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There was something that always fascinated Satoru whenever they entangled themselves with each other. He always looked forward to pushing Utahime's buttons, seeing the way her smooth skin turn warm and flushed whenever he teased her, make her made, make her feel good whenever they entangled their limbs with each other.
She would always fire back, snap at him with that indignation and fierce tongue she had, ad tell him that he was being disrespectful and she didn't like him.
But that was all null, when she would always end up in his arms, clutching his shirts, his shoulders, pressing against him with her own warmth and allowed him to taste her.
Today was no different, as they were in her living room, after he was let in (He allowed himself in as she protest like always) and was just drinking her juice, warching her tv in her own living room while she was beside him on the couch with a beer in hand. It was always like this. He would wear just a white t-shirt, basketball shorts and his usual sunglasses, and she would only wear a tank top, some shorts and the pretty little white bow she tied her hair with, which was something he gave her years back as a gift.
He could remember when he gave it to her a birthday present years back, back when he just graduated from Jujutsu High, and crashed she and Shoko's girls night for her birthday.
The look of surprise, and the slow acceptance on her face as she received the bow from him was something that he burned into his mind forever, especially when Shoko helped tie her hair with it, and she had a small smile when she looked at the mirror to see how it looked.
She was beautiful then, and she was even more beautiful now.
It didn’t take long for Utahime to get a bit tipsy, clinging onto him as she watched the baseball games she would always watch and would probably go to the see herself at the stadiums if she ever got tickets. Maybe he should buy some for her next time when they hang out again, but before he could fully think about it, Utahime laid her head on his lap in a drunken stupor. She must have drank a bit too much.
He glanced at the table, and saw three bottles empty. Yup, definitely drunk Utahime already is here. He couldn't help but grin, as he pulled out his phone and took some pictures of drunk Utahime's face, her sleepy face and her flushed express-
She suddenly looked up at him, and he couldn't help but get lost in those honey brown eyes. He always heard he had beautiful eyes, because he did of course, but he would always say the most beautiful pair he ever saw was Utahime's. The brown honey colour, the warm glow when she looked at her students, look at her friends and family... and the way she looked at him whenever they fucked or just doing whatever they were doing in this relationship they had with each other.
Not friends, not lovers and honestly he so wanted to put a name on it, but even he wasn't sure what she felt for him or even if she thought it more than sex. And so far, he could care less.
Satoru chuckled softly, tucking his phone away as Utahime blinked up at him with unfocused eyes, her breath warm against his thigh. "S'not funny," she slurred, clumsily patting his chest. "Yer... yer takin' pictures." Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until her nose bumped against his stomach. The scent of beer and her lavender shampoo filled his senses as she mumbled into his shirt, "Stupid Six Eyes... always watchin' me." Her grip tightened possessively, knuckles whitening, as if anchoring herself to him while the world spun. Outside, the distant cheers from the televised game faded into static—just the ragged rhythm of her breathing and the frantic drumming beneath his ribs where her palm rested.
Satoru smirked, letting his hands wander about. Reaching down to her stomach, he let himself brush his fingers against the soft smoothness of her skin, as he let himself feel her stomach which was exposed as her tank top rode up, allowing a view of her taut belly. "Hmm... I think it's very funny, Hime." He hummed as he continued to brush his fingers around, loving how she flushed against him, knowing clearly it wasn't completely the alcohol's fault for it.
Utahime shivered under his touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips as his fingers traced idle patterns just below her ribs. "Stop... teasing," she murmured, but her body arched subtly into his hand, betraying her words. Her eyes drifted shut, lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks. The bow in her hair—his bow—had slipped sideways, a loose strand of dark hair clinging to her damp temple. Satoru’s thumb brushed it away, lingering on the pulse point beneath her jaw.
