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chifuyusgf · 24 hours ago

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filthy 1am thoughts (04)

just your boyfriend(s)— aka jjk men being pussy drunk for their girlfriend. mdni! cw: pussydrunk!jjk men, filthy bull

your man’s shoulders spread your thighs like he has been deprived of getting his hand on you, cheek pressed into your inner thigh just to feel how hard you throb when he spits on your pussy like it’s nothing.

doesn’t even bother warming you up with fingers. doesn’t bother being nice. you’re already soaked—he made sure of that twenty minutes ago when he talked about what he was gonna do.

the way he leaned down and said it slow, in that low murmur like you weren’t gonna start dripping through your underwear just from hearing it: “gonna get my whole fuckin’ face in it. right here,” he said, thumb dragging through your folds like he was clearing a path.

sure it turned you on but you’re still shy with him being so bare for you and when you tried to make an excuse, your man hit you with: “you think i care how messy it gets? c’mon, y’know want it messy.” he breathes on your hot skin. “wanna ruin you with my mouth.”

and now here he is. kneeling like it is the only will he came here to fulfill. holding your cunt open with both thumbs, just watching— no, observing you naked. for a second you think he’s teasing you but your wrong thought is cut short when his tongue is dragging up the mess like it’s syrup off a spoon. slow, heavy, filthy.

then he goes mean.

mouth clamping down like he’s starving. lips sucking your clit in tight while his tongue swirls rough circles around it—sloppy and deep like he’s fucking it with the tip of his tongue. and then both thumbs dig in. spreading you further, holding your pussy taut and pretty and open like he’s putting it on display just for himself.

“you hear how wet you are?” he says right into your cunt, lips brushing your clit when he talks. “you did this. just from me putting my mouth on you, you nasty fuckin’ thing.”

you moan—loud. too loud. that kind of noise you don’t even mean to make. it’s just what comes out when he does that flutter thing with his tongue and your thighs lock up, toes curling like your whole body’s trying to grab onto something. anything.

he doesn’t let up. not even when you’re trembling. not even when your hips start to buck.

“baby, stay still.” he pinches your thigh softly. “let me eat.” he spits a globe of spit again. lets it dribble right down the middle and then licks it back up like a pervert. like he’s obsessed which he definitely is. jaw tight, lips shiny, nose pressed in while his tongue drags every single moan out of you. he wants you dripping down his chin, messy, sobbing, twitching from how good it is.

“gonna suck on this tight cunt ‘till you cry,” he groans into it. “then i’m gonna fuck your hole so deep you won’t remember your name, get it?” you’re almost wasted.

his tongue slows—not out of mercy, just to watch you squirm.

he leans back slightly, lips shiny from your juice, chin slick with spit and arousal and everything he’s worked out of you already. breath heavy. hungry eyes fixed on your twitching cunt like it just pissed him off.

“part your lips,” he demands, voice low but fierce like it’s a fucking order. “spread it open for me. i wanna see it.”

your shaky fingers move on instinct, reaching down to obey. you hook your fingers under your folds, pulling yourself wide, and he groans low in his chest like it hurts to see you like this. so wet. so raw. clit swollen and twitching from the attention he’s given it—and now, exposed like this, it’s almost too much. it should be too much.

but then he leans in again, and your whole spine arches like it’s bracing for impact. he doesn’t start with his tongue this time.

no. he starts with his nose.

just brushes it up the slit slow, deliberately letting it nudge your clit—bump, bump, bump—like he’s testing your reaction. like he’s marking time with the softest part of him while your legs flinch and your stomach pulls tight from the overstimulation.

“look at this greedy little thing,” he murmurs, voice warm and dark against your cunt. “swollen like she’s beggin’ me to hurt her.”

then he flicks his tongue out—sideways, not up. not gentle. your thighs clamp down again.

“don’t fuckin’ close up now,” he growls, annoyed slap getting delivered to the inside of your thigh hard enough to sting. “i said open.”

you do. because you have to and this shit feels so good.

your boyfriend sucks your clit back into his mouth again, lips plush and tight around it, and just holds it there. tongue flicking back and forth underneath like a motor, side to side, building that high-pitched pressure that makes your whole lower body feel electric. and just as you’re about to go—

he slides one finger in, “fuuuuck.” he mouths, watching you stretch then adds another.

then—fuck—a third.

all in one go. deep. curling them inside you like a ‘c’mere’ sign. he knows exactly where to press and he does. his fingers are thick, deliberate, merciless. your walls clamp down, a slippery squeeze that makes his groan vibrate through your clit.

