Work Text:
Something feels off in the middle of your usual, boring office day.
"I heard he's really handsome." You glance at your clustered coworkers, a knot of unease in your chest. This isn't the first time they've swooned over a new hire, and with their loose definition of attractive, your expectations are scraping the floor.
Your gaze drops back to your tea. You stir it idly, then let your attention shift toward the group again. A new supervisor, apparently—for your floor and maybe your division, since they asked everyone to gather before the morning meeting.
You scan the crowd, trying to spot the unfamiliar face before he's announced. After a moment, you give up, biting the inside of your cheek as you stare into the dark swirl of your cup. You need milk, maybe a little sugar, too—
"This is someone familiar to the company," a voice cuts in, pulling you out of your own head. You see an executive from the top brass speaking to you, the mans balding head shining in the large office windows. Yikes, how long has he been talking? "He comes from a different branch—Tokyo—and has been sent to support us here at the new location."
Your head tilts at that. Tokyo? You just moved from there a few months ago—the reason is. . . something you'd rather not think too much of.
Fingers, warmed from your cup, rub over your sternum. Ah, when did it become physical?
Biting your lip, you mentally urge the man to continue so that you might sequester to your cubicle along with your thoughts and aching chest.
"We are all excited for his help and grateful for his presence!"
The crowd parts, and a ripple of murmurs passes through. You can't see past the taller men in the office before you, so you wait, hearing the sounds of handshakes and personal introductions. You study the toes of your low heels, tapping them, then fold an arm to hold your opposite elbow. It's oddly chilly in this part of the office. Across the room, a burst of giggles makes you blink in confusion.
"Pleased to meet you—" you look up just as the light from the window arches around a broad frame. "Iida Tenya."
You stand there, a little dumbfounded. This—
This is the second time you're meeting him.
The first time was at your original branch. You were newly hired, and he was your supervisor. You met after you bumped into him, his solid body and warm hands catching you before you hit the wall.
And after that. . . you fell for him, piece by piece.
The first time you talked with him outside those office walls was at a party. Someone had just been promoted, so the office decided to celebrate at a bar, which was lovely. The whole night was.
(Even after you ended up at his apartment, guided there under the guise of his kindness.)
*. ♥︎ ₊ ⊹ .ᐟ
(And kindness he did indeed show.)
(Along with a. . . manner of other things.)
"How long have you been interested in me?" Iida asked, pressing your smaller frame against his front door. When your knees buckled and you slipped, his hands—the ones you hadn't been able to stop thinking about since you first met—held you steady. He bent down and claimed your mouth. Straightforward, through and through.
You didn't really have an answer, so you tilted your head up and kissed him harder. He made a low, scolding sound deep in his chest that vibrated against your fingers as you cupped his back and pulled him closer, closer, closer.
He didn't protest when you messily licked into his mouth, but he did pull back before things went too far. Deep blue eyes fixed on you, he wanted an answer, even as your face burned. So you fumbled one out, mind foggy with his cologne, the day's scent clinging to his clothes, the smell of his home—
"It's been. . . too long," you stammered, finally answering his earlier question with fingers clawing at the front of his shirt. He was so close, his big hand cupping your cheek and neck—his palm practically covered half your face—and it felt good. "I've always been in love with you, Iida-san."
If he flinched at the intensity of your confession, it didn't show. Not a hint. Instead, he swept his eyes over your face, pecked your nose, pulled you close by the nape, and tucked your head against his neck. One hand stroked down your back while nimble fingers started rucking up your skirt. He exhaled softly.
"I wish we'd done this sooner."
Or maybe the alcohol just made you miss any reaction.
He didn't balk at your revelation, either. His hand slid between your bodies, beneath your skirt, into your panties, working you to orgasm while you whimpered that this was your first time.
His smile was small. He praised you, kissing your forehead with a "Good girl" that had you squeaking and covering your mouth. "Do you think you can handle it?"
"I—I think so. . ."
That night, he did what he wanted with you, to your immense pleasure. His lips, tongue, fingers, the heel of his hand—his thigh before you became more than needing of him.
Iida was more than eager to push into you after you asked for it, keeping your body flush against his front as he hugged you. You couldn't stop your rambling declarations of love, each new confession deepening the pink on his skin until he was panting behind you, disheveled and trembling.
"Is that all that's on your mind?" he asked, lifting your leg and thrusting forward. For a moment you saw double, overwhelmed, then your vision cleared enough to watch his glasses slide down his nose.
"I'm—I'm sorry," you said, teeth chattering from the depth and force of him. "I just really like you." You felt your brows furrow, your lips part wetly for air, sweat stinging your eyes.
That soft smile again, piercing you right between the ribs. "You don't need to apologize." A shuddering exhale tore out of him, his brows pinched as he inhaled raggedly, never breaking eye contact. "You're beautiful. . . I love you, too."
Crazy. He was crazy. You were both crazy.
(He was the first person you ever dated.)
And word of your relationship spread fast.
"There's no way he's dating her."
"Someone so. . . young?"
"If you'd said someone sexy, maybe—"
"No, more like mature."
You thought they had a point. You didn't look like the kind of woman he'd go for.
(He spoiled you—indulged your every whim.)
It didn't take long to realize the first night wasn't typical of the man you came to know. The passion settled into something different, something. . . steady.
Routine. Your supervisor-boyfriend thrived on routine, you discovered.
(He is the perfect boyfriend.)
(And you. . . really haven't done anything for him.)
Over time, your feelings twisted into something painful. For you—
"Alright. . . if that's what you really want."
Painful for him.
"I'll treat you the same as always," he said, mug of coffee in hand. You shifted on his bar stool, swallowing, flattened by his attention—as usual. His care and attentiveness mixed into something devastating for you, even as you let him down with no real reason. "So that it won't affect our work."
You stared at your folded hands, rocking a little before taking the leap. "I know this is sudden, but—I'm sorry. . . I just. . ."
"It's not a big deal." He trailed off, sipping from his mug. "No worries." You wished he'd lower it so you could read his micro-expressions—the ones you'd learned over those few months together.
