he repeats, voice raspy. in one swift movement, your red-bottom heels are swung over wide shoulders with thick muscles, keeping you nice and spread for him. 

from over your barely-there-panties, a finger glides through your glistening pussy lips and presses into your budding clit just to get a reaction out of you. a squeak that makes sukuna’s hips buck into the floor and a full body shiver that has your heels knocking behind the man’s head. arousal pearls on his fingertip through the material, which he leisurely rubs into the rest of your heated and throbbing sex, right down to your quivering hole. 

two fingers with polished black nails slip past your underwear’s waistband and dip inside of you with practised ease, instantly curling to find that special spot that drives you up the wall. sukuna knows you well, he’s spent years getting to that point. he’s committed every little detail there is to know about you to memory — the your lashes flutter when you like how he touches you, the way your throat bobs just before you mewl out his name. he knows exactly what you like and how to make you feel good. that fact drives sukuna into a frenzy.

his fingers start to work you faster, a lewd suctioning sound echoing throughout the luxurious room the deeper they plunge into you. sukuna’s thumb deliciously rolls over your swollen clit to add to your mounting pleasure, writing the signature of his claim on one of the most sacred parts of your body — where no other person can have you. 

“ryomen!” you squeal in surprise, your shaky thighs threatening to close around your boyfriend’s skilled hands. your hole clenches around his thick digits feverishly while drooling directly into the seat of his rough palm.

a resounding chuckle echoes between your legs, vibrating against your syrupy sex as his pink head of hair disappears beneath the hem of your silken skirt. “that good, huh?” comes his lazy reply to your call of his name, using his fingers to fuck your arousal back into you. “what’s the matter, pretty girl?” 

condescension twists with your boyfriend’s baritone voice, sending sparks of delight through your body like a thunder strike from zeus himself. when it comes to sex and pleasing you — sukuna is a god amongst mankind. the best you’ve ever had:

“don’t tease,” you growl out impatiently through gritted teeth, though your words melt into a whiny moan when sukuna easily bares down on your g-spot because he knows your squishy insides like the backs of his very hands. he finds it adorable when your face scrunches at the sensation of his cold, silver ring brushing up against your molten, sticky cunt and hums in content when you squirt a little bit for him in response. “we…we h-have plans for tonight!” 

“‘m sorry princess, didn’t know we were in a rush.” ryomen says smugly, leaning into the sinful scent of your sex as if he’s been bewitched. not even the sound of your silver gladiator heels knocking against one another behind his head can pull the man out of this reverie. despite your warning, your boyfriend figures that there’s still time to have his way with you, you don’t really care about being on time to meet your family and you hardly have the brain capacity to think about them right now.

not when you fall under the vicious waves of ecstasy and give in to your depraved lover. ryomen quickly has you drowning in pleasure as he finally takes the plunge and replaces his thumb on your clit with his lips wrapped around it. he sucks on the little nub from over your panties, tongue glazing the fabricated barrier with his saliva as he commits the taste of you to memory once again. 

your natural musk has sukuna drunk and high within seconds. you’ve got him returning to old habits and addictions he doesn’t have the strength to fight off. you’re bad for him and he knows it, but he can’t help but to make out with your clothed mound like it’s his life’s mission, mapping out the shape of your cunt through the stringy, soiled material. you ought to be embarrassed with the way you throb against sukuna’s eager lips as he buries his face further into your pussy. he inhales sharply, nastily, with his nose nudging against the sensitive treasure in circles — coaxing you open like a flower in the spring bloom. 

ecstasy decides to bloom within you too, evergreen roots taking residence deep within your chest and curling around your beating heart. your pulse quickens in anticipation, an intoxicating veil of covetous yearning shrouding your brain in darkness as the tip of sukuna’s tongue now begins to circle your tight little entrance. even with the fabric in the way, you greedily attempt to clench down on his predatory pink appendage and keep him locked inside your cunt — squirting small streams of your juices in the process. 

if your siblings could see you right now, how dirtily your man begins to ravage you just minutes before your family dinner while dripping on his tongue and the expensive bed daddy paid for, they’d be horrified. the sentiment strikes a pang of arousal in you, spreading to your boyfriend like a wildfire. 

and as ryomen hooks a finger around the soiled gusset of your panties to pull them down, you hardly find it within yourself to care about what your snotty sisters might think — not when you’re about to receive the best head and best orgasm of your life. 

“how d’ya wan’it?” instead of making a move to eat you out properly, ryomen takes two fingers and spreads your folds and exposes them to the blazing heat of his breath. exhaling through his nose next, he watches with blood red eyes as you twitch beneath his hold, dribbling liquid gold more than his mouth drools. “you’re so fuckin’ wet…all this from puttin’ on those pretty shoes?” your thigh shifts in response, heels clicking and back arches from luxury sheets crinkling under your back.

huffing impatiently, you send a threatening look down at your boyfriend despite how vulnerable you are to his torture teeth that could tear you apart in an instant. “ryo…your mouth,” you whinge, voice slipping into an almost babyish tone. despite your hard stare, your eyes are wet and wide like a prey animal watching its life go by right before it’s hunted or a deer in headlights, for that matter. “you promised you wouldn’t t-tease!”

“yeah, yeah, i know. ‘m sorry,” sukuna hums confidently, except he’s not really apologetic in the slightest — hardly doing his best to tame the uncomfortable yearning building up at your core. you’re a mess for him and he loves it, he’s entertained by the thought of you needing him so bad that it might kill you. he takes pride in knowing it’s not just him who feels this way. “thank you for tellin’ me, by the way. gonna use my mouth to fuck this pretty pussy til’ she’s creamin’ all for me,” he growls to you in a sultry tone, his aphrodisiac-like  words a breath’s width away from your sloppy mound — its timbre sound sending tremors of electricity through your swollen, unattended clit that convulses from the lack of attention.

nothing inflates ryomen sukuna’s ego more than the feeling of your sex throbbing against his face — juices glossing the plump swell of his lips as he wraps them around your puffy pleasure nub. his chest bristles as you open up for him like a flower in spring, the scent of your arousal acting like a perfume to him — the bee with the stinger of pleasure. he works his savage mouth along the length of your slit, as though he lacks the manners of a decently raised man, tongue prodding at your entrance just to be mean. after a while, sukuna stops sucking and making out with your dirty, creamy cunt to nip at your titillating folds, taking one between rows of sharpened pearly whites and gently pulling it away from you. 

at the abrupt feeling — you cry out hoarsely in a mix of bliss and surprise, taking a peek at the pink haired man between your spiked thighs with swimming vision. sukuna’s face is soaked, his angled jaw and cheeks and chin glazed in a layer of your slick as if he’s bitten into the ripest piece of fruit in adam and eve’s garden. the trail runs armously down and over his adam’s apple, coaxing your lover into eating you out properly this time. 

finally, finally putting his filthy mouth to good use.

“fuck, i love the way y’drool for me down here. got so much to give, don’cha gorgeous?” sukuna mewls into you whilst kitten licking your slit, drinking you in as though you’re a glass of water in an oasis of lust and sex. he chuckles happily at your dreamy sigh and circling hips that grind down on his face, tapping three fingers against your sticky pleasure bud lovingly. annoyingly ( but not without appreciation from you), sukuna takes it a step further by sloppily kissing you there. 

even with the time crunch, your pleasure takes priority. eating you out is like a reward for your man, it’s as though he was out on this earth by the gods purely to make you see stars. you feel lucky that he chose you out of all he could where he feels blessed to be the man you let touch you like this. 

“mmph, ryo… always g’na be wet f’you. for my man. only you get me this fucked up,” you drawl with a silky voice, making a show of tweaking your own nipples from over your dress for your boyfriend. with the slipperiness of a snake, your hands slide down from between the valley of your heaving breasts, over your clothed tummy ( that twists with knots of ecstasy ) and into the slicked pink locks that tickle your inner thighs. messing up his perfect look, you grip sukuna’s roots and tug on them forcefully — coaxing him further into the debauched realm concealed by the skirts of your dress.  

“princess…” ryomen lets out a pathetic, muffled groan — increasing the pace of the tip of his tongue as it lewdly flicks at your sex. “have you always had such a dirty mouth? what would yer daddy think?”

your head tips back at the new, gratifying sensation — ecstasy mounting in your lower tummy like bricks of a steady wall. “for as long as i’ve been yours,” comes your crazed and melodious laughter, only interrupted by pockets of squelching noises emitted from your squelching cunt. “oh baby…i don’t give a fuck about what my ‘daddy’ thinks. only you. let him stay mad — f-fuck! kuna!”

fuelled by the idea of pissing off your stuck up family, tattooed hands move to grip where your legs bend at the knee — pushing them back until your skirt rides up over your fleshy ass and your knees hit your shoulders and the soles of your shoes are able to lay flat against sukuna’s rippling back muscles. he hisses at the slight sting he feels from the pointed heel digging into his skin through his shirt, but it only fucks him up more. your pleasure is his pain, ryomen doesn’t give a fuck about anything else except for how good his girl feels. 

somewhere amongst the sweat soaked sheets your phone lets out a shrill cry — signifying a call from someone in your spoiled family. without sukuna’s command, you scramble through the sea of stiff fabric peaks and reach for the device, hitting the answer button before checking the contact. 

“h-hello?” you say in a poor attempt to speak clearly, stifling a deep moan. “speak of the devil and the devil shall appear…” comes your shallow whisper as you address your boyfriend. your chest grows sticky with perspiration beneath the bust of your dress — breathing uneven and heavy because of the way ryomen’s tongue wriggles past your tight little hole, squirming about against your lush walls to hit that special spot that has you screaming and seeing stars while on the phone to one of your relatives.

“excuse me, young lady?” it’s your father, much to sukuna’s dismay, his voice is irritatingly recognisable over the crackling of the line. of course he would find some way to unknowingly interrupt yourself and your loving, doting, disapproved boyfriend. “you were supposed to meet your sisters and i for dinner nearly forty minutes ago. where are you?” 

sukuna’s agitation shows with each wet kiss he aggressively places between your swollen folds, nasty and miscalculated whilst designed to leave you a shaky mess.“o-oh! hi daddy,” you emphasise the word, voice rising an octave until its light an airy. your swimming, doe eyes lock with crimson ones that bore into the depths of your soul from below — taunting and testing the pink haired man’s patience. “‘m getting ready. don’t you want me to look pretty?” 

the silky lilt to the tail end of your words causes sukuna to growl against your pulsating, temperate mound while his fingers yank you down onto his handsome face by your meaty thighs. eagerly, your hips canter down to match the stride of his tongue stroking your pretty pussy as though you’re riding his aching cock to your heart’s content. his tongue fills you up almost as good, warmly slipping and sliding over pleasure spots only he can reach. 

he kitten licks and sucks and bites at your raw sex like a wild animal, loudly moaning into you with every roll of your cunt over his face. you taste like heaven, the flavour almost angelic on his tongue. sukuna feels like a sinner with a greedy craving for more and if you cared just a little bit, you might have been concerned about your father catching the lascivious sounds from between your thighs over the phone. 

“i’m past the point of caring about how you present yourself at dinner,” your father says your name stern and low — talking to you as if you’re a child and not the woman you’d grown into. “your sisters are ravenous, they flew all the way into the country for this. don’t you think that they deserve an ounce of your time?” 

losing yourself to the danger of it all, you chuck your phone to the side after putting it on loud speaker. your lover targets your prominent, adorable clit again, the tip of his tongue rolling it in large circles until you��re close to tearing the sheets from the bed. you try your best to contain the scream building up in your throat, but sukuna has never made it easy for you to keep quiet. 

“mph…fuck!” 

“young lady! watch your mouth!” your father scolds you, still blissfully unaware of the fact that you’re getting tongue fucked by the man he hates all the way up to cloud nine. “i bet that good for nothing scoundrel has put you up to this. i keep telling you, no daughter of mine should be with a man like that. where is he? he’s the one making you late.” 

