Archive of Our Own

You'd been busy making a cheesecake when you'd seen his volley of text messages. Apparently, this Gojo guy (Naoya bitches about him biweekly. You have zero interest in meeting the man.) had shown up and interrupted his meeting. You'd only read half of the first rant before dismissing it. He'd be on his way here soon. You know how Naoya is. As soon as he has a bad day and despite how much he claims to hate your apartment, he stumbles into your house while bitching and moaning and then demanding in that bratty way of his for you to fix his mood.

You roll your eyes as you continue to prepare the crust of the cake. Your hands work skillfully as you attend to it absentmindedly while thinking about Naoya's "criticisms" for your apartment. For one, it's plebeian. He claims he, as the mighty Zenin heir, deserves better than the 1,000 square foot apartment; it is, admittedly, very different from his luxury sky rise apartment or his traditional clan compound. Whereas both of those locations are completely void of personality, your home overflows with it. Pieces of art prints you like or pictures of your loved ones or TV shows line your walls. It's covered in books and plants. There's not much spare room anywhere, and that's as much your fault as it is the fact it's small. There's colorful rugs covering almost all of the floor. The living room has shelves of CDs and Blue-Ray tapes and vinyls. Books line the extra walls in floor to ceiling shelves. Knickknacks cover every spare space adding color and death to your home. The counters are also a contrast to his neat home. They're either covered in mail or receipts or daily used objects. Your house is clean, but it is a little… cluttered. It matches your personality, and wholly contradicts his.

You hate him. You really do. He says the most ridiculous old-fashioned, misogynistic things he possibly can, and there's no future for the both of you, but you can't help but let him linger, and you hate yourself a little for it. He's not good at hiding his emotions. It's abundantly clear to you that he does care for (or rather obsess over) you in his own way, and he never does anything too outlandish. So, you feel bad for the evil son of a bitch despite it all.

So, here you are, having not bothered to change the locks since the last time he did this, waiting for him.

You know when you hear the jiggle of keys and soft muttered profanity from the other side of the door that he's here for one thing, and you're going to give it to him. Just like you always do.

Pa-fucking-thetic.

You set the crust into the oven without looking at Naoya. Your hands still slightly covered in pieces of the crust as you begin to work with the mixture of the filling. You don't bother to greet him, as you know—

He storms into the apartment with a flourish, running a hand through his shitly dyed hair even as he doesn't bother to remove his shoes (on account of the fact he swears you fail as a homemaker to keep the place clean enough for him to respect your space; you're a little too confident that the real reason is that he's worried the plebeian will rub off on him.)

"You will not believe the absolute bullshit I had to deal with today. Gojo decided to interrupt one of my fucking missions, and he mocked me as if he doesn't care who I am." His voice gets a little rough when gets all aggravated like this. It's less smooth and more raspy when he starts his bitching. Either way it's hot as fuck and instantly makes you wet like a well-trained whore.

He doesn’t even look at you as he saunters in with frustration steaming from him like he's a fresh bun from the oven. He just strides into the center of the living room, a storm cloud in his kimono. His jaw is tight, his usual arrogant posture coiled with a visible, prickling agitation that had become so familiar that you're unsure if you would be able to recognize him without it.

You continue preparing the cream cheese filling while humming out a greeting to Naoya.

He doesn't bother acknowledging your hello as he continues to pace right in front of your kitchen counter like he's a lion on display at the circus. He runs a hand through his hair

He snarls lowly, "That smirking, condescending piece of shit... Thinks he can just waltz in and question my methods in front of the entire clan, as if his opinion matters, as if any of their opinions matter… Why the fuck is this blanket still out? It was out the last time I came over? You're fucking disgusting."

The irony here is not lost on you.

"Because I've been using it." You reply airily as you continue mixing.

His nose wrinkles in dislike and he releases the polyester blend fabric as if it personally offended him. He rubs his hand absently against the fine fabric of his kimono.

It's at this moment he finally stops his pacing as his dark eyes snap to you and a slow, predatory smile crawls unpleasantly across his handsome features.

"You know what would make me feel better? My pretty whore getting on her knees."

His eyes trail down your figure as far as he can see beyond the counter, pausing to appreciate your chest and hips momentarily.

You don't even blink, "Baby, you're going to have to wait a minute. This type of cake's a bitch to make. Crust is in the oven already and everything, just give me a minute. Tell me about what happened today."

He makes a sharp, derisive sound in the back of his throat that cuts through the pleasant atmosphere and shatters the peace you'd created. His eyes narrow as his agitation seeming to sharpen into a focused intensity aimed at you. He takes a step around the counter to use his proximity to you to intimate you, but all it does is charge the air with his restless energy.

"I don't recall asking, and don't you fucking call me that. You said you could do this without sentimentality. Don't tell me that had an expiration date." He reaches out and grabs the edge of your apron and yanks you close to him. You can feel the warmth of his body this close, and it is not making it any easier to focus.