“tight as fuck,” he growls into you, barely able to talk through the wet suction of his mouth. “look at you. all stretched open and still tryna suck me in like you’re starving.”

his wrist moves faster. three fingers fucking in and out of you with obscene speed, knuckles wet, palm slapping against your cunt. he’s feeding your pussy the sound of it—squelch, squelch, squelch—and every time he presses up into that spot, every time he sucks on your clit at the same time, you swear your vision whites out.

“you feel that?” he pants. “that’s me fucking you with my hand. stuffing you like you’re made to take it. this hole’s so good i’m about to lose my fucking mind.”

you moan something incoherent—can’t even tell if it’s his name or just sound—and your hips try to run from it, but he just growls low and hooks one arm under your thigh, dragging you right back down to the base of his wrist.

“don’t fuckin’ run,” he says, licking a wide stripe up your pussy like a punishment. “take it.”

and like a good girlfriend, you will. you have to.

your legs are shaking.

trembling like you’re being exorcised, like something holy and terrifying is ripping through your core and trying to claw its way out. you’re babbling—words, moans, curses, all mangled into one long, wrecked sound while his mouth stays latched onto your clit like he’s feeding from it.

and his fingers— god, his fingers.

three thick digits fucking into you like he’s digging for something deeper, pumping in and curling like they’re sculpting you from the inside out. it’s fast. rough. deliberate. every drag of his palm over your soaked entrance sends another wave of heat crashing up your spine.

“you’re close,” he says into your cunt, voice tight and wet and vibrating directly into your clit. “tightening on me and shit, so proud of you.”

your thighs are twitching.

your belly’s clenching.

your whole body’s bucking off the bed like you’re being shocked. and he just laughs, this low, mean sound that makes your stomach drop—because he knows. knows what’s coming. knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“yeah, baby, that’s it,” he groans, sucking your clit hard while his fingers slam into you. “give it to me. i want it.”

your vision goes white.

your hips lift off the bed.

and then it happens.

your cunt grip down like a vice—and your whole body seizes up, thighs locking around his head as you squirt all over his face. gushes. hot and fast, soaking him down to the jaw, running in messy rivulets down his neck and chin.

he doesn’t flinch.

doesn’t pull away.

doesn’t even slow down.

“fuck, there it is,” he grunts, filthy and proud, lapping it up like he’s dying of thirst. “so sweet when you let go like that. look at this mess you made on my face. you fuckin’ animal.” you would’ve playfully slapped him if you were in the right state of mind.

“so good for me.” your thighs are still twitching when he finally looks up at you, lips slick, eyes dark and hooded—but soft. not hungry anymore, just… proud. reverent.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice all low and ruined. “still shaking.”

you try to speak, but nothing really comes out. your lips part, but all you can do is breathe, jaw slack, chest rising too fast.

he leans in anyway. kisses the inside of your knee. then your hip. then drags his hands up your sides, slow and grounding, like he’s trying to put you back together.

“you okay?” he asks, pressing his forehead to your stomach. “talk to me.”

you nod, but he doesn’t move just yet. just holds you, skin to skin, letting your body calm in his hands. his fingers trace lazy circles over your ribs, over your waist, like he’s memorizing every inch all over again.

“you were perfect,” he whispers. “every fuckin’ second.”

and even when your breath steadies, he stays right there. quiet. close. just making sure you’re still here with him.

t6ji | 2025 prod — do not copy, reuse, or translate anything written on this blog. — like and reblog if you enjoyed!! lmk your thoughts 💕

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chifuyusgf · 3 days ago

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when you first started dating draken, you already knew what you were getting into. he is manjiro sano’s closest man and vice captain in the tokyo manji gang. a gang that is only rising in rank. there was no way you wouldn’t become his personal nurse whenever he got home.

today is no different as he walks through the door to your apartment, being met by you in the hallway who lead him towards the couch in the living room before pulling out the first aid kit.

he doesn’t say anything as you wipe his hands clean from blood, eventually moving your fingers against the small wounds and bruises. “sometimes i wonder if you’ll ever come home with clean hands,” you mumble.

draken looks at you who’s eyes are staring at his hands that have caused more damage than he’d like you to know. “one day, when we’re old and i can’t fight anymore,” he chuckles lightly while speaking, seeing you roll your eyes.

“if you’re still getting into fights when you’re forty, you’re taking care of those bruises yourself,” you put a few bandages over his knuckles, making sure to cover every single wound. “i could become a real nurse at a hospital if it keeps up until then.”

