you know you make my cold heart warm with a touch ; kiyoomi sakusa.
pairing kiyoomi sakusa x f!reader
word count 7.1k
synopsis how else can kiyoomi show you how close to his heart he keeps you than by fucking into you so deep, you’re pretty sure you can feel him reaching for yours?
content contains hurt/comfort, past abusive/toxic relationship (not with any canon characters), clingy & crybaby reader, vaginal fingering, creampie, lots of love declarations, size difference, belly bulge, soft!sakusa <3
You’ve been acting differently lately.
Sakusa’s always been perceptive, especially when it comes to you, but he can’t figure out what exactly went wrong. It starts off with little things, things that he can choose to ignore or brush off easily by chalking it up to you having a bad day or just not being in the mood.
Normally, you’re unlocking the door for him before he can even reach into his pockets to pull out his key. On the instances you’re not, the moment he opens up the door himself, you’re practically sprinting to him, arms wrapping around his body before he can even set his gym bag down, showering his face with kisses and greeting him as if he’s come back from war. Even on the days where you’re sick, you still bundle yourself in fluffy blankets, camping out in the living room, letting out an excited albeit tired “Kiyoomi!” when he makes his way to you.
You barely even greet him when he gets home now. He’s lucky to even get a “oh, hey, Kiyoomi” before you’re returning back to whatever has your attention on your phone screen. He knows it’s probably immature of him, but he kinda misses your overzealous attitude. It’s nice, sometimes, to know that someone likes you enough to miss you and wants to celebrate your return even if you’ve only been gone for a couple of hours.
You’ve always been clingy, and Sakusa’s always been the type of person who doesn’t like people in his personal space. It only takes him a couple of weeks full of longing stares, shy smiles, and him wanting to chase after the scent of your perfume every time you pass him by that makes him realize that it’s not necessarily him not liking people invading his personal space; it’s just that the right person hasn’t ever been by his side before.
He doesn’t care, he realizes, if it’s you. You, going from hesitant to holding his hand to clinging onto his bicep and forearm whenever you two are walking. You, texting him every second you get (there’s a lot of seconds in a day where you’re free), and him using any opportunity he can to FaceTime you.
(He gets a little sad when he’s scrolling through his old texts — really, these are texts from just last week, but the distant behavior you’ve been exhibiting is so far from what he’s used to that it feels like he’s been without his sun for months — and sees that you’re not updating him on your life at a minutely basis. There are no more notifications lighting up his phone screen during his practices, no more texts from [name] 💖 — you added the pink heart; he pretends he’s been too busy to erase it — asking him “are you free to ft?” or “baby i miss u & also look at my nails!!!! i got them to match ur jersey for the game hehe <33333”.)
You would always find some way to be touching him, and even if you’re in separate rooms in the apartment, you would still try to hold a conversation with him despite the walls blocking the flow of it. It’s only been one week, but he’s not sure where this behavior is coming from.
Once you got over your shyness and the tension of being in a new relationship and not wanting to mess it up has completely disappeared, you never had any issues with clinging onto him, practically unashamed at how you always wanted his attention. This behavior would be annoying from anyone else, but it’s you. You, his sweet girl, his cute girl, his perfect girl. The person he wants invading his personal space for the rest of his life, to the point where he’s got a box and a question that’s waiting to be asked.
Usually, you like to suggest for him to take you out for date night. There’s always some new restaurant or club or festival going on, and you seem to always know about them. Tonight, when he asks you if there were any spots you wanted to check out, he’s disappointed but not surprised to hear that you don’t have a preference. Normally, you would talk his ear off in the days leading up to date night, cutely begging him to take you out to whatever spot is trending on social media. Your silence gives him enough answers for the questions he wants to ask.
You’re biting down on your lip as you watch Kiyoomi scroll on his phone. The two of you are in the living room, a rare night in. You hadn’t researched any new date spots because going on social media for you right now is the equivalent of walking into an active minefield with no protective gear. It’s a suicide mission. It’s a death wish. If you feel like crying and throwing up, maybe you would open your phone and click on one of the many articles headlining all the EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS OF MSBY’S SAKUSA COZYING UP WITH SUPERMODEL SAKURA DURING MATCH BREAKS!, but after accidentally stumbling upon the first one, you’ve had enough of MSBY’s Sakusa’s dating speculations to last you a lifetime.
