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Yuuji’s playing with her hair again.
It’s nothing new from him, but it’s new to Satoru. Everyone she’s ever been in bed with has been fascinated by her tits or cunt, hands sometimes straying to her legs or ass, and Yuuji did the same thing at first, touching her with the kind of entitled affection she’s been treated to from him since the first time she pushed his face between her legs and expected him to suffocate, but he’s just as happy to spend hours playing with her hair as he is to eat her out. He’s even started learning how to style it, fingers moving through increasingly complex designs, weaving her hair into braids and tails and intricate buns. Even Nanami’s ever-disapproving eye has started noticing the new styles, as much as his mouth purses at the suspected source.
Satoru wasn’t exactly subtle about it, after all.
The hand in her hair shifts, nails running gently along her scalp, and Satoru pushes up into the sweet touch with a throaty hum. Yuuji’s nails dig in a little harder, her hair parting into streams around his fingertips, shifting on her shoulders and spine when Yuuji’s hand strokes all the way down to pet her nape.
“Are you waiting for me to meow?”
Yuuji scoffs. “Hell no. Sukuna’s bad enough.”
Satoru tuts. “That poor cat. All he wants is your love.”
“All he wants is my death,” is Yuuji’s entirely predictable response, because he’s convinced the devil himself is real and currently residing in his cat. “Probably arson too. He’s pure evil, sensei.”
“He’s a cat,” Satoru tries, earning nothing but Yuuji’s stink-eye. Satoru doesn’t resist the urge to grin, and it’s no kinder than the one she turns on the boys in her class who’ll never know better than to expect the worst from her till she breaks them, but Yuuji’s sharp look only softens with fondness, hand pulling away just far enough to let him trail his fingertips along her jaw.
But Yuuji won’t be swayed. “He’s a curse,” the sweetest boy Satoru knows tells her, voice deadly serious with the warning; it does nothing to hide the light in his eyes. “I keep waking up in the middle of the night because he’s suffocating me.”
Satoru chokes on her laugh. “Lock him out of your room then.”
“He breaks in.”
“Does he,” Satoru purrs, throaty enough to make Yuuji’s fingers twitch against her skin. Satoru presses into it, shifting up the bed enough to rest her cheek in his palm, and if the sheets drop to her waist, then it’s only a coincidence. “I can’t blame him, I suppose. I’d sneak into your bedroom too.” For much less innocent purposes than some potentially-lethal cuddling. “You’ll just need to tell him I don’t share.”
Yuuji’s face twitches, confusion warring with disgust and settling on what looks like wary amusement before he asks, “Sensei, are you jealous...of a cat?”
Satoru blinks at him. “I have been called a cat bastard more than a few times.”
“A cat bastard—who’s even calling you that?”
“Nanamin!”
“Nanamin?” Yuuji repeats disbelievingly, before his eyes and mouth widen. “Wait. Nanami-sensei—”
Satoru pouts. “Don’t call other people sensei in bed with me, Yuuji-kun.”
“—called you a cat bastard? When?”
“When he last got very, very drunk.” It’s a rare thing, Nanami getting drunk. Ever rarer that he gets drunk when Satoru’s around. He and Shoko go out to drink together every few weeks—at least, Nanami joins her every few weeks. Shoko’s happy to drink by herself. She’s even happier to drink when Satoru’s there considering how much money she saves on shots, half the table cluttered with neon drinks that’d have Satoru three sheets to the wind after just one sip. It’s unfair how much Shoko can put away without even approaching tipsy. Nanami can just barely keep up, but he’s a hilariously rude drunk when Satoru’s around for him to aim at.
Yuuji looks delighted. “Nanamin gets drunk,” he says, sounding like he can’t even imagine it. He’s probably going to try the next time he has a class with the man; Satoru can’t wait. He’ll get so huffy about it in the staffroom, entirely convinced it’s somehow her fault.
He won’t be wrong, but he won’t have proof either.
Still daydreaming about that, Yuuji goes back to playing with her hair, and Satoru goes back to letting him. He’s not trying to twist it into any sort of pattern, no hair ties standing out stark and black on the sun-warm skin of his wrists, but she can almost see the patterns he’s picturing in his mind—fishtail and waterfall, her hair wound up like a crown on her head or arranged into garlands.
Satoru’s almost liquid by the time Yuuji gets his whole hand involved, the ends of her hair cradled in his fist as he wraps the length of it around his palm, winding it all up slowly. The movement’s so gentle it doesn’t even tug, so slow and careful Satoru’s tempted to see if she can’t purr, to see if she can’t fall asleep—
Yuuji yanks.
