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no-mo-rules · 7 years ago

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THAT AKECHI ANGST FIC SAVED MY SOUL OH MY GOD YOURE SO TALENTED!!!! I enjoy every second of reading it 😭 if you don’t mind, it’d be awesome if you can continue the fic! (if you’re comfortable enough to write smuts, that is)

Part One | Part Two

When your top is discarded, it falls onto the floor, somewhere into the mist that hazes the background into invisibility. You make a move to take your pants off, too, but before you can properly shimmy them off your hips, Akechi comes inwards (sits up with you) to close the gap.

He wraps his arms around you, presses you flush against the lavish cashmere of his cardigan, and it’s soft and nice, but you want it off.

You want it all off.

Impatiently, you grip its hem and sidle it upwards, but when you push away from him to get a better look at what you’re doing, his grip doesn’t relent. Instead, he mumbles something incoherent and pulls you closer into him, and for a second, you genuinely feel like he won’t let you go.

“Akechi –” you start, but he cuts you off quickly with a kiss to the lips, messy and rough. The hands wrapped around you tighten, crossing over at your back, and there’s so much fervour in his revulsion towards distance that you get the impression he wants to melt into you. It’s dizzy, dizzy and hot, and you’re slowly losing track of a coherent train of thought in favour of letting yourself sink into him. Especially when he lifts you for a gasp of three seconds (that feels entirely like floating), and manoeuvres you into the empty space between his open legs, like he’s trying to fill every gap in his body with you.

You respond by crossing your own legs around him, so tight that your core is forcefully pushed into his. With a roll of his hips, your breath stutters and falls straight into his lips - where he eats it up. You hear his swallow, see the dip of his Adam’s apple when you rub against his hips, and even through his pants you can feel how hard and stiff he is.

“It’s so hot,” he mumbles, and the jut of his lip breaths against the corner of yours. He hasn’t severed the junction, so every single one of his jitters rivets your skin, and the boiling heat of his stilted breath feels almost physical where it leaves trails. “You’re burning.”

“You too,” you say, because the pallor of his cheek glows with a lively flush – pink and exciting. It brushes against yours and echoes like genuine fire, like he’s burning up with a fever and setting you aflame. You can’t shimmy his clothes off, not like this, but you can just about manoeuvre your hands up his cardigan and across his sides.

“Ah!” he yelps in surprise, shivers, and jolts away from you for barely a second, before he makes the full effort to push back into your hands with sharp, rocking movements. “More,” he says, and you agree with the sentiment wholeheartedly, but you can’t really do more from this angle. You try to push away from him again, just enough that you can shimmy his clothes off, but he does not like that.

“No,” he protests, and cages you. The criss-cross of his arms at your back tightens, and you’re pulled into him so hard that it actually hurts. “Don’t leave.”

“I just –” you begin. He tries to interrupt you with a kiss again, but you cut it off with a quick peck and a finger at his lips. “I just want to take your top off.”

He hums, and you think he understands, because the iron tensity in his shoulders relaxes just enough that you can separate your chest from him. You see a convulsion overtake the base of his hips at your withdrawal, so you act fast, pulling the cardigan over his head and pushing up his white shirt without bothering to unbutton anything but the top two buttons.

As soon as it’s gone, Akechi rushes into you again. Against the artificial glow of the living room’s pendant chandelier, you see rows of goosebumps line his lean arms. They brush against your hot, overly sensitive skin when he wraps one arm around your waist and solders your hips to his, and again against your neck, as he shoves your faces together.

This kiss is even rougher than the prior, all force and movement as Akechi presses the flat of his tongue against the corner of your lip and bends it inwards, curves his lips into yours, grapples at the base of your head to angle you flush against him and does not let go. When you’re this close, every single one of Akechi’s exhales burns against your skin. They’re hot (too hot), and only stuttered by gulps and whines—short, cut-off, and convincingly helpless against the pads of your fingers as they rake over the bare territory of his back.

“This is good, right?” he asks, seeping with need and insecurity. “I’m good, right?”

You nod, not once, or twice, but so many times that your head hazes it into incognition, that when you sink into Akechi’s collar to dispel the relentless heat, you’re still rubbing against his neck. The beginnings of a word clog your throat, but they’re eased out as low vibrations and numb moans instead.

Akechi (as detached as he is) is still receptive to you, and his glassy eyes pull open at your cries. He wakes enough from his stupor that one of his arms uncurls from your back and starts a messy journey down to your stomach, where it fiddles with the buttons of your pants.