“actually, dad, sukuna’s been a good boy. sitting all handsome in those suits you like. i’m the one making…oohhh…m-making us late!” cruel carmine eyes flutter at your generous praise, lovesick as a sunburn like blush spreads over the bridge of sukuna’s nose from how desperate he is for you. if you tried your hardest to listen in over the wet sounds of your cunt being sucked on for dear life, along with the shaky delectable laments your lover lets out, you might be able to hear the sound of a zipper going down or the slickness of sukuna’s hand around his meaty shaft as he jerks himself off. no longer able to fight off his desire for you. 

your stomach flips at the sight and the pleasure mounts with your impending high, dainty fingers beginning to tug and twist at sukuna’s blushing pink hair. his pain is your pleasure.

“you’ve lost your mind, i didn’t raise you to be like this.” 

“you hardly…hardly raised me at all,” the words feel tacky in your mouth, as if it’s been stuffed with cotton that sucks up your saliva. it doesn’t help that your voice begins to waver too, reaching whistle tone notes. 

ryomen sukuna doesn’t know what’s hotter, the fact that you’re so easily able to sass your rich, douchey father or the fact that you’re letting him give you head while on the phone. “shit,” he curses as low as possible, using one had to smooth the pad of his thumb over the slit in his cockhead — smearing the precum that beads there over the sensitive flesh. his kiss swollen lips part from your sweet sex for only a moment to taunt you. he remains connected to you by a single rope of clear elixir that leaks from your precious little hole. “god, gorgeous. you’re fuckin’ drenched…all from talkin’ back to daddy, huh?” 

a lewd and sacchariferous mewl rumbles from deep in your chest as it rapidly rises and falls. it’s all too much for you to keep up with, you’re way too dizzy and it’s only made worse when sukuna bobs his head between your quivering legs so that his fat tongue drags through the entirety of your ravaged pussy lips. 

“holyfuckingshit!” you shoot the man a  glare once you remember where you are and who you’re on the phone to.

ryomen offers up a cocky smirk as his excuse before delving beneath your silken skirts once more, though it does nothing to mask how turned on he is — squeezing the base of his drippy shaft to stop himself from cumming too soon to the sight of you. 

you try not to forget the presence of your father again, it would be hard to, since he’s insistent on betraying you down the phone. “speak back to me again and i’m cutting you off. starting with cancelling the card you and your mangy boyfriend live off of.” 

“do it, i dare you.” you somehow manage to snap back, jolting at the sensation of sukuna’s razor sharp teeth grazing your clit. he hisses deliciously against your sex as your heels cut pretty crescent moons into his back. “i-i wonder what mom would have to say about it if you…if you did!” 

silence echoes down the line, broken by small pockets of your boyfriend slurping on your folds like a man starved. slurps that you’re just so blessed to be able to hear. you should feel ashamed instead of hungry, doing nothing to tame the greedy beast inside you that craves more and more of sukuna’s attention on you. you must have lost your mind, for letting him eat you out so brazenly while you converse with your father on the phone. it’s so depraved, so dirty and yet you wouldn’t give this… give sukuna up for the world. 

you love him more than anything. love how he treats you like you’re the strongest person he knows whilst handling you as though you’re made of glass. you love how he gets off to you, dribbling thick white from the tip of his cock because you make him a mess enough to need to jerk off. you love how he pleasures you, his baritone laments and simpers muffled against your cunt sending fireworks up your spine and setting them off at your tailbone where your mounting pleasure lies. 

you love ryomen ‘sukuna’ itadori, and no amount of scolding from your father will ever change that. 

“just…just be here within the hour. please.” your father requests quietly. 

“see you soon, daddy,” you hang up the phone faster than a lightning strike, all of your composure flying out of the window with the last dial tone. “ryo, fuck! i’m close… gonna cum. please, hurry!”

“god you’re such a fuckin’ menace, hah, pretty girl?” your pink haired lover quips airily, his jaw tight from flicking his tongue against your sex in sync with his fist flicking around his throbbing dick, slinging precum about the place. he’s amused and love sick all at once, a feeling that was once foreign to ryomen before he met you. “gotcha so turned on by talking back to your dad, yeah? all while i ate this pretty fuckin’ pussy out… so nasty,” only sukuna could make you feel this loved while degrading you, the only man who’s ever been able to do so. none of them could come close to knowing your body like he does, the way you twitch when you’re close and start to pout like a spoilt brat when you’re frustrated from waiting for your orgasm.

sukuna takes the edge off by lifting a tattooed arm and slapping his hand down on the entirety of your cut — letting out a haughty moan at the sight of glistening droplets of arousal flying about the place while your heels drag down his back with delightful pain. you cry out, but your boyfriend’s mouth is back on you in seconds — soothing your poor pussy. “‘m so lucky to have you though, my nasty fuckin’ princess,” he mewls into you, using his tongue to bully your g-spot over and over and over while he fists his precum glazed cock into oblivion. “gonna make you cum, gorgeous girl. let you make a mess in my mouth, you want that?” 

“m-more than anything, ryo!” you wail, fighting back tears as you spew a fresh wave of your sweet nectar from your pathetic hole. you do have a dinner to get to after all, you should only be crying from one place. your cunt. the sound of said squelching cunt and your dulcet whines make sukuna’s balls twitch with a load he would only dedicate to you.  “i love you, love you s’much…love you,” 

the delirium starts to catch up with you, becoming too much to bare as you babble nonsense into the sex tainted air. you can’t hold back, some of your release already beginning to stream out of you. “‘m gonna cum, ryo…cum with me, please!” you squeal in warning, mere seconds before your body succumbs to sukuna’s eager tongue and the wrath of your orgasm. 

“love you too, s’much,” your glittery heels knock behind his sweaty mass of pink hair, cutting into his back as he walks you through it all. “f-fuck baby, that’s it,” he goads as you gush into his mouth like a tidal wave. you have so much to give, release trickling into his mouth, painting his cheeks and sliding down his adam’s apple in a viscous current. sukuna is swept away by the arousal in the air, drinking you in as he pumps his cock harshly and in tune with the way you weakly hump at his face through the aftershocks. 

pulling his sticky mouth away from your equally sticky sex, sukuna replaces his tongue with three of his fingers to your clit — coaxing you through the rest of your high as he draws random shapes on the puffy nub. “keep that orgasm goin’ for me, pretty princess, give it to me…give it t’me while i fill you up,” he rambles brainlessly, abruptly standing up as he fists his cock pulled out from the zipper of his dress pants — barely fighting back his own orgasm. “spread those fuckin’ legs, wanna cum inside.” 

“ryo!” 

“ahh, fuckin’…fuuuck!” in one swift move, your boyfriend slips his sensitive and bulbous cockhead past your quivering, orgasming entrance — shallowly thrusting into your tight heat as you spasm around him, before he’s thrown off the edge into his own high. “c-cummin’…” hot sticky ropes of white seed flood your womb, which sukuna keeps plugged into you as he folds you over — chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. your heels clink at the dip in his waist behind his back. you’re still cumming as languid thrusts smear your boyfriend’s cum against your rippling walls, but you’re content, breathing beginning to even out as you both come down from cloud nine.

still releasing in small spurts, ryomen slowly pulls out of you with soft kisses pressed to the side of your face. “sorry, didn’t wanna fuck up my pants before dinner,” he chuckles over the warm static spreading over your happy little brain. 

you offer him your own dopey laughter, remaining sprawled out underneath your hunk of a man. “so you decide to just jizz inside of me? you’re a class act ryo. what about my dress?” 

“first of all, you don’t like it when shit goes to waste ‘n second off all, i made damn sure that it stuck. your dress is fine, brat.” a chaste kiss is pressed to your nose as sukuna helps you sit up, double checking for any mess he might have left between your shaky legs. “let me clean you up, don’t want your dad findin’ out what we were really up to all this time.” 

“pretty sure he already knows,” you shrug, rolling your ankles as you lean down to fix a strap on your heel. “you’re a messy eater, ryo.” 

but before you can fix your shoe back into place, ryomen sukuna is already on it — adjusting the strap to sit comfortably on your leg before he stands again and retreats to the bathroom for a warm cloth to clean you up with. 

you watch with a smirk as he goes, admiring all of the little red marks on his shoulder blades you’ve left on him with your shoes. “then i guess i’ll have to use some fuckin’ table manners at dinner,” he remarks childishly. “but i can’t help how delicious you look in those heels, gorgeous.” 

and it’s true, you’re the only meal sukuna could ever want — especially when you leave your claim on him with high heels like that. 

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere. special thanks to @yennified for the ask below !

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Is She a Lost Embrace?

chapter two | masterlist | chapter four

Shuuji Hanma x f!reader

Genre: Smut & Angst Notes: I offer a new chapter this humble Friday, enjoy!! Warnings: 18+, shush kink, alcohol, fingering, adultery, knife threatening, gun threatening, daddy kink. Words: 2.9k

networks: @planetonet @tometpd

Notions that your fiancé might hear you fall on deaf ears as Hanma relentlessly pounds his fingers inside of your velvety walls. He doesn’t want to hold back, but even he has concerns that fucking you might be a cocky step too far. The shlucking sounds from your cunt that his digits are causing is enough noise, let alone your combined moans. He’s silencing you, of course, a big hand forced across your mouth so that you keep your lecherous desire trapped inside of your lungs.

“I can’t keep track, sweetheart.” he starts, “Do you want me dead, or do you want me to make you cum?”

You can’t answer, obviously, you’re being too loud without throwing your voice into the equation. The answer you want to give is, ‘can’t it be both?’ but the words suffocate in your lungs as you begin to clamp around your lovers’ fingers. Lover. You never thought you’d use that word to describe Shuuji Hanma.

It’s risky, and dangerous, as much as you want revenge you seem to be finding yourself becoming addicted to his touch. The first and only man to know your body as intimately as he does – you’re powerless to him.

And Kisaki can’t even hope to compare.

It’s a miracle that you haven’t been caught, really, considering your fiancé is downstairs. Your ass rests comfortably on the cool marble countertop in the master bathroom as Hanma’s fingers continue to abuse your insides.

A tour of Kisaki’s new home had become a tour of Hanma’s fingers in your cunt.

“You’re so wet for me…”

“Mmpf!” you speak through his muffling hand.

He grins at that, not a single idea what you’re saying but he knows you like to fight him at every turn. You’re adorable. He thinks you're as cute as a button thinking you’re intimidating and that your words hold any value at all. He wonders how long you’ve been plotting. Was meeting Kisaki intentional or was it merely a coincidence? Nothing you’ve done and nothing you say holds any weight, though. It’s almost sad if he thinks about it too long, but then he smirks as he realises it’s more like pathetic.

Dumb pretty baby.

You can say whatever you like. You can do whatever you like. But your cunt won’t lie. You have missed him, haven’t you? As much as it humiliated you, you loved his fingers stuffed inside of your virgin cunt after your difficult days at university. You forgot how good they felt, didn’t you? It’s the only explanation as to why your pussy feels like it’s holding you hostage whenever he’s inside of you. You missed him, and you can’t resist him.

“You better hurry up and make a mess on my fingers,” he croons, moaning along with you. You can’t tell if he’s patronising you or trying to show you sympathy. You can’t stand it, in any case. The sounds of his masculine grunts and erotic breath is making you light headed. “don’t you wanna cum before—”

“Haa-ahh!” you yell into his hand. He hadn’t heard, but your ears pricked up immediately.

Closer and closer.

Shoes against cold, echoing flooring came closer and closer.

You each scrambled as you attempted to dress yourselves and flee the scene. How could you be so stupid as to try and get away with this right under your partners nose? You manage to scurry out of the bathroom first while Hanma remains inside. A perfect cover story to why you were taking so long. He needed the bathroom. That would be your lie. You were waiting patiently to resume the tour as he used the bathroom.

Kisaki approaches you, kissing your cheek gently and wrapping an arm around your waist assertively. And you hate yourself, you are furious at yourself because you notice that you’re forcing yourself to enjoy his touch. The truth is, you aren’t enjoying it at all. You’re internally cringing, disgusted that he has deigned to kiss you and hold you. There is guilt within you, he’s your fiancé and you’re suddenly repulsed by him.