He could feel the hitch in her breath when his palm settled low on her belly, warm and possessive. "Who’s teasing?" His voice dropped to a whisper, rough at the edges. "Just admiring the view." Her skin trembled where he touched her, the silence between them thick with the unspoken things—the late-night calls, the way she’d sigh his name like a secret, the fact she’d never once taken off that damned bow.
It drove him crazy. She always did without knowing it herself.
Utahime’s eyes snapped open, honey-brown irises sharpening despite the alcohol haze—a flicker of that familiar fire. "Admire quietly," she muttered, but her hand slid from his chest to grip his wrist, not pushing him away, just holding him there against her skin. Her thumb brushed the inside of his pulse point, a silent counter-tease. The television’s glow washed over them, casting long shadows as the crowd roared for a home run neither noticed. Satoru’s smirk faded into something quieter, more intent and meaningful. He leaned down, close enough to taste the beer on her breath, and whispered, "Make me." Her laugh was a soft puff against his lips, defiant and yielding all at once.
Satoru’s breath caught—a rare stutter—as Utahime’s laughter dissolved into a challenge held in her gaze. Her fingers tightened around his wrist, not to stop him, but to guide his hand lower, past the waistband of her shorts. The fabric was thin, worn soft from years of wear, and he could feel the heat radiating from her skin beneath. Her eyes never left his, that honey-brown depth holding something fierce and unguarded. "Go on," her silent dare seemed to say, "see if you’re still just admiring." The air thickened, charged with the weight of every unspoken word between them—the late nights, the shared glances across crowded rooms, the way she kept that damn bow perfectly tied even now. Outside, the baseball game’s roar faded into white noise, replaced by the ragged hitch of Utahime’s breath as Satoru’s fingertips brushed the damp lace edge of her underwear. Her hips lifted, just slightly, pressing into his touch.
Satoru’s fingers hooked into the lace, a slow, deliberate drag that drew a sharp inhale from Utahime. Her back arched off the couch cushions, pressing her body flush against his. The bow slipped completely free, dark hair spilling across his thigh like ink. "Satoru—" His name broke on her lips, half-protest, half-plea, as he traced the wet heat beneath the fabric. Her thighs trembled, clamping around his wrist, trapping his hand there. He watched her—the flutter of her eyelids, the desperate bite of her lower lip—and knew this wasn’t drunkenness anymore. It was surrender. It was Utahime unraveling for him, just for him, in the dim glow of a forgotten game.
Oh how he just wanted this sight, this image of her to be only for him. Only for him. Only for him. Only for hi-
He pressed his fingers against her damp spot, running it torturously slow and steady, watching as she fluttered her eyes, gasping for more, unravelling herself to him. He could feel his dick getting hard beneath her, getting off to the beautiful sight of her wrecked and breathless for him. He wanted more, more and more of it, of her.
Utahime gasped, her hips jerking against his trapped hand as Satoru’s thumb pressed firm circles over her clit through soaked lace. "Look at me," he commanded, voice thick. Her eyes flew open—dilated pupils swallowing honey-brown—as she whimpered, nails digging crescent moons into his forearm. The television flickered, illuminating the sweat-slicked hollow of her throat when she threw her head back. Satoru drank in every twitch, every stifled cry, the way her free hand fisted in his shorts’ fabric, pulling him impossibly closer. Her thighs trembled, clamping tighter around his wrist as he felt her flutter against his fingers—close, so close—and he knew, with vicious satisfaction, that this unraveling was his alone to witness.
"Cum for me, Hime.." He whispered to her, breathing near her the shell of her ear, wanting to see her get her release, get off because of him. Utahime’s breath hitched—a raw, shattered sound—as Satoru’s command slithered into her ear. His thumb pressed harder, relentless, circling her clit with bruising precision. Her body arched violently, thighs clamping like a vise around his wrist as a choked sob tore free. "S-Sa—!" Her plea dissolved into a wordless cry, back bowing off the couch as pleasure detonated through her. He felt it—the frantic flutter against his fingers, the slick heat soaking his hand, the tremors wracking her frame as she came undone against him. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears glistening on her lashes, mouth slack and gasping. Satoru watched, mesmerized, as she collapsed bonelessly against his thigh, chest heaving, the bow now lost somewhere in the cushions. Only the ragged sound of her breathing filled the silence.
