It has been 2 days since you and Caleb consented to indulge in each other’s bodies while asleep. Lying beside you now, he realizes he could no longer contain the restless hunger building inside him – tonight, he would give in.
You slept as peacefully as ever, dressed in a silk nightgown that barely brushed your thighs. The sight alone makes his breath hitch. His hand moves anticipatory over his hardened length, a quiet groan caught in his throat at the thought of what he was about to do.
Caleb didn’t realize how quickly his restraint unravelled. Soft, heated sounds slipping past his lips as he carefully pulls the blanket away from your body.
“You’re such a good girl… sleeping so deeply,” he whispers, lowering himself between your thighs.
He presses soft kisses against your skin, before gently easing your legs apart, careful not to wake you. His breath warms your inner thighs as he lingers there, savouring the moment.
“Oh…? How are you this wet while you’re asleep? Are you dreaming of something naughty…?” He lets his tongue glide between your folds, just enough to taste. A muffled moan escapes him.
“Mmh… how do you always…taste so good…?”
His words dissolve into quiet sounds against you, his breathing growing heavy and unsteady. “Let’s see if you can take one finger…” he murmurs, easing it inside you. A soft exhale follows, “I see…not enough for you, huh?”
He added another. Caleb leans over you, his fingers still moving inside you in an unhurried rhythm. He’s brushes stray strands of hair from your face as he watches you, almost studies your every feature.
Eventually, he withdraws his finger, bringing them to his lips and licking them clean with a quiet, satisfied hum, before letting his hand drift slowly to cup your breasts.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispers against your ear.
“How many nights I’ve had to take care of myself while you slept next door or even here, right next to me…,” a soft, breathless laugh follows, but clearly filled with guilt.
“Although I might’ve stolen a taste once or twice before when you were sleeping… but you forgive me, don’t you?” he confesses.
Deep down, he longed for you to catch every confession, but yet was relieved you’re fast asleep.
“Now… juuust the tip,” he says.
“You can handle that. I won’t wake you up.” He positions himself, guiding the head of his leaking cock slowly against you before pressing in just slightly. A sharp, shaky breath left him the moment he felt you.
His control slipps completely then, his movements growing steadier, deeper, his breathing rougher with every thrust. “I’m sorry– “ he gasps, his voice strains.
“It’s… not just the tip. I know…”
He suddenly freezes mid-motion, feeling you shift slightly under the covers as your breathing intensifies.
“Ssh… hey, sshh!! I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says quickly and panicked.
He basically has your permission, but why did he still feel so guilty? Yet he didn’t stop.
He leans down, capturing your lips in a rushed, but deep and sloppy kiss, his hand coming up to block your eyes with his palm, just in case.
“Be a good baby sister… go back to sleep, yeah?” he whispers, yet his movements only grow more forceful.
“I’m almost done… just listen to me,” he says as he hurries to finish.
Your eyes twitches open for a second, a tiny smirk teasing the corner of your mouth, but you stay perfectly still, pretending to be asleep.
It was already 1am, but you couldn't help yourself. Caleb was half asleep, but you were wide-eyed in the dark. Your imagination was getting the better of you and it was starting to consume you. Caleb told you before that it was alright to touch him when he slept, so your hands don't hesitate when they reach down to Caleb's softened member under his briefs, squeezing until he hardens under your ministrations.
"Pipsqueak," he mutters, eyes half shut. Even sleepy, you knew he wouldn't say no to you. "What are you doing? Do you want it?"
It. Of course you did. You nod back vehemently, and though he can't see you in the nighttime, you know he can hear the rustling of the sheets. He understands. He leans closer to you, leaving the domain of his side of the bed to invade into the space of your pillow. His lips find yours and the kiss is warm and wholehearted. His warm hand reaches out to you under the blankets. They slide under your shirt where his skin warms up your belly before he's reaching higher, up to your breasts, and squeezes the mounds of flesh. You relax as he massages you but suddenly tense when he grazes your nipple. He lightly pulls and rubs at one before moving onto the other. You help him by lifting your shirt up. When he spreads his fingers and grazes both of your nipples at the same time, you can't help the long, low moan you release into his mouth.
"You like that?" he says softly, eyes still shut. His breath is heavy against your lips. He feels soft and cozy next to you, but the movement of his fingers across your chest feels like sin. They spark pleasure up your spine and make it difficult to concentrate on kissing. He asked if you liked that, but you know answering is useless; it's rhetorical because he already knows the answer from the way you're shuddering, by how you're struggling to keep your lips on his since you can barely catch your breath. Your chest has always been your weak spot and Caleb loves to exploit it.
Not one to be selfish, you want Caleb to feel good too. So you stroke him again until you feel a bead of precum well up. You spread his precum across the entire head before stroking the shaft again. He swells under your hand, so erect that the foreskin stays peeled back. When he sharply pulls on one of your nipples, the cry he elicits from you seems to trigger something in him. His cock wells up with fluid again, and his breathing against your lips grows heavier. When you slip your tongue into his mouth, searching for his, his breathing roughens before he takes over to dominate the kiss.
Yes, you think. You've managed to rile him up and you moan to let him know of your receptivity.
Every time his fingers brush against both your nipples simultaneously, you feel yourself growing wetter in your underwear. Unable to take it any longer, you let go of his member only to slip your hand under your own waistband to furiously pleasure yourself. Caleb's disappointed by the loss of contact but hums in approval when he realizes what you're doing.
He detaches his lips from yours. Instead, he cups and squeezes one of your breasts before tilting his head down to suck on them. You whine when his teeth graze against the sensitive nub. They harden under his touch, even more so as his tongue laves against the skin, as he engulfs on them as if trying to draw milk out. He moves from one to the other before returning again. Your fingers are relentless where you're pleasuring yourself. The soft sounds Caleb makes as he has his way with you, the way electricity runs up your spine, it's all too much. Your toes curl into the sheets as your muscles tighten and you fall over the edge, your breath knocked out of your lungs.
Suddenly, you're much too sensitive. Each touch becomes almost painful and you push Caleb's mouth away.
"Please," you whisper. "I can't take it." He obliges, his head falling back against his own pillow again. Your body is still buzzing from your release, but you reach out for Caleb's cock again. This time, his entire member is soaked. Just from sucking on your breasts.
You coat his shaft with the fluids and listen to the gasps he makes. Without warning, you urge him to take off his briefs then rearrange yourself so you face where he's tumescent. You swallow him into your mouth and undulate your head. You can't see his expression, but you imagine it: eyebrows furrowed, mouth agape, face slack.
He runs fingers through your hair, trying to push back the strands so they're not in your face. He's salty and his body scent is slightly sweet. You bob your head as his sticky fluids coat your mouth. You even run your tongue over the wrinkled skin of his balls and feel them tighten up. Your hand caresses the shaft while you do this, even wrapping the palm of your hand over the slick head. Caleb practically curls in on himself when you do this, the tip too overstimulated. You only release him when he tugs harshly at your hair. Stars are swimming in his vision.
"C'mere," he says, breathless. He draws you back up and onto him so you're straddling his middle. He reaches under you, pulling aside your underwear and lining himself up. Slowly, you sink down. It's been awhile since you two have done this. His cock is stretching you open and you relish in the sensation of the intrusion. Once fully seated, you lean down for a quick kiss as you get used to his size. You rise up and start bouncing, feet planted firmly on the mattress, hands against his chest for leverage. When he tries to touch your breasts again, you whine in disapproval; your chest is too overstimulated now, nipples so stiff that it's bordering on pain. You redirect his hand down to your clit instead, and arch your back as he rubs your bud.
You never can manage to be in this position for long, so when he senses your tiredness, Caleb rolls you off him. Despite his drowsiness, he pulls you to the edge of the bed until your legs dangle off. He positions himself between your legs, aligns his member, and pushes in.
You don't make a sound as he starts thrusting, but your eyes are closed, savoring the movements and touch. You bite your lip so hard it leaves a bite-shaped indent.
Perhaps Caleb thinks your silentness is an inimical sign, so he lifts your legs until your ankles are on his shoulders. He pushes your thighs together and starts grinding deep into you, repeatedly pushing hips against hips until it feels like he's splitting you open. You can't help moaning at the pleasurable pain.
Relief washes over Caleb when sound finally leaves your lips. He wants to hear you coming apart for him, after all. For good measure, he grinds desperately into you unceasingly, angling his hips differently each time he presses in. You swear his tip is abusing the opening of your womb, pushing against your cervix like as if he's seeking entrance. He keeps it up until you're practically crying.
Finally, he draws your legs apart again and holds onto the back of your knees, bending your legs into your chest. He pistons his hips, dragging loud, sharp wails out of you. It's not enough for Caleb though. You got him all riled up and if he can't see your melting expressions in the dark, he at least wants to hear you and he wants to hear you loud. So he does what he knows you love.
His hands move away from your bent legs and reaches up to your throat. One hand on either side, fingers curling around you. He doesn't press down hard, just enough to put pressure on your windpipe, to show you who's boss. And you trust Caleb so wholly—trust that he'd never actually harm you—that the pressure cascades utter pleasure through you instead of fear. He holds you for leverage as he wildly jackhammers.
Your gasps are sharper and breathier from the lack of air and the occasional moans you emit are cut out each time he presses his fingers down a little harder. Every single sound you make is music to his ears.
At some point, it gets too much for you and you can't control how your cunt clamps down on him. Your muscles tighten around his cock so intensely that if you both weren't so wet and leaking for the other that Caleb wouldn't even be able to thrust any further. You squeeze around his cock until it feels like he's the one who's being choked.
Finally, his breath begins to stutter before his hips do. He lets go of your neck to grip your hips instead in a bruising hold, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your pelvis.
"Fuck," he swears, "I'm gonna cum."
You nod and whine in approval. Your hand moves down to rub against your own clit.
"Shit," he wheezes. "Are you touching yourself?"
You don't answer him because soon after, he lets out a choked sound and stills. His cock pulses against your walls as he releases ropes inside you. Even in his daze, he takes over for you. His thumb rubs against your clit over and over, and when you reach your second climax, you wrap your legs around him to pull him hither as your walls constrict his member. This movement collapses him over you, his body completely spent. When his cock softens and slips out, you feel his fingers push his release back into you, so a part of him remains inside you always. It's perverse, but you wouldn't have it any other way.
Virgin bkg who’s so painfully stupid but acts so arrogant. And when it’s getting heated and you’re making out and want to see his dick… he gets all shy and embarrassed because he doesn’t know if it looks normal or as good as the other ones you’ve seen. When you ask what’s wrong he tells you it’s curved and you think it’s like BENT then he lets you see and it’s the prettiest most orgasm inducing upward curve you’ve ever seen on a dick.
bakugou katsuki knows why he is a virgin. it’s pretty simple really despite the fact he is surrounded by beautiful women often. socialites, the new buzzing influencers, actors and pro heroes like.
it’s because he’s obsessed with his job. always has been. since he was a child who was dreaming of becoming a hero, to his teenage years fighting wars to now in his early twenties, working towards becoming number one.
women and mostly importantly, getting his dick wet, has never been number one on his list of priorities. sure he’d go to film premiers for that hero franchise he loves, occasionally a gorgeous woman would talk to him.
but the thing about growing up uninterested in sex and the only women around him being his friends that share the same heroic goals… well bakugou has never been very good at flirting. which again, was mostly okay since he would just walk away when a woman was about to talk to him.
until he met you that is. the first woman to make him dream of more, that made him unable to get through a shower without tugging one out to the thought of you. that during patrols, he’d think about texting you. what are you up to? where are you? when the hell can he kiss you next?
anyone is experienced compared to bakugou. he’s kissed a girl once in his third year of ua. he’s made out with two in his early twenties.
but now at twenty six this is first time having a woman in his apartment, on his bed, on his lap. he feels like a rabid animal. unsure where to put his hands with the desperate need to touch everywhere so he leaves them on the globes of your ass, squeezing every few seconds when all the feelings inside of him gets intense.
he knows he’s flushed red. he knows his dick is hard and you can feel it through your leggings. but you’re so perfect, leading the moment, letting him react however the hell he wants.
bakugou releases a loud moan when you stick your tongue down his throat, breasts pressed against his chest like you want to live in his skin. he’s never felt a woman like this before, he feels as if the word virgin is in capital letters printed onto his forehead.
he hasn’t told you directly he is but he thinks you know.
“you’re so… fuck. this is so fucked up,” he breathes into your mouth and your fingers rake up into the hair on his nape.
your grin makes his heart skip a beat, falter slightly and he swears he gets winded.
you’re out of breath, chest heaving and your pussy is a centimetre away from sitting on his cock.