You stayed silent, then left amicably a few minutes later. The whole walk home, your mind churned.
The fact that you dated—you and Iida—felt like a once-in-a-lifetime thing. You doubted anything like it would happen again. Which. . . was fine.
Afterward, you flitted through a series of relationships, paying attention to other men in the office. The guy who sometimes grabbed your mail because your last names were similar; you ignored Iida pausing to watch the exchange. The man who ordered the same thing as you at the nearby café; you felt Iida's gaze when you suggested a different pastry, only to be overruled by his boring taste buds. The boy who refilled your stapler before you struggled; you smiled at Iida as he collected paperwork straight from your desk that day.
(You were messing around.)
That's. . . the right kind of relationship for you.
One night, for some reason, you let yourself be pulled into a Love Hotel with "adolescent taste buds" and—
"Wait—that hurts," you said, gritting your teeth at the dry burn between your thighs.
"Sorry," he muttered, bangs covering his eyes. "I'll be done in a minute."
(. . .Or at least that's what you told yourself.)
(What were you supposed to do? Ever since Iida swept into your life, nothing felt right. It was like your body craved something more.)
*. ♥︎ ₊ ⊹ .ᐟ
(You can admit that his kindness to you was real, if not simply—intense.)
His blue eyes soften when he sees the flicker of recognition—something you know intimately from your past together—and all you can remember is how they used to gaze up at you with that buzzing, tangible serenity, until you—
“I’m—I’m sorry, I think I need to find the bathroom,” you manage, then turn on your heel and walk away.
(You moved here for a fresh start. After the way you ended things, you can’t even meet his eyes.)
You can still feel his stare, burning into your back, while the tea sloshes over the rim and scalds your hand a little. The sting helps. It pulls your mind away from the unbridled devotion caught in his gaze.
(But. . .)
“Are you seeing anyone here? Or have you dumped him already?”
It’s him. Through the bright glare on the window you can’t make out his face, but you know that voice, that presence. The cut of his broad shoulders above yours in the reflection, cloaking over your silhouette like a sentient shadow.
“Oh, no.” You have no idea how to face him. “He’s, um. . .”
His hands land on your arms and slide upward, warm and reassuring even through your blouse and cardigan. “No one else ever quite fit, right?” You swallow, aware of his body barely an inch behind yours. It should feel overbearing, but instead that part of your mind he carefully cultivated begins to stir. “No one else could satisfy what you really need.”
(It’s painfully humbling. The way he knows so much from two words, two sounds. . .)
His hands pull away, and your thoughts clear just a little—until his palms press over your shoulder blades and sweep your hair aside, baring your nape. He leans close, and your chin drops forward on its own.
“Will you come home with me today?” He brushes a kiss against the back of your neck, and goosebumps lift from that soft pressure. His breath spreads hot over the sensitized skin, and you struggle to pull in air, then—
“Is that. . . all right?” you whisper, surprised that your mind has already consented. Your body, yes—but your thoughts as well? “If I come with you?” Your brows twitch with the crawl of his fingers down, and you let out a breathy sigh, and find the ache in your chest—lessening?
“Of course,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss there before easing back and steadying his hands on your hips. “Your body already knows—” God, it does. “That your only place is here. Right here.” A breath shudders out of you as his fingers trace upward, and you feel your own shape settling into his palms. “Or am I mistaken?”
He isn’t.
(. . .Is it really all right?)
*. ♥︎ ₊ ⊹ .ᐟ
You follow his broad shoulders to the apartment door, your eyes tracing the way his hands unlock the door with the touchpad. Light from a nearby window spills around him, and you feel yourself shifting into some space you haven’t felt in a while.
“You first.” You’re pushed in gently, his hand on your lower back guiding you into his darkened home. Ears buzzing, you hold your breath, a little out of your depth, waiting, it seems, for—
“What were you saying?”
What were you saying. . ?
You finish your tittering ramble about moving out of the Tokyo area by brushing your hair behind your ear. “You can find plenty of beautiful places to live here without breaking the bank.” Tucked into the wall, you watch as he slips in after you, locking the door with a twist of his wrist. The deadbolt feels final for some reason—no, not final, but maybe concrete.
The place smells—you want to swallow it back but can’t seem to—like him.
He steps past you, and you trace his profile with a quick glance as he sets down his keys and briefcase on the small table in the genkan. His suit coat finds a hanger on the wall hook. “Yes, I guess so,” he says, tugging at his tie and opening the first two buttons of his shirt before he moves on to his cufflinks—the pair set in a dish with the others, to be organized later. Friday nights are for that.
It’s the same. You’ve seen it over and over.
Iida loves routine.
“I—I just imagine how much a one-bedroom in Tokyo would cost and stick to my place here.” You laugh, a worn, awkward sound, watching his hands as you try not to show too much emotion. He hums, glances over his shoulder, and you’re acutely aware of his intentions.
His hands rise, palms up, open, reaching, asking, his gaze fixed on you, and you—
Don’t go.
You pull off your coat. You pull off your cardigan. Under his sharp gaze, you hand him the garments, chin tilted down at his dissatisfaction. He hangs them next to his suit coat and reaches for your purse before you can set it down yourself, placing it on the table near his things.
A purposefully blank spot on the surface. . .
Nostrils flaring, you keep your eyes on your shoes.
He calls your name softly.
Your fingers tangle together, an anxious habit he blinks at, while your eyes follow him—his glasses glinting in the low light—as he kneels before you.
“You still remember what to do, right?”
(Is it okay? To go through all this again?)
Your heart picks up speed.
That show of independence earlier was just that—a show. Nothing like the relationship he’s cultivated with you.
“Yes.”
"Then come."
You move closer to his kneeling form, your calf muscles jumping when he touches you even through your stockings. Your hand finding a hold, you tilt your head down to look at him as his big hand takes your ankle. You don’t shift your weight quite enough and nearly stumble as he grips and guides your foot up.