The first night you saw the headline practically screaming at you, curiosity had you in a fucking chokehold. You’ll be fine is what you fooled yourself into believing. Kiyoomi is different.
Besides, stories like these are just clickbait articles that some aspiring journalist looking to make some dinner money will come up with in order to survive. You can’t fault them for wanting to turn something innocent into something wild and completely far off from the truth.
But rumors are rooted in the truth. Something can’t just come from nothing, you know.
You swathed yourself in your comfort blankets, too sad to even go about your day. Not when the photos tell you that maybe Sakusa is cozying up with a supermodel. Not when the article spins a timeline of the potential dating history between him and her. Not when you’re barely mentioned, merely brushed off as Sakusa’s potential ex-girlfriend. (You don’t miss the speculative jab from the author, wondering if there’s a reason why Sakusa doesn’t post you. Even though you already know he’s not the most active person on social media or even that open with his fans about his personal life, it still hurts that your Snapchat memories are filled with nothing but photos and videos of him, and there’s hardly anything including you that he shares online.)
You made a joke one time. Something about how you’re so good at thinking that it only takes a few seconds for you to start overthinking. Overanalyzing. Overdramatizing every minor situation. Over over over ‘cause you’re just overflowing with emotions and feelings, filled with too much to the point where it all spills out, your heart left to bleed out on your sleeves. Everything inside of you is too much for you to handle. Everything about you is too much for anyone to handle.
But for a while, you did a good job in convincing yourself that Kiyoomi Sakusa isn’t like anyone else. He’s definitely not like your ex, the only other person you’ve been with before Kiyoomi. Or maybe, a tiny voice inside your head, the taunting one you haven’t heard from in quite some time, suggests, maybe your ex was right. Maybe all boys will treat you like shit ‘cause you’re not the type of girl worth stressing over.
Toys are only interesting when they’re still shiny and new. Once you see the same tricks performed hundreds of time, it gets boring, and then from there, it’s only a matter of time ‘til it’s replaced with something shiny and new, thrown out to the curb to decay in a landfill with other used up and broken things.
You rationalized, in the beginning of your relationship with Kiyoomi, that you were already a used up, broken toy when he met you. (The way he looks at you, though, makes you forget about those feelings.)
You want to cry your little heart out. You’ve been told by your ex that you’re ugly when you do so, that your little sobs are just pathetic and grating, that it’s stupid of you to cry over shit that doesn’t matter, that he can give you a real reason to cry if you don’t just shut the fuck up. It’s why you rarely ever cry in front of people now — out of fear that maybe it is annoying.
You try to force yourself to get up, to move, to do anything to take your anxious mind off of thoughts about Kiyoomi leaving you for some supermodel, but you can’t. You’re rooted firmly in your little pile of blankets, and all you can do is toss your phone on the floor and burrow yourself deeper into the soft fabric. You’re not quite sleeping when he comes out, so you don’t miss the way Kiyoomi calls out your name when he enters the apartment.
His voice is softer when he repeats your name. You can hear him walking into the bedroom, and even if your eyes are closed, you can still feel his presence when he makes his way to your side of the bed.
You try not to flinch or turn away from him when you feel his cool hand brushing back some of your hair, rubbing your cheekbone with his thumb. It’s easy not to move away when your natural instinct is to lean into his touch. So, you do a good enough job at remaining still and silent, even when he presses a kiss to your forehead, saying something under his breath that you can’t quite hear.
He leaves the room, and you hear the distinct shut of the front door, the locks turning into place.
Kiyoomi did not return home ‘til later that evening. By the time he does, you’re glad all your tears have dried.