"The cake…" he smoothly says, having lost the rasp of his earlier anger, "can wait, or I'll destroy it. I'm in a mood, and we both know I don't care what I break."

His hand comes around and grips your hip to make you be flush against him; he's already half hard.

"Baby," you pointedly coo, "just a few minutes. I have faith in you; unless, you don't think you're capable of controlling yourself?"

It should be embarrassing to him how easy he is to be manipulated, but you doubt he even notices it.

His eyes narrow at your overt coziness and your clear dismissal. His brows furrow in aggravation.

You run your hand along his chest beneath his kimono, "Tell me what Gojo did. I'll let you do anything you want when I get this where I can leave it. Promise."

He lets out a breath that's halfway a sigh of impatience before his grip on your apron tightens for a moment before he releases you with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He stalks over to the kitchen counter to lean back against it and petulantly cross his arms as he sulks. He may be the picture of petulant impatience, but he's staying and letting you continue your baking, which is a start. His eyes remain dark and intense and full of impertinence as he fixes them on you as you move to carefully transfer the filling to the fridge.

You set the batter into the fridge on the top shelf beside a half-full gallon of milk and a pitcher of lemonade with only a soft click as the rim of the glass bowl hits the glass shelf of the stainless steel refrigerator. You close the door with only the soft seal of the rubber lining audible and the rustle of glass containers in the door.

You can feel his eyes on your every move.

"Don't waste any time. I'll know." He says arrogantly before sighing and rubbing his temples. "He's a fucking dick. He parades around like we should worship him…"

You're acutely aware of how much Naoya begrudgingly worships this Gojo guy for his strength and hearing Naoya sit here and complain like a chastised child makes you want to roll your eyes, but you remain quiet as he airs out his gripes and focus on checking on the crust in the oven.

You hear Naoya shift to be able to get a better view as you bend over to peak into the oven.

He clears his throat, "The Zenin will not bow to the Gojo, and his criticism of my work was poorly constructed, at best; my technique is well handled, even if I'm still behind the mastery my father had." he turns his palms up to the ceiling as if expecting a solution or repentance to fall into his hands. "Doesn't he have students to fawn over? Pathetic. Someone as strong as him should focus on bigger and more important things than that."

He picks up a stray strawberry from the cutting board, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger before crushing it between his pointer finger and thumb just so he can watch the red juice drip down and cover his fingers with a sticky substance.

His following words are coated with the same combination of envy and contempt he reserves solely for Satoru Gojo. "He just stood there with that infuriating smirk, talking about 'collateral damage' and 'clan optics' as if he's ever given a single shit about either—as if his mere existence isn't the biggest fucking optical disaster the jujitsu world has ever seen— he's never behaved like an heir is supposed to; he gets everything! He gets to act out all because he's the strongest while any misstep I take is… is scrutinized underneath a microscope; Gojo could have a dozen of you, and no one would complain! I can't even have just you; instead, we have to do this sneaking around..."

It's an old complaint he's had from the start; if the possessive bastard had it his way, by now you would probably be married to him until he grew tired of you, just like his father did with every bride he ever had. You'd lasted a while, though, probably in part because the shit Naoya's into would get him into serious hot water if everyone found out.

A Zenin heir can't take much humiliation; you figured that out from your own observations so Naoya's input wasn't required there.

He flicks the crushed strawberry into the sink as he stalks over to wash off the mess from his hands now that he's had the time to relish in the destruction he's caused, even if it was just a sliver of strawberry. It had preformed it's role of making him feel bigger and badder, and Zenins have no use for things that have outlived their utility.

His gaze returns to you, sharper now, hungry for something more than just sex; he's moved on from the berry. He's moved on to you; he wants to ruin you. He's chasing the time when you outlive your utility and he can abandon you down the sink.

You refuse to read the writing on the wall; instead, you tilt your head prettily to the side and smile up at him doefully. "It's a shame your day has went so poorly, but I'm glad you came to visit."

Fawn. Fawn. Fawn.

Maybe eventually he'll remember you aren't just a deer to be hunted. Maybe if you play your role well enough he won't just be a predator toying with his prey until the last minute.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

God, you make yourself sick with the maybes. How long will you do this song and dance with him? How long will you have to weave around him with subtlety and utilize each of his tells to get him into the position you want him in? There's only so much scheming you can handle; it just isn't in your nature.

He scoffs and turns on his heel to stalk back into your living room.

"Are you going to make dinner or just fuck around with that sweet shit?"

You sigh heavily, "You came hungry?"

He click his tongue impatiently as he flips through the channels, not bothering to ask you what you want to watch.

"Yeah."

"We probably should just order in since I'm using the oven."

He doesn't seem pleased by the response as he slouches into the couch, and you sigh heavily again before asking, "Well, what do you want me to make, Naoya? I can cook some chicken and rice? I can cook steak and carrots? That's all I have thawed out."