Satoru’s hand remained trapped between her thighs, slick and trembling, as Utahime’s breath slowly steadied against his leg. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and vulnerable, meeting his gaze with a rawness that made his chest tighten. He didn’t move, didn’t speak—just watched the flush deepen across her cheeks as awareness seeped back in. Outside, dawn’s first light bled through the curtains, painting the room in soft grays and golds, erasing. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of what she’d offered him—her life, her soul—and what he’d taken instead. Her fingers, still tangled in the fabric of his shorts, loosened slowly, as if reluctant to let go. She shifted, wincing at the ache between her legs, and Satoru finally withdrew his hand, knuckles glistening. Utahime turned her face into his thigh, hiding her expression, but he felt the tremor that ran through her. The bow lay discarded beside them, a crumpled white accusation.
Satoru lifted his damp fingers, glistening in the pale dawn light filtering through the curtains. Utahime flinched as he brought them to his lips, tasting her salt and sweetness with deliberate slowness—a silent claim. Her eyes widened, raw and exposed, before she buried her face deeper into his thigh, muffling a shaky inhale. The discarded bow lay tangled in the cushions like a fallen promise. Outside, the distant city began to stir, oblivious to the fracture widening between them on that worn couch. He traced the curve of her spine through her thin tank top, feeling the tremors she couldn’t hide. Tremors she wanted more of from him in other ways.
The silence thickened, broken only by Utahime’s ragged breaths and the distant hum of Tokyo waking. Satoru’s hand lingered on her spine, fingertips tracing the knobs of her vertebrae through damp fabric. She didn’t pull away, but her stillness felt like a held breath—a fragile truce. His own arousal throbbed, ignored, secondary to the rawness in her hunched shoulders. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Hime," he murmured, the word rough with unspent want. Her shiver was answer enough. She turned her face toward him, eyes dark pools of exhaustion and lingering need. No words. Just her palm sliding tentatively up his thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his shorts, pulling him closer. An invitation. A surrender. The bow lay forgotten on the floor.
Satoru’s breath hitched as Utahime’s fingers dug into the fabric of his shorts, pulling him toward her with silent urgency. Her eyes held his—dark, liquid, stripped bare—as she guided his hand back to the soaked lace still clinging to her hips. "Show me," she breathed against his collarbone. "Show me how much you want this." Her voice trembled, raw. He didn’t hesitate. His palm slid beneath the waistband, past damp curls, finding her swollen, aching heat. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as he pressed two fingers deep, curling them in a way that made her back arch off the couch. "Like this?" he growled, watching her unravel again—not from drunkenness, but from the sheer force of his claim. Her thighs clamped around his wrist, slickness coating his skin as she nodded frantically, eyes wide and wild.
Satoru’s fingers moved with ruthless precision, curling deep inside her as his thumb pressed hard against her clit. Utahime’s cry shattered the dawn stillness—raw, unfiltered, echoing off the walls as her body convulsed. He watched her unravel, transfixed: the flutter of her eyelids, the desperate bite of her lip, the way her hips ground against his hand like a plea for more. When her trembling subsided, he withdrew slowly, fingers glistening. Before she could catch her breath, he pinned her wrists above her head, knees spreading her thighs wider. "Mine," he growled, sinking teeth into the tender juncture of her neck. She gasped, arching—not in protest, but surrender—as he claimed her mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. Outside, the city’s distant hum faded beneath the slick sound of his shorts tearing open, allowing him to release his aching hard cock with a sigh of relief.