“don’t worry, i’ll make sure you don’t have to do all this when we’re older,” he smiles gently, placing a kiss to your forehead while intertwining your fingers together.

“you better,” you say before putting your lips against the bandages as a last touch. “don’t wanna have to worry about you dying.”

“a fight will never kill me, baby. you never have to worry about that.”

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chifuyusgf · 4 days ago

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𐙚 bad habit pt. 1 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⌗ pairings: ino takuma x reader, slight! choso x reader

⌗ summary: you met in your first computer science course— not because either of you were brilliant, but because you were both bombed the first quiz and were too stubborn to quit. he’s the guy you kept bumping into at the campus convenience store at 1AM and a habit of muttering “chat, we’re so cooked” under his breath during quizzes. you? you just wanted to pass. and maybe cry in peace. you study together now— a little too often, a little too late. he makes fun of your variable names. you wear his hoodie during all-nighters. and no one says it out loud, but maybe friends who suffer through CS together… fall for each other a little, too.

⌗ word count: 1.8k

♥ pt. 2 ♥ masterlist ♥

You thought getting into the computer science major would be the hardest part.

Beating out a 71% application rate had to mean something.

Surviving weed-out courses, crafting a personal statement that didn’t make you sound like every other overachiever who taught their grandparent how to restart a computer— that was supposed to be your final boss.

Wrong.

Apparently, the game’s just beginning.

Because it’s Week 1 and there’s already a test. Not even a quiz, a full-blown exam worth 15% of your grade.

Not a quiz. A test. The syllabus had said something vague about "assessment checkpoints," but you hadn't realized they'd be checking if you were built for this within the first five days of class.

The professor just breezes through the rest of the syllabus like it’s Terms and Conditions, casually mentioning that attendance points will also be cumulative and mandatory.

Like it was a fun little bonus. Like it wasn’t about to completely derail your mental health.

You are, in every definition of the word, cooked.

Especially since you, in your infinite optimism, decided to skip linear algebra and now he’s name-dropping matrix multiplication like you’re all old friends.

Which, sure, is a prereq— but you thought you could squeeze it in next quarter. Because you thought, “How bad could it be?”

So now you're here, sitting in the second row with your laptop open, staring blankly at the slides you’ve written meticulous notes about, trying to decode phrases like "eigenvector interpretation" while suppressing the urge to scream.

Long story short: you’re fucked.

But you can’t drop. Not when you clawed your way in. Not when you’ve already fantasized about the stupid little LinkedIn post you'll write when you graduate.

You wanted this. This major, this future— you chose it. So now you get to suffer for it.

So instead of clicking “Unenroll,” you find yourself at the campus convenience store at 12:03AM, hoping a Celsius will give you the will to survive reviewing the sheer number of questions you got wrong on that first quiz.

You don’t expect anyone else to be there this late, except maybe the sad grad students.

But while you’re squinting at the flavors, someone rounds the corner of the aisle. There’s the low rumble of skateboard wheels and the crinkle of plastic as he picks up a Red Bull. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a worn black hoodie and plaid pajama pants like it’s a uniform. And he's—

He’s cute.

Boyish, really. His hair’s a little messy, his under-eye bags dramatic and kind of adorable, and you can’t help but admire how youthful he looks for someone also up past midnight.

You’re not in the mood to crush, not when you’re running on 3 hours of sleep and academic shame, but… God. His eye bags are really cute.

You try not to stare.

You also try not to fall asleep standing up, but your body is fighting you on all fronts. When you move toward the counter to check out, your foot catches on the edge of the aisle carpet.

You stumble forward.

And suddenly, someone’s hand is on your elbow— steady, warm. Holding you up.

You meet his gaze, honey brown eyes, amused and warm.

"Be careful, yeah?"

You mumble a thanks and practically flee to the self-checkout, embarrassed beyond belief. You don’t look back.

The next day, you drag yourself to your professor’s office hours. You’re so tired your vision blurs a little. You’d spent the whole night trying to understand where you went wrong— how you could have possibly missed that many questions on the quiz.

You’re five minutes early. The office is quiet except for the hum of a desk fan. There’s someone already there.

You freeze.

It’s him.

Red Bull guy. Skateboard guy. “Be careful” guy.

He’s sitting across from the professor, leaning over the desk with a notebook open and pen in hand, looking deeply focused. His hoodie’s different today, but just as lived-in.

How the hell did you not notice him in class?