“Come with me,” he instructs as he guides you away from the scene, “he can meet us downstairs when he’s ready.”

“What if he gets lost?” you question, reminding him that your house isn’t exactly small. A modern mansion that isn’t the easiest to navigate. He chuckles. You’re just so sweet and caring. No wonder he fell in love with you. Love at first sight.

“Hanma’s a big boy. I’m sure he’ll be fine, come on.”

You turn back, but you’re forced to face forwards again when Kisaki notices. There is such a big heart in your chest, he finds his own swelling a little as he thinks of how much he loves you.

“I love you.” he confesses out loud. Your head spins, unsure if you heard him right. You size up his features as you carry on walking by his side. He doesn’t look at you. Not for any significant amount of time, anyway, but now you know what you heard. It just doesn’t sound like him.

“Huh?”

“Don’t play dumb, I know you heard me. I love you.”

“O-Oh. Um, yeah. Sorry, I love you too, Tetta.”

His ego boosts as he hears the pretty words uttered from your lips. You love him. You love him as he loves you. He feels lucky that such a precious angel could love a monster like him. He thought it would be impossible to find someone to spend his life with. It wasn’t even an idea he’d entertain. Kisaki was always happy enough fucking whores in brothels and letting that be enough for him.

But here you are, with him.

Perfect, adoring, you.

It almost kills you to be seated with the two men at the table. The warm evening air prompted your fiancé to suggest that you enjoy your food outside on the patio. Hanma’s foot occasionally brushes your leg with purpose; you couldn’t help but stare at him with disdain and contempt.

He’s a bastard for ruining what little power you had over him. You felt so smug and oh so powerful knowing that you could sic your fiancé on him and have his pitiful life ended. But it’s too late, now.

He’ll never forgive the simple fact that you failed to tell him you already knew Hanma. You acted like strangers when he arrived at your door this evening. Or acquaintances, rather. Smiling plainly as if you only had face value level information on each other instead of an entire sexual history and a child’s schoolyard relationship. It won’t look good for you to fill him in on your bedroom antics last night.

And Hanma knew all of that.

If you try and get him in trouble now, you’re almost certain Kisaki won’t hesitate to end your life as well.

Hanma and Kisaki share jokes over the fact that he knew he’d have chefs preparing the food tonight rather than him doing it himself. Kisaki admits he’s a horrible cook and has no desire to do so. And he’d never expect you to do it. You’re a princess to him, his sweet angel girl shouldn’t have to do anything as mundane as cooking or cleaning. Not unless you want to.

Your ‘ex’ smirks, knowingly, as he helps himself to the food laid out in front of him. You can barely touch yours. There you are, he thinks. The terrified, trembling girl of days past that he knew and loved. There is a look in your eye that makes Hanma’s cock strain against his trousers. It’s delicious. It’s exhilarating. It’s a look he’ll never get tired of, whether it’s from you or an enemy.

It's defeat.

You pick up the glass of wine by your side, and take a heartier gulp than you’re meant to. Instantly you begin to mentally cuss yourself out as you realise you’ve garnered the attention of the two males at the table with you. Kisaki grabs your free hand, squeezing softly three times as he asks if you’re okay in hushed tones.

Hanma, on the other hand, drinks his own beverage as he stares at your wine holding hand. He noticed, earlier, but opted not to comment. But he’s a menace. He’s enjoying that you’ve learnt your place and have realised you can’t win in a head-to-head game against him. He wants to stir the pot just a little more.

He wants to know what your limit will be.

“That’s quite the rock on your finger sweetheart,” he begins, taking another swig from his glass before continuing, “bet it cost a small fortune, too. Must have set your finances back a bit, huh Kisaki?”

“It’s worth it for her. Money is nothing, as long as everyone can see that she’s mine.”

He isn’t sure why, but the response infuriates him. His. You’re his? No. You belong to Hanma. The initial revelation that you were to be wed to his boss hadn’t bothered him. But you’ve fucked him more times than he can count during his lifespan. And he’s already lost track of how many times it’s been since you met in the club last night.

Rings can be easily removed.

Hanma owns a piece of your body, and it’s much more permanent.

Against Kisaki’s instruction, you stand to clear away the plates when you notice everyone has finished eating. What a good girl you are. Real wifey material, aren’tcha? Hanma’s eyes almost roll back into his head as you lean over him to pick up his plate. He’s intoxicated by the heady scent of your perfume traversing through his nostrils and throughout his body. His brain. His heart. His cock.

He isn’t sure if he’s lost his cool or if he’s calmer than ever as he grasps your wrist. A look of fear flashes across Kisaki’s face at the harsh grip on your body, the plates in your hand fall to the ground. Smashing and scattering beneath your feet.

“Have you really never seen her tattoo?” he questions his superior, using his free hand to lightly pull your mini skirt up. He reveals the pristine, white, gauze wrapped around your leg securely. A thick protector of your greatest shame.

“Get the hell away from her, and leave her scar alone.”

“Scar? Tch.” he mocks, quite the tall tale you’ve created for your fiancé. It’s an insecurity, sure, but a scar? How could something as beautiful as his handwriting be compared to a scar?

You wrap it privately every morning, noon, and night to stop Kisaki from seeing it. He’s never let on, but he feels hurt each day that passes and you refuse to share something so intimate with him. He has been respectful, but it doesn’t pain him any less. He wants to know every inch of your body and love you, worship you like you deserve. He’s certain that there isn’t a single thing about you that would make him care for you any less.

You snatch your hand away rubbing the aching skin a little before Kisaki stands to his feet. Musings of ‘shut the fuck up’ dripping from his enraged tongue. But he won’t. Does he ever? He can’t. It’s like word vomit. There was only so much that the mature Hanma could tolerate before the Hanma of days gone by was wrought back again. Fuelled by hatred, pettiness, jealousy.

He rests his ankle on his knee temporarily as his yanks something shimmering silver from a strap around his calf.

A knife.

His hand is on your wrist again, yanking you towards him until you fall onto his lap. He forces your legs apart as he hooks your ankles with his feet. Kisaki is eager to rush over and steal you back from him, to save you, to get you away from his insubordinate lackey. But he’s hesitant while he’s holding a knife. He doesn’t want to do anything rash while your life is at stake.

Your panties are exposed as you’re spread open for the world to see. But Hanma doesn’t care about that. He’s more focused on that perfectly wrapped dressing that is hiding his favourite part of you. His knife slides beneath it, ripping it apart in one swift motion as he pulls upwards.

Kisaki adjusts his glasses as he processes what he’s seeing. The revelation that you did lie and there is no scar after all. The fact that a member of his team has a timeworn signature of ownership on his fiancé’s body.

“I just can’t believe that she’s gotten away with this long. Seriously. How did you not see it?” he torments. Your breathing is staggered as you notice Kisaki become more and more furious by the second. His blood is bubbling and you see the tips of his ears turn red as well as his cheeks.

He is going to fucking kill Hanma.

“Does it bother you? Huh? It’s gotta hurt, knowing you’re getting my sloppy seconds…”

“Fucking stop it Shuuji. Get off of m—”

He has no intention to do anything of the sort. If anything, he pulls you tighter to him. He’s relishing the way he can hear you try to remain strong, all the while your breath is hitching as you fight back tears. Hiccupping little sobs you pray will go unnoticed by neither of them. But that is too much to ask, they can both hear you clear as crystal. Hanma wants to hear more, he loves you like this. He forgot how much. But Kisaki is at a loss. He doesn’t know what to do.

He just wants Hanma to rot.

“I don’t care for knowing other people touch my things. My toys,” he explains. “I’m sorry Kisaki, but I had to reclaim her. Besides, she was mine first.” he perseveres, doing his very best to get under Kisaki’s skin.

“What do you—”

“So, I fucked my toy, in my penthouse last night. Do you remember how many times sweetheart? I lost count.” he whispers as he moves your hair from your face, desperate to take in the sight of your beaten expression.

“Shuuji, please, you win. P-Please stop.” you requested quietly, overcome with the crushing weight of your dire situation. He’s a menace, always has been, so you can’t be surprised that this is how things have turned out. You mistakenly thought he’d changed now that he’s older and wiser. He is an evolved, mature adult. But only when he wants to be. He can’t help it that being a threatening nuisance brings him so much joy.

“Shush baby, daddy’s talkin’ now.” he simpers both to you and Kisaki. The growl in Kisaki’s throat and the throbbing vein in his forehead is telling him a simple story he already knows. He’s looking at him like he’s a dead man walking. But Shuuji enjoys a challenge, particularly when they are actual challenges. Not an easy beatable game like you had offered. A real challenge, and he wonders if Kisaki might beat it. He’s yet to be beaten by anyone. He’s confident, brash, and cocksure. “You were even too dumb to hear her begging for my fingers upstairs in the bathroom earlier.” he chortles as he awkwardly shoves his weapon back into the strap on his leg, doing his best to do so while you remain on his lap.

There is nothing standing in Kisaki’s way now. He begins to charge towards you both to take you away from his dangerous clutches and beat him within an inch of his life. The dream of murdering him is short lived as Hanma pulls a gun from the inner breast pocket of the coat he’s wearing. Kisaki begins to sweat as his newfound enemy teases the tip of the gun against your temple. You’re not sure if he would kill you, though you wouldn’t put it passed him. Kisaki, once again, has no desire to risk your safety.

“I’ll fucking destroy you for this, Hanma.”

“Not tonight you won’t.”

The cool metal caresses your skin as he traces it across your body. Down your neck. Over your collarbone. There is a noticeable shift in your breathing as he reaches the swell of your breasts. An undeniable mewl as well as a not so discreet buck of your hips exposes you once you feel the barrel smooth over your thinly covered nipples.

“I’ve had my fun now, run off to your precious fiancé for now.”

You do, rushing to his side and letting him force your body behind his for safety. Hanma has no intention of inciting a blood bath tonight. Just a little threat of violence so that he can make sure his departure is swift and seamless. He wants to leave unscathed.

“Count your fucking days, cunt!” Kisaki bellows from the depths of his lungs.

Hanma has nothing to say in response. Whether his words are to be feared is yet to be seen. He shows himself out and into his town car. The summer heat has plummeted into a cold breeze, just as the orange skies have plunged into black.

He smirks as he is driven back to his home. A few amusing thoughts in his sickening mind. He’s given himself a target on his back the size of the earth; and he still doubts if it’s large enough for anyone to hit.

Kisaki will be making plans, now. And he can’t help but wonder what they’ll be.

He’s wondering, also, if you’ll be begging for your life to be spared right about now. Perhaps he should have brought you with him. He’s only just gotten his favourite slut back in his lecherous clutches.

God forbid any harm come to his prized toy.

© 2022 fuwushiguro

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She Likes My Ideas, She Says I'm Thoughtful

part one | masterlist | part three

Yuuji Itadori x f!reader

Genre: Smut & Angst Notes: i read this back and i was like damn what is my damage lmao Warnings: 18+, alcohol consumption, drug use (weed), paranoia, cheating mention, self-loathing, unhealthy coping mechanisms, reader gets called a 'bitch', physical altercation, suicide ideation. Words: 3.1k

Synopsis: Emotions aren't an option, but self destructing is. Yuuji Itadori is keeping everything to himself, while you are painting on a smile and pretending you're fine. Nothing is fine. Which one of you will admit it first?

spotify playlist if u wanna :P

He knew he couldn’t stop you from buying a bottle of vodka after you revealed what had upset you, so he didn’t deem it necessary to try. He hasn’t seen you like this for years, not since you broke up with Megumi. But even then, at least that ended on good terms. You begged Yuuji, begged him to take you away from it all. You didn’t care where, just away from your apartment and his. If Gojo couldn’t find you at yours, you knew Yuuji’s place would be the next place he’d look. You couldn’t see him. There was no telling what you’d do if you actually had to look at his disgusting cheating face.