“why’s it fucked up? you okay?” you brush your nose against his softly, smoothing out his eyebrow with your thumb. “you look hot, do you want to take your top off?”
you’re being so sweet to him and he appreciates it, he does. but as soon as he knows what he’s doing he’s gonna treat you right. properly.
for now, he’s just worried he doesn’t have what it takes.
“oh, err, fuck. sorry, yeah i will,” he mumbles to you, yanking off his white tee from the neckline.
bakugou enjoys how your eyes glow, scanning his half naked body like it’s something you can eat. your hands immediately flatten against his chest. down his toned abdomen. up to his fat squishy pectorals. he’s never had someone touch him like this. he couldn’t be harder.
“you don’t have to apologise, you know. this is new for us both.”
“you’re not the fuckin’ virgin here.” he bites, “i’ve never even had a woman in my room.”
he can tell you like that idea. you inch closer to him on his lap, your hands are back on his shoulders. you brush your lips over his.
“i don’t know how. look at you.”
and you’re back to making out with him. slower this time. tasting all the flavour from his tongue.
you softly bite down on his bottom lip and like a ring of the doorbell, bakugou opens up to let you in. it’s wet peck after wet peck, tilting your head to taste more of him. he’s eager, too eager ducking closer to you, as to not waste any time with your lips off his. you can only think that if he kisses with this much passion, you’re dying to know how he’d fuck.
bakugou tightly grips your ass and without meaning to, he shoves you directly onto his cock.
you mewl like a cat, hips grinding down onto him like you can’t help it. “you feel so good, ‘tsuki.”
you feel good because of him. him.
your tongue sneaks into his mouth, twirls and brushes against his. he learns quickly, you’ll give him that. his tongue dances against yours, licking up everything you offer. you feel his body vibrate, his dick twitch. you begin sucking on his tongue and that’s when he releases a harsh grunt. you’re soaked.
“let me see it.” you palm his cock through his shorts, “let me see.”
bakugou opens his eyes, pulls away from your mouth for a moment.
“i… fuck.” he’s back to mumbling. then stupidly, he looks down at the lump in his fabric.
“you… you don’t have to?” you offer, unsure about his wide eyes, “we can keep kissing?”
“it’s just that… it’s just….,” bakugou looks up to the ceiling.
he’d love for you to touch him, do anything to him but nobodies seen his dick before. sure he’s seen some porn videos and he’s never seen a dick like his in them. he’s googled and nothing said there’s anything particularly wrong about his.
but what if you find it weird, what if it puts you off him completely?
“talk to me, baby,” you push, laying a kiss on his jaw. then making a line down his neck. “wanna make you feel good.”
he’d like that.
“listen. seriously.”
you pull off him at that, sitting up on his lap, your hands at his waist. he is stupidly gorgeous. puffy pink lips because of you. his long straight eyelashes. his beautiful cheekbones and that eyebrow slit.
“i’m listening. tell me anything.” you soften your tone, trying to get the horny out your eyes. your tits are basically spilling out your vest top and you don’t miss bakugou’s pupils darting to from them every few seconds.
“i think…. i…”
you don’t speak.
katsuki takes a deep breath. he almost shouts without meaning to. “nobody has seen my dick before but me. right?”
you nod with a frown, unsure where this is going. “okay. nothing’s wrong with that.”
bakugou winces. he isn’t built for this. he’s always been attractive physically. his body works better than the average. can run at speed, stealthy, built for hero work. his quirk is best of the best and is only getting stronger by the day. but using it for sex? that’s something he’s got no clue about.
“it might not be normal lookin’? like it works fine, i’ve never had any problems with it? but it might be odd for you.”
you’re immediately imagining the worst. it’s not small. you felt it a second ago between your legs. heck, you’ve seen it when he walks around in those stupid grey joggers. oddly coloured, oddly shaped? is it too big?
“what’s wrong?” you tilt your head.
his whole face is flushed. a beautiful pink to the apples of his cheeks. you would kiss them if he wasn’t so serious right now.
he closes his eyes, leans his head back on his headboard. his hands stay on your thighs. you tap his chest.
“c’mon tell me.”
he exhales sharply.
“my dick is fuckin’ curved. to the left. i don’t know why.” he blurts, embarrassment written all over him, “it’s always been like that.”
for him to be this stressed about it, it must be abnormal. is it like a hook? you’ve seen one like that on one of those medical reality shows. would it be able to go inside if you? you so badly want him inside of you.
you shrug. you can’t imagine anything about this man being less than perfect. “it can’t be that bad, baby.”
you rub his chest soothingly but his face doesn’t soothe you one bit.
“i’m fuckin’ sorry. i brought you here and we’re goin’ so well and—,”
“let me see. let me see your dick, c’mon,” you smile softly.
you sink your hand to touch his crotch again.
“you sure? i don’t want you to be put off me like i’m a freak—,”
“katsuki. come on.”
it’s in slow motion. your mouth immediately start salivating, his hands grip the elastic waistband of his shorts. he pulls them down in one go with his underwear.
“oh katsuki. baby…. honey.”
this man has nothing to worry about. bakugou katsuki has on him, a cock that can rival your favourite dildos. it curves to the left, a smooth pleasing curve that you already know will hit your softest spots. you swallow your spit, your hands inching up his thighs. it’s darker at the base, twitching under your attention with two round balls (one a little larger than the other) at the bottom.
he is hefty. heavy. thick like a tree trunk with veins darting up the sides. you imagine the weight of it in your mouth. the deep pinkish purplish head on your tongue. most of all, you imagine it curved inside, pushing a sweet orgasm out of you.
of course, this big idiot didn’t know what he had on him. part of you wants to lie, never let him know how good he has it so he doesn’t go around sharing his goods. but you need to, it’s written all over your face.
“you must be joking, katsuki,” you hum, delighted. you run your finger down his shaft.
his hips jolt, eyes lazing slightly from your attention. he’s so hard it’s getting painful.
“what? what? spit it out.”
“you need to fuck me. doesn’t have to be now but someday. you have to.” you whine, “you don’t get it at all.”
“what? it’s not a problem? this okay with you?” he stutters, unable to keep a steady head as you sink down the bed to rest your chest on his legs. now you’ve got your face right in front of his dick, as if you’re measuring the curve by degrees.
you want to lick him.
“you’ve got a pornstar dick. a dick they base dildos off of,” you breathe. the look in your eye is wild, untamed. “you’d feel amazing. even if you don’t know how to use it. you need let me bounce on it.”
bakugou blinks down at you. he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing, fuck, he doesn’t know what to do about you. not one bit did he think you’d even have this reaction.
“w-what… i know how to use my own dick.” is all he can manage but you shake your head.
you flick your eyes up to him, “we’re gonna learn together, okay? can i… can i…” you flatten your tongue against his shaft and give him one lick up.
bakugou’s sure he’s about to come any second now.
“y-yes but be fuckin’ careful. i don’t wanna nut on your face.”
A/N: how to survive your situationship trying to decapitate you. Okay so kinda similar to my hiromi one, idk, i just think dick injuries are kinda funny. also for some reason theres an issue with some of my m dashes that won't em properly?? they won't -- and i'm too lazy to go back and fix them all, sorry pookie darlings
warnings: smut, f! receiving, lots of violence, posession, gojo being called go-hoe-jo and usage of the word "pookie" in text. 6500 words (ish) ooc, me trying to write his curse technique
Tonight’s curse was easy.
Slimy, grotesque, the usual—something with too many teeth and not enough spine. You and Nanami moved in tandem like always. Your barriers bloomed like glass flowers around him when it lunged; he cut through it with that clean, brutal 7:3 ratio and the thing split open like rotten fruit.
You might have tehee’d. Just a little. Just a treat.
“Focus,” he’d murmured, low and annoyed.
“Sorry,” you’d said, not sorry at all.
Because he looked good. Sweat darkening his shirt (hot). Tie loosened (hothot). Blunt sword resting against his shoulder (boiling). The quiet violence of him (schorching).
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. “Okay. Easy money. Let’s just make sure there’s no baby curse slithering around because I am NOT doing a surprise sequel.”
But.
You should have known.
Not known--known, but felt it in your bones the way you feel a migraine coming on, or the way you feel when Chairman Meow is about to knock a glass off the counter just to figure out how gravity works.
Something was wrong.
You wipe ichor off your cheek with the back of your hand, chest heaving, boots crunching on broken tile. The warehouse is split open like a carcass. Fluorescent lights flicker in a dying rhythm above you.
Across the room, Nanami stands straight-backed and immaculate despite the carnage, loosening his tie with that calm, surgical grace .
Which.
God.
He’s so—
“Stop staring,” he says flatly.
“I’m not staring,” you shoot back. “I’m assessing.”
You hear him huff. The faintest exhale. If you squint, it’s a laugh, the Nanmi equivalent of slapping his knee, rolling on the ground and cackling like a witch. You'll take the win.
You and Nanami have been dancing around each other for months. Everyone sees it.
Especially The One and Only (thank fuck): Satoru Gojo, who has six eyes and zero shame. Like actual negative shame somehow:
“Oh my GOOOD just kiss already,” Gojo had whined last week, upside-down on a couch like a possessed house cat. “You two are so painfully repressed it’s giving me hives.”
“You had a catastrophic situationship with Suguru,” you had replied sweetly while Gojo looked like you'd just brought up his ex (which... kinda yeah). “I don’t think you’re qualified to comment.”
Nanami had adjusted his glasses and muttered, “Please don’t drag me into this.”
But he’d stood a little closer to you that day.
Closer. Which is basically Nanami for marriage.
And then there was the Chairman Meow situation.
You still feel the humiliation in your bones. Calling Nanami in a panic because your indoor-only itty-bitty darling cat had Houdini’d himself somewhere in your apartment. You’d been teary, frantic, convinced he’d slipped out a window, ran away into Tokyo, maybe even gotten eaten by a coyote (you live in Tokyo, coyotes don't live here but-- semantics).
Nanami showed up in fifteen minutes.
Which is odd... because you know for a fact his apartment is around twenty-five minutes away by car.
He found the cat in ten fucking minutes.
Behind your washing machine.
“You didn’t check here,” he’d said calmly, holding your very indignant menace like a football. “He’s a cat. He lacks the intellectual capacity for interdimensional travel.”
You’d stared at him like he’d descended from heaven.
He’d stared back.
Something unspoken. Something warm.... and also so fucking terrifying.
*-*
And now—
You sweep your senses outward. Defensive technique flaring at your fingertips. Thin, invisible barriers thread through the warehouse like silk.
Still wrong.
Still—
“Nanami,” you murmur.
He hums.
“Doesn’t this feel… off?”
Silence.
You turn to say something witty, or dumb, or just... slightly flirty but not really so you won't have to deal with the consequences.
—and BARELY dodge the blur of black and white as his blunt sword whistles past your face, close enough you feel the pressure of it kiss your skin.
Your heart stops.
The blade slams into concrete where your head had been a half-second earlier. The impact BOOMS.
Instinct saves your life.
You twist, curse tearing out of your mouth as Nanami’s blade passes so close you feel it skim the air where your face was a second ago. You stumble back, boots scraping concrete, adrenaline detonates in your veins.
You spin, wild-eyed, already scanning the alley.
A lingering curse? A thingy? A second entity you missed? A Gojo??
But there’s nothing.
Just you.
You turn back stare at him.
He stares at you.
His expression is calm.
So fucking calm.
“…Nanami?”
He doesn't answer (fucking RUDE), he is already stepping forward again, pulling the blade free.
And swings again.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” You throw yourself backward, barrier snapping into place just in time —transparent, humming, infinity-adjacent but not nearly as broken as Gojo’s. The sword CRACKS against it, cursed energy shrieking on impact.
“Nanami, stop—!”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He swings again.
CLANG.
Your barrier fractures. A hairline crack.
You stare at him through it.
Your brain is scrambling for logic like it’s flipping through files at light speed.
Okay. Fun. Possession. Maybe.
Mind control curse.
Illusion.
Some weird 7:3 misfire where he’s calculating you as the weak point.
“Nanami, if this is a joke, it’s not funny,” you say, voice thinner than you mean it to be.
Silence.
He advances.
Your heart starts pounding so hard it feels like it’s bruising your ribs.
He has never looked at you like this.
Not once.
Not when you burned dinner and tried to play it off as “charcoal chic.” Not when you cried after that mission in Shibuya. Not when you dragged him into your apartment at 2 a.m. because you were afraid to be alone.
He has never looked at you like you are something to eliminate.
He moves again. Fast. Brutal.
You barely reinforce your barrier in time.
CRACK.
Okay.
Okay.
Think.
“Did I—” you laugh, breath shaky, “Did I piss you off or something? Because if this is about the overtime thing I SWEAR I won’t call you ‘corporate daddy’ again—”
Your voice wobbles, humor has gotten you out of many situations, but this time... well it seems that he does not care.
He circles you.
