itadori yuuji x fem! reader
word count // 5k
aged up characters - nsfw, minors do not interact
playlists // one (for the fluff) / two (for the sex lmao)
cw // friends to lovers, mutual pining, fantasizing, fingering, dry humping, orgasm denial/edging (?) (self imposed tho), clothed sex, ripping clothes, soft/emotional sex, lots of fluff and sap
what happens when your best friend notices a hole in your leggings during an innocent game of cards?
this was supposed to be a drabble based on an ask @what-the-fucdge-rin sent me about how the jjk men would react to you wearing leggings with holes in them ... but i got carried away and wrote this in a lovesick stupor bc i simply cannot get this man out of my head LMAO
Yuuji’s just finished his turn, setting his card — a two of hearts — at the top of the pile of cards that’s positioned between the two of you. He has to keep fixing the pile, because the cards keep sliding around haphazardly each time either of you makes a little movement on the mattress.
Why you decided that the two of you should play cards on your bed — and not on a flat surface, like the dining table — beats him. But he guesses it doesn’t really matter if he has to keep fixing the cards. He’ll always indulge you, no matter the situation — if only to see the smile on your face when he gives in after some whining.
Yuuji watches closely as you look between the two of hearts and your hand of cards. His turns are always quick; he’s impulsive — always listening to his first instinct, always setting down the first card that speaks to him.
He’s studying you as you consider your options. You’re not impulsive like he is; your turns almost always take longer. But he doesn’t care how much time you take; in fact, the more the better. Because that means he has more time to look at you. He could let hours pass like this — watching you think.
Not that he could ever tell you that. You look up at him suddenly, and he looks away, sheepish.
“What?” you ask.
“I thought you were looking at me.”
“Oh,” he stammers, thinking of an excuse. “Well… I was, because you’re taking forever,” he blurts.
“Forever? Shut up,” you scoff, flustered. “That’s why I’m gonna win.”
He suppresses a smile; you look back down at your hand.
It’s just a few moments later that Yuuji sees it. He’s not looking on purpose; he just finds his eyes drawn to the area between your legs when you adjust to fold your legs in front of you, because there’s a sudden flash of red there. The pile of cards between you has shifted again, but this time, he’s too distracted to fix it. Right now, he’s looking — with burning cheeks — at the bright red lace of your panties peeking out obviously through a hole right in the crotch of your black leggings.
He tears his eyes away, looking sheepishly for something else in the room to fix his eyes on. He really didn’t mean to look. He doesn’t want to look at you — his best friend of years — like that. He feels like a bit of a scumbag for doing it, and his cheeks are still burning.
But there’s an instinctual part of him that can’t help but wonder what exactly those panties look like under your leggings. He chews his lip, wondering what kind of panties they are, how they look on your figure. Admittedly, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s thought about something like this.
He could throttle himself. What’s he doing? He clears his throat guiltily, watching you fix the disorderly pile before setting your own card down. When you look back up at him, smiling warmly, he pales for a moment. He feels odd — suddenly weak in the knees at all of the fondness in your expression, so much of it that he swears he feels his heart skip a beat.
He gulps. He should probably tell you about it, right? The… panties?
“You have — you have —” he blathers, trailing off. A hole in your crotch? That sounds weird. He laughs nervously and scratches his head, thinking about the best way to phrase it. But, before he can do that, he finds his eyes drawn — involuntarily — back between your legs for a fraction of a second.
Yuuji averts his gaze quickly, but to his chagrin, you’ve already seen.
“Huh?” You’re looking between your legs now, and you see it — that little hole through which your bright panties are glaring obviously. “Oh!”
He feels awful for embarrassing you. Maybe he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. But at the same time, some wicked part of him thinks you look so cute, all flustered and embarrassed like that. He feels his heart clench in his chest.
“Why were you looking?” you blurt, flustered.
“I don’t know,” he yammers, blushing and baffled, “why are you wearing holey leggings?”
“It’s not like I knew, dummy!”
Yuuji’s blushing hard now, averting his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t really know what to say, so he closes it again, clearing his throat awkwardly. As if he could hide behind them, he lifts his cards up to his face — pretending that he’s studying them. He gives it a good effort; he really tries to think about the cards in his hand. But, as it turns out, the only thing his mind can focus on is the red lace between your thighs. His brain is going haywire, conjuring up an image of you in a cute, bright red set.
He thinks he’d die on the spot if he saw you in something like that. You, of all people. His cheeks are burning so hot he thinks they might catch on fire. They keep getting hotter as the blood rushes to his face.