You might even do something stupid like forgive him.

The sight of Yuuji’s old, red, banger of a car was the most wonderful sight you’d seen all day. It was paired with the most wonderful sound you heard as he unlocked it for you to get in.

No radio. No music. No talking. Silence.

You didn’t particularly want to talk about what had happened and how you knew of his infidelity, though you were sure it would come up at some point. The silence was welcome, Yuuji could tell that you needed it too. Your face is shimmering under the golden sky. It’s odd, that you can find yourself smiling in a time like this. He was right, yesterday, what he said.

The sky. It really is pretty.

He’s going to crash the damn car if he isn’t careful. His eyes keep drifting into the corners so he can look at you discreetly. Your chest is rising and falling peacefully. Tears have stopped, and he swears he caught a smile.

What is with you? Shouldn’t your heart be breaking like Yuuji’s does every single day?

Yes. But now that you’re parked up by the beach, it all seems so meaningless. You both sit on the hood of his car and melt under the summer sun. It feels like therapy, honestly, for both of you. Being in the sun instead of his grotty apartment is forcing Yuuji to see joy in life for the first time in a while.

“We should do this more, it’s nice.” you announce.

“Yeah, it is,” he hums in agreement. Both of your eyes remain closed while you enjoy the temporary warmth and belonging that the sun offers each of you. His eyes bolt open, though, when a memory slices through him, “oh! I got you something.”

You sit upright and watch him journey back to the passenger side of the car to retrieve his backpack. He joins you on the hood, again, feeling a little bit of performance anxiety as you focus on him rifling through his things. Until finally, he hands you the candy your tongue has been craving all day.

“Ah! My favourites! How did you know?” you grin, opening the packet of red laces to share with him. Before he can answer, you do it for him, “You’re my best friend, that’s why.”

He sighs, allowing the sickly-sweet strawberry to stain his tastebuds. Friends. Best friends. That’s all you’ll ever be. Can he live with that? He has to. You’ll never be more than friends, whether you have a boyfriend or not. That is a title you’ll never bestow upon him.

“Must be that best friend intuition, I guess.”

It hurts him to see you drinking straight vodka from the bottle. He should stop you. You’ve never been a heavy drinker and he knows how much you loathe vodka. It’s like you’re punishing yourself. You’re making yourself pay for not realising you were being betrayed in the worst way possible by somebody you gave your whole heart to.

He remembers the breakup with Megumi like it was yesterday. That ended well, and for that, you were both thankful. And still, you found yourself making out with a bottle of Smirnoff, stealing the entire contents for your desperate lips and broken body.

Yuuji doesn’t even want to imagine how this breakup is going to go down.

“I think we should get some more vodka and drink it at my place,” you propose, waiting for a response from Yuuji, “it’s gonna get dark soon.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he responds quickly, shutting down the idea that you should ruin your liver any further in the name of Satoru Gojo. “I think you need to get it off your chest, what happened, I mean. You normally tell me everything so…”

You were drawn to Gojo because he was a few years older than you. After Megumi, you decided you wouldn’t settle for a man your age anymore. You wanted a mature, older, more experienced man to be your partner through this life. He seemed perfect. In hindsight, he was too perfect. How couldn’t you see that you wouldn’t be enough for a man with a tongue as smooth as Satoru Gojo’s? Someone so beautiful and worldly would never settle down, at least you know the truth now.

It was humiliating, really, how you discovered the truth. He sent a sext to the wrong girl. He didn’t notice immediately, but you were already looking her up on Instagram. After a quick message asking if she knew a Satoru Gojo, you found yourself becoming the fourth member of a group chat of his other girlfriends.

Yuuji swiped away a lonesome tear that trickled from your lash line as you explained the situation. His heart was pounding as you watched him through a watery gaze. The waves crashed in front of you, the only meaningful sound surrounding the two of you. Your eyes matched the way his vibrated, and he couldn’t control how his thumb massaged the plumpness in your cheek. His eyes momentarily settled on your lips before looking at your eyes again. He cleared his throat, backing away completely.

He's making it too damn obvious.

He loves you. He admitted it, and he was right.

It’s beginning to pour.

“C’mon, I’ll take you home.” he insists. He slides down from the hood and helps you do the same. He opens the door for you, like the gentleman he is, and waits for you to fasten your seatbelt before closing the door after you. He sits beside you and starts his car up. But before he begins to drive, he sees you screw the lid off the vodka once more. He snatches it from you, pouring the contents out of the window before handing it back to you.

“You’re better than this, stop it.”

It takes an incredible amount of willpower for him to decline your offer to come inside with you. You’re surprised, even after your guilt tripping. You told him it was the least he could do after wasting your alcohol. He couldn’t. You weren’t the only one punishing yourself tonight. As much as you needed him to support you through your heartache, he needed you just as badly. But after what he did last night, he thinks the distance is a must.

He abandons you. You’re furious with him. He can hear it in the way you slam the door after he begins to walk away. But it means nothing to him. He’s scrolling through his contacts until he settles on an old acquaintance. A real weirdo a few years old than him from his school days.

Aoi Todo.

His fingers move faster than his rationale can control. Four simple words that he had no hope of taking back. He’d already pressed send. He kept reading it over and over and over again. His heart stopped when he saw three little dots appear on the screen below his text message:

Bring me something good.

Yuuji hates the stench that accompanies cigarette smoke. But he wasn’t stupid enough to argue with Todo over it. He hasn’t seen him for years, and he’s as huge as ever. He didn’t think it would be possible for the guy to get any bigger than he was as an eighteen-year-old.

“You look, miserable, honestly.” Todo tells him, “Here.” he speaks as he throws something Yuuji’s way.

He catches it with ease and inspects the label. He scoffs, throwing it back to him. But Todo makes no attempt to catch.

“Tch, the hell is this Todo?” Yuuji asks, raising his voice to match his irritation. “I just wanted something to fucking smoke, I didn’t realise you were a god damn doctor now.” he recognises the name of the tablets he was given as he’s seen them in your bathroom cabinet time and time again. Zoloft. “I’m fine. Don’t fucking come into my house and pretend you know me.”

“No more than two a day, if you change your mind.” he answers simply, having no desire to engage Yuuji in an argument. He sees himself to the front door, turning once more to say his final goodbyes. “Enjoy the weed.”

He will.

He fucking will.

You’re ready to slam the door in his face again when you realise he’s back. As if he thinks he can come and go when he pleases. But you’re stopped as he puts his foot in the door and shows you what he just bought.

Smoking trounces alcohol, every single time.

You’re laying back on the sofa, sickened by the smell but too exhausted to move. The smoke dances beautifully towards the ceiling, but you’re growing increasingly impatient as you feel no effects.

“How are you feeling?” Yuuji asks.

“Fine, totally fine.” you respond.

It’s disappointing, he thinks, that he’s going to be high alone. You must have a higher tolerance than he does. But he looks up at you, tears streaming down your face as you can’t pull your eyes away from the smoke. He wants to ask what’s wrong, until you begin to speak.

Nonsense. Utter nonsense.

Something about how ugly McDonald’s toys are and what your favourite types were as a kid. He startles as you sit upright and begin to giggle and sob all in one horrific blend. You’re panicking and crying about how stoned you are. It’s like it’s the first time for you.

It may as well be, it’s been long enough.

You tell him you can’t feel your legs and you don’t think you can move anymore. He helps you down onto the ground after you insist you’ll feel better when you’re on the floor. Every conversation alternates between laughter and paranoia.

“You’re m-making fun of meeee because I’m being embarrassing!” you yell at him.

“No, I’m not! I’m not—”

“You think I’m a loser because I- I don’t do… do drugs like you!” you continue, his insisting that he’d never make fun of you goes completely over your head. This is the first time in a while that he has smoked, he’d never think you were a loser for something like that. You start to cry again but it soon stops. Rationale enters you just as quickly as it escapes, fleeting thoughts that you aren’t as high as you think you are immediately revert back to sobs that Yuuji is laughing at you and not with you. “I’m fine, actually, this is fine.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

“No! You think I’m stupid!”

There is no use in wiping your tears because they instantly replace themselves without your consent. You weren’t in the right frame of mind to be doing this. You knew that and Yuuji definitely should have known. Of course when you’re repressing intense emotions and have literally just broken up with your long term partner you’re bound to be in for a bad trip.

“I l-love you, I—”

“I need to find a new boyfriend. No, wait! I wanna find you a girlfriend first it’s been soooo long, Nobara… It was N-Nobara, right?” you interrupt, as always. He nods, sheepishly. He is somewhat relieved that you didn’t hear the bumbling confession slip passed his loose lips. “I love her, b-but I can’t imagiiine her being a good- a good fuck. She’s stiff and angry. Right?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

He stands to his feet. Slowly walking to find the bathroom. He locks himself inside, panting heavily as he processes the fact that he almost spilled his fucking guts to you again. He thinks he might be rotting inside, keeping it to himself, but he has to. He thinks maybe he’ll have to create some distance as he can’t stop the pour of love his body is forcing from him. He rakes his fingers through his hair and studies his bloodshot eyes. He needs to go. He needs to go now. He does his best to order food on his phone to his apartment before setting off.

There is no reason why, but he finds himself opening the cabinet in your bathroom and peeking at all of the little secrets inside. He knows what he’s looking for, and he spots it almost immediately. What is so fucking bad with your life that you need these stupid, God damn antidepressants? Men falling at your feet, and you get everything you want whenever you want. Now, he thinks, you have a valid reason. You’ll be soon to follow in the spiral he is in when come down from your high and you’re alone with the memory that you’ve been cheated on. That is a reason. But other than that? You don’t need these fucking pills. So, he takes them. He isn’t himself, stuffing them into his coat pocket like a common thief.

He jumps, alarmed, frightened by the sudden knocking on the bathroom door. Useless, cumbersome fists land on the door. They don’t belong to you. Those aren’t your hands or your usual knocks. But you aren’t yourself right now, are you? It’s a certainty he wouldn’t have been so agitated if he wasn’t feeling so guilty. Because he knows stealing your medication is wrong, but he has no intention of righting himself.

He swings open the door with a speed that makes your hair follow the gust as well as the material of your clothes. He stares at you and you’re staring right back. You can’t register his mood, still giggling and laughing incessantly.

“What? What is it?” he asks you, appearing furious as angry eyes bore down at you. You do your best to compose yourself, eyes still leaking as you do your best to speak.

“Did you say you’re a… you’re a fucking… a virgin, yeah? That’s what you said?” you tell him with great difficulty, never ending laughter pouring from your liquored up lips and intoxicated lungs.

“I didn’t say that, you’re putting words in my mouth. What the hell’s wrong with you, huh?” he’s stolen your role of being paranoid, now, unable to bear the reality that the love of his life would mock him over something so personal. “I’m going home, move. Fucking bitch.” he informs you, doing his best to sidestep you. But you don’t move. A terrifying cocktail of laughing hysterics and inconsolable sobs rip through your body. He’s never spoken to you like that before and he’s never called you a bitch before.

“I- I’m sorry Yuuji! I could have sworn I heard you, heard you… say—”

“Well you didn’t hear anything, just shut your fucking mouth.” he warns you. He has run out of patience, grabbing your shoulders to shove you aside. He looks over his shoulder, a small act of concern as he hears a particularly loud bump as your body connects with the wall after he pushed you. But after a small ‘ow’ and the sight of you rubbing the back of your head with a scrunched expression, he deems you fine.

He slams the door, internally begging that you don’t follow.

What is he becoming? It’s the weed, he’s sure. He’d never touch you like that otherwise. He needs to clear his fucking head. He’s warning himself that he better stay the fuck away from you for a long time. He can’t do that again and he can’t go on like this. It’ll be hard. But maybe, just maybe, if he keeps distant, you’ll take the god damn hint.

Hell, maybe you’ll be too scared of him after what he just did to ever want to see him again.