Measured steps. Calculating.
He’s planning.
You know that look.
You’ve seen it aimed at curses.... but you’ve never seen it aimed at you.
And something inside your chest starts to splinter.
Because the scariest part?
He doesn’t look angry, nor possessed.
He looks focused.
Like this is work. Like removing your head from your body is a task on his to-do list.
Your throat tightens.
Nanami would never do this.
He would never hurt you.
He—
Would he?
A sick, traitorous voice whispers: Maybe you misread everything.
Maybe the coffee meant nothing.
Maybe the way he lingered by your door meant nothing. Or maybe when his hand brushed yours and stayed there half a second too long, that was just you being delusional.
Maybe you were stupid.
Maybe you pushed too hard.
Maybe he realized you were too much. Too loud. Too soft. Too everything.
Maybe he got tired of orbiting.
Maybe he finally decided you were a liability.
The thought hits harder than his sword ever could.
He punches you-- well okay, not you, he punches the barrier.
A full-force, bone-shattering, seven-three ratio enhanced punch.
Your barrier fractures. Like actually fucking cracks (like your heart).
“HEY!” you bark, scrambling upright. “HELLO? EXCUSE ME? WE’RE ON THE SAME TEAM?!”
“I see,” he says mildly, stepping back to observe you. “You’re adapting.”
You blink.
“I’M ADAPTING TO YOU TRYING TO KILL ME, YOU PSYCHOPATH.”
He tilts his head slightly. Observing.
Like you’re a problem set.
You swallow hard.
Something’s wrong. Something is deeply, horrifically wrong.
You expand your defensive field, layering barriers over barriers. Semi-transparent planes shimmer into existence around you.
Nanami steps forward.
Calm.
Measured.
Terrifying.
“You used your domain earlier,” he notes.
Your stomach drops.
He knows.
He’s tracking your reserves. Rude -- so FUCKING rude, you're going to complain to Yaga, to the higher ups, to fucking TENGEN if needed, this ENTIRE situation is RUDE.
“You’re running at approximately forty percent cursed energy,” he continues. “Your barriers will degrade under sustained pressure.”
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!” Your voice cracks. You hate that it cracks.
He doesn’t answer, but he does look at you... and God, does he look.
And there’s nothing there for you.
No warmth. No hesitation. Just assessment.
You feel something inside you cave in.
This is worse than a curse.
Because curses don’t make you question your worth. Curses don’t make you wonder if you imagined love.
You swallow hard.
“Okay,” you breathe, voice trembling. “Okay. So. Cool. Awesome. This is happening.”
He lunges.
Sword arcs downward—
You stack three barriers in a split second.
The first SHATTERS.
The second SPLINTERS.
The third HOLDS—barely.
The shockwave sends debris flying. Your ears ring, our mind races, you won't hold on forever.
Possession? Curse manipulation? Residual binding vow backlash? A hidden parasite?
You scan him.
There—
A thread.
Thin.
Coiled around his cursed energy like barbed wire.
“SHIT.”
He hacks at your defenses methodically. Precise. Relentless. He knows how your technique works. He knows the stress points.
He’s exploiting them.
And that— that feels like betrayal layered on betrayal.
Because he’s using the knowledge he gained fighting with you to fight against you.
“Stop,” you whisper, half to him, half to the universe.
He doesn’t.
Your barrier shatters.
You stagger back.
He closes the distance in an instant.
You throw up a smaller shield just as his fist connects. The impact sends you skidding across concrete.
Pain blooms.
Your vision swims.
You taste blood.
And the worst part is not the pain.
It’s the way your chest aches when you look up and see him walking toward you again.
Steady.
Unhurried.
Like he knows you, he knows exactly how long you’ll last.
Tears blur your vision, hot and humiliating.
“Nanami,” you choke out, almost laughing because if you don’t you’ll scream, “if this is your way of asking me out, I’m gonna need you to work on your communication skills—”
Your voice breaks.
He raises his sword.
And for one horrifying, crystalline second, you believe he’s going to kill you.
You think: I love you.
And immediately after: Is this my fault?
Did I push too hard? Did I look at you too openly or too gently? Did I make you uncomfortable? Did I ruin us before we even were an us?
Your barrier flares desperately as his blade comes down.
The force drives you to your knees.
Your arms tremble violently.
You can’t hold this much longer. He is, after all, a Grade One.
“Please,” you whisper, and you don’t even know what you’re asking for anymore.
For him to stop.
For him to explain.
For him to look at you the way he used to.
For this to be a nightmare.
He tilts his head slightly as he presses down.
Studying the crack spreading across your shield.
Of course the man you’re catastrophically in love with is also the worst possible opponent for your fighting style.
“You are remarkably durable,” he comments.
“STOP REVIEWING ME LIKE A PERFORMANCE REPORT!” You bark out. You manage, by some magical fucking miracle, to stack enough barriers like some pancake of anti-death, you now stand again, panting.
“You don’t want to hurt me,” you say, softer this time.
His jaw tightens.
“I am evaluating the optimal method to remove your head,” he replies evenly.
“... oh my fuck- that's so not romantically helpful, what the fuck.” you groan.
He steps in close.
Too close.
You smell clean soap and iron and something painfully familiar.
He grimaces.
And then he pushes harder.
Your barrier SCREAMS.
“Okay!” you gasp. “Plan B! Plan B!”
You can’t deploy another domain. It would gut you. You’d collapse before finishing the incantation.
You need—
He pivots, striking the lower quadrant of your defense. It explodes outward.
You stumble, barely avoid another sword hit. Your heart does something stupid and traitorous.
“You’re hesitating,” he says quietly.
“So are you,” you shoot back.
For one infinitesimal second—
He falters.
That thread around him pulses.
You see it clearly now.
A curse technique embedded in his shadow.
Sneaky.
Parasitic.
Probably latched on during the fight.
You shove a barrier between his hand and your throat, forcing space.
He slices through it instantly.
“DAMMIT.”
He’s breathing harder now.
“I will not miss again,” he says.
“God, you’re hot when you’re homicidal,” you blurt out.
Silence.
His eyebrow twitches.
“…What?”
You are seconds from either saving the man you love—or being bisected by him.
Nanami’s blade carves through your outer barrier like it personally insulted his quarterly earnings. The warehouse is a warzone of shattered concrete and fractured light. Your cursed energy is running thin. Sweat drips down your spine.
He moves like a metronome.
Precise. Relentless. Economical.
“ENOUGH! Stop being so, so.. so fucking competent!!” you shout as you throw up another shield.
“I do not have that option,” he replies coolly, and drives his sword down.
The barrier cracks.
You feel it in your teeth.
You cannot keep doing this. You cannot crush him. You cannot deploy another domain.
You cannot—
Your footing slips.
Your barrier flickers.
And then—
You drop it.
Intentionally.
Nanami lunges instantly.
Of course he does. He’s been waiting for the weakness.
He’s fast—so fucking fast—
But you’re desperate. And you’re angry.
And frankly? You’re done playing defense (yes this is funny).
You duck under the swing.
Pivot.
And with every ounce of Grade One spite in your body—
You punch him in the balls.
Hard.
Very, very hard.
The sound he makes is not dignified. It is not calm.
It is a strangled, guttural, deeply human—
“—hhhkggghhhh—!”
Nanami Kento folds.
Like a goddamn lawn chair. Or a very polite origami.
He drops to his knees.
His sword clatters across the floor.
For one glorious second, the parasite’s control falters because YEAH, EVEN POSSESSED MEN HAVE NERVES.
You stumble back, wheezing.
“Curse equality you bitch,” you gasp.
Nanami tips sideways.
Fully down.
Flat on his back.
You stare at him.
He stares at the ceiling.
You both breathe.
“…I am going to HR,” he croaks faintly.
“SHUT UP.”
You scramble, grabbing his weapon and skidding backward. With a sharp inhale, you slam your palms together and snap a reinforced barrier into existence:
A perfect cube.
Six planes of condensed cursed energy.
A fishbowl (sexy blond man fish).
Nanami is inside it.
On the floor.
Processing catastrophic genital trauma.
You sag against the outside of it.
“…I am SO sorry,” you whisper.
Inside the box, his fingers twitch.
Oh.
Oh no.
You yank out your phone.
Dial.
It rings once.
“Yeah?” Principal Yaga answers, like you’ve called to ask about homework.
“Hi,” you pant. “Nanami is possessed and I punched him in the dick.”
Silence.
“…You what.”
“He tried to kill me first.”
“That...why...who? Actually I don't want to know,” Yaga sighs. “Hold him. I’ll inform Gojo.”
“INFORM HIM FASTER—”
Click.
You stare at your phone.
“Wow. Love that support.”
Your device buzzes almost immediately.
Go-hoe-jo:
omw pookie 💕
You close your eyes.
“Why are you like this,” you whisper to the universe.
Behind you—
BOOM.
The cube shudders.
Nanami is on his feet.
Oh goodie.
He’s over it.
Fantastic.
Yippie as the young people would say.
He drives his fist into the barrier wall. Not sloppy. Not enraged.
Measured.
Testing.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each hit sends a shockwave that you can feel through the floor.
“Please,” you mutter. “Please stay down. Just take five. ICE IT. TIME OUT."
He tilts his head.
His glasses are cracked.
Blood trails from your shoulder onto the concrete.
His expression is distant.
Wrong.
“You are expending unnecessary energy,” he says calmly.
“YOU ARE IN A BOX.”
He punches again.
Hairline fractures spider across the barrier.
You reinforce it, sweat dripping into your eyes.
“I cannot believe I’m babysitting my own crush,” you groan. “This is humiliating.”
He strikes lower.
The cube warps.
You hiss, shoving more cursed energy into the construct.
You could crush the box inward.
You could compress it until bones snap.
You won’t.
You can't.
“Hang in there,” you whisper. “I’ve got you. Even if you’re being a homicidal asshole.”
The air shifts.
And then—
Gojo just appears.
No footsteps. No warning.
One second you’re alone.
The next—
POOF. He’s there. He, lacking better words, spawns in. Hands in his pockets.
Taking in the scene.
He glances at the cube.
At Nanami hammering inside it.
At you, bleeding and furious.
“…Wow,” he says lightly. “Foreplay’s gotten real aggressive. Didn't know this was the type of shit you were into.”
You stare at him.
Deadly.
“Take. It. Off.”
He pauses. Lifts a brow, grin blooming like a child handed an entire jar of sweets.
“…Oh wow, so you want him to watch-"
“I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING HOLY, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEANT.” you bark out.
“Urgh fine, can't even joke anymore."
Slowly, he lifts the blindfold.
Six Eyes ignite.
The air changes. Pressure warps. Fucking Gojo being a magical girl.
Gojo’s expression loses its teasing edge.
He steps closer to the barrier, peering in.
Nanami lunges at him through the wall.
The cube rattles violently.
Gojo hums.
“…Huh.”
“Huh?” you repeat hysterically. “HUH?”
He leans in.
“Yeah, so. He’s basically being worn.”
“WORN.”
“Like a meat suit.”
Your stomach drops. You suddenly feel cold all over, terror seizes your heart.
“Is he—” Your voice cracks. “Is he dead?”
Gojo blinks at you.
“Whoa. Calm your tits, pookie. He’s alive.”
You nearly sob from relief.
“There’s a curse latched into his nervous system,” Gojo continues casually, like he’s explaining a mildly inconvenient rash. “Deep. Nasty. Very clingy. Zero stars. Fucking cringe.”
Nanami slams his shoulder into the barrier again.
Cracks spread.
You reinforce it on instinct.
“If you kill it,” you whisper, eyes locked on Nanami, “won’t it kill him?”
Gojo tilts his head.
Actually thinking (actually insane, you did NOT know Gojo was capable of doing without blowing up a small city).
“…Not if I’m careful.”
You look at him sharply.
“Define careful.”
He smiles.
“Vibes-based precision.”
“GOJO.”
“Okay, okay. Here’s the plan.” He gestures vaguely. “I’ll dilute Infinity. Instead of creating infinite distance, I’ll use the repulsion aspect to push just the foreign cursed mass outward. Very controlled. Very gentle.”
“Gentle,” you echo faintly.
“You,” he points at you, “support pookie Nanami’s body with your barrier technique. Internal reinforcement. Like a cursed energy cast. If the parasite tears anything on its way out, you compensate.”
You stare at him.
“Have you done this before?”
He beams.
“NOPE.”
You consider punching him next. Behind you, the cube fractures louder.
Time is up.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.”
You drop the outer box.
Nanami launches forward instantly—
And freezes mid-stride.
Gojo’s hand is raised.
Infinity hums, but thinner. Sharper. Like a scalpel instead of a wall.
Nanami convulses.
You’re already moving, hands glowing as you slam a containment barrier around his torso. Not external—internal. You weave cursed energy along muscle and bone, bracing him from the inside.