“Hold on,” he says. “I’m going to touch you.”

You help him to pry them open, and do your best to shimmy your pants off your hips as far as they’re willing to go when your legs are still crossed around his back, but it doesn’t quite work. Regretfully, you stand up on the velvet of his couch, and although your legs are shaking and you’re barely standing, the worst instability comes from the force of Akechi’s outstretched palm on the side of your hip, completely relentless in its unspoken command.

This is as far as you can get from me, it says.

You’ve still got your pants around one of your ankles when his patience runs out and he pulls you back in, so you’re forced to ungracefully shake them off somewhere onto the floor again, where they’re gone, out of sight and out of mind.

Through the thin fabric of your underwear, you can feel his erection more clearly, and the firm structure of Akechi’s pants becomes another, infuriating barrier. As he keens over you and finds respite in the sweet softness of your hair, you’re already unzipping and unbuttoning his bottoms, shoving them down and down his hips until you can just about thumb his erection out of his boxers.

He hisses harshly, and you can’t blame him, because it looks painfully hard, and there’s so much slick precum gathering around the tip that a thin line joins it to the patch it was pressed against in his boxers.

Instead of making a comment on it, he seeps into your mouth with another tongue-tipped kiss. So many moans sink into you, so many desperate whines and sobs are muffled against your cheek that you begin to think he might be crying again, and when you pry his face apart from yours just enough that your swollen pupils can see his face, you find that his eyes are, in fact, glossy with tears.

You’re not exactly worried, but a part of you is too concerned to let his scrunched expression go, so you try to address it. “Akechi, do you need to –”

“No. Keep going, please,” he says, before you can finish. The mottled path traced by prior crying is fading, but you can still just about make it out. “It feels so good, I think I…” One tear actually falls to his cheek, and you swear you can almost hear it steaming where it hits his hot skin. “I think I’ll die if you stop.”

It’s you that pulls him inward this time, and he follows your touch like metal to a magnet.

“Then let’s keep going,” you say, and take the lead by wrapping your hand against the head of his cock. It peeks out from his boxers, flushed and bright against the pale face of his abs. When you spread his precum around the head of his cock in slow circles, he actually cries out. He’s so eager to be touched that (even through his best attempts) he can’t help but buck into your palm.

His attempts to speak are messy, tucked into the dips of your throat and against the curve of your jawline, but you can just about make them out.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” he utters, as gasps that colour your skin with more of his hot breath, and eventually, “I love you.”

It’s a sudden confession, and you’re jilted into stopping for an entirety of three seconds wherein Akechi regains enough motor control to slide his fingers into you, and with it, your thoughts cease to a halt and you’re kickstarted into rubbing at the head of his cock again.

The thrusting of his fingers feels jittery, but you can’t think for long enough to decide whether it’s from inexperience or the heat of the moment. There is an undeniable sense of book-smart know-how about the way he flicks your clit, gathering the wetness from where you’re seeping around his index and middle finger and using it to smooth the glide of his thumb, but it seems more likely to be a result of forum-browsing or intense reflection than any actual field-experience.

The heat builds slowly the longer his hand plays with you, and eventually, you’re too hot and fried with shorted-circuits for technical competency or consistency. You find his hips are doing most of the work as they curve into your hand (because you’re getting so lost in the haze you keep forgetting to move it) and he follows soon after, as the increasingly flustered stutters of his fingers slow inside of you.

With a slow sigh, he slows his pace to a halt. “To tell the truth,” he begins, “you feel so good, I’m starting to lose myself.” He laughs at himself, intermittent with sighs and deep breaths. His voice shakes beneath a thin layer of stillness, like a hint that something bigger swims beneath the water, breaking its surface with tiny ripples. “I don’t know if I can do this for much longer.”

You understand, because you’re also getting more and more lost in the thrum that settles inside of your abdomen, rolling the heat around in slow circles that prove hypnotising in their tenderness. “Maybe you should,” you start, and kiss him softly on the lips before continuing, “get inside of me, huh?”

It takes two blinks before he understands what you mean, at which point he’s lifting you up and rocking his pants further down, pulling his boxers down to his thighs with an unrestrained rush that’s not at all refined or graceful. He can’t afford to let you go, so instead of making any effort to pull your underwear off, he just shoves it to the side enough that he can manoeuvre you onto him.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and it’s a transparent excuse at what is just another attempt to still himself and ease the flurry inside of him. One of his arms is snaked tight around your back, but the other tugs at your leg, opening it so his view of your is unobstructed.