“Careful,” he says, easing the heel from your foot with a smooth slip of his fingers. The shoe is set aside, and he guides your foot to the cool floor. You gasp at the change in temperature, and his lips part in a soft hum of apology. He lifts your other foot, shoe eased off just like the first. “I need a rug here.”
Your instinct is to tell him that’s not necessary—he shouldn't need to change his home for you—but then his lips press to a knee, stealing your breath. A soft kiss, the scratch of your tights under his touch. Your foot jerks, but he keeps hold, kissing down your shin to your ankle.
“Oh.”
(Iida has always. . . taken care of you. . .)
You press at his shoulders, but he’s unmovable, and you’re weak to him. His hands slide up to your thighs and hips, pulling you into his orbit. His fingers undo the hook and eye of your skirt, the zipper sliding down with a firm tug.
And you’re suddenly terribly bashful, an undeserving feeling bubbling in your chest. “Iida—”
“It’s fine,” he says, fingers brushing behind your knee, sending heat up between your tightly pressed thighs. You look down, but the light obscures his eyes. “Just leave it to me.”
(That’s how it’s been from the start.)
Your hand moves toward the zipper, but he takes it, smoothing a thumb over your knuckles before flattening your hand at your side. Now his hands are under your skirt—a thing you hold up to keep it from pooling at your feet—pinching at your tights and shimmying them down.
“You don’t need to lift a finger.”
You gasp, aware of his fingers sliding under the elastic of your panties and pulling until they bunch with your stockings. You cover your mouth with a hand, eyes closing, all too aware of the mess in the seat of them, the smear down your thigh—something he must see as he undresses you.
You shiver. One hand leaves your skirt to cover the other hand that’s already pressed tightly to your mouth, but embarrassed squeaks still slip through your fingers. Your eyes open, and you see his relaxed—content—face as he rises to his feet while your skirt finally pools around your ankles. Standing above you, he eases your hands away from your mouth, holding your wrists gently as he looks down. When he tugs—just a light pull, barely a movement to him—you step free from the puddle of clothes, and he makes a deep, pleased sound. His fingers let go of your wrists and move to the front of your blouse, undoing the buttons. The blunt tips of his nails tap against one, the sound of it brings memories of the way he did early in your relationship, right before he sent your things to a tailor to be remade in better quality. His head tilts a little, then he hums, gathering the fabric to slip the blouse over your head. Your lips curl inward, bitten; your stomach sinks at the brush of his nails and fingertips on your heated skin as your arms lift and let him pull the fabric away.
Your eyes stay on the pearlescent buttons of his shirt, brows drawn so tight they ache. His hands slip across your sides, and your arms rise for him. He hums approval, hands sliding over the lace band of your bra, reaching around to undo more hooks. You let your eyes shut, the straps going lax with a hot sigh. You don’t try to hold the bra in place before he pinches and pulls it from your arms. After, they move on their own—one hand cradling under your bust, the other cupping over your mons.
The bra—a lacy thing—drops into the pile of clothes with a soft rustle that echoes in your head. You’re less shy now, skin hot, your body remembering the things he’s done to make you respond this way to simply being undressed at the entrance of his home. In his presence.
By him.
You meet his gaze; the lenses of his frames are clear again, his eyes squinting at the corners, pleased.
“You’re so beautiful.” You can’t make a sound before he’s on you. He says your name, softening it with “my lovely,” as he pulls you to his chest. “I must have felt you feeling so lonely,” he speaks into your ear, and the mix of that and his smooth shirt on your back has your hair raising in a wave.
You twitch against him, arm falling as his hands grope your breast. You deny it, shaking your head, stumbling over your words. “That’s—not-not true—”
“Don’t worry, my love, I won’t let you be lonely this time.”
You sigh out a moan, hand reaching for the wall as his hand traces down your belly, down, down between your thighs. You moan again, sharp and shaking, and he cradles you closer. His fingers trace over your sensitive, heated skin, smearing wetness.
“Oh, you’re wet—soaking. I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner.” Over your heavy breaths, you hear the wet sound of him tracing through your pussy, collecting slick and slipping it up to the apex. Soon he’s strumming your clit, tight circles that make your breath shudder and your knees weak. “There we go, sweet girl.” You make a raw, aching sound—a thing clawed from your ribs, louder from your slack jaw, and he kisses your ear tenderly.
You feel it building, under your lungs, deeper, pulling at your bellybutton as his skin slips over your sweaty belly. You muffle a sound before your knees fall open, your hand wrapping around the forearm keeping you upright and close.
“Don’t hold back. Come,” he says, the hand attached to the arm cradling your chest squeezing your breast. You wail, sharp and quick, a foot lifting then stomping in the barrage of feeling. “Let me see how you look when you come again.”
You orgasm with a shout, your body pulling and releasing under his fingers in a hot rush. His fingers never stop, wrist popping once from the speed and intensity of it all—oh, god. . .
Your head rests on the slope of his shoulder, the man keeping you upright with hands on your sweat-slick sides.
“You came so hard,” he says, petting your heaving ribs, chin hooked over your shoulder. “Did it feel good?”
Your vision clears, and you stare at the ceiling before tilting your chin to look down. God.
“I. . . I’m sorry.” There’s a mess on the floor—at your feet, a few paces in front of you. What the hell has gotten into you?
“Don’t worry.” His wet hand strokes over your skin. “I’ll take care of it.”
Your brain hums at the thought. “B-but—”
He huffs softly, releasing you and kneeling down on the floor. You watch him reach under the table, into a bin, and snag a towel—probably the one he keeps for rainy days—then spread it over the wet spot you made. He looks up at you, brows lifting in a way that somehow cancels any embarrassment, though the gesture could easily come off as patronizing. “You won’t make this a problem for yourself.” How he pulls that off without invoking shame in you, you’ll never know.
You gulp and give a single nod, and he smiles. The towel lies forgotten on the floor, all his attention fixed on you—still bare, still catching your breath after that orgasm, then he moves toward you.