You know the signs of when someone is cheating on you. (Although, your ex-boyfriend had convinced you for a while that it’s not cheating if he doesn’t feel the same emotional connection with the other girls that he does with you. You’re not sure why you bought into all his stories.) How many times did your ex assume you were sleeping before leaving the house to fuck someone else?
It doesn’t help that when you’re doing the laundry, you can smell the faint traces of women’s perfume lingering on his clothes. Perfume that you don’t wear. You almost feel sick to your stomach when the sickly sweet scent hits your nose.
(It’s not the scent making you feel this way; it’s the fact that history has a bad habit of repeating itself, and you’re pairing it with your bad habit of always choosing the worst men to give yourself to.)
You at least have experience this time. Your ex has told you time and time again that he doesn’t like the fact that you’re so overbearing, always wanting to know if he’s ate yet or when he’s coming home. He didn’t like that you always wanted to touch him (unless, of course, he was horny). He didn’t like the fact that you always had to bring up your stupid feelings in every conservation, how you were always under the impression that you two needed to talk things out every time there was a “problem”. He spat the word out at you, making you feel like any time you felt upset about his actions didn’t stem from any rational thoughts but rather your paranoid brain playing tricks on you. It took you a long time to realize that all he was doing was spoonfeeding (more like forcefully shoving down) you nothing but lies used to manipulate you into staying with him.
Kiyoomi’s always been very open, though. For someone who doesn’t talk as much as others, everything he says is what he means. Communicative. He’s communicative. He’s communicative and caring and he listens to you — like really listens to you, down to the most miniscule details about your day you choose to share with him. He treats you so kindly and gently, always giving in to whatever crazy scheme you’re coming up with. He talks about you to his friends — you know this because he actually introduced them to you. Being with Kiyoomi is like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.
Up until now, that is.
Now, the unspoken distance between the two of you, the hesitancy to talk to him, the feeling that everything good is about to be snatched away from your greedy hands — now it’s all coming back, slamming into you like a semi truck, hitting you right where it hurts. There’s this familiar feeling washing over you, like you’re tiptoeing, trying to avoid broken glass lest you start bleeding, making a mess, giving him a reason to yell. He’s never yelled at you before. In all the two years you two have been together, Kiyoomi has never taken a harsh tone with you nor has he raised his voice or his hand. He has you beat, both in height and muscle mass, and never has he made you cower in fear from being smaller than him.
You can feel your bottom lip trembling at the thought of him hurting you. He doesn’t seem like the type who would, but you also never would have thought he would ever cheat on you, and look where the two of you are now: sitting on the same couch with enough space between the two of you to be deemed Covid guideline approved, both of you not saying a word.
He’s getting up now, though. There’s a sudden urge to grab at his sleeve, yank him back, beg him not to leave you, to stay for just a second longer — all you need is just a second to convince him that you promise to do a better job in making him happy — and you almost do. The only thing stopping you is your past experience.
Your ex never did like your clingy nature.
You cringe at all the times you’ve made yourself at home by Kiyoomi’s side. You remember how just last week, you’ve been constantly texting him tiny updates about your day. (He always individually replies to each text, but now you’re certain he did it out of obligation.) You did it. You finally did it. You revealed your true nature to the most perfect man in existence, therefore pushing him away from you. You could’ve kept yourself in check! You could’ve… You could’ve watered yourself down, bottled up all those annoying tendencies of yours, keep them hidden away so he wouldn’t be running for the hills.
It’s why you’ve been giving him his space. Isn’t this what he wanted? Kiyoomi’s a man; he definitely wouldn’t want to sit down and listen to you explain how hurt you feel about those dating scandals, articles that were written entirely out of his control. You know he probably doesn’t enjoy the way you’re always so grabby with him, constantly needing to have your greedy hands interlocked with his own, or clutching his arm, or even just holding onto the fabric of his long sleeve shirts. How pathetic and annoying he must think you are.
You can’t help it; you’re crying now. Pathetic little whimpers leave from in between your trembling lips until they morph into something truly hideous and grating — sobs that leave your poor shoulders shaking, vision blurred from all the tears. In an instance, Kiyoomi is kneeling down on the carpet, making himself eye level with you, large hands gently rubbing at your shaking shoulders.