A noise gets yanked out with it, a gasp Satoru’s too shocked to swallow, and when she blinks the sharp sting of pain out of her eyes, all she’s left with is the look on Yuuji’s face.
Heat pools like molten lead between her legs.
The look on Yuuji’s face isn’t cruel. It’s not even threatening. It’s only considering, and that’s so much worse than both could ever be, half-lidded appraisal like Satoru’s the prettiest doll he’s ever wanted to pull apart into pieces.
“Sensei,” Yuuji says, voice so much softer than the look in his eyes, “can I kiss you?”
It’s not a request.
“Can you?” Satoru asks, a breathless catch to her voice that’s got nothing to do with the angle Yuuji’s forced her throat into. Her scalp still aches, throbbing dully to the beat of her heart, and her breaths come in slow, shallow pulls of air Yuuji’s content to allow—for now. Possibly forever. Satoru’s got no way of knowing till Yuuji changes his mind, and it’s another pulse of pure heat between her legs, the fact that he could at any time.
Instead of answering her with words, Yuuji reels her in. It’s as gentle as it is inescapable, Satoru’s testing tug earning her nothing more than a flex of the fist her hair’s wound around, Yuuji’s fingers digging in till the pull burns instead of throbs, and Satoru can’t help the soft sound she makes, buried in the back of her throat.
Yuuji kisses her sweetly, easily, his mouth warm under hers. Satoru’s kissed this boy plenty, tasted herself on his mouth more than a few dozen times, but it feels so achingly new like this, close-mouthed and so soft. She could almost forget the sting in her scalp, except she doesn’t want to and Yuuji doesn’t let her, fist tightening brutally whenever she tries to tilt her head to deepen it, only relaxing when Satoru stops pushing.
But the rest of her is still free to move. Satoru reaches out, palming at his shoulder and side, slipping down his body. Muscle twitches under her touch, flexing then settling, and it’s not deliberate but it’s a show all the same, the hot and heavy heat of him just within reach. Satoru takes advantage, stretching out her leg to drag her heel down his calf, grinning into the huff of a laugh it earns her before she hooks her leg around his hip and pulls.
There’s a shudder all along her body, the two of them pressed together from thigh to throat, before Yuuji’s hand in her hair twists and pulls, hauling her head back harshly enough to make her scalp sting with fresh pain.
Satoru laughs, all teeth. “You’re so mean to your sensei, Yuuji-kun.”
“It’s your own fault,” he says, eyes narrow, affection shining past the shadow of his lashes. His gaze flickers down, sweeping from her mouth to her tits to the space between their bodies, her leg folded up tight and tucked behind his own, holding him close, but when it settles, it’s on her eyes, the warmth there deepening into open awe.
This boy, Satoru thinks, a mix of exasperated and fond. He’s naked in bed with her; the least he could do is look a little more pleased with himself.
She rocks her hips, just a little hitch of movement, and the angle isn’t perfect but it gets her some friction, Yuuji’s thigh solid between hers, her slick smearing his skin. Yuuji’s pupils go big, eating into the honey of his irises, and this close, the flush that starts on his cheeks and spreads to his throat is almost more sensation than sight, his whole body burning hot. It’s almost as rewarding as the way his hand flexes in her hair, pulling on it just enough to make her thighs jump, her cunt clench, but even better than that is the fact that Yuuji finally moves, pushing in close till Satoru’s got nowhere to go but down, pressed into the mattress.
Sweet boy that he is, Yuuji has an arm folded to hold at least some of his weight off of her. “Such a gentleman,” Satoru coos, digging a nail into the bulging muscle of his bicep.
“I don’t think you know what that word means.”
“You don’t think you’re a gentleman?” Satoru bats her lashes; Yuuji looks closer to passing out than he ever has from keeping his face between her legs. “I think you are. I think you’re the sweetest little boy—”
The arm Yuuji was using to hold himself up gives out, completely on purpose, and Satoru’s crushed under ninety kilograms of muscle with a wheeze as all the air gets squeezed out of her. And she’s no slouch when it comes to muscle, but neither is Yuuji—he’s only fifteen kilograms lighter than she is, far more defined than any other teenager she’s ever seen, sharp hips digging into the soft insides of her thighs and solid shoulders almost broad enough to overlap with hers.
He’s still got a ways to go, if his body decides to give him another growth spurt, but as he is, Satoru can still feel the not-inconsiderable weight of him.
“—in the whole entire world,” she finishes anyway, never one to be deterred by little things like being smothered under the sentient slab of stone Yuuji’s been for as long as she’s known him.
Yuuji looks as pained as anyone can when he’s got his chin nestled into her tits, using them to prop his head up. “You deserved that.”