He pulls you closer by the hips and fits himself between your thighs again. You stifle a moan for half a second, needing your hands to keep your balance as he draws one of your knees over his shoulder. His tongue rolls over your sensitive nub, and you slap a hand to his free shoulder. It does nothing to him—no, it encourages him, his hands parting you more, holding tighter.
“Wait—wait—” you press at his shoulder uselessly. “I just came a m-minute ago—” Fingers tangle in dark blue hair, pulling.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles into you, pressing his tongue under your clit, slipping over it again and again. “Go and come again.”
“I’m—I’m—” You can still feel it building, between slick flicks and the grope of his hands on your thigh and bottom. You feel it shift into something—something you find— “Don’t. Stop.” —something you need from him. Again.
And again.
You fold over yourself, shaking, teeth grit as your sounds echo in the enclosed space. He hugs your hips after slipping your leg from his shoulder, face wet but pressing into your skin. There’s another puddle at your feet—soaking into his slacks, you're sure—something you ignore because of the uncharacteristic needy-softness he shows with his nuzzling.
“Welcome back, my love.”
*. ♥︎ ₊ ⊹ .ᐟ
His bed is your refuge. Not having to keep every muscle tensed and ready to balance you is a strange relief, and the soft linens and clean scent help. But it grows messy under you soon enough. Messy from your body: your shifting, your squirming, your grabbing for something to hold, your sweat, your—
“Ah, ahh—I’m—I’m coming again—” You risk a glance down, hoping to see him finally pull his mouth away.
The man settled between your thighs draws one orgasm after another from you. His back is bare now, a wide stretch of smooth skin held right where you can see; his shirt was tossed casually into a corner—uncharacteristic, you think. The skin there is slick with sweat, like the rest of you, and the muscles keep working without any sign of him slowing or pulling back. Blue eyes behind clear lenses track every little thing: your hand roaming and searching for purchase, the way your chest heaves with each breath, the stitch of your brow.
His gaze is gentle, watchful, checking on you.
Even so, you feel like his entertainment.
“N-no more. Iida-san, please. St-stooop—” Your heel slips along his back as you try, helplessly, to squirm away. He presses his hands harder against your thighs, nearly pinning them to the mattress, and you cry out sharply from the suction of his mouth on your clit.
“We haven’t done this in so long—” This being his version of care, you figure, “you just need a second to remember it.”
Breaths shudder out of you. Your hand darts to the pillow behind your head so you can tilt your head down. “Rememb—what?”
He sucks on your clit again, flicking it once it pops free, and you wail, your thighs boxing his ears. “That all of you—” he pushes up onto his elbows as he says it, pressing his nose tight to your mons, and you can’t help the moan at the feel of his heated breath, “—is mine and mine alone.”
“Oh, god, please—” His hand shifts. His pointer finger slides your clit side to side before pressing into you. You moan sharply, head flopping back to stare at the ceiling out of sheer weakness. When you gather a little strength, you try to speak: “Don’t fin—stop finge—” Neither attempt makes it out whole, and he takes full advantage.
“Don’t stop?” He crooks his finger up, and you go weak again, not strong enough to hold his gaze as he works you over. He kisses up your body, settling near your head, mouthing over your breast while his hand never slows. “Rubbing?” He lets his palm grind against your clit. “Out? Or—” His finger glides over your inner walls, slick, easy. “In?”
You have no answer. The band in your belly pulls tighter and tighter, stilling your movements and stealing your voice as he re-educates your body to him.
He kisses your breast again. “Everything feels good, doesn’t it? Your body’s a selfish thing.” He sucks your nipple into his mouth, pulling a squeak from you before releasing it and pressing his cheek to the pillowy softness.
“Then—then stop,” you manage, eyes fluttering before they find his face. He shakes his head. He moves up your body and slides another finger into you. You dig your heels in to escape, but his arm wraps around your back, pressing you to his front while you’re undone by his hands.
His mouth is hot against your throat as he scissors his fingers. “I shouldn’t stop.”
And he calls you selfish.
You come like that, the cry of it perched on the tip of your tongue as you sink into the bedding, shivering and worn. His fingers slip out soon after, tracing your thighs, and when you gather enough strength you turn away, hiding your face in your arms and the sheets. Your ears ring, muffled; your chest aches—your entire body does, really—and you’re certain you can’t take any more.
Your eyes burn at the thought. Take more? Of him?
You know you can’t.
You feel him slip away from your back, the ghost of his hands, and then his presence behind your curled-up legs. The feel of his cock is something you remember: heavy, velvet, dragging over the outside of your sensitive cunt.
You. . . can’t. . .
“Iida-san. . .”
“You want me . . .” He grips your knee, opening your body to him again. “Here?”
You. . .
“I—” Tears line your eyes, threatening to spill. “I do. . .”
He smiles softly at you, petting down your belly before easing back onto his heels and pulling you to him with a firm tug. You go—no choice but to—and let your fingers twist in the bedding. The tip of his cock notches into you, a burning, stretching pressure.
You blink away, never really able to watch how your body accepts him so easily. “You remember? How deep inside you I can go?”
Your fingers press over your lips, brows furrowing as he focuses and inches into you.
“No. . .” The word falls into the space between you. You shake your head when he tilts his and draws you a little closer. An inch deeper, dragging against your sensitive walls. Your breath keeps hitching, sounds ready to pour from your lips at the euphoric feeling. “Oh, ohhh.”
(This is it.)
“No, you—you love it more when I grind in. Right here.” His palm rests on your skin, half over your mons, fingers reaching up toward your belly button. He’s correct: you don’t like it deep enough to knock the air out of you, and he’s never complained.
You feel the heel of his hand tilt your hips down, letting more of his cock slip into you. Past that line that makes you twitch beneath him, soft and sonorous and it—
(Have you been craving this?)
“You don’t like it when I go deep, I know,” he whispers, fingers crawling slowly up your belly, pressing down bluntly. “I promise to be gentle.”
Your ears feel hot, your skin ablaze, and he doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, keeps moving and—
(Something feels off. . .)