He preens and looks back at you with that ever present smirk, "There's the homemaker; see? You aren't impossible to train."

Your eye twitches in irritation. "Answer the goddamn question, Naoya."

He settles back smugly into the couch, "I like my steak medium and my carrots not turned into mush. Can you manage that, Y/N?"

You throw the roll of paper towels at his head, but his stupid fucking technique permits him to dodge it easily, and the smug bastard laughs at you. You turn on your heel and mutter to yourself profanities and insults about him as you ransack the fridge for the carrots and steaks.

He eventually finds something to watch on TV. You begin slicing the carrots into coin sized bites and then slide them into an oiled pan to sauté before oiling the skillet the sear the steaks, his to medium, and your to your own preference.

You're going to make him eat those words later.

You hear him move around in the living room to survey your collection of physical media and he calls out, "Camus? Why do you have every fucking work the man made?"

Only, and you mean truly only, Naoya could be jealous of a long dead racist.

"You read one of his books and you've read them all. He was a shitty philosopher who dabbled in prose." He grumbles irritably. "Shittily dabbled in prose… Why do you have three different editions of The Stranger? I thought you were woke? This isn't very environmentally conscious, is it?"

He continues his nonsense from behind your back as he continues to go over every author he assumes to be a boy and say something nasty about them. He messes up on a few women who have male-sounding pseudonyms, but you allow him to continue as it is.

"Jane Austin? I've heard even you with your modern bullshit about how women can do anything don't like her. Why do you have her entire collection? I distinctly remember you complaining about her failures in comparison to that… Emily Bronte woman." His nose wrinkles up as he replaces the book back on the shelf while holding it only with the tips of his middle finger and thumb, as if any more contact with the book might infect him.

It would be comical if it wasn't your life, but he's better than most men as clearly he does listen to you when you speak.

Jesus. The bar truly is in hell; is that why you're still with him? The idea makes you a little nauseated.

While listening to his muttered insults about the books and authors, you take out the completely cooked crust from the oven and slide in the fully prepared cream cheese filling and set that right back where the bowl of filling had sat previously in the fridge.

You clear your throat a little while later after plating both steaks and a serving of carrots and prepare two glasses of water.

When he sits down and notices the lack of red wine (dear god almighty, you'd learned about how terrible of a miscalculation it was to serve white wine with steak last time) he scoffs but says nothing, strangely. His mind must still be on cracking later.

You eat in silence for a while before he once again starts bellyaching about his day, and you listen as he eventually self soothes.

He's an actual toddler.

When the two of you finish eating, you speak after placing your dish into the sink, "Well, the cake still has to set for a few hours if you still want to work off that—"

He doesn't even let you finish. In two strides, he's crossed the small and caging you against the refrigerator door. The cool metal presses against your back as his hands come down on either side of you, palms flat against the appliance. His expensive cologne overwhelms your nose as he leans in.

It's fascinating how something can pavlov you to instill both arousal and something dangerously similar to fear; maybe that's where your attraction lies, sure, manipulating men is a hobby of yours, but manipulating someone as powerful as Naoya is adds to it, so maybe he's just a vanity project of yours. The scent of the Tom Ford cologne has the unique ability to attract you, make you want to cling to him, as you are doing right now as your hands instinctively wrap around his shoulders, and make your pulse race with a totally different emotion that's never been completely distinct in this relationship.

"Still want to? You knew that was a stupid question before you said it; you aren't that dumb, are you?"

He leans in and kisses you, and it's like it always is: it's mostly teeth and hidden anxiety that pours from him into the action despite his best efforts to keep it hidden behind blind anger. He doesn't like being away from you; he's possessive and clingy which makes him an almost constant presence here at your apartment.

Your hands instinctively seek out his hair, which is a little rough and stringy thanks to his shitty bleach job, but no matter how many tips you try to give him, he will not change his approach. It's a lesson he refuses to learn.

There's several of those.

"Patience, patience…" you murmur against his lips as you reciprocate and calm him down into normal making out. He hiss against his lips when you block him out, and he pinches your ass to make you open up. You suck his tongue as the both of you stumble towards the bedroom; you trip on each other as you refuse to separate enough to make your way to the bed independently. The scent of strawberries and cream cheese fades as you exit the kitchen and is replaced by the clean scent of your detergent as you go to the bed.

"Patient? You think I have patience left after dealing with that white-haired freak? I've been patient all day; hell, I've been downright angelic to let you finish your cake." He hisses.

His words are sharp insults like always, but it's hollow and desperate, "You're a fucking tease, you know that? A fat bitch who loves making me wait; it's overtly impertinent for someone of your pathetic status."