“Hold him steady!” Gojo calls.
“I AM HOLDING HIM STEADY!”
Nanami screams.
It’s raw.
It’s wrong.
Black, viscous energy bubbles beneath his skin.
Your stomach flips.
“Gojo!” you shout. “Now!”
His fingers flex.
The space around Nanami distorts—
And something RIPS outward.
It’s not elegant nor is it clean. It’s a wet, horrific separation.
A tar-black, semi-solid mass tears free from Nanami’s back like it’s being born wrong.
It hits the floor with a SPLAT.
Screeching. Writhing.
You nearly gag.
Gojo’s expression shifts.
Cold.
He steps forward and—
Curbstomps it. Hard. Like literally.
The warehouse shakes.
The curse shrieks once—
And disintegrates under overwhelming force.
Silence crashes down, and Nanami does as well, literally collapsing on the floor like a puppet with no strings.
You’re already there.
Catching him before he hits the ground.
His weight is heavy. Solid. You press your fingers to his throat.
Pulse. Strong.
Breathing. Unconscious.
BUT.
Alive.
So this is a win. You let out a shaky laugh that turns into something dangerously close to a sob.
“Idiot,” you whisper, brushing hair off his forehead. “You absolute idiot.”
Gojo stands nearby, rolling his shoulders.
“See? Easy peasy.”
You glare up at him, eyes blazing.
“You said ‘meat suit.’”
He shrugs.
“It was accurate.”
You look back down at Nanami.
Your Nanami.
Bruised. Sweaty. Alive.
Your hands tremble as you maintain the internal barrier just a little longer.
Just in case.
“Hey,” Gojo says softer, for once not joking.
“He’s fine,” you murmur. “He has to be.”
Nanami shifts faintly in your arms.
You press your forehead to his.
“Next time,” you whisper, voice fierce and fragile all at once, “if you want to get me on my knees, you could just ask.”
Gojo snorts.
You don’t even care.
You’re too busy holding onto the man who almost killed you... and almost got taken from you.
The warehouse lights flicker one last time.
*-*
Hospitals in the jujutsu world smell like antiseptic and old curses.
It’s a weird combination.
You’ve been pacing for two hours.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
You’re pretty sure you’ve worn a path into the polished floor of the healing ward.
Behind you, Shoko leans against the wall, cigarette in hand, watching you like you are a mildly interesting documentary.
“He’s fine,” she says for the fifteenth time.
“You don’t know that.”
“I literally reconstructed his nervous system.”
“And I love that for you, queen, but he got possessed like a haunted doll. Fucking Annabelle but blond version.”
Shoko exhales smoke slowly. “You’re loud when you’re stressed.”
“I’m ALWAYS loud.”
There’s a soft shift from the bed.
You freeze.
Nanami inhales sharply.
His eyes open.
Slowly.
Confused.
He blinks at the ceiling like he’s waking up from a nap in an airport lounge.
“…Why am I here?”
You are at his bedside in half a second.
“You woke up.”
“Yes,” he says evenly. “That tends to happen.”
His voice is rough, glasses are on the side table. His hands are wrapped heavily in white bandages.
You stare at them.
Your throat tightens.
“What happened?” he asks calmly.
And then you—
You absolutely explode.
“OKAY SO— we were in the warehouse, right? And the curse was gross but manageable, very mid-tier honestly, and then you tried to decapitate me, which, rude, by the way— and I thought maybe there was another curse but NO it was YOU, except not-you, because apparently some disgusting goo parasite latched onto your cursed energy like a freeloading roommate from hell— and you were breaking my barriers with your FISTS, Nanami, do you understand how horrifying that is?? I literally had to build a fishbowl around you—”
He blinks once.
Twice. Absorbing.
You continue.
“—AND THEN I HAD TO CALL YAGA- fucking YAGA--who was zero help by the way, and Gojo showed up being insufferable as usual, and then we had to toothpaste-squeeze the curse OUT of you which was DISGUSTING and if you ever want to thank me you absolutely can—”
“Why,” Nanami interrupts quietly, “does my penis hurt.”
You stop.
Shoko makes a choking noise in the background.
You turn slowly. Very slowly.
Heat floods your entire body.
You are neon. Radioactive even.
You clear your throat.
“Well.”
Nanami watches you patiently.
“During the… altercation…”
“Yes.”
“You lunged.”
“I see.”
“And I ducked.”
“Mm.”
“And then I may have applied… tactical force.”
He stares at you.
“…You injured me.”
“It was self-defense!”
“You struck me.”
“Specifically,” Shoko says lazily from the wall, “she decked you in the balls.”
Nanami closes his eyes.
Long inhale.
“…I see.”
You are sweating.
“I thought you were going to kill me,” you rush out. “You were very motivated.”
He presses his lips into a thin line.
“I see I did not succeed?”
“No.”
“…Good.”
There’s a beat.
“…Though I would prefer not to be castrated in future interactions.”
You bury your face in your hands.
“OH MY GOD.”
Shoko laughs outright.
“You’re both idiots,” she says, flicking her cigarette into a tray. “He’s fine. Mild bruising. Hands are worse. Dislocated two fingers trying to break your barriers.”
Nanami lifts his bandaged hands, flexes carefully.
“…Impressive,” he murmurs.
You look up sharply.
“Impressive? You were terrifying.…Are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
“…Scale of one to ten?”
“Seven.”
You grimace.
“That’s symbolic.”
He stares at you.
“I don't want to unpack that.”
He studies you now.
Really studies you.
“…Did I hurt you?”
The softness in his voice nearly undoes you.
“Just a scratch,” you lie.
He notices the stiffness in your shoulder immediately.
His jaw tightens.
"I apologize.”
“You were possessed.”
“That does not absolve me.”
You swallow.
Shoko pushes off the wall.
“He’s cleared. Don’t do anything strenuous.”
You choke.
She smirks.
“I mean fighting.”
You do not believe her.
*-*
An hour later, you hand Nanami his blunt sword.
He takes it carefully.
“…You kept it safe.”
“Of course I did,” you say. “You think I’d let Gojo touch it? He’d bedazzle it.”
Nanami exhales faintly.
Then you shift.
You hesitate.
“…Would you mind coming to my place?” you ask, forcing casual. “Just in case there’s any residual curse backlash. Monitoring purposes.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“…Monitoring.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Very well.”
You try not to look victorious.
*-*
Your apartment door swings open.
Chairman Meow is waiting. Like a demon. The cat menace locks eyes with Nanami.
And screams.
A long, offended yowl.
Nanami blinks.
“…We’ve met.”
Chairman Meow hisses like Nanami owes him rent.
“He remembers you found him behind the washing machine,” you say solemnly. “He’s never forgiven you.”
Nanami removes his shoes neatly at the door.
“Understandable.”
*-*
Dinner is simple.
Takeout.
You sit across from him at your small table.
He takes ibuprofen with a glass of water.
You bite the inside of your cheek when he mutters, “My groin is throbbing.”
Do NOT laugh.
Do NOT laugh.
You laugh.
He gives you a look.
You wheeze.
“I hate you.”
“I find that unlikely.”
You quiet.
Because that tone... It’s soft.
*-*
The clock ticks.
It’s almost midnight.
The apartment feels smaller.
Quieter.
Chairman Meow is snoring faintly on the couch. Nanami sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, bandages stark against his skin.
“…I remember fragments,” he says finally.
You look up.
“Like a dream,” he continues. “Distorted. Heightened. My strength felt… excessive.”
“You were breaking my barriers with your fists,” you say quietly. “Kento, I’ve seen you fight curses for years. That was different.”
He nods slowly.
“The curse amplified my output.”
You study him.
“You scared me.”
There it is. Honest.
His eyes soften.
"I'm sorry.”
You shake your head.
“That’s not— I know it wasn’t you. But I kept thinking— if Gojo had been wrong— if pushing it out had—”
Your voice wavers.
He stands.
Moves around the table.
Stops in front of you.
“I am glad you were not badly hurt,” he says quietly. “I could not imagine harming someone I care so much about.”
You freeze.
Silence somehow detonates.
The air thickens. You stare at him.
He stares at you.
Chairman Meow snores.
Your heart is in your throat.
“…Care,” you repeat.
Nanami doesn’t look away.
“…Yes.”
The courage in your bloodstream tonight is reckless.
Unhinged.
You stand abruptly.
Grab his collar.
And kiss him.
Not soft.
Not tentative.
It’s messy.
Hungry.
Teeth clacking slightly.
Too much tongue. Like WAY too much tongue.
Hands fisting into his shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something solid and real.
He makes a low sound in his throat that is absolutely not corporate-approved.
His hands slide to your waist.
Pull you closer.
Your back hits the wall.
You kiss him like you survived something. Like you almost lost him, like you refuse to ever let that happen again.
His mouth is warm and demanding. Controlled even now.
He tilts his head, deepens it, and holy shit—
You drag your hands over his chest.
Broad.
Solid.
Bandages and muscle and heat.
He exhales sharply against your mouth.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“Make me,” you breathe.
His grip tightens.
“I am,” he says evenly, though his ears are slightly pink, breath hot on your lips “deeply invested in your continued existence.”
You stare at him.
“…That is the most emotionally constipated confession I’ve ever heard.”
He exhales.
You shift your thigh between his legs—
And he flinches violently.
Actually recoils.
You freeze.
“Oh my GOD.”
He inhales through his teeth.
“…Apologies.”
“NO, I’M SORRY,” you gasp, horrified. “I forgot about the—”
“The bruising,” he says dryly.
You burst into hysterical laughter.
He leans his forehead against yours, also laughing softly.
“This is the least dignified I have ever felt,” he mutters.
“You tried to murder me today.”
“Yes.”
“And I punched you in the balls.”
“Yes.”
“And now we’re making out in my apartment.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“…Life is so fucking strange.”
You grin up at him.
“Stay.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“…Alright.”
Chairman Meow snores louder.
Midnight hums outside your window.
*-*
It’s 1:17 a.m.
And you have NO idea how you got here.
Nanami is sitting at in your tiny bedroom like a war veteran of Corporate Hell and Also Recently Bruised Genitals™.
Tie gone. Shirt sleeves rolled. Bandaged fingers flexing experimentally.
“Please allow me,” he murmurs, lips hot against the softness of your stomach.
You gasp dramatically. “Definitely won't stop you.”
He gives you that look.
The one that says behave.
You do not behave.
When he touches you—
You melt.
His palm is warm. Broad. Heavy in the best way. He presses into your thighs, inching towards your needy heat and you gasp like you’ve already seen god.
“Behold.” You gasp out when he manages to get your sweatpants off of you, allowing him to see your glorious panties. Panties, that say "Meow-astic", which are pink and sparkly with little cats.
He eyes it.
“…That is excessive.”
“Yeah well you're geriatric so womp womp.”
He takes them off carefully, mostly because one of his hands is heavily wrapped, so he has to be mindful of the bandages. And boom, you're naked. Wonderful. Tits out. And god the way he looks at you... you feel like you're the only thing that truly matters.
Then—
Well then, he gets to it.
You have to admit, in the beginning it's uh.. awkward—angles wrong, grip off.
Then—
He hums, as if he suddenly understood. Spreads your thighs far apart, and truly dives into it. And he hums again.
Low.
In his throat.
You freeze.
“Oh my god.”
He eats you out slowly. Deliberate. Hungry. As if this was a succulent meal. The corner of his mouth shines with your wetness. His jaw flexes as his bandaged hand straights against the soft meat of your thigh.
He continues. Lower. Slower. His non injured hand hand slides from your thigh to your pussy, thumb pressing circles into aching tension.
You arch slightly.
“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning down. His lips leave delicate kisses along your thigh. Soft. Sweet. Unfair.
“…This is very good,” he murmurs.
Your walls flutter around his fingers, and Nanami smirks against your skin.
He goes back in. Less careful.
A soft, involuntary sound slips out of him. A groan, almost.
You stare.
“Kento.”
He pauses, looks up through his lashes like the pretty man he is. “Yes.”
“You cannot make that noise over just eating me out.”
He licks his lips. Calm. Composed. SMUG.
“I am appreciating you, this is not 'just' eating you out.”
“APPRECIATE QUIETER. I have neighbours. I have a Chairman.”
He smirks—barely. Goes back in. Slower this time, watching you.
He builds your orgasm like it’s sacred architecture.
Your fingers twist nervously in the blankets under youç$$$. Heat crawling up your neck.
He kisses along your stomach. Gentle. Measured. Each press of his mouth warm against your skin while his fingers slowly press in and out of you, thick fingers splitting you open deliciously.
It’s not rushed nor frantic.
Just—
Intent.
His injured hand drifts back upward, fingers spreading wide over the fat of your hips, creating a sort of indent.