“Don’t.” You turn away from him, letting his hands slip from your body. “If y-you’re going to leave, then just fucking do it, Kiyoomi.”
You don’t like being mean. Maybe it’s because your feelings get hurt so easily or maybe it’s because you’ve got an empathetic heart two times too big for your body or maybe it’s because you’ve been treated so horribly in the past, that the idea of putting anyone through the same pain you’ve felt for years is just horrifying. Maybe it’s all of the fucking above.
You can’t breathe, you can hardly say anything coherent now (not like your jumbled mess of thoughts are helpful), and you’re pushing away the only person you want to hang onto because you’ve never been taught on how to get someone to stay.
(The trick is, you’re not supposed to need to convince the right person to stay.
The fact of the matter is, Kiyoomi Sakusa does not need any convincing to stay.)
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
What’s that supposed to mean? You remember the way your ex spat out the same exact words to you, making you want to sink into the floor and never be heard from again. He was always so good at belittling you, making you feel like maybe you’re turning nothing into something like you always do.
Like you must be doing right now.
It’s all coming back to you now, until you’re curled up on the couch, crying like the world’s gonna end (because if Kiyoomi is truly leaving you, it might as well be). Past and present and the ever so dismal future are blending into the worst movie montage ever in your mind, and you don’t know what to do. You can’t say what’s on your mind because if you do, you’re so sure he’s going to be packing his bags and running for the fucking hills — or worse yet, running to that supermodel who can give him the world while all you give him are migraines. Even if you wanted to talk, it’s not like there’s any way for you to be taken seriously when all your would-be sentences are going to be interrupted with an annoying sob.
You know what it means! You want to shout at him.
Instead, all you do is let out a garbled up sentence that sounds an awful lot like “leave me alone!”.
He’s good at respecting boundaries. He knows when to cross over the line, and when to stay behind it. He sees the caution tape, and he backs up, watching from a respectful distance. It stems from the fact that he’s the type of person who values his own personal space being respected, and he’s never found it hard to keep to himself before. Before you.
He swallows hard. He wants to protest. He wants to reassure you. Most of all, he wants to hold you in his arms and wipe away your tears and get you to tell him what’s causing you all this pain and how can he make it better because he just wants you to feel better. He knows he’s not the boss of you, but for once, he just wants to tell you to trust him and don’t push him away. But if you want him gone, he’ll do it.
He nods, even though he’s not even sure if you’re paying attention to him. He’s slowly getting up, grabbing his phone and the keys. The idea of sleeping on Atsumu’s couch for the night is enough to make him want to break out into hives. The idea that you want him gone is still pushed to the forefront of his mind though. Did he do something wrong? He wants to turn around. He’s barely taken two steps and he wants to turn around, get back down on his knees, and beg you to tell him where he went wrong and how he can fix this mess.
You’ve always been very forthcoming about your wants and needs, though. Almost as if you don’t want to leave room for misinterpretation. The shout of “leave me alone” from you is enough for any person, really, to get the picture.
You wonder if it’s obvious when you cry harder. Of course he’s fucking leaving. You only screamed at him to do so, and Kiyoomi isn’t the type to question you when you seem serious enough about something. It’s the same situation you’ve found yourself in all the time in your previous relationship.
No. It can’t be. You can’t have a repeat of your last relationship.
You get up from the couch, making your way to Kiyoomi who’s already at the front door, but he stands still for a second, turning his head back to watch you practically fall on him. He wraps his arm around your body because that’s what he thinks his body’s been designed to do: hold you, protect you, catch you when you fall. (Everything about him has been adjusted for you: his feet are meant for making his way to you, his mouth is meant to be pressed up against yours, his heart only beats to the rhythm of the syllables of your name…)
“Pl-please don’t.” You cry out. “I’m sorry, ‘Yoomi. Please don’t go to her! I learned my lesson, I pr-promise!” Maybe he’ll think you’re pathetic. Maybe he’s always thought that. But when you have everything to lose, you resort to desperate measures. Maybe hanging onto him will only force him to pull away even harder, but you want to have him in your hands for just a second longer. You’re being selfish and greedy with him, but you can’t find too much fault in yourself (ha! — isn’t that a first?). When you leave someone out in the cold, even a warm touch can set them aflame. You’ve gotten too used to all those sweet, warm feelings you get with him. It would’ve been better if he treated you badly; it would have made him leaving you hurt a little less.