He pulls away from you to stand near the door as he fully rids himself of his clothes while motioning for you to do the same. He skillfully unties his obi and dropping his kimono and fully working himself free of his clothes; you whine at the sight . You rip off the oversized shirt you'd been in; there'd been no reason to wear underwear.

“I’ll lead ya."

The bedroom is dim, the late afternoon light filtering through the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets. He stops just inside the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed again. But his posture is different now—less defensive, more expectant. He's waiting for your instruction, a rare, almost imperceptible submission in the set of his jaw; this is the part you put up with all his posturing for. He lives for it too, even if it physically pains him; it probably is because of that pain in the first place.

"Well?" He waves a hand in a tight circle in a gesture for urgency, "Let's hear it. How am I doing it today?"

You roll over and spreading your ass for him, “First your fingers. One at a time…”

His pupils dilate as he watches you position yourself. The last remnants of his earlier agitation seem to evaporate, replaced by a reluctant submissive focus. He pushes off the doorframe to approach the bed.

His voice is huskier now as he follows your guiding hand, "One at a time... You want me to go slow, is that it? Make you feel every bit of it." He laughs meanly, "Right, you want me to whisper praise to you, too? Play with your hair?"

Despite his words, he kneels on the mattress behind you and causing it to dip under his weight the bed. His hands, usually so quick and aggressive, are surprisingly deliberate as he reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. He uncaps it and the cap makes a grinding click as it opens and the liquid inside puffs audibly. Then, he begins pouring a generous amount onto his fingers. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he does so.

He presses a cool finger against your slick opening; the cool, creamy texture mixes well with your wetness. He doesn't push a finger in yet.

His voice is a soft, mocking rasp against your ear, "You're so fucking greedy for it. Always planning how you want to be taken. Tell me when."

His breath is warm against your skin as he leans close, waiting for your signal, his entire body thrumming with a restrained intensity.

You whisper back, "Now, baby."

He pushes his finger in slowly, and he seems to relish the way your pussy resists his intrusion. "That's what I wanted to hear. Begging for it like the good little whore you are… god, you pussy talks so loud like this."

Sure enough, your pussy is making continuous slick, obscene sounds as he slowly moves his long finger in past the first knuckle and slowly pulls it out. He works his finger inside you carefully while his other hand is splayed on your lower back. The stretch is immediate and familiar. You gasp and whine into the mattress, as your eyes squeeze shut automatically. He watches you with something akin to reverence.

He adds a second finger, the stretch intensifying, a thick, burning pressure that makes you arch your ass up for him to better view. His breath hitches slightly at the sight, and his control grows taut. His fingers move with a insistent if a bit unsure rhythm, working you open, preparing you for him. He still isn't used to this; the submission of it all. He sometimes is unsure and shaky, even now. Sometimes, he's downright clumsy, and the memory of those instances makes your clench hard around his fingers makes him whistle.

He won't admit it, but he wants to make you feel good; he wants to be good for you.

Goddamn, when did he get pathetic?

He adds another finger, and you try to suppress your whimper with the pillows.

His voice is thick with arousal and irritation even as he watches, utterly enraptured, as your cunt sloppily leaks and strains around his fingers just to grip them tightly as he works to make room for his cock, "I can barely hear you, you greedy bitch, louder."

You arch so prettily for him he nearly creams, which was your intention. He thinks you want to humiliate him more. Having him taking orders isn't enough for you, is it? You're so fucking greedy. But you're his. You're his even if you won't say it, and even if it never leaves this god forsaken, shoebox that you live in. This fucking shit hole that he finds more comforting than any place he's been before. How many times has he come to your apartment to avoid his own or the compound in the past year? How many nights has he allowed sentimentality cloud his judgment enough to make him spend the night?

Spells. You're a fucking witch, and you cast spells on him. It's the only thing that makes sense.

"Fucking bitch, you do that shit on purpose." He mumbles before he realizes what he's doing.

You blink hazily back at him, and all he can see is what he believes is perfectly constructed confusion on your face. You're a hell of an actress.

Your pussy's talking to him even when you're not. Gobs of slick drip on his fingers as your arousal grows. It slurps and wetly vocalizes how eager it is to take him; he finds himself wondering in some remote part of his brain if this is why some do pussy talk. He thinks he can have a better conversation with her than you at the moment.

On second thought, that might just always be the case.

"C—careful," You murmur thickly, "don't hurt me." And then you spear him with your next comment, "you don't want to hurt me, do you, baby?"

He wants so desperately to say yes; he wants to be normal about this, about you. He's supposed to be unshakable; he's the Zenin heir who cannot ever be shaken, especially not by a common whore.

But he can't quite form the lie on his tongue, either, as he knows you'd call him on it, so he huffs quietly and focuses with a single minded intensity on following the demands you give him.

"Another, baby. I'm ready." You breathe.

Naoya bites down a snarl as he bristles at the condescending pet name. There's only so much humiliation he can take.