“Does it hurt?” His voice is husky, frayed at the edges and shaking just a little. You don’t like it when anyone goes this far into you; it just doesn’t feel as good. You don’t— you— you shouldn’t—what. . . ?
(Your body isn’t responding the way you want it to. . .)
No! You need to tell him—
“That’s too deep,” you whine, finally, tears escaping in time with the building pressure in your gut. How can you be this close already? Is it the many orgasms his tongue gave you? The heated way he looks at you, calls for you, caressed you? Is it—
“Let’s try deeper, my love.”
No, no, not deeper. You—you can’t think, can’t breathe around him. You’ll lose your mind. Your hands come up to thread into your hair, pulling at the roots to ground yourself, and then you’re letting out breathy grunts and guttural groans.
But it drives you up the wall.
He rocks into you, his shaft snug, and your walls keep gripping, sucking, twitching around the solid fullness of him deep inside. Deeper than usual, wider than you’re used to. You should be hitting him, not balanced on the edge of orgasm. Not trembling and letting your thighs fall further open so he can push closer. Not leaning into his nuzzles and keening at soft encouragement.
Your head shakes, thoughts tumbling off the shelves of your mind, made real by your voice. “It’s—you’re so deep,” you say, hands flying to his strong shoulders. “No, sto—!” You can’t help but notice. He’s deep, knocking against your lungs, under your belly button, pressing into places that shouldn’t be felt this far in, sending sensations down your spine and shaping your breaths into wild sounds—
By the shake of your hands and the rush of heat, you know the battle is lost. “You can’t stop! Coming! I’m—I’m coming!”
He pauses inside you, hands at your sides, pushing up to rise over you. The glare of light hides his eyes, but you know they’re open, reading you. You close yours, betrayed by your body and its preferences. And there’s the matter of your heaving breaths, your belly still clenching, you still so tight around him, your slick insides trying their best to push him out. You can’t deny it. A spade is a spade.
“Hm.” He shifts to one hand and brushes your cheek, coaxing you to open your eyes. “I thought you hated having it so deep.”
Your mouth opens uselessly, no vowels or consonants able to form any useful answer.
It was what it was—felt like, and called. . .
“You can come like that now? With me this deep?” His hips grind into you, and your mouth opens to beg for a break or something, but you don’t get the chance before he’s speaking again. “Do you want to explain that?”
Explain? Why you came from him knocking against your brain? Why your body still shakes and trembles from the depth of him, and your mind lags?
“Wait—” He grinds again before drawing back, then presses in deep, of course, forcing out the breath you’d gathered. “Wa-it, I—I don’t know—” He ignores your whining; it does nothing to answer his question. You’ll have to figure it out or wait for him to tire of this.
“I don’t know!” You suspect the waiting game is the one you’ll be playing, unfortunately. You feel the tug of heat, and shake your head side to side, digging your heels in as if to flee. Already? Your hands slap onto his shoulders, but that doesn’t deter the breathy grunts leaving him as he pushes through your palms. You glance down, see his hips so close, see the glisten of you on the scant inches he draws out, and you unravel a little— “I’m too close, wait! I don’t know—I’m coming again, wait, wait, waiiit!”
“You don’t know? It’s your body we’re talking about, love.”
It. . . sounds silly, yes, but. . .
You shake your head, letting him capture your chin and kiss you. You don’t kiss back—you’re panting—but he nips at your mouth, sucking your lower lip in while you feel at war inside your own skin.
He’s right. How do you not know?
“I. . . I shouldn’t have ended things with you so easily.” He fucks into you, and regret lines his words, making your ears ring. Your body feels alight, alive and stinging, and his hands only make it worse. “I just wanted to respect your decisions back then, you understand?”
You whine, bite your lips, nod. Tears streak past your temples and he hunkers down over you, hugging you to his chest while his hips never slow their deep, heavy rhythm. He’s always put you before everything—even then, you didn’t know it, but now you do, and your chest aches at his candor.
“You’re nodding, but I’m not sure you really get it,” he murmurs close to your ear, his steady thrusts tearing embarrassing noises from you, each one forcing a truth out through your skin. His thick fingers wrap around the back of your neck, and the touch makes you feel inexplicably right. Cradled in his broad palm, face pressed to his skin, it’s all so familiar. . . “I suppose I’ll just have to handle everything for you.”
You cry out at that, remembering the gentle, easy way he does things for you, from the start of the day to its end. You didn’t know anything inside the four walls he lived in—something he decided early on and instilled deep into you. It festered, made you soft and pliant, always seeking his guidance and repeating his routine.
(Could he be. . . right?)
Time blurs. He tires of the position and flips you onto your stomach without really pulling out. His weight settles over your back, teeth catching your earlobe before his tongue pushes inside the shell, wet and insistent. You melt into the mattress, drooling onto the sheets while he fucks you from behind, one hand pinning your wrists above your head.
When your arms tremble so badly you can barely hold the wand he draws from the drawer, he wraps his fingers firmly over yours and keeps the buzzing head pressed tight to your swollen clit. Your thighs jerk uncontrollably, and your vision whites out yet again—just a blank, pulsing light.
Later, he settles you in his lap, both hands on your waist, guiding your hips up and down over his cock with a slow, steady rhythm. Your tongue tangles with his, messy and desperate; spit glistens on both your chins, slick and warm. Whenever you pull back to speak, he silences you with his mouth, his lips bitten and puffy from your feeble protests, and he’s not bothered in the slightest by your acting out.
Eventually he lays you on your back once more. You twitch and whimper, voice hoarse from the sounds he’s pulled out of you. He leans down, mouth brushing yours in a soft, almost chaste kiss.
"We are still far, far from being finished," he whispers against your lips. The sweetness of the kiss clashes with the promise in his tone—a vow to your mind, a warning to your exhausted body.
You have nothing left to argue with. You simply nod, legs falling open wider for him, and let him take whatever he wants next.
*. ♥︎ ₊ ⊹ .ᐟ
Steam keeps you warm. That, and the heated body behind you.