You convince yourself he must be from a different section. You would’ve noticed someone like that, right? The bone structure? You definitely would’ve noticed.

You also assume he’s a TA or grader or something. He just looks so comfortable in here, like he knows what he’s doing. Probably here to help debug someone's recursion disaster.

Until—

“I just don’t get how I got the lowest score,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, I thought I did alright, but when I checked Canvas it said 35 out of 100. That’s... beyond terrible.”

Your jaw drops.

Thirty-five?

You’re not even sure if that’s comforting or depressing, and nearly choke on your own breath.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or cry.

On one hand: thank God you’re not the only one struggling. On the other: there’s someone who actually did worse than you

You take a hesitant seat next to him. His gaze flicks toward you.

It takes a second, but he recognizes you too. “Yo,” he says, like you didn’t almost faceplant in front of him nine hours ago.

You blink. “Hi.”

And just like that, you’re no longer alone in your academic downfall.

Because after office hours, just as you’re packing up your laptop with a sense of mild defeat, Ino clears his throat beside you.

“You wanna come study with my tutor?” he asks, eyes hopeful but tired. “Nanami. Took the class last year, has a file of all the assignments. And he interned for Riot Games over the summer, so he actually knows his shit.”

You blink, surprised. “You have a tutor?”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching in a sheepish grin. “I mean… tutor might be a strong word. More like a friend who’s already survived this mess and doesn’t mind explaining it to the rest of us.”

You hesitate for a moment, but honestly, you really need help, and the idea of learning from someone who’s already been through this feels like a lifeline.

“Okay,” you say, finally giving in. “I’ll come. Riot intern, huh? That’s pretty cool— you actually know someone like that?”

“Yeah, we used to skate together all the time when we were younger. Then we both ended up interning at Riot. He did backend dev, and I was doing data science for Valorant.”

He shrugs, flicking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Not that I play PC anymore— too busy trying not to fail this class, honestly.”

His grin turns sheepish but still has that effortless cool that makes you smile back without even trying.

You step out together into the crisp evening air. The campus is quiet, lights flickering on the pavement as students scurry past or lounge on benches, headphones on, notebooks out.

He doesn’t rush like you expect. Instead, Ino slows his pace to match your tired steps. You notice he’s watching you carefully, adjusting his stride so you don’t have to sprint just to keep up.

The gesture is small but feels... considerate. Like he’s already looking out for you, even though you barely know each other.

The walk to the undergrad library takes about ten minutes. Ino casually talks about how he’s been skating since middle school and how he prefers skating at night because the cool breeze helps him relax. When you mention you’ve never learned to skateboard, he laughs and teases that you’d probably be the type to rent a Lime scooter instead.

The library’s glass doors slide open smoothly. Inside, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the soft tapping of keyboards greet you. It’s comforting, familiar.

You both find a table tucked in a corner, away from the main clusters of students.

“Here’s the plan,” Ino says, pulling out his laptop. “We wait for Nanami to finish his lecture downstairs, and in the meantime, we try to finish as much of the homework as we can before he gets here to review it.”

You nod, setting up your laptop. You try to start on the first problem, the one about recursion, but your brain immediately threatens to shut down.

Ino leans over your screen, pointing at your code. “You named that variable ‘ballerinaCappuccina’? Dude, what?”

You laugh despite yourself. “More memorable than ‘x’ or ‘temp’, okay?”

He snickers, shaking his head. “You're so brainrot.”

Time slips by as you swap dumb jokes and lament the professor’s cryptic hints. You find yourself relaxing, your earlier dread melting into something softer.

Then the door opens again, and Nanami steps in.

He moves with an easy confidence, glasses sliding down his nose, hair a little tousled but neat. His tee sports a pixelated game logo you recognize, and he’s carrying a backpack that looks surprisingly clean for a CS major.

You glance up, surprised by how different he is from Ino.

If Ino’s energy was all skater-boy charm and casual cool, Nanami's would be hot, slightly nerdy, and intensely focused— like someone who clearly spent all night grinding out code but still somehow looks handsomely tired in the morning.

You catch your breath for a moment.

Cute, you think. Definitely cute.

Ino waves him over. “Yo, Nanami! This is my study buddy— also failing this class with me.”

Nanami gives a small smile as he slides into the seat next to Ino. “Ino, try not to embarrass yourself. It’s not that hopeless— yet.”

With a calm confidence, he starts breaking down the first week's concepts— functions, APIs, database calls— with a precision and clarity that almost makes you think you could pass this class if you had him as your professor.