“…You're so tense,” he notes.
“You tried to kill me.”
“Fair.”
Your laugh is almost immediately interrupted by him suddenly lightly sucking your clit. You make the must undignified moan, like a whore in a church. He presses his fingers a little harder in you, curling them upwards and you swear you see stars.
“Oh MY—”
“You're being loud,” he murmurs against your pussy, kissing just below your clit and going right back at it.
You shiver, your fingers tangle themselves in his hair, because this feels good, so soft and warm and.. perfect.
His hand slows as your walls tighten, he knows you're about to cum. Softens. Keeps curling his finger so that the thick digits keep brushing your g-spot, tongue on your clit. And fuck. It's almost poetic, to come undone by the very same hands that almost killed you this very morning. You're panting, tears in your eyes, not even because it feels that good (it does), but because it's so... overwhelming.
He’s panting now, you saw him wince when he tried to grind his (probably aching) cock, still bruised even when hard. You are about two seconds away from combusting, or cuming, or crying. Or all three at the same time, hard to tell.
“Kento- FUCK- ah, I'm.. I'm gonna cum”you gasp out, your fingers scrapping his head even more.
“Then let go.” he murmurs gently, you barely even hear him, mostly because of the blood rushing in your ears.
And well.. you did.
Your back arches, you moan his name so loudly the entire building knows him.
The hot coils that had tightened in your lower belly seem to just.. listen to him, because they simply evaporate, warmth and bliss spreading all throughout your body like a detonation of love itself.
For a second your hearing actually blurs.
So much so that Nanami suddenly appeared in your line of sight, his hands slides up your side in a way that feels like a promise instead of a question.
"....?"
"Huh?" You blurt out, in an amazingly eloquent way.
“…Better?” he asks quietly.
You blink and a blissful smile spreads accross your face: "Mhm... you? Not too bruised?"
He huffs out a slight laugh, presses a kiss to your cheek. He looks calm and composed, but his eyes are warm.
“Yeah,” He mumbles, “Very much so.”
He leans down and kisses you properly this time.
Slow.
Deep.
Hands still steady on your body, you can taste yourself on his lips.
When he pulls back, you sigh.
“So...we should so do this again. But like... when your dick isn't purple.”
“I would not object,”
And his hand never really leaves you.
“…You’re messy,” you mutter.
“My fingers were impaired.”
“Tragic.”
Your skin is warm and oversensitive and humming like a live wire. Which is nice.
Nanami stands at the edge of the mattress, sleeves still rolled, expression soft in that dangerously subtle way he gets when he thinks you’re not looking.
“…Water,” he says.
You groan. “Don’t make me hydrate.”
He presses a glass into your hands anyway, how did the glass get there? No one knows. Sits beside you. One steady palm smoothing down your arm, grounding.
“Slow breaths,” he murmurs.
You melt further.
He brushes hair from your forehead. Checks your pulse discretely like he didn’t just ruin you (emotionally).
“…You overexerted yourself earlier,” he adds quietly.
“You overexerted your fists on my barriers,” you mumble (no, you're never letting that go).
He huffs.
There’s something achingly gentle in the way he tucks the blanket over you. Kisses your temple. Your cheek. Your shoulder.
It’s infuriatingly tender.
“…You’re nice,” you whisper.
“I'm aware.”
You squint at him.
“Okay but now strip.”
He pauses.
One brow lifts.
“Oh?”
You immediately point at your dresser. “I have spare clothes. Sweats. Shirts. You can’t sleep in slacks like a alpha sigma delta finance bro.”
He crosses his arms slowly.
“…Spare clothes.”
“Yes.”
“For men.”
“…Yes.”
His other brow joins the first.
“Do you maintain a roster?” he asks mildly. “Should I be concerned? Am I to assume there is a rotation schedule? Am I the Tuesday appointment? Or do I receive Sunday privileges?”
Your soul leaves your body.
“I— WHAT? NO. There is no roster. There is no Tuesday man. Or Sunday man. Or ANY man. I just— I like oversized clothes. They’re comfortable. It’s a feminist choice.”
He watches you unravel with infuriating calm.
You keep talking.
“And like, I thought— I mean— since we, um, lowkey slept together and did the whole… thing… I just assumed we were, you know—”
You make a vague hand gesture.
“…A thing?”
Your voice is suddenly very small.
He studies you for a long moment.
You are braced for impact.
For rejection.
For “this was temporary.”
For “we should focus on work.”
Nanami says nothing.
Just looks at you.
You are spiraling. And you are cursed with a mouth and an ability to communicate:
“And I really, really don’t have a roster! I don’t even have a— I mean— I thought— since we— and the kissing— and the near death— are we not— I mean I assumed— but if we’re not I can recalibrate—”
You physically clamp your mouth shut.
Mortified.
This is how you die. Not by curse, but by self-inflicted embarrassment.
Nanami steps closer.
Gently takes your chin between his fingers.
“You,” he says evenly, “are catastrophizing.”
“…Am I?”
“Yes.”
He sighs softly.
“I am not competing for a weekday slot.”
Your lungs restart.
“I would prefer,” he continues, voice lower now, “to be the only man whose clothing occupies your drawers.”
You blink.
“…Oh.”
He leans down slightly.
“We are,” he says quietly, “a thing. I will not be part of a roster. And you are not part of one either.”
You nearly combust.
“OH.”
He releases you, begins unbuttoning his shirt.
Right there.
In front of you.
No ceremony. No shame.
You freeze.
Broad shoulders. Defined chest. The slow reveal of very unfair muscle under soft lamplight. Narrow waist. Golden hair slightly messy.
You are staring.
Blatantly.
“…You’re drooling,” he remarks.
“I am APPRECIATING.”
You swallow.
He glances at you again mid-unbutton.
“…You told me to strip.”
“I did not mean— I mean I DID mean— I just—wow.”
His shirt hits the floor.
You make a noise that should not exist in nature. He steps out of his slacks next. Calm. Efficient.
You stare like a cat seeing a small plastic objects that will probably get stuck in its intestines.
“Heh,” you breathe faintly. “Hot buff blond man. That’s so sexy.”
He pauses while pulling on your oversized sleep shirt.
“…Is that a formal review?”
“Yes. Five stars. Would recommend.”
He slides into your spare sweats.
Looks infuriatingly good in them (they're way too short, you can see way too much ankles).
Then he climbs into bed beside you.
Warm.
Solid.
Real.
He pulls you against him like it’s instinct.
Like it’s obvious.
You press your face into his chest and sigh.
“…Sunday privileges,” you mumble.
He hums.
“I intend to occupy the entire week.”
And at 2:17 a.m., wrapped around him, you finally fall asleep.
A/N: yeah so i rlly wanted to make nanami have more like fancy speak. also don't ask me how tf the fight happens, i have NO clue, positions are evil and clearly are out to make me suffer, i hope there are no mistakes, i haven't written in foreeverrrrrr
bakugou finds a list you made before you dated him
“one. big cock and knows how to use it. two and it’s in all caps. EATER.”
you rest on your forearms on your sofa, looking across the living room to your boyfriend who has appeared from your bedroom. he’s reading a crumpled sheet of paper from god knows where with a massive grin on his face.
“did you get the fan from my room? katsuki, it’s hot!” you whine petulantly. you've got your thin shorts and bralette on, trying to fight the heatwave that has taken over your city.
the heat has beat you down, left you stranded in your living room with three ice lolly packets in your path and skin sticky. you can feel the sweat trickle down your spine, you can see it gathered on katsuki’s exposed forehead, yet he still stands there reading.
“hold on, i’m lovin’ this,” he says, gold tooth shining as his mouth stretches wider, “three. rich and generous with it. is that right? you with me for my cock and money?”
you blink at him a few times, trying not to get distracted by his shirtless bare chest or the black headband he’s got on to push his unruly blonde locks back. he’s handsome, deliciously so. still, you think back to why everything he’s saying is so familiar.
“four. handsome. deliciously so. body and face. rare,” bakugou laughs, boyish and booming, “thanks, babe.”
you feel uncomfortable, perspiration dribbling between your breasts, limbs heavy with exhaustion.
“what is that? what are you reading?”
still bakugou ignores you and continues reading from the paper, “five. successful and ambitious. six. good friend even though he pretends he’s not. protective!! seven. so gentlemanly, holding open doors, paying for dates, very clear on why he likes me.” ruby pupils flicker over to you, “that last one is bare minimum.”
then it clicks, about seven points too late. your head snaps over to him robotically, eyes about to fall out of your head. “where the hell did you find that! stop reading it! stop katsuki!”
you hop up from your seat on your sofa, speed like no other taking over you as you run across the room to grab at the paper in bakugou’s hands. his laugh only booms louder, holding the flimsy sheet in the air over your head as you jump like a child.
“seriously, don’t read anymore!” you shout, trying to hoist yourself up his larger body, using his arms and shoulder as a climbing frame.
nothing about bakugou budges, he just continues reading with the paper in the air.
“it’s getting good, baby!” he laughs, ignoring your jumps and furrowed brows, “eight. listens to me. really listens. makes me feel heard and remembers what i say.”
he looks down at you, whose fingertips are slapping the bottom of the paper. you recognise it all too clearly now. the pink ruled lines, the edges ripped out from one of your old notebooks. your handwriting. “that’s cute. i still listen to you, don’t i?”
“you’re not now! give it back!”
“i’m almost done, two more,” bakugou says, hooking his arm behind your back to keep you locked close to him. you’re both sweaty and sticky. you’ve got no choice but to listen, “nine. cooks. such a good cook! you added five exclamation marks there. ten. fulfils some of my love languages. some?”
“now stop.” you urge. he can’t turn the paper around. he can’t.
bakugou pecks your forehead, his cheeks blushed with all the compliments. he continues skimming the list, rereading it.
“so this is why you chose to date me, huh?” he looks down at you, pours his lips, “c'mon gimme a kiss.”
if you just grab it out his hands, he won’t see the other side. with pros always comes—
he stops pouting at you.
“give me the paper. i wrote this all a few years ago!”
“if these are the pros, where’s the cons? you must have done a cons list.”
you shake your head, side to side. he holds the paper away from you. the opposite side, the list of all your cons, written back at you. you loop out of his arm, trying to reach for it.
he notices you staring, eyes fixated and that’s when he flips the paper around. CONS in big red capital lettering.
“this is private! you weren’t meant to see this, you shouldn’t be snooping in my room!” you squeak but bakugou’s already half down the page, pupils running across every line like he’s in a race.
“one. WILL choose his job over me—,”
“well obviously, your job is to save the world!”
“two. odd relationship with his mother? but apparently it’s better than before.”
“it’s so much better now!”
bakugou’s eyebrows drop now, voice getting lower as he continues, “three. argumentative. argues with EVERYONE. his agency workers, the media and his friends.”
“i understand why you argue with them all now! it makes sense!”
“three. his job is terrifying.”
bakugou looks over to you, solemn narrowed eyes and you don’t have a positive word to say about that.
“it is, sometimes i don’t know if you’ll come home.”
“four. he doesn’t do much else besides work. all his friends are from work.” bakugou pinches his nose bridge, “really? you think that?”
“now i don’t! and i know they’re childhood friends and… and we do things together all the time. i know you love to read, game, you’ve got your lego. i didn’t know all of that then.”
“five. don’t know if my friends and family will understand.” bakugou steps away from you, “the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
you huff on the spot, “this was from when i met you! all they’ve seen of you is shouting and yelling on the television. they didn’t know how lovable you are. how well you treat me.”
bakugou looks at you, then back at the paper. scratches his head. “six. inexperienced with sex but it’s really cute. has never had a girlfriend?”
“but number one pro is that you know how to use it. obviously we’re experienced now, we know everything about each other,” you flick your finger between you and your boyfriend.
“and the girlfriend comment? i can’t help the fact you’re my first.”
“no, i mean yes i know that. it was just a question as to why. it doesn’t mean anything to me now.”
“but it was a factor in whether you wanted to be my girlfriend,” he states.
“well, yeah,” you drawl, “i thought maybe there was a reason as to why. that’s all.”
bakugou raises his eyebrows, looks back at the sheet, “seven. doesn’t always have time for me. travels a lot for work.”
“that hasn’t changed.” bakugou grunts. it’s something he knows you struggle with while dating him. it’s even been a conversation you’ve had a few times throughout your relationship. quality time. you want to spend more time with him but he simply can’t.
you sigh, grabbing his chin between your fingers so he looks directly at you. his eyes are half lidded, cheeks red and exhausted from the negativity and heat. “we’ve been through this. i’m still gonna stick by you, everything i love about you means more than all the things i find difficult.”
he takes your palm away from your face and squeezes it. but you can tell he’s feeling off. “the last one. eight, he’s surrounded by beautiful women all the time.”