The last time he moved you, you were certain it was to squeeze more out of you. More tears, more half-truths, more muddled confessions—more of everything.
But no. He herded you into the bathroom.
Well, carried you in.
He kissed your cheek as he did it, kept you pressed to his chest, and even afterward he held your hand as long as he could while he set things up for your shower.
Together.
You feel like a soaked kitten sitting on the stool he gave you, the corners of your mouth dipping down just a little. He kneels behind you, working a cloth over your skin to build up suds. The bubbles drip down his elbow, and he hums, making sure to cover every inch. The wash is familiar; something about the scent you've come to link with him and this quieted-away time.
He moves to your arm, washes it, rinses it, his hands treating the limb like porcelain…
Your head tilts back, bumping his chin, and he hums again—something close to a chuckle, you think.
You. . . know.
Your eyes go a little lidded, and he shifts to your opposite arm, sure and careful, his hands trailing lightly over your skin afterward as though they can sense and pinpoint the spots he might have missed.
"Your skin feels rough." You blink, brows furrowing a moment before lifting. Does it? "You've been busy?" Maybe, but you—his hand slips down your forearm to your wrist, lifting your hand into his line of sight over your shoulder. Your fingers twitch, fanning out before extending. He leans in like he needs to, adjusting his grip until he can thumb at your fingernails and cuticles. "I'll do your nails later too, okay?"
You twitch a little, feeling as though he's taken the ground out from under you.
He's decided your self-care isn't enough and stepped in to fill the role himself. It reminds you of times before you broke things off.
"You don't have to. . ." It's whispered under the stream of water.
He just breathes behind you before you feel the shake of his head. He wraps his arms around you gently, pulling you further into him. ". . .You still don't get it, do you?"
The question startles you—rightfully so. Don't get what? What are you missing? Is it that you're juvenile? Young, like the gossip buzzed months ago? Immature?
"I already told you. You don't have a choice," he says, rocking onto his knees. You fall back a half-second before he catches your shoulders, a gasp on your lips. "You'll have to let me take care of everything for you."
He guides you to stand, your mind still reeling from what he said. Is it really what you fear? If you're in this relationship again, will it end like before?
No, it shouldn't, it can't—you just need to show him you can do things for yourself. You do have your own mind and convictions, and you'll do as you please.
"But I want to treat you well, too," you say, your voice bouncing off the tiled room. You shift around to see him standing, his hands reaching to pull you from the stool, leaving you face-to-face with— "Iida-san. . ." you whisper, your pruney hands circling his cock.
It's still full, turgid and thick with blood and heat. You wonder if he's flagged even a bit during your time together. He looks down at you through his bangs, watching you stroke him over and over, a few times. His brows are drawn together a bit, and you think it's from pleasure. You wrap your hand a touch tighter, tug a little longer, move your thumb to the weeping head of his cock, and his hand comes to pet your hair.
. . .He's quiet.
But at the touch, you lean in, keeping your eyes on him as you let your lips part. He watches, his hand slipping from your crown to your cheek, thumb tracing the edge of your lips before dipping inside. You suckle around it, hollowing your cheeks to the taste of his clean, wet skin, circling your tongue twice before swallowing back and popping off. You tug again, once more, then lean forward and—
"How are you so good at this?"
Your eyes flick up. Is that really his question? Now, in the middle of this?
". . .I didn't teach you that."
Your fingers go a little slack. You stare wide-eyed up at the man above you, suddenly aware of exactly how it looks.
Big hands pull you from the floor and spin you around in one swift motion. You don't even have time to relish the vertigo before you're bent over the sink. The reflection shows Iida with his hair pushed back from his face, brows pulled tight as he ghosts a hand down your back.
"A-are you going to punish me now?"
A silly thing to ask, knowing exactly what this is, but…
You gasp, rocking forward as his hands pull you back onto him, being filled slowly and hotly, shivers working up your skin and raising the hair.
"So you've learned how to rile a man up, too?"
. . .Oh. . .
"I—" you pant sharply, the air in the bathroom still heavy with water, and your lungs can't get enough. "I don't know."
"Right," he says, fingers dug into your hips as he forces you back against him. Your hands slide on the counter's slick surface, and another flash of heat threatens to undo you after hearing the gravel in his chest. "I see."
You cry out, knees knocking together as you pant open-mouthed. It's too much again—deep, filling, fracturing the things you thought you knew about yourself.
"You don't need to worry about anything." He's hitting that spot again, and you're grateful to be in the bathroom instead of anywhere else. "Or feel like you have to do something for me." Your eyes roll up, fluttering as you wail beneath him.
"I'm—coming," it comes out weak. Nothing grand, just your body forcing itself tight and rigid, flooding you with staticky release and heat. Your ears feel muffled, your heart racing, your feet slipping in the warmth your body leaves behind.
And he presses on.
"All you need to do is enjoy everything I do for you."
You're twitchy again, tears spilling from your lash line, your face tingling.
"I want it so—so your body responds to me alone." You moan sharply at the end of his sentence, jumping as he slows his thrusts only just and trails his hands over your skin. You feel the heat he brings and takes. It can't be only in your head; it feels so real. . .
"I'll be the one in control. The thing that fills the gaps for you—" you keen, and he leans over you, cheek pressed to yours, arms hugged around you from the guttural, sweet sound. His hips stutter, something you only notice from the hitch in his voice and the renewed press on all your sensitive spots. "All you need to think about is you, all right?"
"Yes, yes! Okay—!" The relinquishing of control surprises even you, but— "Oh-kay, Iida-san."
It just feels right. Like what you've been chasing in others, trying to convince yourself of.
(That's. . . something you've been doing for a long time now.)
You can feel him release inside you, warm—hot, like his body draped over yours—and good.
Right.
Your thighs shake, your hands, your body exhausted again from the rush of blood. His hands release you, one flattening on your belly and pressing, the other dipping to circle at your clit. You don't make a fuss, taking the quick motions as the release comes quickly again, whining into the air until your core clenches, and he sighs deeply from the feeling, too.
