Work Text:
Despite his admittedly lacklustre efforts, Miso Soup was hardly a paragon of virtue; in fact, he would be the first to confess his debauched, sinful nature. But, despite seeming to put very little effort into his duties as a monk, he did try…somewhat. Which is why his current predicament was so difficult.
The second he was summoned by you, he couldn't help but be entranced. As much as he was a flirt by his nature, it seems as though he couldn't help the teasing words that slipped from his tongue around you: words that caused your face to flush red from the tips of your ears to the base of your throat — and, oh! The things he would do to that throat if given half a chance…— as you scolded him halfheartedly, already finding the monk endearing in his own distinct way.
As much as he tried to be a good and proper monk and leave his days of libertine vice and pleasure behind him, it grew harder with each passing day that he spent with you as his Master Attendant. And, with each day, his sinful, carnal desire bubbled beneath the surface. The tension was almost too much, like a overfilled bowl about to spill, or a stretched-thin piece of elastic about to snap. He daydreamt — fantasised, really — about being able to run his warm hands along the creamy soft skin below your work uniform; when your the hem of your shirt raised up, caught on the apron strings tied around your middle, and gave him a teasing view of your lower back, it was all he could do to restrain himself from moaning. When you inevitably caught him, snapping him out of his reverie with a soft chuckle and a playful chide of “you were staring!” or, “I can give you some work to do if you're bored!”, he would nervously laugh it off, recite some of the brief scriptural quotes that he'd managed to commit to memory, and hurriedly excuse himself, claiming that he had to meditate.
To his credit, he usually did meditate, forcing himself to purge all lustful thoughts from his mind until he calmed down, or the quietness around him lulled him to sleep. Either way, it served as ample distraction, and he would once-again find himself able to face you — something that was, admittedly, excellent, as he adored the time he spent with you, despite the lewd thoughts that encroached upon his mind with increasing frequency.
Sometimes, however, things would go differently.
On days like today, the tension would become too much for him; the elastic would snap, the bowl would spill over. He knew he would inevitably feel shame for giving into temptation once he had chased down his release, but in the moment all he could feel was desperation.
He was already half-hard, thanks to your earlier altercation in the kitchen, whereupon asking him to help you reach the flour from the top shelf had resulted in his much taller frame absentmindedly pressing you against the counter, the length of his body flush against your back while he reached above your head to retrieve the ingredient — which he promptly almost dropped once he realised the position the two of you were in. Thankfully, you had managed to catch the heavy bag as it slipped from his hand without too much of the powder spilling out onto the countertop; when you looked up to give him an appreciative smile, his face was flushed red and he couldn't quite meet your gaze, something which you chalked up to his embarrassment about his clumsiness almost resulting in you getting covered in flour and not the fact that his height compared to yours, and the way your leaned back to look up at him, gave him the perfect view down your shirt. He had jerked back, turning away from you so fast that his ponytail almost whipped you in the face, and left the room, leaving you confused and without anyone to help you with the bechamel white sauce you needed to make.
Now, in his room in your cozy home above the restaurant, he was reliving the feeling of your body pressed against his as he palmed at himself through the thick woollen fabric of his grey trousers. With a sense of urgency in his movements, he ripped open his robes, shrugging them half-off his shoulders, the sleeves pooling around his elbows, and exposing his bare chest to the heated air of the room. Curling his legs underneath him so that he was kneeling on the bed, he shoved his pants down, the fabric skimming over his hips and stopping mid-thigh; just far enough to give himself access. In an effort to provide himself with some form of lubricant, he spat into one of his palms before wrapping that hand around the shaft of his erect cock.