As he complies, his other hand slide up your spine. His hand is relatively smooth compared to most men's more calloused hands; he presses on your spine in a command for you to arch further. You recognize it for what it is: a sign of possession and an effort made to appear less like a submissive despite all the arrows pointing the opposite way.

When he begins to speak, his free hand wanders up your spine, "Fuck. You are so fucking pretty, my pretty little whore..." He leans down again, his chest pressing against your back to brush his lips against your shoulder blade. You shudder at the affection.

His fingers press deeper, and a burning stretching pain shoots through you. He works his fingers almost gently, certainly in contrast to his usual roughness. You can feel the tension coiled in his body, and the immense effort it's taking him to hold back while he attempts to be patient like you said.

He adds a third finger and the stretch morphs into a sharp, full feeling that borders on pain. His thumb rubs circles on your hip. He's watching intently for any reactions; whenever you arch in pleasure at a location, he focuses on it and drives his fingers deeper into you right at it while you whimper and whine out praise for him.

His ears flush pink at the display, and he finds himself cursing the uncontrolled break in his self-ascribed perfect facade. Despite this shame, his eyes remain locked on your cunt to watch as his long fingers disappear into you as though transfixed.

"You're so tight, fuck, you're going to feel so good around me."

When you whimper at the new stretch he does to scissor you open, his fingers go entirely still. A low groan rumbles in his chest as pure frustration wars within him with caution. Caution seems to supersede his frustration as he pulls his fingers back slightly and functionally eases the pressure without withdraw completely. His other hand moves from your hip to tangle in your curls, but he refuses to pull them despite how badly he wants to awe arch you up like that.

That's rough, isn't it? It's how he always is in bed. It's never been that way with you, has it? No, you order HIM around. It's nauseous.

When he speaks again, it's more contemplative in tone, "I'm being careful. See? I'm being fucking... gentle," though his tone does grow disgusted when he realizes it.

He sneers and forces his fingers to be rougher and claiming under the guise of impatience, "You're fucking pathetic. If you need this lovey-doves shit, you wouldn't be with me."

He yanks back his hand from you and wipes your arousal off on the sheet before slipping his cock in, once again making you stretch wide, and it burns because he entered prematurely. He shudders when he bottoms out and his head lolls back as his eyes flutter shut.

"Always so fucking tight. A slut like you shouldn't be so tight… how the fuck… goddamn."

His hips grind in a few shallow thrusts that steals the air from his lungs and yours for a moment.

You arc prettily, "Come on and make me feel good, baby."

His dick isn't exceptionally long or thick. It's average, but the appeal is in how pretty it is. He keeps it well groomed, pubes trimmed neat and short, and the head flushes a pale bubblegum pink around the mushroom tip and halfway down his shaft, sometimes all the way, depending on how much you tease him. It does curve a little to the right, and that makes it perfectly hit all the right places when you're in this position.

He speeds up his pace without noticing even as he snarls back at you as he drags your face up and making you arch, "Fuck you. You don't get what you want, slut, you take what I give you. It's what you're made for."

You clearly aren't paying him any attention; you've already grown cock drunk. He releases your neck with a huff in displeasure at that. You're completely hopeless. He never can get to you via insults, but by god has he tried. At best, you don't acknowledge them, and at worst, you enjoy them. It's fucking sick. You're so fucking fucked up. He detests it.

"I fucking hate…"

But he can't really ever remain mad at you for long with this view in front of him. With your pretty back arched, and your round ass in his hands jiggling with each thrust like jello, you look like sin itself, and he just about can't stand it. He bites down hard on his lip. He shudders with the effort not to come early as he runs his slender hand down your spine lightly, as if afraid you might shatter.

You push back against him in time, moaning prettily beneath him, and his hands go to grip your hips. His thrusts grow more erratic, as is so typical of him at this point. He's going to come first. He always does. He just can't hold out.

And it is a blow to his ego every time.

You feel kinda bad for him so you pant out, "Lemme suck it, baby."

He scoffs and rolls his eyes but when his dick twitches in that signature shudder that he's getting close, he pulls away as if he shocked.

He covers it up with a cough, "You're always so willing to serve like you're supposed to be. It's one of… exactly four good qualities you have."

He pointedly eyes your ass and chest as if clarifying the point as he sits back on the bed with his hands behind his head, as smug as the cat who got the cream.

You hum in acknowledgement, but that does nothing to ease the feeling of being used he always gets when you do this. It's a lewd scene every time. You hand disappears into your pretty folds as you nip along his thighs and kiss his tip as if enamored with it and not him. Sometimes, you even dare to moan because of your own hand around his dick, as if it's just an accessory and not the reason you have a role in life at all.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what makes him come in the end every time in the past; he likes to blame the vibrations of the sound, but he knows deep down that's not really what it is.