It’s almost methodical, in a way. The way he carefully peels each and every Zoloft pill from the shiny, silvery packaging and places them all in a line on a table. There are less of yours than there are of his. It makes sense, he thinks, since he is still of the mind that you don’t need them. But fuck, neither does he. He’s a little too into a girl who’ll never love him back. That does not warrant the need for antidepressants.

Yours are blue and his are orange.

He’s not sure what it means, but he’s thinking about the sky again. The orange and pink sky that he used to love. The sky that reminded you of him until you conveniently forgot all about him. His eyes are blurry, but his mind is clear, he thinks. He’s realising some things and he isn’t sure he likes it.

He thinks that perhaps he’s hated you all along. Is that… is that true? No, no, he loves you. That is the truth, isn’t it? He loves you so much he thinks he might die. He laughs, manically, as he carries on thinking to himself. He’s understanding, now, he understands. It’s too much. It’s too much love. He loves you so much he is beginning to resent you. That is what this is. He’s loved you too much for too long, and for what? For you to date his best friend for three years and that scumbag Satoru for five. And he is the fucking asshole who is expected to pick up the fucking pieces each time. He wouldn’t make you cry, ever, but he isn’t good enough. All he’s gotten is to jerk himself off while he listens to you get fucked like you’re nothing by a man who thinks you’re less than nothing.

It all needs to stop. The love. The confessions. The guilt. It’s loud and it hurts. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in so much pain. They’re talking to him, the pills. Not really of course. But they’re practically screaming at him. They can make it all stop. Two, that’s what Todo said. Two and it’ll get better. Why are they fucking screaming? Two isn’t enough. He has to take them all. It’s the only way, they’re telling him. The only way to make the pain, the hurt, the rejection, the humiliation stop, is to swallow each and every single one of them. But that’s dangerous, he thinks. Isn’t it? Something bad might happen if he takes too many. But making everything stop forever sounds so perfect.

Heavenly, in fact, like you.

His eyes bulge as he focuses on them all.

They do look pretty tasty.

© 2021 fuwushiguro

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I Just Don't Want To Get My Heart Broke

part three | masterlist

Yuuji Itadori x f!reader

Genre: Smut & Angst Notes: Thank you for sticking with me through this little mini series!! I'm so proud of it and love it so much and hope you've all enjoyed it. Warnings: 18+, virginity loss mention, signs of mental illness, teasing, touching, arguing, suicide ideation, blame placing. Words: 3.4k

Synopsis: Emotions aren't an option, but self destructing is. Yuuji Itadori is keeping everything to himself, while you are painting on a smile and pretending you're fine. Nothing is fine. Which one of you will admit it first?

spotify playlist if u wanna :P

A few days.

Just a few days to think, he tells you. It’s for the best. He’s sure of it. Yuuji thinks it would be best for you, too, a lot has changed in so few days. After going through a huge breakup, you rushed into bed with him. He knows what it means, although you’d deny it vehemently.

Yuuji Itadori is a rebound.

He feels strongly that you’ll realise it on your own if he gives you the time to dwell on what you did. You took his virginity, and he’s grateful, it’s what’s he’s always wanted. But why? Why now?

Could the reality be that you love him too? Did you just need confirmation that he felt the same way for you to finally make a move? It seems farfetched. A far cry from the reality he knows is true. There is a dull ache in you that you seem to be refusing to acknowledge. Being cheated on is one of the most heart-breaking things you can go through in life, and you are ignoring it.

Alcohol.

Drugs.

Yuuji.

These are just vices to you. It isn’t nice, he thinks, that he could be compared to the other two vices in your quest to forget.

He doesn’t see the way you paint on a smile for him, you thought he’d recognise the difference between real and fake by now. Maybe he doesn’t know you as well as you thought. He’s been with you through thick and thin but he doesn’t know you, does he? He thinks you’re numb to everything; he just doesn’t see the way you cry when you’re alone.

You’re hurting, you are hurt.

But all he sees is that you’re going ‘off the rails’, but really, it’s a simple cry for help you’re begging him to answer. So, you fucked him. He loves you, so it’s okay. It’s a way to bond, to be closer. You thought he might feel your pain if you gave him your everything. He has waited over a decade for you to love him, and who knows what fraction of that time he’s been eager to know you so intimately. But he doesn’t, still. He still doesn’t know you like you want him too.

If he did, he wouldn’t want space. And he definitely wouldn’t force it on you.

Day in, day out, you go to work and carry on pretending everything is okay. You’re doing your job as best you can in your current mental state. It’s not good enough for your manager, though, who finds himself practically screaming at you every day. He can’t understand why one of the best on his team is suddenly performing as the worst, and you don’t dare share. It’s humiliating, really, that you’re letting such a pathetic bastard get to you and interfere with your life.

You pray for the end of your shift. A job you used to love has now become your own personal hell, you can’t enjoy it like this. How did everything turn out… like this? Even your best friend can’t stomach looking at you. The one person in the world you believed you could rely on is shutting you out and pushing you further away than you thought possible. Maybe he didn’t want to see you anymore, ever. He got what he wanted and now he’s done with you.

No, that isn’t Yuuji. He said he is in love with you, and has been for twelve years. If he loved you, he’d want you for as long as he could have you. Right? Isn’t that what love is? Wanting to spend the rest of your life with the person who makes your heart race. The only pain you feel with them is face ache from smiling so much.

Isn’t that what he wants?

Are you wrong to think that’s what love is?

The way you frantically leave your office building doesn’t disguise how much you loathe your job at the minute. Your boss is noticing more and more each day. At this rate, he’ll pick up on your deteriorating mental health before Yuuji will.

You don’t stop by the convenience store like you normally do. Instead, you head home immediately. There is a small salad box in your fridge that you were meant to eat yesterday, but you didn’t get around to it. You’re going to confront Yuuji tonight, and you can’t do it on an empty stomach.

It’s almost agonising to eat. It seems to last forever, like you can’t stomach it. It’s so small and you need to eat. But, you can’t. Your nerves are shot, and you feel nauseous from forcing it into your system. You eat enough, you think, a fraction of the salad remaining in the packaging that you put back in the fridge. You aren’t sure why, you know you’re going to dispose of it tomorrow, anyway.

You debate visiting him in pyjamas and a bare face. Wanting him to really see how pained you are and how desperately you need him. Need him to love you and need him to care. But that isn’t you. You’ll never beg, and you certainly won’t let anyone see your suffering. Makeup is your best friend. A bold red lip will surely throw him off the scent of your declining ill-health.

He knows it’s you, his ears prick to the sound as he hears a knock at the door. Your knock. Yuuji is starting to realise that you never really did understand boundaries. His three days often translates to one through your hearing. And in this case, needing a few days to clear his head hasn’t gotten through to you either. Despite the fact it has been a few days, you seem to have missed the key words of him saying he will be in touch when he’s ready to talk.

You can’t wait anymore. You are ready now, and you need him.

He opens the door, eyes shooting open when your arms wrap around him and your lips meld softly against his. You’re surprised when he pushes you away, but you giggle nonetheless. Your bright red lipstick is now staining him. He looks in the nearest mirror, abandoning you to wash it away in the bathroom.

An obvious pink remains on his pretty lips, but there isn’t anything more he can do. It’s good enough, he thinks, and he wants to know why you’re here. He’d like to know what is so important that you couldn’t possibly respect his wishes and give him the space he was desperate for.

“Um, how was w—”

“I didn’t come here to make small talk, Yuuji.” you shut him down quickly, edging nearer to him on the sofa. He leaned backwards into the seat, it’s subtle but not entirely discreet. You clear your throat and move a little away from him.

He’s pulling away from you.

He’s rejecting you.

“So, why are you here?” he questions, “I’m pretty sure I explained that I wanted some time to think things through.” he reminds you. He did, you know he did. Your lack of patience forced you to go against his wishes and that is an unforgivable act as a best friend. But you’re sick of being best friends. You’re sick of waiting for him to think things through. What does he even need to think about?

“You love me, don’t you?” you ask him. His eyes close, turning away from you. But it’s a temporary relief from the discomfort he feels. They fly open again, a half-hearted smile resting on the lower half of his face.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well then,” you clamber over to him, biting on his ear and kissing his cheek. “What are we waiting for Yuuji? Let’s be together, a real couple.” your hand rests on the side of his face furthest from you, forcing him to face you so that you can kiss his lips again. His entire face is soon to be covered in red. A lethal combination of lipstick and blood flushing his entire face. It’s shame, it’s lust, it’s embarrassment.

He gasps when he feels you begin to trace featherlight fingers over his crotch. The teasing stops, though, pawing at his cock instead. There is an urgent need within you to feel him again. To have him please you again; and you will offer the same reprieve in turn. A momentary loss of senses and the world around you as you lose yourselves in each other. You startle, almost choking on nothing, when you feel him firmly grasp your wrist. Putting a complete stop to your hasty touches.

“Do you love me?” he asks with zero eye contact. He can’t stomach to look in case he sees the truth he doesn’t want in your mournful eyes. It’s all he wants. He wants you to love him and to love you in turn. To make you the happiest he knows you could be, with him, and let the love he’s been holding back finally start to pour into you. But, alas, what would be the point if you don’t love him back?

He does look at you, eventually, the most sombre you’ve ever seen him look. Glossy eyes vibrate in their sockets, as if they’re pleading with you. Please love me back. They’re reading. It’s breaking your heart to see him like this. Love him back. Your mind tells you. But you can’t speak. You feel your tongue trapped behind a prison cell of teeth. They’re grinding and they’re loud in your ears. You want to tell him you love him. There is nothing more you want in the world.

But you’re not like Yuuji Itadori.

He’s been lying to you for twelve straight years.

You’ve never lied to him, once.

“Do you love me?” he repeats, needing to hear your answer. He wants you to put him out of his misery one way or the other. It’ll break him to hear the truth, but it’s better than pretending any longer. He can’t keep up this never-ending performance.

It’s killing him.

“I—”

He moves you away from him. He knows, now. He knows for certain. Why would you stop short of speaking if you were going to say exactly what he wanted to hear? He moves away, completely, leaning against the doorframe to his bedroom as he faces you.

“You are the worst best friend I’ve ever had,” he begins. He’s laughing a little, as he thinks about it. But you’re starting to cry. How could he possibly laugh at a time like this? After saying something so cruel, too. “I’ve been falling apart since the day we met, and you didn’t even notice.”

“Yuuji—”

“You said yourself, the night we slept together. ‘You’re going through enough without having to worry about me.’ That’s what you said, right?” he speaks, not waiting for you to answer his rhetorical question before he starts speaking again. “See, that has been our entire friendship. Everything is about you, and you never once stop to think about me.”

“That isn’t true, at all!”

“Do you know it’s been over two years since the last time you asked me how I was doing?”

You’re stunned into silence. That can’t be real, that cannot be the truth. How would he remember something so tedious, anyway? It’s like he’s been counting the days and waiting for you to trip up so he could throw it in your face. But it just doesn’t sound right. You have loved and cherished your friendship with Yuuji for as long as you’ve known him. There is just no possible way that what he just said is the truth.

“Wonderin’ how I remember that, huh? D’ya wanna know?” he raises his voice, goading you into biting back. But you don’t. You don’t because this means he has proof of what a horrible friend you’ve been to him. It’s true, and he does remember. “Because it was a fucking text message that you didn’t even let me answer before you started talking about yourself again. I took a screenshot and sometimes I read it before I sleep so that I can pretend you actually give a fuck about me past being your stupid little doormat.”

“I am so- Yuuji I’m so sorry. I—”

“Yeah, now. Now you’re sorry.” he barks back, overwhelming you back to silent sobs. Fat, salty tears roll down your face as you prepare for him to continue laying into you. “I almost killed myself the night before we slept together, because I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take you anymore.”

You cover your face with your hands, bawling into them as he delivered the devastating confession. You’d never be able to forgive yourself if you found out he had taken his own life and it was all down to you. It’s a wakeup call, and you’re ashamed. You never want to pull your face from your hands and make eye contact with him ever again. He doesn’t deserve it, why couldn’t you have just stayed the hell away?