You and Ino trade notes, nodding along, asking questions, laughing when Nanami mocks the actual professor’s habit of using vague buzzwords.

Between explanations, Nanami looks at you briefly and says, “You’re doing better than most first-timers. Keep at it.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest.

Hours pass, the late-night study session stretching into the early morning. The three of you share snacks from Ino’s backpack— a sad assortment of Takis, a couple of peach ring gummies, and a can of Red Bull you suspect was bought last night at the convenience store.

You realize, with a little startle, that this is the first time you’ve felt truly at ease since the quarter began.

The three of you fall into a rhythm— Ino’s lighthearted jokes, Nanami's steady patience, and your stubborn determination.

The future still looks impossible.

But for now, with these two by your side, it feels a little less like you’re totally cooked.

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chifuyusgf · 4 days ago

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take your pic(k)!

the number they choose is the number of nudes they receive! | requested

minors and ageless blogs dni!!

characters: gojo, geto, nanami, toji, choso, sukuna + ino!

warnings: NSFW, nudes, sukuna threatening violence again

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chifuyusgf · 4 days ago

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rush hours

↬ ino takuma x fem!reader ↬ masterlist // ao3 version

content warnings: pwp, reader has vagina and breasts, sex at a love hotel, feminine pet names, praise, dirty talk, fingering, vaginal sex word count: 3.5k summary: "This is new," you admit but don't follow any further, trying to silence your uneasiness with haste, shallow kisses that swallow his pleased murmurs and mewls. There is no time for niceties, both of you know it—and you're not letting your weird qualms get in your way, not with the fire spilling between your legs just at the brush of his fingers against your slit. a/n: repost from the old account. divider by saradika

The atmosphere changed as soon as the door opened and revealed your chosen room.

Takuma's hand, so far only nudging you gently towards your destination, wanders down, to your ass, and sinks fingers into the soft flesh. You've expected the move—and yet, you jerk up, barely catching a high-pitched yelp at your throat. You're so tense that even a brush of a feather would send you spinning, an unambiguous touch is almost like a torture.

A welcomed one but a torture, nevertheless.

It's your first time at a love hotel as a guest and something about this fact keeps you right on the thin line between excitement and panic. It's hard to find a rational explanation for your state; you've been in many of them before, as a sorcerer, perpetually erasing the curses born of lust, stress, and raveled emotions you loathed to name but learnt by heart and damped down in order to do your job properly. You gave this place a quick scan even before you stepped into the main hall, and it was as clean as a sex-focused establishment could be. You stared intently at the blurry silhouette of the check-in clerk behind the frosted glass as Takuma paid for your room and claimed the card key, but there was nothing suspicious about them. You looked around for residuals or disturbing vibes that could betray a presence—past or present—of a curse, just to find nothing.

It was a safe hotel—and yet, you were much more tense than you ever were in those cursed ones.

"You okay?" Takuma puts the card key into the holder, turns the light on, finally closes the door behind you two. "You're…kinda pale. Is it—"

"No." You cut in, your voice calm and unbothered, contrary to a shriek you've expected. "Definitely not. I've checked."

"No curses?"

"No curses."

Takuma laughs and kisses the back of your neck, "If there was one around, I'd tear it with bare hands, I think. I fought for this fuck break for a week. C'mon, ladies first."

Nudged by a playful yet hearty squeeze on your ass, you finally step fully in. The room is almost soundproof; the soothing music played from the speakers at the corridor is immediately replaced by serene silence. Fighting against weirdly stiff legs, you take a few curious steps inside; the space is on the smaller side but well organized and cozy for a hotel booked for a single night at best. There's a small tv, speakers, two chairs by a coffee table with a small basket (filled with everything you would need from an establishment of this kind), door leading to a private bathroom—and, of course, the main star of the event: a comfy-looking bed, big enough to fit not two but even three adults at once.

In any other place and time, you would happily pounce straight on it, to test if it's as soft as the views promise—but with legs so stiff and your head spinning you need another nudge from your boyfriend to finally approach closer.

"Well—" Takuma is right behind you, the side of his face pressed close to yours and his fingers slowly tracing your sides. "—how do you like it?"

"It's…nice. Very nice."

For a starter, you've been aiming for a cautious sit at the edge of the bed, but Takuma is faster, bolder, and impatient with your guarded behavior. Hand on your hip, he spins you around and crashes lips against yours. It's a hasty, hungry kiss, full of longing and agony of separation for weeks of work, stress, and all of this cursed bullshit pulling you two out of your routine. You can't blame Takuma for finally snapping; you feel it too, the fire you forced into the subconsciousness has perked its head up and is pushing you now into his hungry arms. The familiar tight knot in your abdomen is pulling hard, harder than you've felt since what seems forever, and begging for a fast and intense release.