You kiss his thighs appreciatively; he isn't a very hairy guy. He doesn't have a thick happy trail to lead you to the treasure, but he does have a few pieces of black hair on his navel. You're too lazy to follow the arrow and instead go straight for the head.

He isn't one for having his balls sucked, for some reason you can't fathom, so you settle for nipping lightly along his inner thighs before kissing his flushed tip right in the middle and then you spit on your hand to help you. You take his tip into your mouth without much more preamble and his shaft into your nondominant hand while your dominant hand goes down to play with yourself.

His breath catches at the sight momentarily before he covers it up with a scowl, and he taps your cheek impatiently before saying, "Don't forget who's the real focus here."

Your eyes narrow in warning at him as you stop your tongue as it flattens against the tip of his dick and then you focus clearly on your own cunt and whine as your fingers rub rhythmic circles on your clit.

He clicks his tongue in aggravation, "You're a fucking bitch."

He knows better than to thrust himself down your throat though; the last time he got impatient and did that, you had him tied up against the mattress and fucked him until he came dry twice. Never again. That level of overstimulation was far too much for him to handle.

You slowly begin tormenting him in earnest now; your tongue works perfectly to wrap the underside of his cock and you take him deep enough to gag slightly but he isn't big enough to choke you, so you continue as it is, quickly adjusting to the feeling of his dick in your mouth, and you work on his release half-way focused as you hustle along your own release.

He doesn't notice your attention wandering because he is desperately trying not to come early. He's been doing so good today; maybe he'll actually make you have to work for it today? The idea pleases him immensely, so immensely in fact, he feels his orgasm creep up on him and he jerks as he comes without warning down your awaiting throat. You whine in displeasure as he swallow and then lean back on your haunches to rub your clit in his view.

"Aw, you came so quickly… that couldn't have been very satisfying for you, baby." Your words are think with condescending sympathy.

He's breathing heavily now, and he glares weakly up at you, but he doesn't deny the statement.

You arch and setlle back on your haunches to spread your cunt open wide for him to watch as your wetness drips from the top down into the opening and then on down. You arch your left eyebrow at him and breathy continue speaking even as you dive two fingers into yourself while his greedy eyes watch.

"You think of something dirty, sweetheart? Because I hadn't even really gotten started yet."

He turns his head to the side and scoffs, "I didn't come quickly."

You tsk quietly at him, "What did you think about, baby? What made ya lose it?"

He refuses to crack underneath your gaze and watches with lazy eyes that don't belay his intensity as you work yourself up to an orgasm all on your own.

"You're too mouthy for a whore," he mutters irritably.

You moan low in your throat and arch to grind better against your fingers. His hands itch to touch you. You look divine, annoyingly enough, but he knows you're a demon. No angel could… could weaken him in such a way.

You watch as his Adam's apple bobs up and down along his throat as he watches you pleasure yourself. You eyes trail down intentionally across his chest and to his dick. The entire thing is a well-placed jab, a calculation on how to ruin him. He shudders at the bold appreciation. The knowledge that he's the object being pleasured to seems to simultaneously irritate and arouse him as his pink, spent dick twitches as it tries to resuscitate.

But for all his effort, you still find your release before he can get hard again. You come with a cry as your entire body convulses with shocks of pleasure which stems from your abdomen and shoot up throughout your body. You don't slow your actions as you peak hits, instead you force yourself into overstimulation, too pleased with him having to sit and watch as you hit your peak without his influence.

When you blink hazy eyes at him, he is livid. His cheeks are flashed with the perfect cocktail to make him pliant for you: irritation and arousal.

"You're fucking filthy. You enjoy being watched, don't you? No wonder you came untouched by me." He spits out.

It's supposed to be an insult, and the effort he puts into it to try to sound like he's disgusted makes you grin. He's already fully hard again, and you heard the pathetic whining he did.

"Oh?" You coo as you crawl on top of him to rub him along his chest. "I'm filthy? Tell me more, baby."

He jolts when you pinch his nipples as you kiss his throat. He exhales with forced evenness.

"Yeah, you're fucking disgusting." He replies even as his hands go to clutch a little too desperately at the fat of your ass. "Fucking pathetic."

You lick and suck at his pulse point as it sings as he lies. "Mhm. You wanna come inside this nasty pussy, baby? Gonna have to beg."

His eyes narrow to slits at you. You nip at his Adam's apple as it bobs.

"I don't…" his words come out a little thin as his wind is taken from him by your skilled hands wandering his chest. His eyes flutter shut. "I don't beg whores to do their job."

You murmur against his skin, "Calling this my job implies you pay me; you're a hobby of mine." You punctuate your words with a kiss to his abs.

He snarls at you and jerks your head back by your hair. "I'm not a fucking hobby. You're my distraction, not the other way around."

Your nibble hands squeeze his dick and his grip falters as he hisses in pain. His dick only grows harder as a result.

"Say 'Mommy, please.'" You singsong to him as you massage his abs, relishing the feel of his hardness beneath your touch.