“What?” His eyebrows are furrowed together, but he doesn’t want to push you away to take a closer look at your face. You’re burrowing yourself into him, hands clutching at the front of his sports jacket, and he’s got both arms wrapped around you like he’s scared you’re going to disappear at any second now. “Who is ‘her’? What lesson am I—”
You think he’s cheating.
You think he’s cheating. You think he’s cruel, and a cheater, and a liar, and that he’s some asshole who’s gonna fuck someone else as a means to teach you a lesson.
He wants to get angry. Not at you. He can’t be mad at you. At your ex. The one you always try your hardest not to talk about. The one who’s the reason why you think Kiyoomi’s going to leave you. His hold on you only tightens.
“No, baby.” He tries his hardest to sound gentle, to watch the tone of his voice. You’re sensitive, that he knows. “No, I would never cheat on you.” And then he thinks, how many times have you heard this line?
You’re not crying nearly as hard, but you still refuse to look up at him, and he refuses to push himself back to take a proper look at you.
“C’mon, baby, talk to me. Please.” He’s not the type of person who begs, but he’s pleading with you now. “You can yell at me, scream at me, but just tell me what you’re thinkin’ about. I’ll tell you everything you want, you just have to ask me.”
Eventually, you do pull a tiny fraction away from him, just so you can look up at him. “Are you cheating on me?” The moment the question leaves your mouth, you want to run away and cover your ears so you don’t hear the answer.
The hurt expression on his face is too real for any actor to impersonate.
“You are the only person I want to be with, [Name].” It’s not the conviction that he says the words with that has you believing him. It’s the way he’s looking at you. You’ve never been looked at like this before.
No, you realize. Kiyoomi’s always looked at you like this.
“Your clothes smelled like perfume. There are literally dozens of articles saying you’re in a relationship with a supermodel, and you were going to walk out—”
“I was asking Sakura what women liked.” Most people would roll their eyes at you right now. They would not be stroking your cheek or speaking to you so kindly, as if you didn’t just accuse them of being a cheater. “I wanted to get you an anniversary gift, and she brought perfume samples from the company she does commercials for. I’ve got a bottle wrapped up, hiding in my sock drawer for you that smells exactly like it, if you don’t believe me.” But he’s frowning now. “I never knew you cared about those articles.”
You don’t. Because every other time it comes up, you make a comment about the latest headline featuring your boyfriend’s name, and every time, he follows it up with a rant about how annoying journalists can be and how speculative fans only serve to instigate the drama some more. You think his rants are funny; it’s the only time he ever talks as much as you do, and there’s so much genuine dislike for the articles that you know you have nothing to worry about.
“I really don’t. It’s just…”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“…you don’t want me to?” Your voice sounds like you’re on the verge of tears again.
“I love hearing you talk to me, baby, but you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want me to know, y’know that?”
“My ex said that no guy wants to hear about my bullshit feelings.”
“I’m going to kick his ass one day.” Kiyoomi mutters this in your ear as he leans down even further to give you a quick, reassuring kiss on your lips.
“So violent, ‘Yoomi.” For the first time this week, you find yourself smiling as he kisses your nose and then your whole entire face, from your tear streaked cheeks to the edge of your jaw. You’ve always been leaning towards being a pacifist, but the idea of Kiyoomi willing to get his knuckles bloody for you has you smiling even wider. Maybe some violence is a bit justifiable.
“I want to hear everything about you.” He scoops you up, carrying you bridal style, letting you wrap your arms around his neck to hang on to him. “I want to know everything there is to know about you.”