“you’re with celebrities, pro heroes, socialites a lot,” you shrug, “that was jealousy on my part, nothing to do with you.”
“i don’t give a fuck about any of that.”
you nod sharply, “i know! i wrote this a while ago, two years even? a lot has changed.”
bakugou sighs from the pit of his stomach, then flings his head back in a huff. “fuck, baby.” he groans.
then he looks down at you, looking up at him.
“just wanna put it out there, that was private, you weren’t meant to see that, my opinions have now changed and i’m sure you had a mental pro con list for me. i just wrote mine down.”
bakugou folds the paper, “yeah, yeah, i get it. you hate my job that much, huh? it covered half of the fuckin’ cons.
“i also said i liked you were successful and ambitious.” you sit on the back of the sofa, crossing your arms.
bakugou mirrors you standing, crossing his arms too. “but nothing about my job has changed since we’ve got together.”
you groan, leaning your head on your shoulder, “katsuki, i think you’re making problems out of nothing here.”
“you made a list of the problems with datin’ me.” he frowns, holding the folded paper between two fingers.
“and a list of the reasons why i wanted to date you. obviously the good reasons won if i’m with you now.” you glare at him with a sharp tone.
he begins to pace around the room, paper still in hand. a terrible sign. you watch as sweat trickles down his skin, body flush with heat.
“but, babe. the problems you’ve had with me from before we were dating are still problems now. i still don’t have time for you, you still are terrified every time i’m minutes late from a mission, you don’t think i’d choose you over my job and you don’t think i do anything but work.”
you moan aloud, “and i still want you despite that all. i get the world needs you, heck, i need you if i come across a villain. i don’t hate you for being a hero.”
he stops behind you, on the other side of the sofa, “i don’t want you to resent me when you realise you could have been with someone who does have more time for you, isn’t obsessed with their job, can put you first and doesn’t scare you.”
you hop off the sofa. leaning your forehead on his collarbone. “katsuki. i wouldn’t be here if i didn't want to be. i love you. i choose you everyday. i don’t want to argue with you.”
bakugou doesn’t touch you. there’s a shake to his voice, “i’m sorry i’m not better. i’m gonna try to be. just wait for me, fuck, maybe when i’m slower and the younger lot take over, they’ll need me less. it’s just now—,”
“it’s okay. you have time for me right now but you wanna argue with me," you pout up at him.
“you did put that i’m argumentative,” he looks away from you as your hands link around his neck.
“look at me.”
shiny lava red pupils find you. you ground him, takes him out of the what ifs and the failures of his past and places him in the present with you.
“i have dated bakugou katsuki for two years and i love him so much. i love how kind and generous he is, always putting his loved ones first. how he dedicates his life and body to saving the world. how even if he’s tired from a long week of working, he still comes over to cook me a three course meal because he wants to see me eat his food. who was so open and willing to change for me. to change his routines and learn my body. who is argumentative because he wants to make things right. who wanted so hard for my family and friends to love him and manages to see his mother once a week just to check up on her.”
you search in both his eyes and he’s listening, he always is.
“i can write an updated list for you, if you want.”
he shakes his head, stuffs his forehead into your neck and slowly pushes you down into the sofa. you laugh, his hands plastered into your waist as his body crushes you in the plush cushions ever so slightly.
“‘m sorry. i shouldn’t have read it. even though i enjoyed the pros.” he muffles, lips tickling your skin.
you tap his shoulder. “you shouldn’t have but it’s okay. i still need you to get my fan. it’s hot.”
“promise you’ll tell me if you want somethin’ to change between us. i’m not wakin’ up one day to you leavin’ me for a reason right under my nose.” he urges and you can see him pleading. the desperation for you to agree.
“promise. now you promise me.”
“course i promise. i couldn’t even fill out ten reasons as to why i hate you.”
“i didn't say i hate you. and sure you can. you hate my cold feet. you hate how i moan about my job. you hate how i hate your job. you hate how i always want a massage. you hate how i wait until the last minute when you’re tucked up in bed for you to get me a glass of water. you hate how i’m indecisive for what i want for my birthdays and—,”
bakugou sits up, “i don't hate any of that shit. love listenin’ to you and half that shit is cute as hell.”
you pout, “you hate when i wear low cut tops out—,”
he frowns, “that’s foreplay, baby. you let me suck your tits after to make me happy. couldn’t give a shit what you wear.”
“how about how protective my friends are? and the fact i tell them everything?”
bakugou shrugs, “you deserve friends that love you that much and that you can tell everythin’.”
“i get snappy when i’m running late or too much is going on or i’m hot.”
with that bakugou gets up. your fan. though not without hovering over you to give you a peck. then another. you press your soft lips against his though you don’t open up because then you will get even hotter and snappy.
he pulls off you and rises from the sofa, “that makes sense, baby. you’re stressed and uncomfortable.”
you roll your eyes, “stop being so understanding!”
he walks towards your bedroom, but not without turning around to look at you. his fingers grip the door frame, “i love you.”
Most intimate is having fought with another for so long one has memorized their dearest foe's every calculated move, every disdainful look, every biting retort to the point of faultless prediction.
Like how a lover memorizes flesh and scent. Touch and taste.
I think Shane goes into the weeks at the cottage thinking that he knows what he's getting into. He knows that there will be emotions and he knows that having Ilya all to himself will be a heady sort of bliss that will be difficult to come out on the other side of unchanged. He knows that this is their time to be completely alone together and that it will change him fundimentally as a person. He knows that they are going to fuck on every conceivable horizontal surface in the damn place and some of the verticle ones too, and also that he might have to pretend that this whole thing isn't wish fulfillment of the highest degree. Like he didn't build this fortress of solitude in the Canadian wilderness and think to himself that maybe, someday, he could bring someone here. And he didn't look at the Ilya-shaped blank space where that person formed in his imagination. And he didn't buy this bed and touch himself in it while imagining--fuck, not even Ilya's dick or his mouth (although, yes, Ilya's dick and mouth) but just. Ilya's arms around him and Ilya's scent and Ilya's legs tangled with his own.
So he's prepared for what he thinks is going to happen because he's been falling into bed with Ilya Rozanov for the majority of his adult life and he thinks he knows what all of that means. Ilya has a sexual appetite that Shane prides himself on satisfying. They make the best of their limited clandestine time together to the tune of multiple rounds of sex most times they find themselves within 100 miles of each other. Boston and Montreal, yes, but also a handful of times in Vegas. Vermont, half a dozen times over half a dozen years. All Star weekends in Florida and California and fucking New Jersey. Brooklyn, once, because the stars aligned. Shane is very used to shoving two furtive fucks into the space of a handful of midnight hours.
So yes, the time that stretches before them is utterly gluttonous in comparison, and Shane knows that even two professional athletes in peak physical condition won't be able to set the kind of brutal pace they normally allow themselves for two entire weeks, but still. The sex will be hot--fucking unbelievably hot, and it will be nasty and it will be rough and it will be almost fucking constant.
And it is. They barely keep their hands off each other for the first day. Sitting down to play Chel with fucking clothes on is conceived as an attempt to be at least a little normal, as is kicking the soccer ball around. Shane is just a little turned on, constantly, and he would think there was something actually medically wrong with him if he didn't occasionally see Ilya tucking his erection more snugly into the waistband of his shorts. It feels insane. It feels like they are the only two people in the world and they're slowly burning each other up like the filament in a faulty lightbulb.
Then, it settles a little, and the first thing Shane notices about it is the sound of it.
Ilya's got him on his elbows and knees, just how he likes, and he's still open from the morning, and Ilya is tapping his dick on the small of Shane's back and saying Knock Knock and Shane is burying his face in the bedsheet and hiding his grin and telling Ilya that he's a fucking idiot.
"This is how you ask me for it?" Ilya replies. "Is this how my good boy asks to be fucked? No, I don't think so. Use your pretty words."
So Shane says, "Fuck," and then, "I want it. I want it so fucking bad. Please give it to me."
And Ilya taps his cockhead against Shane's hole and says, "This what you need, sweetheart?"
"Yes yes fuck please I need it I need it so fucking bad." Which is probably objectively false, because Shane has had it, repeatedly and good and whenever he fucking wants it, multiple times a day for the last 72 hours. Need probably flew out the window the second or third time Shane had the very routine thought of "I want to be sucking Ilya Rozanov's dick right now" and then realized that nothing was stopping him from doing so. Need has settled into a slow-burning, constant and pervasive want that is making it difficult to focus on his actual needs, like calories and REM cycles.
"Gonna give it to you," Ilya says. "Ask me again, one more time, ask nicely--"
"Please fuck me oh my God please fuck me--"
And Ilya is a hedonist. Shane knows this. He likes sugary foods and fast cars and beautiful people and filthy sex. He likes to have exactly what he wants when he wants it and he likes it to be given to him exactly how he asks. Shane has always, on a level that is crawling further and further to the surface of his being with every day spent alone with this man, been utterly smug that Ilya has never had to ask him twice for what he wants, once they're in bed together. Mostly because Ilya never asks and Shane always gives; has made a study of understanding that when Ilya quirks an eyebrow in a certain way he means Take Off Your Shirt. When Ilya taps his thigh in that certain spot it means Spread Your Legs. When Ilya puts a thumb against Shane's throat and just barely digs his nail into the tender swell of Shane's voice box it means Moan Pretty For Me Baby.
So Shane knows that Ilya takes his pleasure freely, and doesn't hold much back in the taking. This makes it all the stranger and lovelier when Ilya pops the head of his cock into Shane and releases the kind of raw, punched out sound that Shane has only heard from him on the ice. After a hard hit, when he has physically lost control of his ability to moderate his own sounds, the height of release, the height of wantonness, reeling with a punch. A stark, perfect moment of pure reaction.
"Oh, fuck," Ilya moans, in the silence created by Shane going utterly silent and almost completely still, lest he miss a single solitary detail of what's happening. "Uhn. Fuck, Shane."
"Yeah," Shane says, experimentally. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, baby, you feel so good."
"Fuck," Ilya snarls again, and it's like--it's like a fucking dam breaks, something that was built in Ilya's chest before Shane ever knew him, because it just does not stop. The sounds flowing out of him seem to do so without much or any express permission from his brain. He is gone, moaning almost inconsolably as he presses his entire body against the length of Shane's.
"Shane," he says, eventually, and doesn't stop. "Shane, Shane, fuck, SHANE--"
And Shane stops even understanding it as his own fucking name. Suddenly it's blasphemy, it's sacrament, it's a foreign fucking word that means something deliciously vulgar and it's a secret Ilya is keeping from him. It means I love you, and You are a perfect slut, and it means I will fucking ruin you.
And when he comes--God, when he comes. He tells Shane he's gonna give it to him and then he fucking does and every window in the room seems to shake with the power of his voice. Shane somehow feels every vibration of Ilya's vocal cords in his own toes. He barely understands that he's reaching his own calamitous orgasm before it's right there, sudden and stunning like a puck to the gut, and Ilya's voice is still in his ear, low and intense, stroking over his stomach and telling him, "So good, Shane. Let it go."
And because Ilya has set such a lovely example, Shane can't help but turn his head, all the better to be heard, and let it go.
Hello, I was wondering if I have permission to include one of your one shots in a wattpad compilation? So far I just have random fics added and I don’t plan on publishing it until I get all the authors permissions, I just have them all in one place to read. But if I did publish I have already credited you. If you are not comfortable with this I understand! Thank you. But if you are, do you have a preferred title?
(Also this is a request instead of a dm because of your permissions, but you can delete this and just respond to me privately)
🏐 "𝑪𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑩 𝑿𝑰𝑨," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ nsfw slapping caleb during sex ꗃ .. smut mdni ꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ mina says this is so self idulgent idc sfsjdh ⁀ ˳ ⟡
"Please," he was begging, hips shallowly thrusting against your plump ass, his large hands gently pinning your legs down against your chest to fold you in half. He was desperate, so down bad, and so fucking hard. Eyebrows furrowed, eyes half lidded, and mouth agape to gasp for little breaths of air, looking on the verge of busting inside of you but edging himself to prolong the pleasure.
“Y-you’re gross..” you gasped out softly, resting back on your forearms, closing one eye and moaning when he thrusted just deep enough to hit that spongey spot. Eyes glazing over his needy face, as you tried to look as annoyed.
His thrusts only got quicker and more shallow, shameless whimpers spilling free from his lips as he nodded. “more… c’mon, insult me, slap me, hit me…” he whined, groaning out when he felt your tight pussy squeeze around him. Walls clamped down around his dick, “f-fuck… fuckfuckfuck…” he moaned quietly, as he bit down on his bottom lip and moved his hips much slower, knowing he was about to cum any second now.