With panic, Yuuji realizes that there’s blood rushing somewhere else, too — right between his legs. He feels awful; he’s so worked up over those images in his head, and now he can’t get them out.
Why the hell is the fabric of his shorts so thin? He’s cursing himself for wearing athletic shorts. Couldn’t have he worn something thicker? Something that wouldn’t give away the growing shape of his dick away so easily? Desperately, he’s trying to distract himself — to curb the rush of blood between his legs. But, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t scrub that image of you in lingerie from his mind. His shorts are getting uncomfortably tight, and he’s still pretending to study his cards, avoiding your eyes. He hopes to god you’re not noticing what’s happening between his legs.
Your tone is a little breathless. A little strange. Sheepishly, he lowers his cards — looking at you, wide-eyed and flustered. His stomach drops when he realizes that your eyes are fixed on his crotch, where his dick is stiffening on his thigh, straining against his shorts.
“Why are you looking?” he blurts.
“How can I not?” you exclaim. “You’re — you’re…”
You both stare at each other for a long moment — equally flustered, with the pile of cards between you falling into chaos.
Yuuji’s mind is falling into chaos, too. Maybe he’s used to acting on impulse with most things. But this isn’t most things. This is you. So right now he’s thinking about what he should do. Should he make the first move, after all these years? After never having the courage to?
And what if you’re not interested? He can’t fully read the look on your face. What if you don’t want him? It must’ve been weird, right? Catching him staring at your crotch, watching him get hard out of nowhere? He feels bad; he must’ve made you uncomfortable.
“I’m sor—“ he starts. But he trails off, watching your hand dart forward suddenly. He doesn’t really know what’s happening as he watches you grab a fistful of his shirt. For a moment, he marvels at how small your hand is against his chest. And then he finds himself yanked forward by the fabric of his shirt.
It takes his muddled mind a moment to process what you’re doing. But he gives under the force, lets you pull him further and further forward. And it’s only when your mouths meet — his lips crashing against yours — that he really gets it. That he understands: you’re the one acting on impulse, for once.
His head feels foggy, feverish. His heart is pounding in his chest. For a moment, he doesn’t even think this is real; he wonders if his mind conjured it up, a culmination of all of his desire for you. No, he thinks. The feeling of your lips, so soft against his, the smell of your shampoo, your fingers wrapping up in his hair and pulling slightly — it’s all, undoubtedly, real.
It’s real, and you’re pulling him further over you. He gives, shifts his weight over you, pushing you down onto the bed. Beneath you, beneath him, the cards scattered over the bed bend and warp, ruined — but it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because this is what he’s been wanting, waiting for, needing.
He’s surprised to feel you part your lips, to feel you pushing your tongue into his mouth. But he reciprocates, enthusiastic and eager. His first taste of you is hungry and messy and desperate — his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth. He runs his rough hand up your side, brings it up and up until it’s resting on your chest and he’s cupping you through your bra.
Is this okay? he murmurs through sloppy kisses. Can I touch you?
And, of course, the answer is yes. You’re rewarded with a rough squeeze. A needy, clothed thrust follows; he pushes you down into the mattress, ruins the cards beneath you further.
Touch me, but…
For a moment, he pauses. He’s afraid that he’s done something wrong, that he’s hurt you. But then you’re grabbing his wrist.
Here, you’re saying, guiding his hand between your legs. Right here, okay?
He mumbles a hasty okay into your mouth, runs his fingers over the damp fabric between your thighs. There’s a soft moan in response. He can’t believe how needy you are, how much you want it — just as much as him. He wonders if you’ve been wanting it for all these years, just like he has.
Yuuji’s fingers on the fabric are gentle at first. Slow. And, then, as your soft moans go to his head, the urgency behind them increases. He’s so hard, aching, precum leaking down his thigh. It’s the desperation that’s getting to him — the fervent way your tongue explores his mouth, your fingers tugging lightly at his hair, the way you’re spreading your legs wider for him. He thinks the way you buck your hips upward each time his fingers graze over your clit is so cute. That you must be so sensitive, especially under all of these layers of clothing. And he wants them off.
So when his fingers catch that little hole in your leggings — the one that started all of this — he finds his impulse taking over. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but he does it anyway: curls his finger into that little split in the fabric, rips it a little wider.
He doesn’t think you’ve noticed yet; your soft moans are euphoric, drowning out the sounds of the slowly ripping fabric. He thrusts a little harder, a little needier. The impact pushes you down into the mattress, bending the cards beneath your bodies a little more.