His face twitches in displeasure. "I'm not begging. I'll take it if you want—"

He whimpers as you squeeze his dick harshly this time and purr into his ear, "Wrong answer, baby, try again."

He struggles a little beneath you, but you both know it's just to sooth his ego. If he wanted up and out, he could make it happen.

His nose wrinkles at the title as he spits it out in attempt to make it sound mocking, "Mommy, please?"

It's snarled at you with venom usually unseen, but you preen on top of him before guiding his dick inside. You lean back enough for him to get a good view as you guide his dick inside your sopping cunt and the vision of you before him currently reminds him exactly why he enjoys it like this. One of his hands goes to palm your chest, he clearly relishes the size as he does so, and then he leans up to kiss his sternum, nipping along your skin just as you did earlier. His other hand goes down to rub your clit. You had been required to do a lot of work on him to get him to find the damn thing, and he's still clumsy with his motions, but he's eager to please, even if he is a tsundere.

You purr praise as you roll your hips, "You feel so good, baby, so good. You like the way I cling to ya? Do ya?"

He leans back and arches against the mattress as his entire face turns pink, but he won't say anything."

You tsk and lean up and over him to purr into his ear, "Come on, baby, you got it. Admit you like it when we fuck like this. Admit you like being beneath me as I do the work; is it the taboo that does it for you, or the humiliation you invite on yourself?"

You giggle meanly in his ear as you draw out another whimper from him. "You want to know what I think? I think neither of those reasons are why; I think you just were born to like it like this."

You kiss his throat, "And you do all this… posturing in order to try and frame me as the whore, but that's not really how this is working, is it? You're worse than me. You need this; you coming baying at my door how many times a week? Four or five, for sure, right?" you don't give him any time to answer, as you know from the way his entire expression has shifted into being something almost reverent that he's too for gone at the moment to do anything more than whimper beneath you. "How many times have I felt the need to go knocking at yours in the past year, Naoya? None. You've asked, haven't you? You've pleaded over the phone and threatened but I never caved then you would just march yourself over here and find yourself in this. exact. position." you force him to bottom out. "And you like it like that; you couldn't have it any other way, could you?"

He whimpers without realizing what he's saying, having lost himself too far into the pleasure you're giving, no, forcing him to experience. "Please."

You slow down your rhythm and breathe, "Please what, baby? Mommy needs more than that."

His eyes flash open as you comb his dyed hair back; they're full of frustration and something bordering frustration, "Please let me come, you fat bitch."

He regrets the backtalk as soon as he does it. He feels the sting of the slap before he can register it is coming, and his eyes fly open in shock.

You grind against him, "You know, baby, I was going to let you come, I really was, and I was going to ensure it was satisfying, but it seems like you need to learn a lesson… Do you need to learn a lesson?"

He shakes his head rapidly, "N-no. I promise; I'm sorry, Mommy. I didn't mean it."

You grin maliciously at him while he registers exactly what he just did and he turns a deep shade of crimson all the way across his face. "Awww, what a sweet apology, baby, but how do I know you mean it?"

You run your hands down his chest, "Keep rubbing my clit. Can I trust your apology, baby, or do I need to make you prove it?"

"You can trust me," he insists as two of his fingers rub against your clit with well-trained, if still imperfect motions.

You breath catches, and you moving on top of him faster, making him whimper into your shoulder. You wrap your arms around his neck and drag him against your shoulder as you find your peak quickly approaching, "okay, baby, okay. I'll trust you, but if you say something cruel like that again, I won't let you come, okay? Do you understand me?"

He nods against you and you can feel him bite his lip to keep himself from making any noise as he's doing about as well as you are as his breath catches suddenly before he forces himself to breathe out.

You feel the knot of bliss tighten in your abdomen, and Naoya cusses against your throat as your greedy hole suctions on him and squeezes him until he is shooting fat ribbons of cum inside of you. He shudders violently with his release, as this one was wholesale in its destruction. Every fucking time he lets this hell occur, he gets orgasms so good they can't be recreated with his hand alone. You're the only one who can make his entire body pulse with the aftermath, and it enrages him.

This orgasm is much fuller than the one you got earlier. Your entire body warms with it as your toes curl. You come a moment after he does, and you vaguely register him hiss as your pussy clutches and pulses around his spent dick to siphon the last bits of pleasure from him as it forces him into overstimulation.

After a few minutes of trembling and holding one another, Naoya seems to remember what he's supposed to act like.

He rasps hoarsely, "Hate you... I really... fucking hate you."

The words lack any real venom. They're a last-ditch effort to salvage his damaged pride. His arms, however, remain locked around you as he holds you possessively in place against him. He makes no move to push you away. In the near-darkness, his body feels heavy, warm, and familiar; you feel something like longing for something more than this between you.

You roll your eyes and curl against him and mutter, "Sure you do, baby; sure you do."