“You’re dumb, a-annoying, arrogant, and you think you own me,” you whined and rattled off, stuttering from his thrusting cock, looking at him with tense eyes. That was before you pouted, and leaned up just a little, moving one of your arms quickly.
SLAP!
His breathing hitched, a red mark blooming on his stinging cheek. The room going quiet after your slap, but you didn’t seem sorry or bothered. Laying back down when you felt his dick twitch inside of you, whining softly. His eyes traced back into your naked body beneath him, gaze darkening and tongue pressing against the inside of the cheek you had slapped. He let out a shameless moan before grabbing your thighs tighter and pushing them apart roughly.
“Fuck. You’re so hot.”
Unable to hold back anymore, he sped up his thrusts, lifting his hips back and slamming against your plump ass fast and hard. Squeezing his eyes shut and furrowing his eyebrows, mouth agape in a silent moan. His hips thrusted erratically, your bedroom filled with the creaking of the bed, your moans, and the sound of his hips going “plap! plap! plap!”
He threw his head back, “a-agh..!” moaning out as his hips stuttered, when he finally came deep inside your pussy. Hot, sticky cum flooding your hole as you whimpered and squirmed, body aching and tired.
His hips began to gently roll when his orgasm subsided, looking down at you lustfully. His left hand moving to your inner thigh and thumb gently rubbing and swirling over your clit.
summary your brother's best friend gets a boner when you sit on his lap
contains boner alert... mature content, dry humping, coming in pants, sexual tension, forced proximity, public sex (kinda...), reader is a tease, wc 2k
a/n this is not supposed to be realistic... at all... just fun and horny yay!!
Fitting eight people into one car isn't very ideal.
You tried to get past it, understand the situation you're in, but you can't wrap your head around it. How the hell did Garrett manage to convince seven people to squeeze into his car without holding a gun to their head?
The scene you're greeted with when you make your way downstairs is baffling, suffocating almost.
Garrett and Hannah sit comfortably in the front, giggling over a stupid joke he made as Hannah presses some random buttons to get the music working. Your eyes drift to the back, and that's when you see the disaster.
Jesus Christ.
You can't even tell people apart from how cramped it is inside. Logan's sitting by the window, with Jules on the edge of his lap. Tucker sits next to him, tense and looking very uncomfortable.
Beau is glued to Tucker's side, with Allie comfortably positioned on his lap. They're giggling together as she shows him something on her phone. It's a very warm sight, they've grown really close after their trip to New York together.
As if things couldn't get any worse, Dean is here. His side of the car is definitely... emptier. He's positioned in the seat behind Garret with his legs stretched over the rolled down window. The door to his side wide open, letting in much needed air.
He's busy scrolling on his phone, only noticing your presence when your voice erupts through the chaos.
"Wow, you should've invited a few more people," your tone fills with sarcasm, statement directed towards your brother. "Too much space."
An amused chuckle escapes Dean's throat at your snarky comment, legs back on the ground as his attention shifts to Garrett.
"Haha, very funny, Graham." Garret rolls his eyes, causing Hannah to shove his side. "Get in, you kept us stalling forever."
"Where am I supposed to sit?" You argue, pointing towards the rammed car.
Your eyes flicker back to Dean, who adjusts his position at your question. His legs spread apart, fingers lightly patting his lap, the silent gesture an invitation, something he voluntarily did to catch your attention.
The idea of straddling Dean's lap for the entire car ride makes your heart flutter, cause air to get stuck in your throat. You can barely act normal when he's around, turning into a stuttering mess as soon as he joins any conversation, and now you have to sit on his lap for the next thirty minutes.
"You're the only one complaining," Garrett interrupts through your thoughts, gesturing for you to get in the car. "Quit being a baby and find yourself a place to sit."
A sigh dreads past your lips, dragging a deep exhale out as you step towards the vehicle. Dean clears his throat, fumbling around to put his phone away and straighten his back. You almost scoff if not for how nervous you are.
"Hi," you start, avoiding Dean's gaze.
"Hi," he repeats, but his tone is teasing, amused by how flustered you seem. You pause for a second, mustering up the courage to ask him to scoot, but Dean beats you to talking. "What are you waiting for?"
"Huh?" You hum, caught off guard.
"Sit," his voice lowers into a whisper, gesturing you to sit on his lap. Your stomach twists into knots, the demand carrying so much tension, it makes your knees grow weak. "Sit on my lap."
You fight the choked breath threatening to leave your chest, flashing him a tight-lipped smile, but still doing as you're told. You shuffle around to get in the car, carefully propping yourself across Dean's lap.
Your whole body's tense, and you're sitting uncomfortably at the edge of his lap, barely providing yourself any space. The length of his legs is of no help, unnecessary long, you're practically holding onto the headrest to keep yourself from falling.
"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Garrett Graham." You mutter through gritted teeth, causing your brother to freeze in his spot.
"Alright, now that everyone's here," Hannah bursts into laughter at Garrett's change of topic, completely ignoring the threat you threw in his direction.
Annoyance fades into surprise when Dean slings his arms around your waist, using your astonishment as an opportunity to tug you close. Your back hits his firm chest with a thud, the proximity of the touch overwhelming you in an instant.
Your body radiates with heat, as Dean's breath fans over your ear, the feather-like sensation causing goosebumps to break out across your back. He's so close, you can smell his stupid cologne, the aroma intoxicating, it almost melts you in your spot.
You try to shuffle back into your old position, in case you're too heavy or causing Dean any discomfort, but the hand he presses to your hips interrupts those thoughts from rummaging through your head.
"You should get comfortable," he whispers in your ear, drawing circular motions to the sliver of skin just above your skirt. "It's a long ride."
Fuck.
Heat travels to in between your legs, gaze lowering to the arms caging you in place. His grip is firm, unwavering even when you move around to adjust yourself into a comfortable position.
Dean doesn't budge, he pretends you're not even in his lap. He laughs, makes jokes, sings along as Hannah plays music, and it's like you're not even there. Unlike him, you're having a hard time playing this off as casual, nothing about this is normal, you skipped from ground zero to a thousand in the span of minutes.
You try not to pay him too much attention, or his fingers as they're tracing small patterns to your hips, or his breath gradually blowing over your neck. All of it is so overwhelming, you want nothing more than to break free and breathe.
This feels intimate, maybe too intimate, even more so because you're aware his touches are for you only, everyone else is doing their thing, and you two are in your own little world.
After a while of resisting, you eventually settle back and relax against Dean's chest, satisfied by the way he tenses beneath you. His breath grows ragged, but he doesn't let you have it, tightening his arms in response, his hold engulfing most of your frame.
This is okay, it's totally fine that you're tangled in this position with your brother's best friend, whom you've had a crush on since forever.
You can get used to it.
But you can't. Not when he's pulling every string to get your attention and get a reaction out of you.
A few minutes pass by, and your body feels stiff from maintaining the same stance for too long. You shuffle around to find a comfortable position, hips stuttering when you feel something twitch underneath you.
You're mistaken, have to be. It's all in your head, there's no way what you felt just now is real.
"Fuck," Dean grunts, confirming your suspicions.
Oh.
Oh.
He sighs, very shaky, but delibaret, the sound ringing in your ear, and making you pulse in reaction. You can feel hie semi-hard erection growing beneath you, failing to keep it under control.
Fuck, Dean Di Laurentis is hard.
You hate how much it's turning you on, your heat heaving with arousal when you feel another pulse through the thin fabric of his sweats.
You angle your face towards the window, casually, without causing any suspicion, and Dean fights the embarrassment he feels to spare you a glance, regretting it soon as your hips move forward, instantly earning a choked breath out of him.
It's not on purpose, you only realize what happens after he reacts.
"Do you want me to–" he gives your hip another squeeze, locking you in place as the words die on your tongue.
"Don't fuckin' move," he warns, practicing restraint. "Please."
How can you not when his crotch is practically poking at your entrance, drenching your pussy from how tingly it's making you feel.
"Dean," you whisper through a breath, causing his cock to twitch with need. The reaction you receive is immediate, anticipated, the only sign you need to grind down against his hardened length.
His lips part in a hefty moan, barely dismissed by the loud music occupying everyone else.
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He whispers, toying with the hem of your skirt, as his other hand caresses the exposed flesh around your stomach.
"Maybe." You coyly offer him a response.
This is your brother's best friend, someone way out of your orbit. You shouldn't cross the line, and let your lust drive you over the edge when you fought to keep yourself under control.
Your brain short circuits, and panic rises in your chest before you can even stop it, but the pleasure surging through your body takes over when Dean's hips meet yours halfway, completely dismissing the guilt you're feeling.
You've avoided Dean just fine till now, so why is it that you're involuntarily rolling your hips down for a mere fraction of his cock?
Your pedicured nails dig into his arms, the force of the touch forming red marks all over his flesh. Dean smoothes out the fabric of your skirt to hide the circular motion of your hips. You ground him into place, repeatedly rubbing your wet cunt over his crotch.
Pleasure builds through your insides, and you start to lose control over your grinds, messy and needy. Dean encourages you with a hand to your side, guiding you down to chase his own high, slowly building.
His cock aches, leaking with precum that stains a a patch in his underwear, wet and sticky, but he doesn't feel disgusted from it, but more so turned on because you're the cause of it. You're the reason he's in this mess, risking one of the most precious things to him just to touch you, feel you, even for a little.
"I'm–" You fight the whimper threatening to leave your lips, leaning your head against the head rest to avoid locking eyes with anyone.
Your pussy drenches in your arousal, thrusts growing sloppy as you feel your orgasm reaching its peak. Dean can almost tell that you're close, grip tightening around your stomach as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips once more before you came undone.
Your legs shake from the overstimulation, Dean uses his hands to stabilize you in his lap. You ride him through your orgasm, sensitive, but desperate to please him and make him feel good.
"You don't have to," he whispers, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "I can take care of myself, darling."
"I want to," you reply, out of breath, with sweat forming at your forehead. Your face flushes with heat, and your energy goes down the drain in an instant, but you're persistent on making Dean come.
His breath gets caught in his throat, and he uses your back as a shield to hide his expression as he reaches his own high. It only takes you a few more grinds for him to come undone.
He releases into his pants, sticky stripes of semen coating a mess in his underwear. He stills your hips as he comes down from his high, a sigh of relief escaping his throat in the process.
"That was– fuck." He chokes out, "So good for me, baby."
You almost mewl at the praise but hold it back for the sake of not being caught.
That was... insane. Probably the best orgasm you've had.
The rest of the car ride seeps into silence on both your ends, too tired to engage with the rest of the group as they broke into a whole karaoke session. It's not uncomfortable, nor is it unbearable, just... silence, you almost find it comforting.
Garrett announces your arrival soon after, wrapping up the karaoke session as everyone engaged in another conversation.
You use their banter as an opportunity to pull at the strings of your thong, wiggling around on Dean's lap in an attempt to get them off. They slide down your thighs, bunching around your knees before eventually falling down your legs.
Dean doesn't do anything, simply sits back and observes you with a hint of confusion, eyebrows pinching as you bent down to grab it into your hold.
And as everyone's busy getting out, you turn around and hand him the lacy material.
"Huh?" He questions, taken aback by the sudden offer.
You get off his lap, and land on the ground, smoothing down your skirt. Your gaze flickers back to him, a teasing grin smeared all over your lips.
"A gift." You reply, attention shifting down to the mess on his lap. "Good luck cleaning that up."
And with that, you take off with the rest of the group, barely sparing him a second glance.
Fuck, now he has to deal with another boner.
a/n lowk rushed towards the end but hey i wrote most of this at a gathering so it's something 😓 oh and i havent written in a while so i'm trying to get used to it again this is hard man my bad if this sucked i can't write smut to save my life 💔 also this was lowk lowkkkk inspired by that one scene from off limits it made me miss writing it sigh
summary your brother's best friend gets a boner when you sit on his lap
contains boner alert... mature content, dry humping, coming in pants, sexual tension, forced proximity, public sex (kinda...), reader is a tease, wc 2k
a/n this is not supposed to be realistic... at all... just fun and horny yay!!
Fitting eight people into one car isn't very ideal.
You tried to get past it, understand the situation you're in, but you can't wrap your head around it. How the hell did Garrett manage to convince seven people to squeeze into his car without holding a gun to their head?
The scene you're greeted with when you make your way downstairs is baffling, suffocating almost.
Garrett and Hannah sit comfortably in the front, giggling over a stupid joke he made as Hannah presses some random buttons to get the music working. Your eyes drift to the back, and that's when you see the disaster.
Jesus Christ.
You can't even tell people apart from how cramped it is inside. Logan's sitting by the window, with Jules on the edge of his lap. Tucker sits next to him, tense and looking very uncomfortable.
Beau is glued to Tucker's side, with Allie comfortably positioned on his lap. They're giggling together as she shows him something on her phone. It's a very warm sight, they've grown really close after their trip to New York together.