“I did,” Satoru admits, beaming at him. It’s an expression she knows only serves to make her look deranged, all white teeth and blazing blue eyes, but Yuuji doesn’t even flinch, only looking back with unwavering, warm eyes. Satoru doesn’t soften so much as she sharpens, arching up under him, and Yuuji’s response is immediate, an unforgiving press that puts her right back in the bed before he goes boneless all over again, holding her down with nothing but his bodyweight. “Are you going to punish me for it, sweetheart?”
The heat in his eyes becomes a blaze. The sprawl over her changes, Yuuji getting a knee under him, and the shift in position tugs at the hand in her hair, pulling Satoru’s head up with it till she’s got to shove herself up before Yuuji drags her with him like a doll, and he could, he has, but it’s always been hands on her ass or thighs or hips, pulling and pushing till Satoru’s positioned how he wants her—but nothing like this, the way Yuuji’s moving her like she’s part of him, a puppet on strings.
Satoru chases after it, watching Yuuji through half-lidded eyes; the flex of muscle in his arms, the ripple of movement down his chest, the way his thighs bunch when he settles on his knees.
How his cock leaks between his thighs, the head messy with precum he’s smearing over the length, and it won’t be enough, Satoru knows it won’t, but when her legs try to close in purely instinctive self-defence, Yuuji’s slick hand flashes forward to cup her thigh, a groping slide that forces her leg up and out. At this angle, it pulls the muscle there, but the ache goes ignored in favour of a wetter, deeper one, because Yuuji’s got her open on display like a toy and Satoru’s burning with it, her body one big pulse from her soles to her skull.
The fist in her hair tugs, Satoru rising up onto her palms with a desperate sound, hips lifting off the bed, and when Yuuji lets her drop, Satoru lands neatly, perfectly in his lap.
His cock shoves up into her, carving through her guts and up into her fucking throat.
Her arms buckle, elbows giving out. Yuuji just follows her down, fist and cock crushing her into the bed, and Satoru fights it out of sheer reflex, thighs clenching and knees locking except for how they can’t, Yuuji’s waist and chest keeping them open, spreading her wide, and when Satoru tries shoving at him, digging her hands and nails into his arms and shoulders, it earns her nothing but more of his bodyweight burying her in the mattress, his cock buried in her, his fist wound in her hair.
The adrenaline rush drips out of her slowly, that first panicked reaction from the pain easing till Satoru’s supine. She’s soaked with sweat, hot all over, and Yuuji’s no better, his body molten everywhere they’re touching. When Satoru peers at him through heavy lashes, she can see where his blush has spread, blooming red across his cheeks and throat. She can feel it just as well, his flushed skin against hers, her tits and thighs branded with his body heat.
She opens her mouth—to make a comment, to make a joke, to make him move—and doesn’t get a chance to speak before Yuuji’s hips roll, grinding up and into her. There’s no more dick for her to take, but she still chokes on it every time, struggling to swallow when it feels like he’s filling her throat too, and he can’t be, not really, but maybe she imagined herself as a toy puppet too well, because it feels like there’s a whole entire arm inside her.
She blinks the fantasy of it back, fixing her eyes on Yuuji’s face, her cunt spasming as she digs her heels in and tries to push herself backwards, and she plays herself because Yuuji only turns his wrist and forces her head back to bare her throat, his other arm slipping under her waist to pull her hips up and forward, the shift in angle stirring her guts with it.
“Fuck,” Satoru says, voice strangely articulate; it rasps and cracks, and Yuuji’s hips and dick both twitch, pressed against and into her. Satoru gets an arm under herself and tries to push, but pinned at the hair and hips, all she can do is push her chest out, arching up into the broad chest spread over hers, the friction brief and burning before she collapses back down like her strings have been cut. Yuuji lets her, bending to keep his fist in her hair, but the arm under her waist becomes a hand on her hips, holding her in place for his cock even as he pulls out, her cunt clenching like she’s trying to keep him there, but the effort earns her nothing more than the slick length of him pressed against her folds, holding her open and still not nearly open enough.
The look on Yuuji’s face, in his eyes—the hunger staining his cheeks and chest, his blush deep enough to resemble blood, spit and blood shining on his mouth—it’s enough to make her clench again, thighs shivering, heat spilling down her chest to settle and burn between her legs.
“I like you like this,” Yuuji says, serrated and sweet, and it carves through her just like his cock did, shocking a noise out of her that has Yuuji rubbing himself against her cunt, her lips wet around him, his eyes warm and dark. “You’re so pretty, sensei.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Satoru tells him, and her voice behaves even if it scrapes on the way out of her throat.