“You already do.” You admit. It’s proven in the five hours FaceTime calls, the hundreds of texts you spam him with, the way you give him a play-by-play of your whole entire day the entire time you two are cooking dinner together. He knows that bitch you soft blocked on your Instagram, your favorite meals, the names and faces of all your friends to the point where he feels like they could be his by extension.
He’s heading straight for the bedroom, gently kicking open the door that was never fully shut to begin with.
“Really? Let’s do a little quiz then.” He sets you on the bed before slotting his body over yours, arms resting on either side of you, thoroughly caging you in. You don’t feel trapped, not in the slightest. There’s a sort of warm comfort in knowing that Kiyoomi’s always gonna be your shield from the world.
“Favorite color?” You let out a giggle as you feel his lips press against your neck, the curls of his hair tickling your jaw as he sucks on your soft skin, eager to leave a mark on you.
“Highlighter yellow. At least, that’s what you told me before.” You can feel the way his lips move when they work to form the words he says. He’s going to leave an array of hickeys on your neck, you just know it.
You like highlighter yellow; not because it’s the most aesthetically pleasing color in the world — far from it, to be honest — but it’s the color of the track jacket he was wearing when you first met him.
You curl your fingers in his hair, sinking further into the fluff of the comforter set. “Correct. That’s one point for you, ‘Yoomi.”
“Did the salon ever get that color of yours you like so much back in stock?” He pretends like he’s trying to remember the color name, but it’s clear it’s already been resting on the tip of his tongue, what with the fluidity he manages to say “OPI’s Dulce De Lece”. You whined about having to pick a different shade of pink since they ran out of your signature color. You did this over FaceTime a week ago and only made one complaining comment about it before moving on. You didn’t expect him to remember.
He did, though, and for some reason, that means the absolute world to you.
(How could you ever doubt him?)
“Bonus points for you, ‘Yoomi.” You hum, running your fingers through his hair. “Don’t overthink this one question, okay?” As if. There’s only one room for an intense overthinker in this relationship, and she’s currently being smothered by her boyfriend, feeling completely overwhelmed with all the affection he’s giving her and enjoying every second of it. “Who do I love the most?”
He pauses his ministrations before pulling away from your neck, sitting up straight.
“Do I get a hint?” He rests a hand on your hip, running his hand up and down the side of your body.
“He’s got his hands all over me, and he’s been sucking on my neck like he’s a character from Twilight.” You smile at him, and he thinks his heart could combust from being so overworked at such a sweet, simple gesture from you.
“Sounds like a pervert.”
“He’s actually a really great guy, ‘specially when you get to know him.”
“Can’t be that great.”
“Well, I think he’s the best.”
“Oh, yeah?” He’s lifting up your shirt (it’s actually his; you’re a bit of a thief, aren’t you?). “What makes him ‘the best’?”
“He’s six four.” You lift your body up just the slightest so it’s easier for him to remove the shirt from your body. He should’ve known you weren’t wearing a bra underneath, and all he can see covering you is a pair of pink panties.
“Okay, that sounds pretty impressive. Don’t tell me you’re just using him for his body, though.”
“I’m not. You wanna know somethin’ crazy? I fell in love with him before I even focused too hard on his body.”
“Hmm. Now that’s definitely crazy.” He’s unzipping his jacket, tossing it the ground, his shirt following soon after.
“He’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met in my life. You should see the way he treats me.” You take a hand to trace his abs, looking up at him and admiring the view. He must’ve existed in a past life; there’s no other explanation for why he fits the description of Adonis. “I don’t think there’s anyone else out there for me… Not that it matters, since I’m never letting him go any time soon.” You tap your lips to let him know what you want, and you meet him halfway for the kiss, too excited to have him near you to wait for him.
“Good. I don’t plan on letting you go, either.” He seals his statement with a kiss, only this time, it’s deeper and burns with the passion underlying his words. You’re pressed against the sheets that smell like him, and he’s lifting your hips for you, tugging at your panties.
Kiyoomi knows everything about you. He knows you down to your elementary school experiences, how you can’t sleep at night unless he’s got his arms wrapped around you, how he can always count on you to send him videos of you doing your daily fit check because you love to share everything about your life with him.