As if things couldn't get any worse, Dean is here. His side of the car is definitely... emptier. He's positioned in the seat behind Garret with his legs stretched over the rolled down window. The door to his side wide open, letting in much needed air.
He's busy scrolling on his phone, only noticing your presence when your voice erupts through the chaos.
"Wow, you should've invited a few more people," your tone fills with sarcasm, statement directed towards your brother. "Too much space."
An amused chuckle escapes Dean's throat at your snarky comment, legs back on the ground as his attention shifts to Garrett.
"Haha, very funny, Graham." Garret rolls his eyes, causing Hannah to shove his side. "Get in, you kept us stalling forever."
"Where am I supposed to sit?" You argue, pointing towards the rammed car.
Your eyes flicker back to Dean, who adjusts his position at your question. His legs spread apart, fingers lightly patting his lap, the silent gesture an invitation, something he voluntarily did to catch your attention.
The idea of straddling Dean's lap for the entire car ride makes your heart flutter, cause air to get stuck in your throat. You can barely act normal when he's around, turning into a stuttering mess as soon as he joins any conversation, and now you have to sit on his lap for the next thirty minutes.
"You're the only one complaining," Garrett interrupts through your thoughts, gesturing for you to get in the car. "Quit being a baby and find yourself a place to sit."
A sigh dreads past your lips, dragging a deep exhale out as you step towards the vehicle. Dean clears his throat, fumbling around to put his phone away and straighten his back. You almost scoff if not for how nervous you are.
"Hi," you start, avoiding Dean's gaze.
"Hi," he repeats, but his tone is teasing, amused by how flustered you seem. You pause for a second, mustering up the courage to ask him to scoot, but Dean beats you to talking. "What are you waiting for?"
"Huh?" You hum, caught off guard.
"Sit," his voice lowers into a whisper, gesturing you to sit on his lap. Your stomach twists into knots, the demand carrying so much tension, it makes your knees grow weak. "Sit on my lap."
You fight the choked breath threatening to leave your chest, flashing him a tight-lipped smile, but still doing as you're told. You shuffle around to get in the car, carefully propping yourself across Dean's lap.
Your whole body's tense, and you're sitting uncomfortably at the edge of his lap, barely providing yourself any space. The length of his legs is of no help, unnecessary long, you're practically holding onto the headrest to keep yourself from falling.
"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Garrett Graham." You mutter through gritted teeth, causing your brother to freeze in his spot.
"Alright, now that everyone's here," Hannah bursts into laughter at Garrett's change of topic, completely ignoring the threat you threw in his direction.
Annoyance fades into surprise when Dean slings his arms around your waist, using your astonishment as an opportunity to tug you close. Your back hits his firm chest with a thud, the proximity of the touch overwhelming you in an instant.
Your body radiates with heat, as Dean's breath fans over your ear, the feather-like sensation causing goosebumps to break out across your back. He's so close, you can smell his stupid cologne, the aroma intoxicating, it almost melts you in your spot.
You try to shuffle back into your old position, in case you're too heavy or causing Dean any discomfort, but the hand he presses to your hips interrupts those thoughts from rummaging through your head.
"You should get comfortable," he whispers in your ear, drawing circular motions to the sliver of skin just above your skirt. "It's a long ride."
Fuck.
Heat travels to in between your legs, gaze lowering to the arms caging you in place. His grip is firm, unwavering even when you move around to adjust yourself into a comfortable position.
Dean doesn't budge, he pretends you're not even in his lap. He laughs, makes jokes, sings along as Hannah plays music, and it's like you're not even there. Unlike him, you're having a hard time playing this off as casual, nothing about this is normal, you skipped from ground zero to a thousand in the span of minutes.
You try not to pay him too much attention, or his fingers as they're tracing small patterns to your hips, or his breath gradually blowing over your neck. All of it is so overwhelming, you want nothing more than to break free and breathe.
This feels intimate, maybe too intimate, even more so because you're aware his touches are for you only, everyone else is doing their thing, and you two are in your own little world.
After a while of resisting, you eventually settle back and relax against Dean's chest, satisfied by the way he tenses beneath you. His breath grows ragged, but he doesn't let you have it, tightening his arms in response, his hold engulfing most of your frame.
This is okay, it's totally fine that you're tangled in this position with your brother's best friend, whom you've had a crush on since forever.
You can get used to it.
But you can't. Not when he's pulling every string to get your attention and get a reaction out of you.
A few minutes pass by, and your body feels stiff from maintaining the same stance for too long. You shuffle around to find a comfortable position, hips stuttering when you feel something twitch underneath you.
You're mistaken, have to be. It's all in your head, there's no way what you felt just now is real.
"Fuck," Dean grunts, confirming your suspicions.
Oh.
Oh.
He sighs, very shaky, but delibaret, the sound ringing in your ear, and making you pulse in reaction. You can feel hie semi-hard erection growing beneath you, failing to keep it under control.
Fuck, Dean Di Laurentis is hard.
You hate how much it's turning you on, your heat heaving with arousal when you feel another pulse through the thin fabric of his sweats.
You angle your face towards the window, casually, without causing any suspicion, and Dean fights the embarrassment he feels to spare you a glance, regretting it soon as your hips move forward, instantly earning a choked breath out of him.
It's not on purpose, you only realize what happens after he reacts.
"Do you want me to–" he gives your hip another squeeze, locking you in place as the words die on your tongue.
"Don't fuckin' move," he warns, practicing restraint. "Please."
How can you not when his crotch is practically poking at your entrance, drenching your pussy from how tingly it's making you feel.
"Dean," you whisper through a breath, causing his cock to twitch with need. The reaction you receive is immediate, anticipated, the only sign you need to grind down against his hardened length.
His lips part in a hefty moan, barely dismissed by the loud music occupying everyone else.
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He whispers, toying with the hem of your skirt, as his other hand caresses the exposed flesh around your stomach.
"Maybe." You coyly offer him a response.
This is your brother's best friend, someone way out of your orbit. You shouldn't cross the line, and let your lust drive you over the edge when you fought to keep yourself under control.
Your brain short circuits, and panic rises in your chest before you can even stop it, but the pleasure surging through your body takes over when Dean's hips meet yours halfway, completely dismissing the guilt you're feeling.
You've avoided Dean just fine till now, so why is it that you're involuntarily rolling your hips down for a mere fraction of his cock?
Your pedicured nails dig into his arms, the force of the touch forming red marks all over his flesh. Dean smoothes out the fabric of your skirt to hide the circular motion of your hips. You ground him into place, repeatedly rubbing your wet cunt over his crotch.
Pleasure builds through your insides, and you start to lose control over your grinds, messy and needy. Dean encourages you with a hand to your side, guiding you down to chase his own high, slowly building.
His cock aches, leaking with precum that stains a a patch in his underwear, wet and sticky, but he doesn't feel disgusted from it, but more so turned on because you're the cause of it. You're the reason he's in this mess, risking one of the most precious things to him just to touch you, feel you, even for a little.
"I'm–" You fight the whimper threatening to leave your lips, leaning your head against the head rest to avoid locking eyes with anyone.
Your pussy drenches in your arousal, thrusts growing sloppy as you feel your orgasm reaching its peak. Dean can almost tell that you're close, grip tightening around your stomach as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips once more before you came undone.
Your legs shake from the overstimulation, Dean uses his hands to stabilize you in his lap. You ride him through your orgasm, sensitive, but desperate to please him and make him feel good.
"You don't have to," he whispers, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "I can take care of myself, darling."
"I want to," you reply, out of breath, with sweat forming at your forehead. Your face flushes with heat, and your energy goes down the drain in an instant, but you're persistent on making Dean come.
His breath gets caught in his throat, and he uses your back as a shield to hide his expression as he reaches his own high. It only takes you a few more grinds for him to come undone.
He releases into his pants, sticky stripes of semen coating a mess in his underwear. He stills your hips as he comes down from his high, a sigh of relief escaping his throat in the process.
"That was– fuck." He chokes out, "So good for me, baby."
You almost mewl at the praise but hold it back for the sake of not being caught.
That was... insane. Probably the best orgasm you've had.
The rest of the car ride seeps into silence on both your ends, too tired to engage with the rest of the group as they broke into a whole karaoke session. It's not uncomfortable, nor is it unbearable, just... silence, you almost find it comforting.
Garrett announces your arrival soon after, wrapping up the karaoke session as everyone engaged in another conversation.
You use their banter as an opportunity to pull at the strings of your thong, wiggling around on Dean's lap in an attempt to get them off. They slide down your thighs, bunching around your knees before eventually falling down your legs.
Dean doesn't do anything, simply sits back and observes you with a hint of confusion, eyebrows pinching as you bent down to grab it into your hold.
And as everyone's busy getting out, you turn around and hand him the lacy material.
"Huh?" He questions, taken aback by the sudden offer.
You get off his lap, and land on the ground, smoothing down your skirt. Your gaze flickers back to him, a teasing grin smeared all over your lips.
"A gift." You reply, attention shifting down to the mess on his lap. "Good luck cleaning that up."
And with that, you take off with the rest of the group, barely sparing him a second glance.
Fuck, now he has to deal with another boner.
a/n lowk rushed towards the end but hey i wrote most of this at a gathering so it's something 😓 oh and i havent written in a while so i'm trying to get used to it again this is hard man my bad if this sucked i can't write smut to save my life 💔 also this was lowk lowkkkk inspired by that one scene from off limits it made me miss writing it sigh
having sex with katsuki and he’s just extra sensitive that day, feeling every emotion so much so he’s basically making love to you at this point
he doesn’t notice it himself at first but, he starts praising you in japanese and it catches you off guard but also turns you on ten times more lol
this is a big nom nom nom to me. big nom nom nom. i was saving this to potentially write but we can talk about it.
defo missionary right. and it’s all slow and SENSITIVE and he’s noisy above you. grunting and groaning. moving hair out of your face so he can look you in the eye. asking him to adjust your leg to put on his shoulder and he’s deep and you’re about it to start crying and wailing about how much you love him.
and it’s not like anything crazy has happened today. he hasn’t seen you in two days and he had a long draining day at work and more draining days to come and he’s missed you. needs to let off this stress. you were all over him, can never get enough of his pretty face and all that he does for you.
and maybe it starts in english like he always is with you. it being your shared language after all. the usual, “i love you so fuckin’ much.” then “shit, feels so good.” “needed this, baby.” “hmm?” “doin’ so well for me.” then he’s making these incoherent sounds. kissing your moans away and nodding to everything you say.
and you’re not sure what exactly makes him switch but it’s when he buries his head in your neck. nipping the thin skin there, bending your legs, deep inside you feel as if he’s in your stomach. now you’ve got no clue what he’s saying. you know it’s his language though.
you only realise after the first phrase. blinking away your watery eyes as you rock into him, crossing your legs tighter around his back.
then he’s mumbling something else. another phrase. repeating a sentence twice into your neck.
you mostly hear him speak it over the phone. to his parents, family and his childhood friends. sometimes the lady at the local asian supermarket. video call meetings with his agency back in japan. sometimes a couple pet name in japanese if he’s feeling cute, he saves that for date nights.
but never during sex in your ear while he’s buried inside you. you clench and his breath hitches.
his voice is deeper, earthier. more natural and flows out without effort or second thought. you can’t even attempt to translate it. perhaps a swear in there somewhere?
“‘tsuki…. baby…,” you don’t mean to whine but there’s no way you can say anything right now and it doesn’t come out with pleasure attached.
he lifts his head up. droopy sleepy eyes, bitten lips. he replied to you with a thrust, one that has you arching your back.
“i don’t know what you’re saying!” you wail, linking your hands around his neck and your boyfriend blinks at you.
“oh s-shit,” he utters, taking hold of your hips to keep you still. it’s as if you can see the memory of a second ago replaying in his mind. “didn’t realise i did that.” then he laughs stuttered and hoarse, “you’ve got me fucked up.”
he drops his eyes to where you’re connected. his cock, coated in your wetness, sliding out of his core before he pushes back in again. your eyes flutter shut when he does, hand reaching out for him, “‘tsuki….”
“was sayin’ you’re beautiful and i love you and i love when we fuck.” he grins like a man insane, which he’d only say he is with how much he loves you. “never wanna leave here with you.”
you’re all breathy, chest rising and falling with an orgasm around the corner. “s-so sappy,” you manage to smile, eyes still closed to catch up, “felt like y-you were keeping secrets from me.”
he shakes his head, adjusts your leg on his shoulder. he too needs to come soon, he’s been holding it off for too long now. “never baby. lemme make you come.”
i love u bakugou "missionary's perfect" katsuki. i love u bakugou "i have to be looking at you or i Cannot Climax" katsuki. you are my favourite guy ever
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