He worked at himself with almost torturously slow strokes, as though punishing himself for losing his composure so completely earlier and exposing to you that his flirtations were not merely a game to him. When precum began to bead at the slitted tip of his dick, he slicked a thumb through it, spreading it over the head and down the length of his shaft as he tried not to buck into his fist. After a few seconds of trying to muffle his shuddering gasps and groans, he tugged the collar of his loose robe jacket up and into his mouth, biting down on the fabric; the restaurant may have been past closing hours, but you were still there, merely several feet below him where he had abandoned you to prepare dinner by yourself while he selfishly attended to his own lascivious needs. Clearly, the guilt was too much for him; he made sure that the version of you he was picturing in his mind was being thoroughly pleasured by his hands, his mouth, his cock —the fabric of his robe slipped out from between his teeth as his jaw went slack, eyes screwed shut as he let out a moan that reverberated deep in his chest — to make up for the fact that you were actually stuck downstairs, undoubtedly annoyed at him for leaving you to slave over a hot stove.
The movements of his hand sped up as he lost himself to fantasies of all the different ways he could fuck you— make love to you. It felt cheap, almost, to acknowledge his feelings for you in moments like these, but that didn’t change anything; his entire body, heart, mind, soul— adored, craved, and desired every single part, every single aspect of you, and all he could think about was you, you, you, you, you… Miso was desperate now; hunched over, one forearm braced against the bed to support himself while he thrust into his hand, half-grinding against the mattress in a frenzied attempt to get more friction. He buried his face into the blanket to mute his pleasured groans and his breathing, which now came out in heavy, deep gasps, interspersed with lustful, depraved moans of your name.
And, well...Speak of the Devil…
“Miso, are you alri—oh!” Freezing in place in the doorway, you stare at the scene before you. Miso, skin flushed and covered with a thin sheen of sweat, half-clothed, and with one slender hand wrapped around his erection, a mess of precum leaking down his shaft and fingers. Glassy, lust-clouded red eyes met yours and for a second, neither of you moved. Then—
“Ah!! I’m so sorry!” You squeaked, while Miso scrambled to cover himself with his robes in an attempt to preserve what was left of his fleeting dignity, nervously laughing and babbling out half-formed syllables the entire time.
“I just— You— You left so suddenly earlier, and then you were gone for so long, I— I got worried! And then when I finished making dinner — oh! Dinner is ready, by the way — I thought, y’know, I should come and check on you! So now I’m here! And I should have knocked!” You rambled, head in your hands, face burning hot and rufescent. You had been worried, extremely so, when Miso had rushed out of the kitchen, leaving you pressed up against the wooden counter, cradling an errant bag of flour in your hands. As you worked to prepare dinner — alone — you worried that you’d done something wrong, something to make your most loyal food soul flee in such a way...And the longer you worked, the more certain you became that you had done something wrong, especially by not following to ask him if he was alright. When you finished cooking, you set the dish aside to cool while you went upstairs in the hope of fetching Miso and coaxing him downstairs so the two of you could eat together. You hadn’t expected... this ! You glanced up and, when you did, Miso looked away, once again reluctant to meet your eyes, his chest still heaving beneath his loose robes and his face still glowing with a heavy blush.
And in that one moment, all the pieces seemed to click into place; tumbling down like one domino after another when they had finally been given that much-needed push.
The memory of what had happened before he had left returned to you full-force; his hips pinning yours against the counter, your back pressed against his firm, warm chest, the blush blooming across his cheeks when you smiled at him...was this because of you ? You desperately hoped it wasn’t just wishful thinking on your part; that the handsome monk did actually feel the same way about you that you did for him.
Your confidence bolstered by these thoughts, you stepped fully into his room, closing the door behind you with a soft “click” that, in the tense silence of the room, seemed to grab Miso’s attention and prompt him to finally look at you.
“H— ah, master attendant...wh—what are you doing?”
“I was going to ask you if you wanted to eat dinner together, but,” Your voice was low and sultry; Miso was transfixed. Your knees hit the edge of the bed and you climbed onto it, crawling towards Miso like a predator stalking its prey. His eyes were hazy as he watched you; a bead of sweat gathered at the sharp edge of his jaw before sliding down the pale skin of his throat as he swallowed thickly.
“Something much more delicious has caught my eye. ”
This couldn’t be real. There was no way; Miso was borderline certain that this was just another lewd fantasy of his — until your hands made contact with his shoulders, pushing him down until his head met the pillow. As he stared down at you with glazed, half-lidded eyes, you toyed with the hem of his robe, glancing up at him questioningly.