“Are you just saying all of this… b-because I don’t- I don’t l-love you back?” you wonder, quietly. He scoffs at that.

“You think I’m making this shit up, here, wait a sec,” he responds as he pulls up his phone. Desperately searching for his online banking account. He throws it at you before going to the kitchen, angrily rummaging through the drawers until he finds the zip lock baggie filled with Zoloft.

“What is this, Yuuji?” you question, staring at the two accounts on his bank page.

“Well, the top one is my main account. The second is savings. I’ve been working a dead-end job I fucking hate so I can save enough to help you go to Paris like you’re always talking about.” he dumps the pills on the coffee table, each and every pill clattering against the hard table top and making a punctuating statement throughout your entire nervous system. “And these are a mix of pills I got from Todo and some I stole from your bathroom. I was gonna swallow them all when I was high, but I guess there was a higher being telling me not to that night.”

“Oh God.” you whimper, blubbering inconsolably once more. “What can I do? I want to make it better, please, let me help. You’ve done so much for me, I want to—”

“Nothing, not a damn thing. All of the years I’ve listened to your dreams. Your worries. I’ve come to your rescue and dropped anything whenever you needed and I did it without complaint because I love you.” he explains. You nod in agreement. Perhaps there was a part of you deep down that knew the truth. Maybe you knew of his true feelings towards you and used them to your advantage to get what you want. But that’s disgusting and it isn’t fair. You’re realising that’s what you are, though.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Yuuji. I’ve been a terrible friend.” you sniff, doing your best to halt the flow of tears spilling from you, “Maybe now that you’ve gotten it off your chest, we can start fixing things.”

“Honestly? I want you to get out of my apartment, and I don’t know when I want to see you again. And hopefully for once you’ll fucking listen to me and not come by before I’m ready.”

You nod, standing to leave. It’s the very least you can do considering everything. But you can’t help but look down at the scattered antidepressants all over the living room. Your eyes find his one final time, and he knows what you want to say. And yet, he still lets you speak.

“C-Can I help? Clean up, I mean.”

“No, I’ll do it, just go.”

“Okay,” you smile. “whatever you want. Just, don’t do anything stupid. Please.”

He doesn’t respond, but he’s patient. He’s patient in how he waits for you to leave his apartment so that he can close the door after you. And he doesn’t slam it. It’s a gentle close with a deafening mechanical lock sound after it. It shoots straight through you, and once again, you’re sobbing.

You find yourself taking the scenic route home from work the next day. And you left early. Well, more like you were forced to leave early. You were understandably worse than you had been the day before, and work was the least of your concerns. Your boss warned you. He warned you that you better come in tomorrow with a brighter attitude and a better willingness to work.

It took you so long to walk home, you usually take public transport. But you thought a stroll could do you a world of good. It did and it didn’t. It was nice, and by the time you approached the beach you and Yuuji were eating strawberry laces at a few days prior, golden hour had hit the sky.

He really was right about this beautiful sky.

But he’s been right about a lot of things lately.

You’re almost forced backwards as a little red car zips passed you well over the speed limit. Maybe you’re crazy, but you could swear that was Yuuji’s car. It was going too fast and you definitely didn’t see his face. And yet, still, you’re sure that was him. Despite your better judgement, it encourages you to check your phone in case he’s decided to get in touch.

It's too soon, you know it’s too soon. But you can’t stop yourself from wanting to hear from him.

Your heart beats faster as you see a text with his name as the top. Maybe he is ready to work on your friendship despite it being so soon. You open it, speedily. But you aren’t sure if your heart has stopped, or your breath is stuck in your lungs as you read it again… and again… and again…

Yuuji: I can’t get passed this. I’m sorry, but I thought I at least owed you a text. I’m moving back to my grandfather’s house. I love you but I don’t want to see you ever again. It hurts too much and you’re bad for me. I need to take responsibility for my own wellbeing, so I don’t blame you. Don’t blame yourself. I just want to be happy. I love you, take care. 🍓

Should you reply? Maybe he’s blocked you already. But that means it probably was his car that just zoomed by you in such a hurry. Some distance between you is probably exactly what he needs. It hurts, you really are hurting. Your boyfriend and best friend gone in the blink of an eye. But you feel the same way as Yuuji does – you just want to be happy. And if that means letting him go, so be it. He’s right, again, as you think back to your argument last night.

He doesn’t really have any grounds to feel so high and mighty. ‘You’re the worst best friend he’s ever had’, and you could say the same. He worshipped you and treated you like no man ever has before. But it was all a lie. He only did it because he wanted you to himself, not because he thought it was the right thing to do. It has been a toxic entanglement of the user and the used. And you both just let it happen.

Maybe you will be better off as strangers.

You pull your phone closer to your face so that you can inspect the text as you type. It will be your final words to Yuuji. You want them to signify the type of friend you could have been. The type of friend you should have been. Not the selfish girl who manipulated him every day of his life to do your bidding.

You: I understand. I hope you find what you’re looking for Yuuji, you deserve all of the happiness you can find.🍓

It’s exciting but devastating for you both all in one emotional blow. He finds himself wiping away tears as he reads your text at a red light. You do the same, picking up the speed of your walking as you hurry home, needing to hide yourself away from the world.

You both wonder what he’ll do now.

Now that you’ve finally set him free.

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It’s Because Of You I Can Exist, I Swear

part two | masterlist | part four

Yuuji Itadori x f!reader

Genre: Smut & Angst Notes: I love Yuuji I just want the best for him at all times <3 Warnings: 18+, dubcon (they both want to but he's a little hesitant), suicide ideation (pills/Zoloft), drug use (from previous chapter), vaginal sex, oral sex (m receiving), cock kissing, cock worship, a lil gaslighting??, virginity loss, inexperienced yuuji, hair pulling, edging, self consciousness, oral fixation, clit rubbing. Words: 3.3k

Synopsis: Emotions aren't an option, but self destructing is. Yuuji Itadori is keeping everything to himself, while you are painting on a smile and pretending you're fine. Nothing is fine. Which one of you will admit it first?

spotify playlist if u wanna :P

He can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing he ordered food before he left your place. The first pill of many rested comfortably between two fingers. His tongue poked out, ready to accept it and settle in the knowledge that everything was finally going to stop. And then, the food arrived. The delivery boy didn’t see the carefully placed pills strewn so prettily across his dirty coffee table, thankfully. No cause for concern. He brought the food inside and ate it like the disgusting slob he is. On the floor, in the dark, with the bright TV damaging the health of his eyes. He can’t keep his eyes open much longer after that.

Soon to be greeted with the knowledge he’s lived to see another day.

He wakes up, back in agony from crashing on the rock-hard floor. His mouth is crusty with drool and food stains. His apartment reeks even worse than it already did. Week old garbage rots the air with the addition of new greasy food to the equation.

Even he realises he can’t go on like this.

He throws out the food into the already piling trash in his room, promising himself that he will deal with it today. But first, the pills. He took them all from the packaging, so he needs to find something to keep them in for now. He can’t find clean socks on a daily basis but somehow he manages to remember exactly where he had a zip lock bag that somebody else left at his place a few weeks ago. It’ll do for now, he supposes. He grabs handful after handful of pills and dumps them in the baggie.

It takes hours, almost the whole day, in fact. But he does keep his word. His entire day off is spent cleaning his apartment. He vacuums, he mops, he takes out the trash. He even opens all of the windows to let fresh air in and uses air freshener in the entire apartment. He deep cleans the kitchen and organises the mess in the living room. He arranges his wardrobe so that he can better find articles of clothing (socks included) and wipes down the entire bathroom. And he feels… accomplished. Better still, you haven’t crossed his mind once today.

He hasn’t heard a peep out of you. Not a phone call, not a text. And thank God you haven’t dropped by for a visit. He was right, he thinks. He must have scared you last night. It’s for the best. He can start to heal and move on from you and the overwhelming love he feels for you. It isn’t healthy. It isn’t normal.

He doesn’t want to feel how he did last night ever again.

He doesn’t want to feel like that anymore.

There is one essential thing to do when you deep clean your entire house. Deep clean yourself. He runs the shower to a temperature he’s not even sure Satan himself would be able to stand. It’s a must, how else will he get himself truly clean? It’s like shedding a skin. A rebirth, almost. He wants to burn away the rotting, depressed skin cells of yesterday and emerge from his shower a new man.

No more self-pity.

No more longing.

He wants to make a conscious effort to be better.

Even now, there are fucking reminders of you everywhere. He washes his body from top to bottom before reaching for a bottle of shampoo. He sees a bottle of 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner and his mind races with thoughts of you. He thought you might beat him to death with it the first time you saw the bottle in his bathroom. You came rushing out with it in your hand and confronted him. ‘It’s disgusting’, and ‘you need to take better care of your hair!’ apparently. You left in a hurry after that. It was weird, to say the least. You didn’t say goodbye and he assumed you were actually angry at him, so he didn’t expect you to return. You were angry at him, but you did come back. You reappeared an hour later with a plastic carrier bag containing the most expensive shampoo and conditioner you could find. And you warned him. If he even thought about using that fucking 2-in-1 monstrosity you would beat the living hell out of him with it.

He hasn’t used it since. You’re right about it being better, his hair hasn’t been softer or shinier. But he kept the bottle anyway, he doesn’t know why. He’ll throw it out like the rest of the trash when he gets out of his shower.

It’s interrupted, early, by the sound of knuckles connecting with his front door once more. He quickly hurries out wrapping a towel around his waist and doing his best not to slip on his bathroom tiles as he makes his way towards the door.

Your face flushes hot when he opens the door, and you see him in nothing but a black towel. It rests comfortably around his hips. His prominent hip bones on full display and his sculpted abdominal muscles leaving little to the imagination force you to look anywhere but at your childhood best friend. He’s never seen you like this before. You’ve practically seen every inch of him at this point, so how come you’re acting so bashful?

“Yeah?” he asks, hoping to bring your attention back to him. It works. You clear your throat, and smile.

“Can I… come in?” you wonder, hoping the answer will be yes.

This isn’t what he wanted. At. All. He thought he’d broken free of you, for a little while, anway. He was so sure that he had frightened you away and made you never want to see him ever again. What the fuck are you doing here? Alas, he finds himself making space for you to come in. He tells you to wait while he gets changed in his room. He doesn’t wait long enough to drop his towel; you just catch sight of his ass before he disappears behind a closed door.

He spends a little time changing, re-emerging in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. Yuuji takes a seat on the couch opposite to you, unable to read your facial expression or determine your reason for coming here. Maybe you just wanted to check on him after last night. He thought you looked well enough; you must have slept like a baby. Or could you have realised that he stole your antidepressants?

“What do you want?” he breaks the silence, desperate to know why you deemed it necessary to drop by for an unwelcome visit. Your face drops, and he does feel bad. You don’t recognise him at all, right now.

“What’s gotten into you?” you wonder, “Last night should have been fun and it was just… intense. It was sad. I’m going through enough without having to worry about you.” you finish, awaiting his response.

“Nothing, I- no, nothing. Nothing has gotten into me,” he fibs, already knowing he isn’t doing a good enough job of throwing you off the scent. There is something he wants to say, something mean, but he supposes he should keep it to himself for now. “I’m just irritable from last night, I guess.”

You feel spit stick in your windpipe that you can’t swallow. A gulp you cannot satisfy before revealing the real reason why you’re here. Last night being intense was beyond an understatement. The energy and tension emanating from Yuuji was almost violent. Speech that you couldn’t comprehend and glares you’ve never seen from him before. And you know why. You think you finally understand why.

“I have memories of last night. Memories of you lying to me.” you start, looking at him to see his response as you put perfect emphasis and inflections on your statement. He looks at you with brown puppy dog eyes, and you notice his skin group together into goosebumps. “I know I heard you tell me you never slept with Nobara.”

“Not this again, don’t fucking start with—”

“And now that my mind is clear I know I heard you tell me that you love me, too. Is that right, do you love me Yuuji?”