If he kissed you like this for longer, the weird tension would evaporate from your head—but Takuma's in a rush, as always when his needs are pent up to the verge of bursting. He pulls away from your lips just to push you on the bed, yanks the beanie off his head, hesitates over doing the same with the hoodie just for a second but leaves it, already too starved of your closeness. He advances on you with such momentum that he pushes air out of your lungs—and doesn't let you take another breath before kissing you again with the same fervor. The horny beast in you growls, pleased, and your legs immediately open to fit him better—but the tension at the back of your head remains and tries its best to tie your body into its submission.

"Fuck, I need you..." Takuma rasps into your ear, sending harsh shivers down your spine. He ruts his hips against you, the rapidly growing bulge against your groin leaving you no doubts you're for a fast and bumpy ride. You mewl and crane your neck for his lips, jerk your hips up in an answer to his bite, whimper, and moan when he lingers to mark you with a hickey.

His hands don't give your nerves the same luxury; using one for leverage to pin you with his body just enough, he sneaks the other under your clothes. It traces your tum lovingly but, remembering you have only three hours yanked out of your tight schedule, dives into your pants and panties shortly after.

"You're tense," Takuma points out as he's spilling wet kisses from your jaw towards your neck and lower.

"This is new," you admit but don't follow any further, trying to silence your uneasiness with haste, shallow kisses that swallow his pleased murmurs and mewls. There is no time for niceties, both of you know it—and you're not letting your weird qualms get in your way, not with the fire spilling between your legs just at the brush of his fingers against your slit.

It's uncomfortable to maneuver under your jeans without unzipping them but Takuma would endure even digging in a cooling-down concrete if it meant he could finally touch the place he longed for the most. He curses under breath, his words moist against your neck, and finally finds an angle that satisfies him. His thumb traces your slit, spreads your labia and toys with your clit—touch undeniably pleasant but also palpably rushed, especially for a man who could finger you for hours, until you were nothing but a puddle melting in his hands. He's rather seeking for your arousal than working for it; you're more damp than wet but that's enough, it was before, and your thighs quiver by his sides when he teases right at your entrance.

Tension itches at the back of your head; when Takuma's eyes seek yours you nod with agreement, maybe even too sharply to pass as genuine. Under other circumstances he would point it out and ask to be doubly sure, to read the sweet consent from the timbre of your voice, but his senses are as hazy as yours—and he's not thinking with the right brain anymore.

He adjusts the position of his hand one more time—and slides two fingers into you, at once.

Instead of the expected surge of pleasure, your body spasms and you hiss sharply as you try to stop your hips from jerking away. The tension hasn't worked in your favor; yes, the moisture would be more than enough if you were at home, lazy and relaxed, but here it fights against his fingers, access suspended, no matter what your soul and mind are craving.

Takuma immediately notices.

"Oh baby, did I hurt you?" He withdraws his hand and lifts himself on both arms now, giving you more space beneath him. The wildfire in his eyes has turned warm and docile, and he's looking at you with nothing but concern—and guilt, creeping at the corners of his big, puppy eyes.

"No, don't worry, I'm alright." You scratch at the back of his head, yourself not sure if to calm down him, yourself, or both at once. You don't know how to explain your current situation without sounding too intricately and ridiculously. You're tempted to joke that you would feel more at ease if there was a curse in the next room, but that's not really the strategy you're looking for to salvage the mood.

"A false start?" Takuma finds the right words first and exhales with relief when you agree. "Shit... I was so focused on time... My bad. I'm sorry."

When he reaches to your lips again, the kiss is softer, asking for your forgiveness, but as enthusiastic as before. There's still plenty of heat in between the two of you, so it doesn't take long for your moves to turn sloppy and hungry anew. He's more cautious, though, and doesn't budge from his position any further than needed to sip from you. No matter how tempting you and your mewls are, he's not caving in, not until you're nice and putty in his arms.

It seems it's been hours when he finally asks if you want to continue, and you nod with such enthusiasm that your vision goes blurry for a moment, the tension at the back of your head already too lazy to perk its head, peeking curiously at the situation instead.