Yuuji’s trying his best to hold back, because he wants to be gentle with you, but he’s never really been the type to practice self-restraint. And his patience is wearing thin; it’s been so long, so long — years of wanting you. He can’t wait any longer, not even for your leggings to come down. And that’s why, while he’s slipping his tongue deeper into your mouth, he’s also slipping his rough fingers further into the tear in the fabric between your legs.
His stomach is all knotted up — desire, nerves. The sweet sounds that keep spilling from your mouth into his are getting him high, buzzing in his head. He just can’t help it anymore — and so he finds himself hooking his fingers around the tear and pulling, sudden and rough.
The fabric of your leggings gives easily under the force with a loud rip.
While you let out a little cry of surprise, he’s pulling back to glance feverishly between your thighs. He’s ripped a hole the size of his palm, and what he can see through it sends butterflies rolling through his stomach and another rush of blood between his legs. Your exposed thigh, your panties — and a big damp spot right in the middle of them.
You’re pinching his cheek, scolding him about the leggings (They’re actually expensive, you know?!) but he can hear the breathiness in your voice still, the anticipation. And when he looks back up to your face to murmur a sheepish apology — I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll buy you new ones, I promise — he finds that you’re smiling. And as another swarm of butterflies makes its way through his chest at all the emotion in that smile, you’re knotting your hands back in his hair and pulling his face back down to yours.
Of course, like always — he gives. This time, it’s with no resistance. He indulges you completely, lets you pull his face down until your lips are meeting again. He’d give you anything you want. Everything. This is exactly what he’s been waiting for.
This time, he takes control. He parts his lips as soon as they meet yours, kisses you deeply — with a hunger that’s built up over years. He’s feverish and hazy as he rips the hole in your leggings further open, tearing the fabric to expose your inner thighs more. And when he’s exposed enough of you, he runs his curious fingers up your inner thighs — squeezing, touching, rubbing until you’re gasping.
Heavy breaths — exchanged from your mouth to his, and then back again. They’re shaky, full of so much emotion he thinks he could drown in it.
He wants to. He wants to let all of these emotions through for the very first time, to let them take over. To drown in you and all of these feelings for you.
Yuuji brings his calloused fingers between your thighs and presses them — gently, at first, hesitantly — to the lace over your slit. Feels just how wet you are for him. A nervous, shaky exhale leaves his mouth. A soft laugh. You want him this much.
Maybe he really could drown in you.
Yuuji wants to play with you for a little while. He’s always liked to toy with you, to tease. He does it often — in almost every interaction — because he likes to see the little pout that always crosses your face. He’s always thought it was so cute. He thinks he’ll tease right now…
But the thought is short lived. As soon as he runs his fingers over your clit through your panties, a soft moan tumbles from your lips, and another rush of wetness dampens your panties. That’s it for him; he’d be insane to wait a second longer.
So he finds himself pushing his tongue deeper into your mouth, fumbling clumsily now with your panties — his self control completely thrown to the wayside. He pulls them roughly to the side, hears a stitch pop. He murmurs another apology, but it’s swallowed between sloppy kisses.
He’s always a little rougher than intended.
That poor pretty lace. But it’s alright, isn’t it? Because he’ll get you something even prettier after the two of you inevitably ruin these: you dripping all over them, him ripping the lace apart. He’ll get you something as pretty as you, because that’s exactly what you deserve.
He wants to give you everything you deserve. Every single thing you want. He’s thinking this as you start to moan desperately for him. He’ll give you what you want right now; how could he ever deny you this?
But, still, before he touches you — really touches you, for the very first time — he asks.
It’s a breathy, hasty murmur into your mouth. And it’s heavy, because he knows there’s no going back after what’s to come.
Not that he’d ever want to go back to any moment before this. He waits for permission with his fingers hovering over your pussy. He can feel the heat of it just inches away, and his dick is aching against his thigh.
You nod, grabbing his wrist again to guide his hand forward. Slowly. His breaths pick up; he’s aching for you so much that he can’t help but thrust down against your thigh. Just to relieve a little of the aching in his dick, just to get some friction on it. To his surprise, you reward that action with the sweetest little murmur. The sound goes straight to his dick, gets him harder as you bring his hand forward. The little space between the two of you that his hand is crossing feels both impossibly vast and impossibly small.
And then, finally, he feels the heat of you against his fingers.
The wetness of you — velvety, soft. He feels your breaths catch in his mouth as he drags his fingers through your pussy. Feels your hips buck up, little noises spilling from your mouth that are getting him drunk. His mind is buzzing; his dick is twitching in his shorts. He wants to hear more. To hear you better. So he pulls back a little, starts to trail sloppy kisses down your chin, down your neck. He litters them across your throat, leaves them over your skin, like a gift.
“Oh, baby,” he slurs against your neck. “You’re so, so wet.”