Satoru’s hands tore at the fabric of her shorts, the sound sharp in the heavy silence. Utahime gasped, not in protest but in ragged anticipation, switching her position and her legs wrapping around his waist as he yanked the ruined garment aside. He surged into her with a single thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Her cry was muffled against his shoulder—a raw, broken sound that echoed the ache between them. She clung to him, nails scoring his back as he moved, each deep stroke a brutal punctuation to the unspoken words hanging in the air. The couch groaned beneath them, the only witness to her shuddering breaths and the slick, desperate rhythm of their bodies. Dawn painted streaks of gold across her sweat-slicked skin, illuminating the tears caught in her lashes—not of pain, but of surrender and pleasure.
She then did something that absolutely ruined him.
She begged.
She begged for him to harder, rougher, bruise her, faster. She rode him as he thrusted into her from below, watching as he saw her breast bouncing and delicious to witness, her skin completely flushed against him, and her voice letting out those sounds that he loved to hear.
Satoru obeyed instantly, his hands bruising her hips as he slammed her down onto him with punishing force, each thrust driving a sharp cry from her lips. Utahime’s back arched, breasts bouncing, the bow now lost entirely as her hair whipped wildly around her flushed face. "Harder—please," she gasped, nails raking down his chest, drawing blood. He growled, flipping her onto her stomach, pinning her wrists behind her back as he pounded into her from behind, the wet slap of skin echoing in the dawn-lit room. Her choked sobs mingled with his name—raw, desperate—as she pushed back against him, taking him deeper, begging for the ruin only he could give. The couch shuddered beneath them, a silent witness to her surrender.
The violence of their coupling echoed off the walls—Utahime’s choked pleas, the brutal slap of skin, the groan of overstressed springs beneath them. Satoru drove into her like he wanted to carve himself into her bones, fingers locked around her wrists, pinning her arched back against his chest. Her cries sharpened into something feral, primal, as he hit a depth that stole her breath. He watched, mesmerized, as tears tracked through the sweat on her cheeks, her body shuddering with each punishing thrust. 'Mine', the thought roared through him, louder than her gasps. 'All mine.' Her head fell back against his shoulder, exposing the bite marks purpling her throat, her eyes rolling back as another climax tore through her—silent this time, a full-body convulsion that clenched around him like a vise. He followed instantly, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as he emptied himself inside her, hips stuttering against her ass. They collapsed forward, Utahime’s trembling form pressed into the cushions, Satoru’s weight heavy atop her, both panting in the sudden, ringing silence. Outside, a bird chirped.
The silence stretched, thick with the scent of sex and sweat and spilled beer. Satoru's head rolled off the couch cushion, Utahime limp beneath him, her cheek pressed to the damp fabric. Her breath hitched—a wet, broken sound—as he shifted his weight off her, his softening cock slipping free with a slick sound that made her flinch. He traced the bruises blooming on her hip with a thumb, possessive and tender. Outside, sunlight cut through the curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing above the carnage of empty bottles and discarded clothes. Utahime didn't move, her eyes fixed on the crumpled white bow lying near her knee. Satoru watched her, the raw vulnerability in the line of her spine twisting something sharp inside his chest. He reached for her hand. Her fingers trembled, then curled around his, tight.
The silence deepened, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city waking. Utahime’s fingers tightened around Satoru’s, her knuckles white as she stared at the bow—the symbol of a decade’s worth of tangled history. He traced the bruises along her hipbone, the possessive gesture softening as dawn light revealed the tear tracks on her cheeks.
When she finally spoke, her voice was raw, stripped bare: "What are we doing, Satoru?" The question hung between them, heavier than the scent of sex and spilled beer, more dangerous than the carnage surrounding their tangled limbs.
And he could only say this.
"I don't know."
But I don't want to- I can't stop.
He gripped her hand tighter with what consciousness effort he could do. She could only close her eyes, as she fell asleep in the cushions.
Wrapping her fingers just as tightly against his own as she did.
Yeah, he couldn't stop this. Never.