Atsushi Nakajima

The quiet in your apartment is a stark, welcome contrast to the chaotic noise of the Armed Detective Agency. Atsushi sits beside you on the plush sofa, his head resting heavily against your shoulder, his characteristic uneven bangs slightly messy from running a hand through them all evening.

​"I thought Kunikida-san was never going to let me leave," he murmurs, his voice soft and laced with fond exhaustion. One of his hands rests loosely over yours, his pulse beating steady against your skin. "I kept thinking about just... being here with you all day."

​He shifts, turning his body toward yours to wrap both arms securely around your waist, pulling himself closer. The warmth radiating off him is comforting at first, but as he settles himself against your lap, the nature of the embrace subtly shifts. His hips press against yours, and a sudden, sharp intake of breath catches in his throat as the friction registers between your bodies.

​Atsushi freezes for a second, his pale face flushing a deep crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks up at you through his long lashes, his golden-purple eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and unmistakable desire. He doesn't pull away. Instead, his grip on your shirt tightens, his breathing growing noticeably heavier against the crook of your neck.

​"Ah—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." he stammers, his voice dropping an octave, thick with hesitation as he nudges his hips forward again—just a small, experimental drag of denim against denim. A low, soft hum escapes his chest at the contact. He buries his face in your shoulder, hiding his blush, but his hips roll forward again, pressing the growing heat of his length firmly against you. "...Can we stay like this for a little while? Please?"

"You're... you're so warm," he breathes, his voice raspy and devoid of its usual hesitation. Abandoning any pretense of restraint, his hands slide down from your shirt to grip your hips, anchoring you firmly to the cushions beneath. He lifts himself slightly, using the leverage to drag his lower body back down against yours with a slow, deliberate pressure. The sensation of heavy denim rubbing against denim sends a visible shiver down his spine, his back arching into the movement.

He sets a steady, rhythmic rhythm, rolling his weight forward with an urgent friction that makes his eyelids flutter shut. Every slide of his body against yours draws out tight, breathless noises from his throat—unfiltered, desperate sounds he tries to muffle by pressing his forehead into the crook of your neck. His fingers dig into the soft fabric over your waist, holding you tight so you can't slip away even if you wanted to.

"I can't... I can barely think," he gasps, his hips stuttering mid-motion before grinding down harder, searching for relief through the layers of your clothes. His breath hitches, hot skin flushing from his face down to his throat as he looks at you, his golden-purple eyes glazed with sheer sensation. "It feels so good... please tell me this is okay..."