“Can I— ?”
“Ye— Yes, please. God, please—!” He interjected, nodding fervently; that was all the confirmation you needed. Leaning down to press soft kisses against his collarbone, you straddled his thigh as your hands worked to untie the hasty knot that was holding his robe closed. After a second, his hands pushed yours away, deftly untying the cords before reaching up to tangle one hand in your hair, bringing your lips against his for a filthy, heated kiss. You flung his robe open, fingers skimming up over his stomach to his chest, keening into the kiss as your hips ground and bucked against his thigh. His free hand, which had been resting on your hip, moved to tug at the hem of your shirt and you nodded against him, giving him permission to shove the garment upwards, pushing it just far enough to expose the swell of your bra-clad breasts.
Miso moaned as you pulled away from him, briefly leaning up in an attempt to recapture your lips before his head dropped back down to the pillow. You giggled, removing your shirt and tossing at away to God—knows—where, before reaching back to unclasp your bra. Miso quickly followed your example and began to undress; he angled his thigh in a way that forced you to lift your hips momentarily, just long enough for him to take off his trousers and underwear— already low slung on his hips from his hurried attempt to redress himself not too long ago. Still kneeling above him, you slipped off your skirt, and when you pulled down your underwear he could see a thin string of arousal drip onto the fabric from the apex of your thighs, a sight which made him shiver with lust. You barely had time to fully remove the garments before his hands were on your hips, pulling you back down against his thigh and coaxing you to rock your hips against him. Propping himself up on his elbows, Miso leaned up to bury his head against your chest, pressing kisses along your sternum before pulling back to capture one of your nipples between his lips, tongue salving against the hardened nub.
“A—ah, Miso—!” You arched against him, one hand moving to tangle in his dishevelled ponytail. He hummed, pleased with your response, and redoubled his efforts; one hand moved up from your hip to toy with your other breast, the other skimmed down over your hipbone and to the apex of your thighs. His middle finger rubbed teasingly against your slit, quickly becoming slick with arousal.
“Miso, please—!” He shifted, hands returning to your hips to lift you and then lay you down against the mattress, moving to hover over you. His hand resumed its ministrations, one finger probing at your soaked entrance while the heel of his palm ground against your clit. You raised your hips to meet his movements as he finally slid a finger inside of you, meeting no resistance even as the pad of his fingertip stroked deeply along your slick inner walls.
He leaned down, breath hot against the side of your face as his tongue flicked along the shell of your ear.
“M—master attendant,” he gasped out. “I love you.”
Then, “Please...touch me.”
Without a second’s hesitation, your hands were upon him, one palm braced against his chest, the other at the base of his neck, pulling him closer to you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, muffling your gasps and moans by kissing and nipping at his throat— this did nothing to mute your cries when he slid another finger inside you, crooking and scissoring them expertly. You could feel his heated erection pressing insistently against your thigh, making you realise that his pleasure was being neglected— although, admittedly, he did have a head start over you. Your hand trailed down his stomach and hips to grip his cock; he released a shuddered moan into your ear, slowing the thrusting of his fingers to match the teasing, leisurely pace of your strokes. His fingers moved with a precision and expertise that you were certain a holy man such as him should not have possessed, fingertips grazing all the right spots and thumb rubbing a syncopated rhythm against your clit in such a way that it had your back arching and your unoccupied hand grasping for purchase against his sweat-slicked back.
You were close to the edge— a fog clouded your mind, spreading throughout your body, and the fire stoked in your core began to reach a fever pitch. Then, before you could get there, both of your hands went to Miso’s shoulders, pushing him off of you just enough to look him in the eyes, his hand stilling while he looked at you in a mix of arousal and confusion.
“Please…” You gasped out, watching Miso’s eyelids slip closed as he nodded, pulling back from you and releasing a pent—up breath.