He also knows that the best way to get you prepped to take his cock is for him to properly stretch you out first. He’s kissing you as his hand finds itself in between your legs, rubbing your folds, smearing your slick all over.
Kiyoomi’s hands are always so nice. You like to fiddle with his fingers, trace the veins on his hands, and rub the calluses on his palms. His hands are especially nice whenever his fingers are knuckles deep in your wet cunt, his middle and ring finger slowly thrusting in and out of you, as if he’s scared going faster will hurt you.
You know the truth, though. Kiyoomi likes to start off slow because he knows that at your core, you’re a ridiculously easy person to make a mess of. It hasn’t even been a minute yet, and you’re already thrusting up your hips, tiny whines trying to plead with him to do it faster, to do it deeper. Your manicured hands — paid for by none other than himself — grab at his wrist, but your strength isn’t enough to control his own movements, and then he realizes that you’re not trying to control his pace.
You just want to be touching him in any way you can.
“‘Yoomi, please.” You look up at him with the best puppy dog eyes you can manage, your bottom lip jutting out just the slightest. “I need you so bad.”
“I know, baby, but you know I have to prep you first.” He coos, feeling the way you only get wetter with every thrust of his fingers. His eyes darken when he looks down and sees what a mess you’re making, sees what a mess you are. Hips rutting up, cheeks flushed, desperate and whiny all for him — just for him — and all it took to get you like this was just two fingers. They scissor from within you, stretching against your warm walls, and no matter how long his fingers are, they still aren’t hitting deep enough to satiate his greedy girl. You’re so wet that he’s sure he can hear the distinct sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of you, even over your cute little moans.
“I can t-take it now, Kiyoomi.” You whine at your boyfriend, hand still circling around his wrist, tugging at it, trying to get him to remove his fingers and replace them with his cock.
No, you can’t. It happens like this every time. The fact of the matter is that unless he’s made you cum at least twice before even thinking about fucking you with his cock, you can’t take him. Your poor hole is just a bit too tiny to handle his length, and it doesn’t matter that you’re so wet that your juices are forming a little wet spot on the sheets. It doesn’t matter that he’s spent some time stretching you out with his fingers, relishing in your whines and the way your slick seems to travel from his fingers down to his wrists.
Before he can gently remind you that, no, baby, you can’t, you’re already babbling out how you’re sure you can take him.
“Please, Omi, I missed you so much.”
Your eyes are wide, and you look as if you’re about to cry at the concept of him wanting to take his time with you. He spoils you, you know. Even when he shouldn’t. Even when he knows better. But a man’s will can only be so strong. You can’t be mad at him for giving in to your pleas. He knows his cock, at least, has no protests for what he’s about to do.
You’re practically salivating at the sight of him and his cock — long and hard with the tip flushed red, sticky with pre.
You can’t help but let out a moan, a blissful smile on your face as you feel him gently prod your entrance with just the tip. Most of the time, he doesn’t mean for his actions to be teasing; he just can’t bring himself to do anything without the proper precautions being put in place first. You can tell he’s still hesitant to fuck you when he swears up and down that his precious girl can’t handle him, but for once in your life, you’re fine — more than fine, really — with being treated without care.
Just like your Kiyoomi knows you so well, you know him to the same extent. You know that all it takes for his strong, almost noble resolve, is for you to look up at him so sweetly, so adoringly, and to pretty please ask him to fuck your needy cunt.
“Omi, I can’t wait anymore.” You spread your legs even wider, proud to show off your little hole clenching around nothing.
“Fuck.” He hisses under his breath as his hands grip onto your hips, holding you in place as forces his way into your tight cunt.
“Fuck.” He swears again, the feeling of your warm walls clenching around his cock nearly overwhelming him. He’s rutting his hips against yours, short strokes that won’t satisfy for long, but it’s enough for the two of you now. He’s moving without consciously even thinking about it, too lost in just how good you feel for him. “You were made for me.”