"You're so beautiful," he says again, not even seeing you until you anchor your hand on the lip of the counter and push up. You look. . . wrecked.
And he smiles at the sight behind you, chin resting on your head as he hugs you against him. Your belly cramps a bit, but it's bearable in his hold.
You can now see the products lined on the counter, your eyes scanning them before doubling back. Your favorite lotion. . .
He meets your eyes through the reflection with that same, content curl of his lips. "I have your old clothes, too, in the closet. And I think you'll like the balcony here."
He starts to ease out of you, slow and careful, and the loss makes you clench around nothing. You whimper before you can stop it, and he laughs—soft, fond—pressing a kiss to your shoulder.
"Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you clean again."
*. ♥︎ ₊ ⊹ .ᐟ
You'd stopped fighting him somewhere between the second time he washed your back and the third time he told you he wasn't going anywhere.
He reaches for a towel, after, big and warm from the rack, and wraps it around you before you can reach for it yourself. His hands work the fabric over your skin, patting, pressing, absorbing the damp. He kneels to get your legs, your feet, and you watch the top of his head, the way his hair still drips onto his shoulders.
When he stands, he doesn't let go. Just pulls you into his chest, towel and all, and holds you there.
"You did so well," he murmurs into your hair. "Letting me take care of you. I know it's hard."
Your throat tightens. You press your face into his chest and breathe.
He carries you to the bed—he doesn’t ask, doesn’t guide you there. He lifts you as if you weigh nothing, as if you’re something precious, and lays you down on the sheets. Water drips from the ends of his hair onto your shoulders. The towel falls open beneath you, leaving your skin bare. He reaches over to the lamp, dims it, and the room turns amber and soft.
Your eyes follow him. In this familiar, comfortable space, you feel your body relaxing in slow increments. He comes back with a bundle of things—bottles, fabric, and more. He gently shifts you this way and that, and you watch as lotions soak into your skin, then a thick pair of his socks are rolled onto your feet. He doesn’t stop until you’re near snuffling, all sweet and soft from his care.
Just like before.
Now you were on his bed, back against the headboard, his t-shirt hanging loose on your frame. He hovered, but you couldn’t resist tilting your head and inhaling the shirt’s scent. The fabric smelled like him—sandalwood and something clean, something that made your chest ache.
He stood at the foot of the bed, towel slung low on his hips, and looked at you. Not at your body—though his eyes still took in everything—but really at you, as if he needed to be sure you were still real, still here, still his.
“You broke up with me,” he said quietly, like he's remembering. “Over something you overheard.”
You’d let the words spill earlier, somewhere between the gentle ways he’d been touching you. Now you dropped your gaze to your hands. “Iida-san, I—”
“Please.” Your brows dipped as you looked at him rubbing his fingertips together. “Say it outright.” There was a raw desperation in the way he held himself.
“. . .They. . .” You choked up.
“Tell me what they said.”
You swallowed. The words still burned.
She’s not mature enough for him. He’s going to realize it any day now. She’s holding him back.
“They said I wasn’t good enough for you.”
He moved then, slow and deliberate, climbing onto the bed until he knelt in front of you. His hands found your knees, parted them, and he settled between your legs. The towel was gone—you didn’t know when.
“Is that what you think?” His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of your thigh. “That I need you to be something other than what you are?”
“I didn’t want to hold you back.”
“You left me for that?” His jaw tightened. “You walked in, sat on that bar stool, and told me we had to break up. No explanation, sweetheart.”
The tears came before you could stop them. “I didn’t know how else to do it. I thought—I thought if I stayed, you’d eventually realize they were right.”
He caught your chin and tilted your face up. His eyes were dark, but the fire in them wasn’t anger. It was something rawer, something that looked like it deep aching.
“Let me tell you what I realized,” he said. “I realized you’re the only thing that makes sense. I realized weeks without you felt like drowning. I realized I’d transfer branches, move cities, burn my whole life down before I let you walk away from me again.”
“Iida-san—”
“I moved to your branch.” His voice cracked, just a little. “I followed you. Because there’s no version of my life that doesn’t have you in it.”
You reached for him, shaking fingers brushing his jaw. He turned into your touch like a man starved for it.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. You've never seen him as less than composed, even naked or sleeping.
He lets out a hot sigh, breath washing over your skin. “There’s nothing to forgive.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “You listen to me now. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I’m going to take care of you—every single part of you—until you don’t remember a single word they said.”
His mouth found yours, soft at first, like he was asking permission. You gave it, opened for him, and the kiss deepened into something hungrier. His hands slid up your thighs, pushed the hem of his shirt higher, and his fingers pressed into your skin as if he were memorizing the shape of you.
“Tell me you understand,” he said against your lips.
“I understand.”
“Tell me you’re staying.”
“. . .I’m staying.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing the tears from your cheek.
“Good.” His voice was rough, tender, final. “Because I’m never letting you go again.”
He lowered you onto the mattress, following you down, the weight of him pressing you into the sheets. His mouth traced your jaw, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones. Each kiss felt like a promise, each touch like a claim.
And when he settled between your thighs and looked up at you—your Iida, who crossed prefectures for you—you understood.
He keeps his mouth sealed over yours, tongue sliding deep while his fingers work between your thighs. Two thick digits pump steadily into your soaked pussy, curling to press that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. His thumb circles your swollen clit in tight, relentless strokes that make your hips jerk and your legs tremble.
Your back arches hard off the mattress. The orgasm crashes through you fast and brutal, pussy clenching around his fingers as wet heat floods out over his hand. He doesn't stop. He keeps rubbing, keeps fucking you with those fingers until your vision whites out and your voice breaks into helpless little sobs. You made a mess again, but the part of you to worry disappears.
How he wants it.
"That's it," he murmurs against your lips, voice low and rough. "Give it to me. All of it."
Your body convulses again, smaller aftershocks rippling through you while he slows his hand but doesn't pull away. He stays buried inside your twitching cunt, feeling every pulse. When he finally draws his fingers free they glisten, strings of your cum stretching between them before he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean.