His entire body is rigid, and he can’t think straight. You fucking cut him off when he said that last night, so he was very confident that you hadn’t heard. And now, you have the gall to bother him while he’s trying to make strides into being better and pull this shit on him? What the fuck is the matter with you?

“As a friend, obviously. I love you because you’re my best friend… Is that everything or do you wanna get out of here? ‘Cause I’m busy.”

“Please stop lying. You’re so important to me, I didn’t think I’d ever have to hear you lie to my face, Yuu—”

“Well, I’ve been lying to your face for twelve years because that’s how long I’ve been in love with you. Alright? Happy? Please, leave.”

He gets up before you do, opening the door to usher you out. It takes you a little while, but you find the confidence to stand to your feet and head towards the door. He can’t even look at you as you walk passed. Twelve years. You’ve been in two relationships that were incredibly serious, and he’s loved you through them both. He’s kept it all to himself for this long and you didn’t even know. You wish he’d let you talk to him about it, but he’s made it abundantly clear that he needs his space.

And yet, for some reason, when your hand holds the door handle you close the door with yourself still inside. He looks at you, confused. Didn’t you hear him? He wants you out.

“Don’t shut me out Yuuji,” you whimper, lower lip trembling as you discover the courage to face him. He hates to see you upset and he can’t stand to see you cry. You’re a fucking bitch, he thinks. You know exactly what you’re doing, trying to pull his god damn heart strings into feeling sorry for you and letting you do whatever the fuck you want. As usual. “I don’t want to go, please don’t make me.”

And of course.

Of course it works.

You’re too close for comfort, now, both of your palms resting flatly on his chest. They travel upwards slowly. One remaining on his neck, the other cupping his face. You’re looking up at him, big doe eyes and fluttering lashes batting as if butter wouldn’t melt. Like you’re so innocent and not at all using your newfound power to manipulate him. He still views an angel before him. You can do no wrong. Or rather, you can, but he chooses to ignore it.

“P-Please, don’t do this.” he begs, pathetically. “I know you don’t feel the same. I know you don’t want me… So, don’t do this to me.”

“I do, Yuuji, I promise.” you assure him, “I wan’ you so bad…”

You silence his worry as you tilt your head to kiss him. A moment he has been waiting twelve entire years for. Fuck. Strawberry on your lips. You’ve been eating the laces he bought you. He can’t stop himself as he begins to kiss back. It isn’t slow, either. It’s heated, it’s fast. You raise a leg to rest on his hip. He takes the initiative to pick you up and carry you back to the sofas.

You straddle him, grinding your needy heat against his crotch as he becomes drunk on your taste. You can feel how hard he is. His throbbing length stiffening in his sweats and driving itself into your cunt.

Lips are stolen from him as you pull yourself away, kissing down and down and down. You find yourself on your knees and he instinctively spreads his legs. With a look of ‘may I?’ etching onto your features, he grants you permission to free his length.

He moans softly when it slaps against his abdomen. You don’t want to rush, taking your time to examine it. He’s never been touched by anyone but himself before, the way you ogle his manhood is surely too good to be real. The way you touch it is even better. Slow pumps of your fist as you dribble all over him is a divine concoction and he can’t keep his volume to a reasonable level.

“S’pretty Yuuji,” you tell him, kissing the tip sensually before offering a soft kitten lick over the tip, “such a pretty cock, baby.”

“F-Fuck.” he groans.

You aren’t doing anything particularly special, you think, but it means everything to him. This is something he only ever dreamed would happen. Ah, dreams. He loves seeing you in real life but the dream you is the best. You’re together, then. Really together. The apple picking dream is on his mind, now. You’d spend hours frolicking and picking the fruit from the trees without a care in the world. Each of you would end the experience holding bushels of apples, comparing them, and joking about who’s would be the tastiest. And then somehow, with no explanation, you’d begin to beg him for his cock. And he’d give it to you with no hesitation. Every single time. He’d fuck you up against one of the very trees you’d just been picking apples from. And you looked beautiful. You were putty in his hands.

But now.

Right now.

It was quite the opposite.

He was desperate for you. And as needy as he always is. Maybe even more so now that he actually has you. This is real, isn’t it? He isn’t dreaming right now, he can’t be. The way you’re worshipping his cock does seem too perfect to be real. But it feels like you’re here with him, now. Should he ask? He doesn’t want to disturb you. Your eyes focus on his while you continue to pepper his perfect length in adoring kisses.

“I-Is this real?” he can’t stop himself. He has to know if this is a figment of his imagination or if you’re actually nestled between his legs like this, looking at him as if he created the universe and everything in it. “’m sorry, I- I- ‘m sorry.”

“Relax, Yuuji…” you begin, kissing his tip sweetly once more, “’m here. Promise. Don’t be sorry, just enjoy it.”

The pecking stops, and you finally begin to sink your mouth onto him. He hisses when all you do is take his swollen tip into your welcoming orifice. You push down on his abdomen, doing your best to subtly keep him in place. When he settles, you wrap your hand around what won’t fit inside of your mouth. You use your free hand to fondle his aching balls. He wants them emptied, now. He wants to paint your pretty face and mark you as his. His fingers lace through your hair, yanking roughly, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.

He can’t stop the way his cock is jumping. Eager isn’t a good enough descriptor to express the feeling in his length. You release him with an audible gasp, and he smirks. Your jaw hurts and he can tell by the look on your face that it’s bigger than you had anticipated.

He wonders if it’s bigger than the others.

“Easy, boy. Eaaasy.” you caution him, “Don’t cum too soon Yuuji, ‘m not finished with you yet.”

“Fuck me, then.”

You pout at that. Unsure if he’s ready, or if you are, for that matter. But with a cheeky smirk adorning his features, you find yourself giggling and agreeing to his statement. You’re both surprised, this is happening, this is really happening. You’re really about to have sex with your best friend.

He helps unbutton your denim shorts and pull them down as well as your panties, slowly. He’s mesmerised by the mound of your pussy alone. He knows the detailed intimacy of your folds is going to be the most beautiful sight he could possibly imagine. But even now, this is enough.

This is more than he thought he’d ever get from you.

“This is your first time,” you pause as you wait expectantly for him to make eye contact with you. He does. “it is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.” he confesses, finally, “Have you changed your mind about this? Or is this just a pity screw for you, or am I too much of a loser to be worthy of fucking you?” he rambles. It’s sad, really, to see how little confidence he’s had for so long. He’s clearly self-conscious over his virgin status, but it means nothing to you.

“I don’t care that you’re a virgin, at all.” you inform him, “I just want you to be comfortable right now.”

“Please, sit on it. I’ve been waiting for you to take it, that’s why I’m a virgin. P-Please, just sit—”

He’s cut off from his begging. His wish is granted as you line his cock up with your entrance and slowly descend onto him.

“Hah- Oh- Fuuuuuck, baby.” he almost blows his load in an instant as you fully sheath him in your sticky insides, letting him rest his cockhead snuggly against your cervix. “D-Don’t move, ‘m gonna cum if you move.” he explains.

You catch his lips with yours instead, giving him time to adjust and get used to how you feel. How sex feels. He thinks you were made for him, it’s obvious now. You were made to perfectly house his cock; he is a perfect fit and there isn’t a single doubt in his mind.

You begin to rise and fall, rise and fall, slowly. He moans into your mouth as you continue to kiss him through it. Each time you feel his cock spasm inside of you, you stop. And he whines. You aren’t edging him because you want to control him. You just need him to wait, you need him to wait so you can cum together. It’s romantic, you think, for his first time. Cumming together is romantic, and you want him to look back on this first of hopefully many dalliances with fondness.

You’re closer, you’re finally close to cumming and you know he is too. You’re no longer riding him with the pace of a snail. The steady pace has been replaced by heavy bounces. Your entire weight humping onto him as you use his cock to get yourself off. You suck his fingers, yet another sight that will be eternally burnt into his memories. You instruct him to rub your clit, and he does. It’s sloppy, wet, and messy. But that’s just how you like it.

“Doin’ so good f’me Yuuji, s’good. ‘m gonna- gonna- oh! Fuck, right there!” you moan, approaching the precipice of your orgasm.

The minute you feel him cum inside of you, you’re dragged over the cliff right along with him. The warmth of his seed filling you so perfectly is more than enough to bring you to your high. You kiss him more, through it. It’s so perfect, so perfect.

It was worth the wait, he thinks. And he couldn’t agree more. Perfection. All of it.

Your body slumps forwards into his. Your face rests sweetly in the crook of his neck. God damn that was so much better than you thought it was going to be. Why didn’t you see sooner that he was in love with you? You’ve wasted so much time. Each heavy breath pushes his chest in and out, you follow it. Bodies breathing inconsistently against each other. It’s lewd but lovely as you decompress and consider it all. Nothing but breathing, sweat and adoration.

“Can we… Can we do it, again?” he asks.

You giggle into his chest before pulling him in for yet another kiss.

© 2021 fuwushiguro

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When I'm Not With You I Feel Awful

masterlist | part two

Yuuji Itadori x f!reader (a lil Gojo x reader too)

Genre: Smut & Angst Notes: hope ur all ready for an emotional ride!! (friends to lovers type beat) Warnings: 18+, pining, masturbation, noncon listening, voyeurism??, degradation, fingering, vaginal sex, depression, signs of mental illness, self loathing, cheating mention, daddy kink, jealousy. Words: 3.2k

Synopsis: Emotions aren't an option, but self destructing is. Yuuji Itadori is keeping everything to himself, while you are painting on a smile and pretending you're fine. Nothing is fine. Which one of you will admit it first?

spotify playlist if u wanna :P

Loving you feels like holding your breath. Yuuji can’t remember the last time he knew how to breathe comfortably and calmly. Twelve years. It’s been twelve years since he met you and he thinks he has loved you every single second since. How he lived without you, he’ll never know. How does he live with you now? He doesn’t, he isn’t breathing. He thinks it feels like gluing together pieces of a shattered vase. He looks okay, he looks normal enough. But he’s empty; only because he thinks that’s how he must be. If you were to pour water into a broken vase, liquid would still pour from the cracks. And that is how he feels. If he admits to himself aloud how he feels about you, he’d begin to pour and pour. And he’d tell you, too. How can he continue to keep it to himself if he’s pouring? Keeping the love he feels for you to himself is an impossibility. And you can’t know, ever. You don’t belong to him, you’re someone else’s love, and it kills him. So, he must remain empty. He doesn’t want to ruin your relationship. He doesn’t want to ruin your friendship. He doesn’t want to ruin anything. But, those are just excuses. He could easily tell you, the subsequent response would allow him to know how to proceed with his existence. The truth is simple.

There’s only one reason Yuuji Itadori can’t tell you how he feels.

It’s because he’s a coward.

Even after twelve years he thinks you have the sweetest face he’s ever had the honour to witness. Your face has matured. The once smooth, full cheeks that belonged to an eleven-year-old girl have somehow become softer and sophisticated. Whenever he’d pinch your cheeks, he’d always laugh at the way you’d pout and tell him it’s ‘baby fat’.

You don’t say that, anymore.

Early evening is his favourite time of day. Those are the times you stop by the convenience store he works in after you finish your own day of work. A weathered satchel clasped between manicured fingers while you smile heartily at him. You live a few doors apart from each other in the same apartment complex; it makes sense to walk home together whenever you get the chance.

It’s his favourite time of day, because he’ll never forget the day you told him the orange sky from the golden hour of the day melting into pink reminds you of him. His hair. And, his smile.

Do you think of his smile as often as he thinks of yours?

He remembers himself as he nears your apartment. Why would you think of his smile when you have a boyfriend of your own? He imagines that you like to see him happy, to see him smiling, but he doubts that you get the same butterflies he gets when your entire face softens beneath the evening sky. He wants to know what you really think of the sky. Is it a good thing that you are reminded of him at this time of day? He longs to know the significance, the reason that you chose to tell him so many years ago now.