You mumble something unintelligible. Almost a plea. He’s slow and gentle on your clit; you’re bucking upward, desperate for more. You don’t have to say anything, because he knows what you want. Even if you can’t form the words, even if he hasn’t known you like this before, he knows you like the back of his hand. He knows from the look on your face, from the tone of your voice, exactly what you need — so he gives it to you.
He sinks a finger into you. Feels you suck him in, your walls dripping wet and fluttering. He gets higher on the sweet noises you make as you part around him — pliant, malleable, desperate. He shudders against your throat, thrusts down again.
You ask for another. So he obliges, sucking softly on your neck as he sinks another finger into your pussy. He can feel your walls stretching around his fingers, then clenching. You’re getting wetter with each moment that passes. Needier. And he needs you too, so badly. There’s so much precum dripping out of his dick that he’s soaked through his shorts. He feels like he’s harder than he’s ever been.
Your pussy feels so good around his fingers. He’s dying to get all of this slippery heat — all of the twitching, dripping wetness of your insides — around his dick. He knows it’ll feel amazing, better than anything he’s ever felt.
But there’s another need that’s beginning to overwhelm that. It’s not the carnal intensity of needing to fuck you; it’s an overhwelming, heightening arousal that builds lazily with each pump and curl of his fingers inside of you, with each soft moan that you gift him with in response. Pleasing you, even if it means denying himself — it’s a feeling unlike any other. More than anything, he realizes that he just wants to please you.
To make you feel good. So, as much as he wants to be inside of you, he’ll wait a little longer — until you’re ready for him to give you what you need. Until you’re even wetter, until you’re stretched around his fingers, until it’ll feel best for you.
It’s always been you, hasn’t it? Anything for you.
So he takes his time stretching you out. His kisses are deep and hungry, betraying how much he really needs you. But he’ll deny himself until you’re ready — sinking his fingers into your pussy over and over again, high on the sweet noises each curl elicits from your pretty mouth. He pushes them in deep — all the way to the knuckle, feels you gasp and twitch around him.
He’s eager when he curls his fingers, maybe even a little rough — so enamored with how good you feel inside, with how your walls twitch and weep around his fingers. But you’re responding to that roughness, to the intensity of his fingers stroking over your g spot.
As your back starts to arch off the bed, he stops sucking your neck to ask, softly, almost innocently, Is it good? Do you like it? Does it feel okay?
And you answer, So good, so good, just like that, keep going.
He thinks that he might not even last to fuck you — that he might cum just from listening to your soft whimpers.
So when you reach between his legs, fumbling with his shorts between hazy gasps, he thinks that he really won’t last. Not with the way you’re taking his dick out — hard, hot and dripping — and wrapping your soft, warm hand around it. Not with the way you’re dragging the precum down it, that first wet stroke sending a shudder down his entire body. And when you start to pump your hand down his aching dick, with precum dribbling out of the tip and saturating the shredded fabric of your leggings, he has to grit his teeth to stop his orgasm from building.
He moans feverishly against your neck, still pumping his fingers into your pussy. He can barely focus; his head is cloudy, and his breaths are catching as he feels your soft, slick hands pump up and down his dick.
I want you so bad, baby, I can’t even take it, he murmurs against your throat, breathless.
He needs you so much. The feeling of your hands on his dick, the way you’re stroking it quickly — sloppy pumps as his wet fingers squelch inside of you, still curling roughly — is driving him insane. He’s losing his composure; you’re bringing him to the brink quickly.
So he begs, gasps, Slow down. Slow down, please, I don’t want to cum yet.
He wants to last. He wants to feel you around him before you make him cum. He knows he can make you feel even better, if he can just last until he’s inside you. And you’re so, so wet around his fingers. So wet that he thinks you’re ready for him.
He wants to make you feel even better, if you’re ready for it — wants to stretch you out more, fill you up more. He wants to hear how your sweet moans will sound when he’s moving in and out of your pussy. When he’s making you feel so good.
But the two of you are already both so close. You’re starting to clamp down on his fingers, and the feeling is sending him right to the edge. He’s whimpering softly, gritting his teeth as he tries to ignore that heightening, cresting pleasure.
At this point, he just wants to last until you cum, even if he’s not inside you when it happens.
But then he hears you murmur, Wait, I want, I want…
What do you want, baby?
I want you inside me.
He shudders. Feels his dick stiffen more under your grasp. That’s not something he’d ever thought he would hear you say. He’s painfully hard now; it’s a desire that he knows won’t be relieved until he’s inside you.
But, still, he asks feverishly, as he adjusts above you, Are you sure?