“Now?” He asked tentatively, his tongue smoothing along his lower lip. You hummed the affirmative, hips bucking against his thigh. That was all he needed to hear before his large hands gripped your hips, pulling you up into his lap. Your arms wound around the back of his neck, pressing your forehead against his as he aligned himself with your entrance.
Inch by inch, he slowly sheathed himself inside of you, gasping out a heavy, hot breath against your lips before pulling you in for a passionate open—mouthed kiss, tongue skimming against yours before he pulled back. Once he was seated half—way inside of you, he gave you a moment to adjust to the delicious stretch you felt in your core, gripping your thighs tightly, knuckles almost turning white in restraint. After a moment of pause, you rocked your hips, pressing your lips against his once again to show him that you were ready.
With a sudden snap of his hips, he was fully inside of you, letting out a howl of pleasure that was muffled against your mouth. Your arms reflexively tightened around his neck, pulling him closer until your chests were pushed flush against each other; the heat of the room, the closeness of your bodies, and your frenzied movements as you strove to meet each of his thrusts meant sweat pooled at every point where your bodies pressed together. His hands gripped the soft flesh of your thighs, fingers pressing in forcefully enough to leave marks as he held you in place, hips thrusting and cock slamming up into you so divinely that it caused your legs to tremble under his grip. He moaned out your name, breath catching in his throat as he trailed heated kisses along your neck. Your fingers threaded in his hair, pushing him more insistently against you as his kisses turn to soft bites.
Having both already been so close to climax beforehand, it didn’t take either of you long to reach that precipice again, and when one of Miso’s hands slackened its grip on your thigh and trailed down to where your bodies joined, rubbing at your clit with shaking fingers...— It was only a matter of seconds before you reached your limit and you came undone around him with a scream of his name. You rode out your orgasm, hips grinding weakly against him; he managed a few more thrusts before he, too, joined you in that feeling of bliss, attempting to silence his satisfied moan with a hard bite to your collarbone.
Spent and exhausted, he moved to lay you down on the bed once again before pitching forward, barely managing to support himself with one arm before he collapsed on you. His sweat—damp hair hung in front of his face, ponytail mussed and half—undone, his face tinted blush-red from exertion. Reluctantly, as though he didn’t want the feeling to end, he pulled his softened cock out of you, a sticky trail of cum dripping out of you and onto the sheets as he did so — a sight that, as tired as he was, almost got him hard again. With a sigh, he flopped down on the bed next to you, tangling his legs with yours as you both fought to catch your breath.
You were the first one to break the silence.
“You love me?” You asked with a coy smirk, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at Miso. His already blushing face reddened considerably, and he hid his head in his hands, peeking out at you from behind his fingers.
“Ahaha, I said that?” His voice, while nervous, showed no hint of apology, and he didn’t give you a chance to respond before he spoke again. “I mean, I meant it, but…” he trailed off, turning his still—hidden face away from you in embarrassment, prompting you to giggle.
“What?”
“Move your hands!”
“No!” You could hear the pout in his voice.
“If you don’t, it means I can’t kiss you!” You teased, leaning down to lay on his chest, tugging at his wrists playfully. In a shocking display of mock—stubbornness, he kept his hands in place, shaking his head behind them.
“Miso~” You sing—songed. “I love you~”
That got him to move his hands, and you watched his expression turn from surprised, to perplexed, to smug, all within an instant.
“Hah, really? I mean— I knew that, of course you do. How could you resist falling for my charms?” He asked, voice serious, but the grin on his face and glint in his eye showed you he was only teasing you — which obviously worked, since you could feel heat rising in your face as he gave you a lascivious wink.
Still, you returned the smile, curling up against him, head resting on his chest; you could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat as you allowed your eyes to slip closed. Almost instinctually, Miso’s arms wound around you in a protective embrace, pulling you close to him.
Around 20 minutes later, he was startled awake when you shot up, scrambling out of bed to find your clothes. Bleary—eyed, he reached for his robe and shrugged it on, a yawn in his voice when he asked you what was wrong.
“I THINK I LEFT THE STOVE ON—”