He shifts his weight, settling his hips between your spread thighs. The hard line of his cock drags along your slick folds without pushing in. Just pressure. Just the promise of it. His lips brush yours again, softer now, almost tender.
"You wouldn't think of leaving again, would you?" The question vibrates against your mouth. His tongue pushes past your teeth, licking deep before he pulls back to nip at your lower lip. "You can't live without me anymore."
You lie beneath him, naked and shaking, arms loose at your sides. The sheets are damp under your ass. Your thighs are sticky. He watches your face closely, waiting.
"Well?"
"Yes—I'll never leave."
His mouth curves into a slow smile. One hand comes up to stroke through your hair, fingers gentle as they scratch your scalp. The motion makes you melt further into the mattress. He rolls his hips once, twice, letting the head of his cock nudge your clit with each pass.
"Who should you stay with?"
"You."
"Good, good." He keeps petting you, voice warm with approval. "Will you listen to what I say now?"
"I will, yes."
He leans down and kisses you again—your mouth, then each cheek, then the corner of your jaw. Strong arms slide under your back and he lifts you against his chest, holding you close while your legs wrap around his waist. Your covered breasts press to his chest. His heartbeat thuds steady against you.
"I love you, sweetheart. I love you, I do. You're mine. Only mine."
The words settle deep. Your body feels heavy and warm, every muscle loose from the orgasms. His cock still rests against your pussy, hard and ready, but he makes no move to fuck you yet. He just holds you, breathing you in, one hand stroking slow lines down your spine.
You stay exactly where you are.
He didn't want you to be anything other than exactly who you were.
He just wanted you to let him love you.
So you did.
*. ♥︎ ₊ ⊹ .ᐟ
You haven’t been back to your apartment since that day.
Three weeks on, the word home still sits strange in your mouth. Not the place you’d only half-furnished—just the bedroom. Not the building where the neighbor’s Sonic soundtrack bled through the walls until two in the morning. Home is here. His bathroom with the easily fogged mirror. Soft sheets that carry his scent even when they’re clean. His hands, which haven’t stopped reaching for you since he undressed you at the door.
“Stay here.”
You smile at his back as he turns toward the table, watching the shift of muscle beneath his skin. He returns with a small bottle of oil, pours a dollop into his palm, and reaches for your foot. His fingers find the arch, the heel, the tender space between your toes that aches after a day in heels.
“I know those shoes aren’t the kindest to your feet.” His thumbs press into the tenderness, slow and measured. “You can soak them afterward, alright?”
You hum, already melting into the cushions. His hands work the knot out of you as if he’s memorized every tight spot, pressing until each one gives way. The oil warms on your skin, and you let your eyes drift half-shut, watching him through your lashes.
He takes care of everything from the moment your shoes come off at the door. Your makeup, removed with cotton pads and that gentle, gliding motion he picked up by watching you. Your jewelry, unclasped and placed in the little dish on the entryway table—a habit from his mother, he once told you, handed down without a word. Your stockings, eased down your legs with a patience that still makes your breath hitch.
“Better?”
“Much.” You smile, soft and loose-limbed.
He straightens from his seiza, almost preening at your approval. It’s ridiculous, the way he lights up over something so tiny. A man who could command a room, now glowing because you said his massage felt good.
“We should go shopping for better ones soon,” he says, nodding toward your shoes by the door. “Something that won’t hurt.”
Soon. The word passes through you like a breeze. He says it every time. Still, he’s the one who sets your shoes out each morning, the one who lays your stockings beside the outfit he picked the night before, the one balanced on a knee slipping them on with care. The same person who guides you past the shoe shops when you’re walking together, his hand resting at the small of your back, steering the conversation elsewhere.
Soon means nothing, and everything. It says, I’ll take care of it. It says, Trust me.
And you do. With. . . near everything.
When he washes you in the bathtub, it's the same careful attention. He tests the water with his elbow first, like he's running a bath for a child. He wets a cloth, lathers it up, and drags it over your shoulders, your arms, the curve of your spine. His fingers find the knots in your neck and work them loose while the steam settles around you both. He doesn't rush. He doesn't let you rush, either—catches your wrist when you try to take the cloth from him, shakes his head, presses you back against his chest.
Let me.
And you do. Every time. Because something in you still can't quite believe this is yours. That he followed you. That he chose you, across branches and prefectures and the wreckage of your own cowardice.
You feel soft thinking about it. The kind of soft that makes your limbs feel like honey.
"Iida—"
His brow lifts. You stifle a giggle. The name slips out sometimes, and every time he looks at you like he's waiting to see which version of himself you want today.
"Tenya." You correct yourself, though the smile makes the word wobble.
"Yes, my love?"
You slip to the edge of the sofa, and his hands rise to catch you on instinct—always ready, always steady. You settle over his lap, fingers tangling in his hair, scratching over his shoulders. He cradles you closer, and you realize you'd forgotten how warm he runs. How the heat of him seeps through his shirt into your thighs. How it settles in your chest like a second heartbeat.
He leans close to your ear, tilting his head, his chest rumbling with amusement as if you’re being incredibly silly. “. . .I’m not letting you go again.” The words are barely a whisper, a secret shared on the air.
His hands still on your back. For a moment, he doesn't breathe.
Then he turns to you, surprise flickering across his face—those deep brows lifted, blue eyes reading yours. Searching. Making sure.
Whatever he finds makes something in him break open.
He pulls you tighter, somehow more secure than before, and nuzzles into your neck. His glasses press into your skin, and you know they're leaving smudges; little prints he'll have to wipe clean later, deep enough to leave marks in your skin that he'll fuss over. You don't care. Because when he looks up at you through blurry lenses some minutes later, his eyes are wet and bright and he's looking at you like you're his saving grace.
He leans up to kiss you. Soft at first, then deeper, his mouth moving against yours like he's tasting a prayer. Your fingers play with his ear, trace the shell of it, and he shudders against you.
You can't even begin to imagine living a life without him.
And the terrifying, wonderful thing is—you don't have to.