Yuuji looks no less fond as he smiles at her, no less hungry as he pulls back and tilts his hips, and Satoru can see it coming, but she saw it coming last time too, the slick-shiny length of him ready to run her through, but a warning doesn’t make her immune, her cunt filled up in one mean thrust, and Satoru jolts up the bed—she tries—but Yuuji’s fist is still there in her hair, keeping her in place for his cock, and all she manages is a full-body flinch while her cunt turns into a vice that still can’t keep Yuuji out, his cock pushing in and pulling out even as her legs kick and her hands twist in the sheets, and Yuuji must decide it’s not enough for him because the hand on her hip pushes till she’s practically folded in half, Yuuji’s hips following after her faithfully.
It takes a second for the rushing sound in her ears to fade, for the ache in her throat to register, before she realises it’s her making those noises—gasps and moans and low groans she can’t help making, every thrust making her legs tremble and tighten, her spine aching with the curve it’s been pushed into. Her scalp burns and stings, her throat throbbing with the bites scattered all over it, her cunt hot and sore.
It doesn’t matter what pace Yuuji sets—he could fuck her as slow as he feels like, savouring her, but it’s the depth of it that’s getting to her. She’s folded in half, fixed in place like a toy on display, and she feels like one, her legs limp over his shoulders and her hands useless in the sheets, but it’s the hand that’s still in her fucking hair, the leash Yuuji made for himself from her, how he’s pulled her around and pushed her down with it and fucked her, filled her up, left her empty and needy and made her take it just because Satoru can’t stop him—
She comes. It tears through her, rippling outwards. The sheets tear under her nails, her jaw dropping on a long, low moan. Yuuji fucks her through it, grinding in deep and staying there, except he doesn’t stop, hips moving, cock pushing through the gush of slick. Satoru spasms, one last twitch before she reaches up and pushes at a sturdy shoulder, and Yuuji’s pace slows but it doesn’t stop, still filling her up over and over till Satoru’s gasping with it, open palm turning into a clawed clutch.
“Yuuji,” she says, and she doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be encouragement or not, but Yuuji’s hips shove forward and she does too, well and truly folded in half. “Yuuji, please, it—”
The hunger’s bare on Yuuji’s face, as bright as the blood on his lips and teeth, his eyes all pupil. He looks like an animal, like some kind of beast, taking and taking, and Satoru’s got no other option than to give, legs pinned wide, cunt forced open, her own slick leaking down her legs and crack. Her hole twitches from it, and for a second she wonders what will happen when Yuuji’s done with her cunt, if he won’t fuck her there too, not even slick to ease the slide, and she shouldn’t like it but she shouldn’t be in bed with her student either, getting fucked into the mattress till all she can do is tear wider holes in the sheets and moan like a whore.
And she wants this—the stretch and the burn, the way it cuts through her till she feels split down the middle, the marks on her throat from Yuuji’s attention, the ache in her throat from the noises Yuuji’s fucking out of her, and every one of them earns an echo, Yuuji’s mouth open in a picture of pleasure, and there it is, the look on his face she wanted to be there, wanted to be the cause of, but this is still—it’s still—
“It hurts,” Satoru whines, her voice breaking.
Heat spills into her, filling the space Yuuji’s carved out for himself. He fucks her through that too, slowing but never stopping, and Satoru’s throat catches on a noise she’s got no choice about making, a choked cry Yuuji swallows, and it’s less of a kiss and more a crash of teeth, his mouth open and sharp against hers before Satoru kisses him back as best as she can, gasping into it.
Eventually, Yuuji’s hips still. He’s still molten inside her, his cum and cock filling her until it hurts, his mouth pulling off of hers to press sweet little kisses to her jaw, her cheeks, the underside of her chin. Satoru’s got no option but to let him, hands wringing the torn sheets, scraps of fabric scrunching between her palms and fingers.
Yuuji only pulls out and away when his cock’s gone soft, hips and hand letting her sprawl. He tugs her legs off his shoulders, stretching them out gently alongside him, and it’d be sweet if his hands didn’t trace the length of her legs from her knees to the apex of her thighs framing the wet mess of her cunt leaking cum and slick onto the sheets.
Satoru can’t even feel surprised when he swipes his fingers through it, gathering some of the mess there to lick it off his hand, but her cunt still makes a valiant effort to twitch.
“I chose well,” Satoru says, looking at the boy in her bed who played with her hair and turned it into a leash, “when I picked you.”
Yuuji pulls a face. “When you decided to bully me, you mean.”
“And it worked!” Satoru sighs happily. “I really am a genius, aren’t I?”
Instead of answering, Yuuji bends forward to kiss her, hand sliding up into her hair—and that, Satoru supposes, is answer enough.