Yakuza boss Deku that’s sooo sweet and gentle with you, that you had no clue what he did in terms of work. You just assumed that maybe he was an heir to a big corporation, or hustled a lot on the side whenever you weren’t around. You couldn’t be further from the truth, but it’s all still so baffling. At how gentle he is with you, how kind he is, sweet and caring. It’s only been a few weeks since you started seeing each other, and he was nothing if not a gentleman.
Your sexual explorations with each other never went very far. He never got fully undressed, despite you laying bare in front of him. But oh, would he worship you. Get down on his knees and eat you out for hours, it was a wonder his jaw wasn’t tired. And even then, would he just keep going and going until you passed out, unable to ask him if he wanted to switch places.
But, one day, you’re determined to do something for him. Izuku was just too kind, it was unfair how he never let you treat him as well as he treated you. So when he comes over to your place one day, tired, with his head resting on the back of your couch, do you finally worship him the way he deserves.
“What’re you doing?” He asks in a gasp, catching your hands in his own big ones as you start undoing his belt. You can only look up at him with big, rounded eyes, hope he caves as easily as he always does when it comes to you.
“It’s unfair,” you pout. “You never let me touch you too. I just wanna please you, ‘Zuku.” Your voice is so soft and your mouth is so warm where you kiss at his knuckles. You’ll ask him later where that one bruise came from, but for now, you rest your head in his lap. Try not to grin when you feel his cock jump under your cheek, batting your lashes when he swallows audibly.
“Just,” Izuku swallows again, slowly releasing your hands as he undoes his own belt, pushing his black slacks down until they rest just beneath his balls. “Just this once, okay?”
And it’s all you need to hear. You kiss and lick at the side of his cock, nuzzling your cheek against it, mouthing at the forking veins up the side. Izuku can’t help his noises, his little grunts and sighs, his deep groan when you finally put the head in your mouth. He’s so gentle, holding your cheek softly in his grip, feeling it hollow in a suctioning motion as you slide a little further past his tip.
He doesn’t buck his hips or push your head down, and in a sense, you wish he would. So you move his hand to the back of your head, encouraging him to guide you, moaning around his length when he twitches in your mouth.
“I don’t wanna hurt you,” you hear him say in a gasp the moment you slide down on his cock. His tip hits the back of your throat and you gag, holding still despite Izuku trying to pull you back up for air. But you don’t budge, only let your jaw hang a little, panting, tongue dancing up the underside, relishing in the brief tug at your hair before it loosens.
You don’t answer him verbally, but instead sink down on his cock again and again, until you’re sure the back of your mouth is bruised in the shape of his tip. You never take him out of your mouth, only pull back until his head rests on your tongue, jerking the rest of it sloppily with your hand. You stare up at him all the while, feeling yourself throb at the sight of him.
Izuku has always been a composed man. Always stood tall and sure of himself, always handled himself with the confidence that made you start to fall for him. But now? Now, his hair is a disheveled mess, like he’s been running a hand through it the entire time. His emerald eyes are dull, blown out by lust, pupils dilated in pleasure. His mouth hangs open, and you can see the strain in his white button up as he tries not to shove your head down. Something terrible must glint in your eyes, because he does just that.
Shoves you down until you choke and splutter, nails digging into his thighs as he starts using your mouth for his own pleasure. He’s full of apologies the whole time as he abuses your throat, thighs tensing at the gagging sounds you emit, whining high in his throat when you gurgle around his balls.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to—fuck!” Izuku hisses through his teeth, feeling his sack tighten as he’s about to cum. He rips your mouth off of him, watching the drool and precum messy your lips and chin, connecting to his twitching cock, and it’s enough to do him in. He finishes all over your face, still holding your hair in his hands as he jerks himself off, cum splattering over your eyes and nose and that big grin you never seem to lose.
When he finishes and catches his breath, you attempt to clean him up, pull his pants down even further so that maybe he could shower with you. But as you go to yank them off of him, you get a glimpse of some ink on his thigh. Izuku stops you quickly, post haze going up in flames as he looks at you with wild eyes. He blinks a few times, wonders if you’ve seen too much, and only speaks when you don’t get that terrified look so many have had in the past.
“Let’s go to your room, so I can reward you. Yeah?” He hopes he doesn’t sound as breathless from nervousness, that you equate it to still coming down from his high. And you seem none the wiser, nodding your head as you stand on shaky legs, grabbing his hand and pulling him to your bedroom. You only hope if you confront him about the tattoos, he doesn’t do what Yakuza members know best.
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caramel macchiatos, croissants with nutella, and an angel with sideburns: the musings of a grown child whose trying.
theres a stilling comfort in knowing that i’m awake when everyone else is asleep, being left with an amalgamation of ghosts from past, present and future; it’s like mist dissipating over a lake.
one breath, and it’s all gone.
my head feels fuzzy, and my body hurts. i’m fighting sleep off like a priest fighting demons. the reality of my situation hits me, and panic ensues two or three times; it’s like i’m 7 all over again. except now, there’s something different…
there’s an angel with black hair and sideburns whose wings are covered in multicolored diamonds.
and while i feel like i’m back in the house and like you can hear the screams echoing off the foyer walls, something is different.
this time, i’m sitting in his lap and we’re backed into a corner. my head is leaning against his chest, my arms crossed over my front in lieu of a shield, and loud whine or quiet hum (i can’t tell which is which) is coming from the back of my throat.
our hearts are beating together in rythm, even though his stopped 47 years ago.
for a second, i feel embarrassed for even writing this; it quickly diminishes, though, because i am just a small child having emotions bigger than my own body.
i realize that he’s not here (nor was there) to fight the screams off, or tell them to stop fighting.
he doesn’t care about that, he’s here to help me survive.
it dawns on me now that the universe is recreating a scene from that damned year, but it’s playing out in a way completely unexpected…
cause i’m not 7.
i’m almost 17, but i’m still just as small.
difference is that now, i’m not powerless against the screaming, and i’m not filled with fear.
instead of trying to fix everyone else’s problems, i’m worried about regulating my own.
for moments more slight as forever, he cuts through the cymbals crashing in my brain and i can hear him saying something.
his tone isn’t angry, demeaning, accusatory or mocking, like all the voices i had become accustomed to hearing but banished out to hell.
it’s bizarrely gentle and kind and parental and romantic, all wrapped up into one.
i’m in the present now.
everything has changed, yet nothing at all.
it all happened so fast, and i take a moment to pity myself.
the angel is dead, survived by books and records and the creation of others.
as i’m writing this, i now realize he was dead way back when too. if now, he seems more alive than ever.
but it wasn’t really ‘way back when’, was it?
i see glimpses of his face everywhere i turn now, for nothing more than a few seconds.
sometimes it’s 2:22, or the rainbow made by the moon, or audubon drive popping up on google at 10:34 in the morning.
those few seconds give me enough hope to walk through a dark valley that just keeps getting steeper.
i’ve come to realize the angel that is (and was) with me was NOT the one they claimed to know.
if i try hard enough, he can remain untouched.
it seems that my generation is not rewriting, but retelling the story, his story, all while creating an intense reflection of the comfort so very many of us were denied.
call it inaccurate as you please, we are taking something that was far beyond its time, and applying it to ours.
and i wonder for more than a minute if there was a reason he behaved the way he did.
was there a reason for all the peculiarities other than an eccentric-erratic personality? or is it more like “it takes one to know one?”
because even in our year, i’ve never seen someone in his position behave the way he did: so loving and kind and brutal and rough and erratic…
and terribly brilliant.
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