A soft kiss on your cheek later, Takuma climbs off the bed and, finally, strips off his hoodie. The view itself does wonders to your mood; his athletic and lean body is a work of art, begging to be touched, licked, and caressed. You stare at his back intently as you work your pants and panties down—and count its crevices and lines of defined muscles you're going to trace soon. The tension lets out only a warning thrum when your partner starts digging in the basket with love hotel goods, but it's pretty much its last spasm.

With a comically triumphant noise, Takuma turns with a bottle of lube and a condom in his hands—and stops in his tracks at the sight of your half-naked body. He takes a harsher breath when you roll your shirt over your waist; from the weight of his stare, you know he's inches from pouncing on top of you again. Nerves and will of steel, forged in heated battles against curses, pay off in a situation like this, he shrugs the temptation off and snuffs out the wildfire running through his veins.

Everything for your sake.

"You spoil me." The mattress dips under his weight as Takuma approaches you on his knees, opening the lube with his teeth at the same time. He spits the cap out on the floor and sits by your side on his heels. He takes his time studying your curves, almost motionless if not for his chest heaving with need and his abdominal muscles tensing and twitching. He might be controlling himself, but it doesn't come with ease. Each breath is a fight against his instincts, racing thoughts, and pulsing hardness relentlessly pushing on his jeans.

"Show yourself to me, pretty girl." He finally snaps out of trance and pours lube, almost everything he has, on his fingers. A smile grows on his face as you listen, bending your legs in knees and spreading them wide for him. "Yes, just like this... Fuck, you're so hot..."

Scooting closer, Takuma moves in between them, eyes fixed on his goal, warm and ready for him—but still takes his time to adore you properly. He leans close to your thigh, kisses your knee with sweet affection and advances further down, until he has you giggling and mewling with anticipation—so close to your core yet so painfully away.

One flick of gaze up later he finally reaches between your legs again—the strategy and technique all the same but slower and patient. He spreads lube along your slit as he caresses it, working his way past the last knots of your hesitation. He teases and asks for permission until he's sure your gasps and spasms are genuine in every way possible, and even there, he takes his sweet time playing with your clit. In the heated rush you've almost forgotten how sadistic and stubborn he can be if only he wants to spoil you beyond the expectations. Soon he has every single one of your nerves taunt and at the mercy of his fingertips and midst your hazy mind you're thanking the conditions for giving you two so little time, otherwise he would boil you right there for painfully long hours.

Right as you're ready to beg for more, Takuma finally makes his move, starting with a single finger this time.

"There we go, smooth and easy..." He's slow and careful, his eyes fixed on your pussy as he fills you up to his knuckle. "Such a good girl, Y/N..."

He adds another one and smirks down at your expression. Not caring about the mess, he tosses the bottle with lube away and lies beside you, chest flush to your shoulder. You feel his warm breath right by your ear, heavy and right on the verge of a needy groan; prolonging the fast has its great price and he's paying without a blink. It's so unbelievably hot to have him so worked up with only two fingers in you, to be so adored and needed that he's taut like a string on the verge of snapping, and his tongue is tying into knots as he's whispering dirty encouragements for you.

"My... You're getting so wet now..." His voice is throaty, tense and almost breaking, in the most sensual way. "Sucking me in... Can you squeeze a little more? Oh yes, that's right, that's a good girl, working so hard to take my fingers. Do you think you can take another one? I'll be gentle. You need to take it, if you want my cock, pretty girl."

His breathing hitches when you, indeed, take the third finger. Rutting against your side, his hard-rock length twitching in his jeans, he moans, loud and pathetic, at your cunt fluttering around his knuckles. His patience is on the verge of crumbling; even the gentlest and most loving boyfriend has his limits and Takuma has pushed past them ages ago. Even midst the hot-red haze mantling your mind you can feel him struggling. His moves turn less precise and sloppy, once almost ceasing, once rushing and seeking that one last nerve to graze and snap. Along with willpower he's losing his focus, putting it instead whole into not cumming into his pants.

And yet, despite everything, he puts you in the first place.

"Fuck..." Takuma flounders between words, trying to play two roles at once and win his prize in both of them. "It's so hot... Pretty girl, please? Can I fuck you now? Look, you're taking my fingers already... Fuck— You're taking them so well... Will you cum on them? I want you to cum. Please, cum for me, sweetheart."

He whispers a please after a please into your ear, abandoning stretching you for the sake of moving the remains of his focus to your clit. He rubs it fast and sloppily, far from ideal but makes up for it with desperation and not ceasing until your heels start to dig in the mattress and your thighs to spasm and shake.