“Yes, of course,” you respond, and it’s only then that he finally lines his tip inside of you and pushes you onto it.

The noise at junction is moist and sloppy. Both of you are wet enough so his dick slides in with one, fluid movement, parallel with an exhale that eases his chest inward. He breathes hard against you and doesn’t move for a while, even when you kiss him to celebrate the satisfaction of being filled out so nicely.

Akechi easily becomes lost in it, still so unconscious with pleasure that his breaths come out short, and his unfocused eyes are locked into a thousand-yard stare even when he’s trying to look at yours. You brush up and down his back, grasp onto his shoulder blades as he tilts your head harder against his. It’s so passionate, so intense and leading that the heat inside your stomach becomes almost unbearable.

It’s all feeling when you rut against him in attempt to dispel it, but to your surprise, he wakes from his stupor immediately and nails you to his hips with a stifled moan.

“Don’t move,” he says, when you make a flimsy attempt at rocking against him again, and you’re confused, until he clarifies (with a voice that sounds about two steps away from breaking in half), “or I won’t last long at all.”

The laugh that comes is shared, and although it’s peppered with insecurity from his corner, you’re relieved to find that most of whatever self-doubt had crippled him into his breakdown has fizzled out with the sexual tension.

“I won’t mind,” you say, to comfort whatever of it is left.

A groan passes through him, hard and guttural, and his voice edges into a more serious tone. “No, don’t tempt me,” he says. “Even with that laugh, I felt like I was about to tip over.”

There’s a wide grin on your face that gives privy to how amused you are with the situation. “Then I’ll wait.”

“I think that’ll be best,” he says, as his own lights up with a shy reflection of yours. “In the meantime,” he starts, and his salacious tone marks the return of whatever part of him teased you earlier in the night: pointed out how much you’d flared with blush when he fed you a bite of his food (and you were trying so hard to hide it, too), gently brushed his foot against yours under the table, asked if you’d like to accompany him home for the night, “I need to get you caught up to speed.”

He grabs your arms and positions them around his neck, tells you to hold on tight, pushes your face against his ear (to hear every little sound that escapes from your lips, although he does not disclose this), and pushes his thumb against your clit again. This time, it’s harder and more definitive, like he’s focused on your pleasure entirely.

The fullness of his cock and the relentlessness of his dedication is quick to send shakes and shivers down your leg. Akechi smiles in self-satisfaction when he feels you quiver against his back, and pushes harder against you, making the circles sloppier in favour of making his pace fast and unforgiving. You feel just about ready to peak when the arms you have wrapped around his neck tighten, pulling him closer into your chest, and you shuffle moans out of your mouth enough to tip him off.

He slows his strokes down to soft, feather-like touches, not nearly enough to get you to come. When you whine, he smirks deliciously and nips at your collar.

“You weren’t that far behind after all, hm?” he teases.

In any other circumstance, you’d call him out on being cocky, but even through the thick haze of pleasure, you can hear his relief, and his voice echoes in your head like a lightning bolt.

(“I’m good, right?”)

Instead, you draw into him and kiss his smug smile away. Your fingers thread through his hair to gently tug at his strands, and he mirrors them, cupping the back of your head. He is the one to sever the kiss by tilting your head upward and bringing his other, wet hand into your lips for you to suck on. You comply, curling your lips around his fingers, and he kisses down to your jawline, teething little nips and bites where your skin is softest against his lips.

“You’re good,” you say, but thanks to his finger inside of your mouth, it trails into a muffled moan.

“What was that?” he breathes, against the junction of your neck and collar. “You shouldn’t speak with your mouth full, you know,” and then he has the gall to laugh (actually laugh).

With a pop, you pull his fingers out of your mouth and go back to his ear so he can hear your next whisper clearly.

“You’re very good, Akechi.”

The pulse in his neck skyrockets, and you swear you can feel his dick twitch inside of you. When you push against his shoulders to gauge his expression, it’s unmoving and blank, swirling with something dark you’re not entirely sure you can ascribe a name to.

“Akechi?” you ask, but you end on a high-pitched yelp, because he grabs you by your waist and lifts you off his cock, sinks into your neck and sucks at your collarbone (hard), before shoving you into the couch and arching his entire body over you like a shadow.

“I’m good, hm?” he asks, and you’re relieved to hear a smile lining it.

“Very.”

He hooks his arms against your back, and you barely catch a glimpse of his satisfied grin before it disappears behind your ear.

“This,” he begins, and punctuates it by sheathing himself inside of you again, “feels good?”