“The sky… it’s, uh, really pretty tonight.” he stammers, instantly regretting that he decided to open his mouth to speak. Who cares if the sky is pretty? He’s certain that you don’t. He can see it in the way your brows furrow as you deign to finally look up from your phone. His vision is filled with the sight of you consuming your surroundings. The way the pinks and oranges of the summer sky dance in your perfect, glittering eyes. His heart beats a little faster as a smile, a little, cheeky smile, works its way onto your face.

Does this sky still remind you of him?

“Yeah… I suppose it does,” you agree, “it’s lovely, Yuuji.”

He looks away, biting his lower lip and closing his eyes. He’s filled with hurt and heartbreak as a new reality set in. Why did he have to say that to you tonight? He clears his throat and forces a false smile onto his own face. He can’t allow you to suspect that there is something wrong, although, your nose is back in your phone so you likely wouldn’t have noticed anyway. He can’t take this. One of his precious memories is ruined from this point onwards. All because his mouth decided to run faster than his brain could ever hope to catch up to.

You don’t remember anymore.

The sky… this sky, no longer reminds you of him.

“Thanks for walking me home, I’ll see you tomorrow.” you tell him, offering a meek wave before closing the door in his face. He barely gets a chance to spit out the word ‘bye’ before he hears the lock to your apartment sound.

He hates how desperate he is. How needy he is for you and you alone. It wouldn’t matter if he actually sought the attention and companionship of another woman, there is no one else for Yuuji Itadori but you.

It’s almost like an addiction, a compulsion, to think about you and ignore every other aspect of his life. Friends he had have become acquaintances as he slowly began to isolate himself from people he once cared about.

No parents.

No friends.

Just you.

And yet, he doesn’t even have you. Not really. Does he?

He is depressed, although he’d never realise. He doesn’t leave his house apart from when he needs to. Like, when you need him to. And of course, work. His apartment is a disgrace because all he does is sit and wallow in darkness. It was nice of you to buy him a record player and some albums for Christmas a few years ago, so he has some soundtracks to play along to his spiralling mental state.

He's happy as long as you are happy, so he can’t be depressed. He is in love with your smile and it’s contagious. He lives for you, worships you, you’re all he thinks about. And that makes him happy.

It’s been three hours since he walked you home and he has done nothing but curl into bed from the minute he walked into his place. Subtract an occasional toilet break, he has been scrolling through his photo gallery on his phone the whole time. He cries happy tears when he sees videos of you together where you’re laughing and smiling.

There are others there, too, like Megumi and Nobara. But his mind can only process the sight of you. You’re ethereal to him. How are you real? He would go to the ends of the earth to make you his, he thinks.

“P-Please…” he shivers, softly beneath his duvet, “I need you,” he whispers. Tears begin to flow from his tired eyes. Completely overwhelmed by his infatuation. He needs to hold it together; he can’t say those dangerous three words that will lead to the demise of your friendship. It’s all he has. All he has in this entire world is the blessing that you have deemed him worthy of the title of best friend. He wishes for more, but he’s happy with what he’s got. Your happiness above all else; even his own damn sanity.

He can feel his heart pounding. It’s obvious his body is gearing up to uncontrollably sob. The words are coming, he can’t stop it. He wants to punch himself in the most violent way possible to force the words back inside of him. Once it’s out there, it’s all over. Of this, he is sure.

But he can’t.

He can’t.

He can’t—

“I love—”

He freezes when his phone begins to ring, almost letting it fall from his hand in terror. But instantly, he is relaxed, your contact photo filling up the entirety of his screen. The apples of his cheeks redden as he remembers the day he set that picture; you were furious. How you could look at yourself and think the word ugly was beyond him. Yuuji thinks you’re heaven sent, too beautiful to be a human among other mere mortals. You were an angel, to him, you had to be.

He presses the green button and loosens his jaw to speak. Maybe you want him to come over to hang out, to unwind. It isn’t an unusual request; he spends a lot of his evenings over at your place. But he thought you would have done it sooner than now. He stops himself from speaking, however, when he hears a loud thud from the other end of the phone. Has someone broken into your apartment? His question is answered when the sound is followed by soft breaths and sticky lips meeting through the speaker. And—

“Mmm, Satoru, I- I love you Satoru,” you murmur, before your breath is stolen from you again as your boyfriends’ lips encase yours.

He wants to hang up. He wants to smash his phone against the God damn wall, but he can’t. Yuuji’s eyes close and he imagines as if you said his name rather than the name of your boyfriend. It sounds so nice, so warm. Like everything in his life is finally slotting into place. But then, the false reality is snatched from him.

“Yeah? I’m sure you do, sweetheart.” Gojo replies before kissing you again. A spit bubble is left on your mouth as he pulls away from your swollen lips to look at you intently. “Or do you just love daddy’s cock, hmm? Bein’ so sweet because you know I’m going to fuck you senseless soon. Like the little slut you are.”

Yuuji quickly muted his microphone as he began to breathe erratically. He wanted to march down to your apartment and pull him away from you for speaking to you so degradingly. He can feel his eyes begin to swell the more tears he sheds, and he’s crying more because he can’t believe that you like being spoken to like that. He hates himself, because he can’t deny the way his cock stiffens at the lewd conversation and the erotic sounds spilling down the line.

He can’t touch himself, can he?

Over his clothes is okay. That’s allowed, he thinks. It isn’t so wrong. He can just pretend there is an unbearable itch he is attempting to scratch. It isn’t too terribly far from the truth. But he realises he’s beyond help when what he can only assume is Satoru’s fingers dip between your sticky panties and play with your clit. Your moaning becomes louder and louder, and your words are naughtier and naughtier. Yuuji’s pants are off, his eyes are closed, the room is still pitch dark as he fucks his bare cock into his fist whilst he imagines it’s all for him. He feels horrible, he feels sick at himself, but he can’t help it. This is likely to be the only time he gets to hear you like this and it’s so perfect because he can pretend you’re doing it all for him. And, you’ll never have to know about any of it. He’ll feign ignorance if you do realise. There are no grounds for you to believe the man who adores you and dotes on you like nobody else, would lie to you.

“F-Faster, please, g-go faster!” you mewl, so he does. Gojo fingers you faster as Yuuji quickens the movement of his fist. He’s crying, still, because it’s such a beautiful betrayal. You’re practically in his ear moaning your wants and he can’t recall the last time he felt such genuine happiness. It’s better than porn. It’s better than anything. He’ll spend hours a day on Pornhub searching for videos with girls who look like you and it’s never good enough. It’s going to be even harder, now, since he’s practically had the real thing.

He cums, hard, with gritted teeth and grunting moans as his cock spurts hot cream all over his abdomen. He’s thankful, really, that it wasn’t the real thing. He came so quickly he would have been so humiliated if this had been your first time together.

This is your only time together.

He takes you off speaker, plugging in his AirPods so he can do other tasks before he sees himself to bed. He wants to hear it all. It’s killing him to hear it, but he can’t waste this chance.

He cleans his teeth as he listens to you slobber all over Gojo’s cock, deepthroating him like a champ. That’s what Gojo hummed, anyway. Gojo is just as cocky and loud as he would have expected. He’s a bastard in real life who never knows when to shut his mouth. Why would his bedroom antics be any different? Especially since you’re inflating his ego at least ten times what it already is.

Yuuji finds a face mask you bought him a few months ago while he listens to you arrive at the big finale. Hips slamming against each other while you moan uncontrollably. He thinks you might be faking it. But what would he know? Gojo is grunting just as loudly too, completely lost in the feeling of your heat taking him so perfectly.

He stares at himself in the mirror as he applies the green, avocado smelling substance to his face. It’s colder than he expected. You begged him to use it when you had a sleepover all of those weeks ago, but he refused. He smiles as he remembers you telling him to at least take it home and give it a try in private. You must have thought he was worried about you taking pictures and uploading them to social media for the world to see. He didn’t care about that. He only cares what you think, after all.

By the time he hears you begging to be filled with Gojo’s cum, the mask has almost fully hardened on his face. He waits a little longer, though, he can’t bear to miss out the ending. He can’t help but touch the dried patches on his face with a curious glare.

What exactly is this supposed to do, anyway?

He washes it all off after he hears the two of you climax together. It’s so romantic. He hates himself; he hates everything about his life and the fact that it wasn’t him you were having sex with at that very moment.

“I love you…” he hears. His face is dripping with warm water, a few tips of his peachy locks had become drenched and were showering cold droplets onto his cheeks. They were mixing with tears, fresh ones that he could do nothing to prevent.

Pretending is all he has. This may be the final push for him to realise everything isn’t what it should be. Your relationship. His behaviour. His mental health. Yuuji holds a warm towel against his sodden face. And he cringes, he physically cringes as he hums into the black, fibred material.

“I love you.” he responds. And he grimaces. Not only because it’s finally out in the open. The truth he has locked away inside himself for twelve long years has finally been freed from his aching lungs and bleeding heart. But because the words tumbled from his lips at exactly the same time as they left Gojo’s. They spoke in unison. They told you in unison, but you only heard the one who mattered to you most speak.

Yuuji hangs up the phone, exhaling sorrowfully. It’s really out there.

He loves you. It has felt like a lifetime to get to this moment, to reach this embarrassing confession, but there was no way he could keep it to himself a second longer. Look what he’s done. Look what he’s done to you, just to feel an inch closer to you in this mile of separation.

Even if you did leave Gojo, how could he expect to begin a relationship with you when he knew such a sickening truth? He completely violated your privacy, and he could never confess that to you. Never.

He huffs out an exhale as he lies on his back and stares up into the hideous popcorn ceiling above him. Even in a room plunged in darkness, it’s telling how prominent each bump and crack is that he can still see it with only the night sky offering any light to his room. But perhaps he’s being harsh and directing his frustrations on something so meaningless to mask his disgust with himself. His eyes close firmly, he’s aggravated. Sleep will offer no reprieve, either. He sees you everyday and you run through his mind each night. You’re in his dreams, too.

The apple picking dream is recurring, and it’s his favourite.

He wakes up, groggy, disappointed. The beloved apple picking dream didn’t come to fruition. It was a friendly dream, instead. He was at work, like he will be soon, and you came to visit. Just a normal, bog-standard dream. You bought a few things; he thinks he remembers seeing strawberry bubble gum and strawberry laces.

He’ll have to remember to buy you some today for when you finish work.

They’re the first thing he grabs when he gets to work, paying for them and shoving them into his backpack. The end of the day can’t come soon enough. He’s tired of seeing the same miserable faces and hearing the same pointless complaints. People expect too much, he thinks. He works in the most generic as you can get convenience store. Does anything really matter?

The end of the workday sneaks up on him, and he’s a little alarmed that you aren’t here yet. You’re usually here while he has thirty minutes left to spare of his shift. The time goes a lot faster when you’re here. It’s fun, he laughs, and before he knows it, you’re walking home together again. So why aren’t you here yet?

His concerns are answered when he spots your satchel through the window before he even sees your face. But then, he looks into your eyes as you open the door. It’s been a while since he’s seen you look so upset. Your makeup is a little out of place and your eyes are puffy. His are, too, he thinks he cried enough to solve droughts in several countries last night.

You don’t notice his swollen stares, but it’s the first thing he sees on you.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, taking off his apron and moving to the other side of the counter. He holds your shoulders and his heart winces as he watches your lips suck into your mouth as you try and hold it together. But you can’t, you can’t. And that fact is made clear as tears start to slither down your cheeks. “You’re scaring me. What’s happened?” he questions again, urging you to confide in him.

You do your best to pull yourself together. Forming an ‘o’ shape with your lips and exhaling harshly. Your breath fans across his chest before you look up and into his eyes. He gulps, dangerously, the sound reminds him too much of your accidental phone call last night. His eyes begin to vibrate, still awaiting an answer. His eyes are saying please, you can’t keep it inside, you need to tell him.

“It’s Gojo,” you start, “he’s been cheating on me.”

© 2021 fuwushiguro

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