"Do it now, sweet girl." He trips over his words as if he was as close to the release as you're now, but he finds enough willpower to show dominance one last time before he finally pushes you over the edge. Your whole body spasms, the buildup and anticipation resulting in a strong, mind-numbing and exhausting orgasm. For a moment there's nothing for you but blank, overwhelming pleasure, white silence and dry, itching pain in your lungs, as if you forgot how to breathe when you were crying out his name.

You return to your senses with stickiness all over your skin and his hot breath pressed to your sweaty neck with a silent pleading for more.

Takuma licks his lips when your gaze meets and smiles, as cheeky and proud of his work as impatient. His eyes are glossy, feverish, and his cheeks are flushed so much they're beaming with heat, "Are you okay?"

You nod, not quite having power to say something yet.

"Do you want more? Can I take you?"

Another nod—and a bright smile at his sudden, childish pounce at given consent. Takuma's hands are shaking when he unbuckles and unzips his jeans; his fluffy happy trail leads your gaze towards his heavy, twitching erection and precum beading at its head, threatening to spill everything at the slightest friction. He doesn't do much better when rolling a condom on, almost dropping it straight out of the wrapping and dragging a dry spasm of laughter out of you.

"See what you're doing to me, you little minx?" He says once finally successful and squirts the last dollop of lube along his shaft. He spreads it with a few strokes—biting on the bottom lip as he's doing so, so close to his finish that even a loose, almost mechanical jerk of a hand is overstimulating—then finally takes his place between your legs.

He spreads your knees further open, pulls your hips closer and helps you rest your calves against his chest. Before he guides your ankles to his shoulders, he brushes a gentle kiss against the elastic band of one of your socks, then the mark it left before it slid down.

"Ready?" He asks, voice shaking, as he's rubbing himself against your puffy, sensitive clit: shallow, pleading thrusts that could as well just get him off right over you.

You nod again and your eyes flutter in pleasure as Takuma wastes no time and slides in, with ease and a loud, guttural groan. He stills mid-way in, intense twitching inside of you calling for a fast finish, but he manages to calm himself down enough to press further, leading your knees towards your chest until he meets your limit.

"Holy shit..." Eyes closed, Takuma bites on his lips almost to blood. Sweat pearls on his forehead, first droplets trickle down his temples, and his arms, supporting your legs, start shaking. "This is... Fuck, baby girl, I missed it... I missed you so much..."

He twitches harder when you trace his back, lets out a single dry sob when you run fingers through his hair and pull him closer to yourself. It's okay, he has worked hard for it, he can let go and just enjoy himself. You want to say all of this aloud, but only breathing and soft mewls feel right now—and he's too lost in it to hear all of that anyway.

His control snaps, from tranquil and nearly motionless he switches into the highest gear in seconds, and his deep, harsh, desperate thrusts pierce your body deeper into the soft mattress. It's primal and selfish, and the closest to using you Takuma could ever get, each day of loneliness and pent-up tension written in the frantic and sloppy rhythm of his hips. It could have been too much for your body, so spent after an intense orgasm, but he doesn't last long, soon whining and moaning, and finally coming, with fingers digging into your thighs and head falling into the crook of your neck.

He's thrusting into you, at the end only rocking gently against you, until he has no cum and power left in him. He lets your legs slide by his sides and sprawls himself on top of you, heavy, sweaty, so hot against your barely pulled-up shirt and his jeans lowered just below his hips.

"Holy shit, I needed that." There's a trace of smile in Takuma's voice—and even in his groan when he fails to pull out of you and has to collapse on you again.

With a pleased, agreeing hum you wrap arms around him and giggle when he finds some steam in him to nibble on your neck. The room is filled with your breathing, mixed musk of your bodies, and the barely audible but steady buzz of the electronics. Now, when nestled cozy with his body close to yours and his lips affectionately tasting your skin, the worry and tension that got in between the two of you feel so irrational that you want to laugh. How could you possibly feel so out of place when you had Takuma by your side all this time? The rhythm of his heart and smell of his cologne alone have you feeling at home, safe, cozy and loved.

"How much time do we have left?" Takuma fishes his phone from the back pocket, furrows his brows, displeased, when he glances over the screen. "Hey. Do you think we can make it with one more round, shower and a lunch in less than an hour?"

"Do you still have power left after that?" You giggle when he wriggles to find a comfortable position, tickling you while doing so. "You're crazy."

"Nah." He sinks teeth into your shoulder, playfully, but hard enough to leave a little mark. "I'm not just crazy. I'm crazy for you."

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