You pointedly ignore the feeling of his semen dripping out of you onto the ruined linens; you just bask in his sex-softened presence as the sweat cools along your back and makes you shiver.

He doesn't respond to your gentle mockery; his body is still and heavy beneath you except for the ragged rise and fall of his chest as he clamors for his composer to return to him. The room is bathed in the warm orange of the sunset now coating the city.

After a moment of you both catching your breath, he growls at your, "Get off. You're heavy."

His hands still rest on your hips as he makes no move to actually lift you and to reassert the distance you two struggle to maintain. He turns his head to the side, pressing his cheek against the cool sheet, avoiding any possibility of eye contact.

He clear his voice, but the words remain scratchy as they come out, "You're coming with me to shower. I'm not doing all the work."

Your lips twitch into a tired but amused grin. He's always such a petulant brat. You look over his face which is still flushed with embarrassment and exertion. He pushes himself up onto his elbows with a visible effort. The orange evening light colors his hair and washes out some of the green tint in it. His hair is a mess and damp with sweat. He glares at you in the dim light, but it lacks its usual heat. You still feel the warning simmer of it.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and pauses to glance back at you, his eyes sharp and pretentious as he glances down to where you lie; you notice that his eyeliner is smudged.

"And you're washing my back. It's the least you could do after... all that." He waves a hand as though disgusted by you as he stands up on unsteady feet. You can see sweat still along his back as the setting sun hightlights it. You watch as he places a hand against the wall for a moment before heading towards the attached bathroom. He doesn't look back to see if you're following.

You hum tiredly, “Gonna have to carry me.”

He stops in the doorway to the bathroom, turning back to glare at you over his shoulder. His expression is one of utter exasperation. He looks you up and down, taking in your sprawled, naked form on the bed.

"You've got to be kidding me. My legs feel like fucking lead, and you're heavy." His reply is flat as he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, but the posture lacks its usual arrogance. He just looks tired and annoyed.

"Get up. I'm not helping you." Despite his words, he doesn't move further into the bathroom. He stands tensely. That stupid pride of his makes you frown up at him sleepily.

You roll over and curl up in a ball before murmuring, "Then clean yourself."

He lets out a long, weary sigh that seems to deflate his entire frame. For a moment, he just stares at you, a battle of desires playing out in the slump of his shoulders. The idea of leaving you here seems to be as uncomfortable as his fatigue.

He pushes off the doorframe with obvious effort and trudges back toward the bed, his steps heavy. He stops at the edge, looking down at your curled form with a mix of irritation and something softer, more resigned. He bends down and picks you up without any effort, despite his earlier complaints.

He slides one arm under your shoulders and the other under your knees, grunting with the effort as he lifts you. He's surprisingly strong, even exhausted, but his body trembles slightly with the strain. He holds you against his chest, your skin sticking together with dried sweat. He doesn't look at you, focusing on the short walk to the bathroom, his jaw set.

"If I drop you, it's your own fault for being too lazy to walk," he replies sullenly.

He carries you into the cool, tiled bathroom and sets you down carefully on the closed lid of the toilet, his arms shaking as he releases you. He immediately turns to start the shower and adjusts the water temperature, and then he reaches for your makeup remover to finally get rid of what little remains of his eyeliner.

You are pleased by his behavior and stand up to follow him into the shower once he finishes. You reach for a wash cloth and pour some sweet scented soap onto it before beginning to bathe him. You begin with his shoulders and let the hot shower water wash off the suds before you pepper his skin with kisses. You continue washing him all the way down and make him turn around so you can wash his back.

He leans his head against the wall of the shower and you watch as the tension leaves his back and shoulders as your hands gently wash over the smooth skin there. You place one final kiss against his shoulder blade before handing him the rag so he can do the same.

He is a little rougher than you were, but he's no less thorough. Instead of him kissing you, he lets a stray hand squeeze your breast appreciatively and the same to your ass at least twice. He mutters about how this entire thing is beneath him as he does so. He takes special care to wash off the wash cloth completely before helping you remove all the remaining fluids from earlier from between your legs. Naoya makes sure to be gentle then.

You don't bother to get dressed when you dry off. He guides you to the bed and crawls under the sheets. You follow him and curl up in his awaiting arms silently. Neither of you speak for until you go to sleep, else you'd break the fragile post-sex truce you two have formed. One of his hands rests on your hip and the other clutches at your ass to hold you flush against him. Your arms loop around his hips and your face rests in the crook of his neck as you tangle your legs with his.

When he's almost asleep he rasps, "This fucking sucks."

You rub circles on his back and nod, "Yeah, yeah, it does."

He doesn't say anything else. You both know this peace won't last. He's too fucked up for it to be permanent, and that knowledge weighs heavily on you both. Tomorrow his momentary weakness will be wiped away, and you'll let him ignore it like you always do.