You don’t give him a coherent verbal answer. Instead, you gulp and cry into his hair, tugging at his skin with weak fingers that barely have the strength to grip onto his back.

“How about this?” he asks, with another, sharp thrust. The last word breaks apart in his throat, stifled by a cry that tightens his throat and bobs his Adam’s apple. “Does it feel good when I kiss you?”

You nod, and it’s you that leads the next shift in position by tugging his hair upwards and pushing his head into yours. The kiss is (surprisingly) soft and chaste, and you think it might have something to do with how focused Akechi is on the smooth loll of his hips inside you.

“Does it feel good when –" Akechi has withdrawn from the kiss to the corner of your lip, where his breath ghosts against your skin. “When I tell you that I love you?”

Your heart soars, twists, somersaults, stops, and then starts again to beat with thrice the intensity.

“When I –" Akechi keens and shudders. His pace is relentless, sharp, and smooth, shoving into you completely before pulling out almost entirely. “When I don’t let you go? When I cage you underneath me? Hold you so close to my chest that you can feel my heartbeat?”

True to his word, his hands tighten against your back, and there’s not the space for long, hard rolls anymore, so he improvises with fast, rough thrusts. They do more to your clit, brushing against it every time he rocks inwards, and the pressure in your stomach ebbs back with a wave, not like the incoming tide, but a torrent of water of that gathers around the horizon in a thin, unbroken, line.

“Can you feel it?” he asks, and even such a short, stunted sentence is enough to cut his breath off almost completely. His gasp coils in his throat, skits out his mouth in pieces, cut up and jagged with sharp corners. “How fast my heart is beating?” He’s curled over you completely, and his arms tuck behind you, encasing you from every angle.

Wherever you look, you see him. Down, and another jilted thrust of his hips pushes inside of you, skin-on-skin with a resounding rhythm that becomes all you can hear; on either side, the goosebumps that line his lean arms come into view, pretty in their even little rows and soft protrusions. And up? Up is the trap (the cage) because up are his gorgeous, unfocused eyes, rendered over with lust and pleasure; his swollen, wet lips, and the plush of his hot, hazy, breath.

Tenderly, you remove one hand from its grip against his back and trail it up his cheek. “You’re so good,” you whisper, so quietly that you’re surprised when he responds with his last, short sob before his pace slows (like the wind-up to a punch) and returns. Harder. Faster. Closer.

In that moment, everything becomes him: it’s all his breath, all the vigorous, inconsistent drum of his pulse, all his little gasps, and low, rumbly moans; all him, undeniably him, and it sweeps around you like a flood, first against your toes, feet, calves, thighs, hips, lips (oh, he’s kissing you again!), and it comes down like a waterfall, burying you with a climax so intense your hip raises up off the velvet of the couch and further into his.

Flush. Perfect.

You don’t feel him reach his peak inside of you, and you don’t see the dramatic way he slows as his pace stutters to what is not quite a halt. You do, however, gather enough coherent thought to feel his messy half-thrusts as he tucks into you, short and soft, in and out, in and --

The feeling is harsh, but not entirely unpleasant, so your hands are weak as they push against his chest, and your muffled pleas to ask him to stop don’t even make it past your throat. Your hearing is next to return, and you’re grateful for it, because it means you’re able to hear the way he punctuates the exhausted remnant of every single thrust with a cry, whispered and unstable.

"I love you," he says, craned over you like an arch, wincing with the over the sensitivity of post-orgasm. His eyes attempt to flutter shut, telling him to slow (to rest) but he wakes himself with another forceful thrust, focused on you with determination that proves frightening. "You're -" he begins, but his face wrenches together, somewhere between pain and pleasure before his voice gathers in his throat again. "You're trembling. Is it too much? Sorry. I just need --" Another wince splits him through the middle, and his abs convulse above you. "I just need a little longer, please."

“Akechi, I’m –”

He hushes you by pressing his lips to yours and drawing back when you’re sufficiently drunk on his kiss. “You don’t want it to stop, either. Do you?”

You shake your head, because you don’t, not really. You want him close, and you want his hair to brush your collarbone longer. Moreover, the overstimulation, as harsh as it is, ebbs your orgasm back to you in the soft shades of an echo, tailing after every single one of his thrusts (and this time, it is like the flow of the tide).

Bar the hand that you rest on his cheek, you let yourself fall limp in his arms, and he takes the chance to mould you.

“You’re good,” he keens into your lips, before he kisses you again.

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