Of course you are — nodding, biting your lip, looking up at him desperately. And how could he ever say no to you? He doesn’t even know how long he’ll last when he gets inside, but he wants to give you this. So he slips his fingers out of you, slowly, all of your arousal dripping off of them.
Okay, he says breathily, wrapping his hand around his dick, stroking the slick wetness of you down it. He shudders, looking down at your face, studying you closely. It’s okay?
You nod again, impatient as he levels himself over you. He looks between your thighs, positions his dick to your fluttering entrance. For a moment, he just marvels at the wet mess between your legs. He takes it all in with a shaky inhale, and a look of feverish fascination on his blushing face: your leggings torn to shreds, your inner thighs exposed and glistening wet.
And when he positions the dripping tip of his dick against your slit — seeping with arousal, fluttering with anticipation — it sucks him in slightly, ready for him. You let out a little sigh that sends his mind reeling; he’s just barely inside of you and he can already feel your walls fluttering around him.
He doesn’t move. He just stalls there, barely in. Because he needs to capture this moment. His nerves have his heart in his throat, but he has to look at your face. Has to study all the bliss there in this moment — because you’re so pretty, the prettiest thing he’s seen. His head is foggy, faraway, but his heart is right here, pounding hard in his chest at this promise: to be inside of you, to have you completely.
He’s breathing hard — suffocating on the tension in this moment, listening to his heartbeat race.
And, like always, you break the tension. Soothe his nerves. You’re still flustered, but your mouth turns up in a smile that has his stomach in knots.
Softly, affectionately, and with all the tenderness in the world, you laugh, “I want you. I want this. It’s okay. Put it in already, dummy.”
He laughs too, with his cheeks burning and his heart racing with anticipation.
“Okay, baby,” he says breathily. “Okay.” And he thinks, Anything for you, anything you want, absolutely anything.
So he rests his weight on his forearms, his nose brushing against yours as he lowers his lips back down. Your tongues intertwine, sloppy, breaths heavy and desperate as he sinks down into your pussy for the very first time.
He feels that tight wetness envelop him. Feels every inch of his dick hugged tight, your walls fluttering and parting, giving easily for him as he pushes you open around him. You’re so wet for him, so ready — warm and pliant and so, so good. He shudders, feels the tension building again.
And when he sinks all the way into you, you moan. Soft and sweet, pleasured, better than anything he’s ever heard. The feeling of you, the sound of you — all of you is so good that it draws a little gasp, a breathless little moan from his own mouth. You’re sucking him in, greedy and clenching.
And now that he’s bottomed out, buried all the way inside of you, feeling your walls pulse around him — he wants to make sure it’s okay for you. That he’s not hurting you before he starts to move.
So he pulls back, just slightly, almost nervous to look at you — even after all of these years. Blushing, he murmurs, Does it feel okay?
Beneath him, you nod hazily. He can tell you’re lost in pleasure already — eyelashes fluttering, struggling to look up at him as you clench up around him. Your hands are knotted up in his hair, pulling on it needily. So he obliges — pulls out again, sinks in all the way. You’re enveloping him, completely, deeply — the both of you moaning softly each time he buries his dick all the way inside.
He thinks you look so pretty in this moment. You always look pretty to him, but this is different. Familiar, but brand new. As he feels your legs wrap around him, as your eyes flutter shut, he watches all the ways your face contorts with each movement. Your face — every angle so familiar, memorized, well-loved — but brand new. Loved, now, in a new way, in a situation he’s only ever dreamt of.
It’s an image he’ll never forget.
“It’s more than okay,” you’re murmuring hazily.
“Good,” he says breathily.
Yuuji feels you disentangle your hands from his hair to bring them to the sides of his face. You cradle it, and the simple action is filled with so much affection, so much tenderness, that a lump forms in his throat. He feels something inside of him break, feels emotions pour out. He’s inside of you — you. And you’re smiling up at him, and your thumb is tracing down the scar on the side of his mouth, and he’s feeling things he’s never felt. That look on your face: adoration, fondness, and longing to match his — longing that he’d never noticed until right this moment. It’s so plain on your face that he wonders how he could’ve ever missed it.
You run your thumb over his scar one more time, and, right before you pull his face back down to yours, he hears you murmur something.
“I’ve only wanted it forever.”
He swallows over the lump in his throat, feels his eyes burn. Forever.
“Forever,” he repeats against your mouth. His voice cracks at the end of the word, and his lips brush against yours. Soft, tender. “Me too,” he says quietly.
Forever. Right before he parts your lips with his again, he smiles. He can’t believe, after all these years, all it took was a pair of leggings.