It has to be true. It has to be true because never in your life has someone ever managed to find spots inside of you that can have you cumming in a matter of minutes. It has to be true because Kiyoomi’s never felt like he’s right where he needs to be ‘til the first time he ever fucked you. It has to be true because there’s no pain recognition when he starts thrusting into you deeper. His grip should be bruising, but all it does is keep you anchored in reality.
You’re surrounded by sheets that smell like the safest place you’ve ever known, and you’re getting treated like a fucking princess. You feel adored, you feel happy, you feel loved, you feel blissfully fucked out, especially when his next thrust is even sharper, hitting a spot within you that has you squealing out his name.
“Can you feel it, sweetheart?” His jaw is tense, eyes unsure of whether to focus on the cute faces you make as he splits you apart with his dick or the distinct bulge of a cock too big for your poor body to handle. “Can you feel how deep I’m fucking you?”
“Y-yeah. Always fuck me s’good!” You try to look down, staring at the imprint of his cock poking through your belly with hearts in your eyes. You tap on one of his hands, pointing to your stomach, and he lets out a breathless chuckle.
“Shit — you always feel so fuckin’ good.” He answers your unspoken request for him to press down on the bulge. His large palm rests on your belly, and you make a move to place your hand over his.
“I love you, ‘Yoomi. I love you so, so much. I’ll never love anyone else! I—” Your constant streams of little love confessions gets interrupted with a moan. It’s high pitched, grating on the ears, but neither of you care. Your hips are bucking up, legs lifted and trying to close the space as you cum.
He’s so good to you. Omi is always so, so good to you. He lets you ride out your orgasm, cooing words of praise, telling you how you’re such a perfect princess and that you’re so pretty when you’re cumming, sweetheart. He rubs at your clit, the added stimulation only prolonging your pleasure, and the euphoria from your high leaves your vision hazy and your overthinking brain too fucked out to think about anything but how much you absolutely love him.
Only when he’s certain that you’re finished does he resume his original backbreaking thrusts. You can’t tell if it’s a consequence of just cumming or not, but you think he’s going even harder now. You’re staring at him with nothing but heart eyes and a dazed smile, content to let him use your cunt freely. His curls are sticking to his forehead that’s slick with just the slightest bit of sweat. His cheeks are flushed a dark pink, and his brows are furrowed, and the sight is as pretty as it is pornographic.
“I’m close, baby, I’m close.” He mutters, leaning down to kiss you on your lips. You’re still too tired to properly reciprocate, but you try your best. It’s sloppy and not at all romantic, but you don’t care. You just like being connected with him, in any way possible. He’s not going to last for much longer; not with the way you’re clamping down on him, not with the way you look at him like he personally hung up the constellations in the sky in your honor, not with the way you look so vulnerable and tiny underneath him.
“Cum for me, Omi. Pretty please? I wanna— I need your cum.” You know just the right things to say to him.
He presses into you so deeply that his hips are against yours. The concept of personal space doesn’t exist between the two of you, not now, not ever. He kisses you as he cums, groaning against your mouth as he spills inside of you. The warmth of him is overwhelming, and you still can’t get enough. You’re greedy, you know it, but Kiyoomi doesn’t mind in the slightest.
His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard, both of you so close that the air you exhale is his to inhale.
“I love you, you know that?” His voice is breathless, chest rising and falling, cock softening inside of you. He pulls out, the move practiced and precise as he tries to make sure his cum still stays in you. He rubs at your hip gently, reassuringly.
Omi is the only thing you’re capable of saying. You stretch out your arms, and all he does is give you a tired smile. He wants to bathe you first, wants to take care of you and clean you up so the two of you don’t have to fall asleep while coated in sweat and cum.
But he gives in to you (because when does he not?). He lays down beside you, pulling you closer to his body to the point where you’re practically on top of him, snuggled against his bare chest, face perfectly angled to hide in the crook of his neck.
“I’ll love you forever, ‘Yoomi.” You yawn out, clinging to him as your eyelids droop.
Yeah? He sure hopes so. If not, he does have a backup plan; the jeweler who he bought the ring from said it would make you love him forever, too.