Lσw bɑtteɾies. Higɦ expectɑtiσƞs.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Eνeɳtʋɑllʯ, tɧe ɗɾeɑɱ jʋst ʄɑɗes ɑwɑʯ. ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ ꒰ Sɑɾɑɦ ꒱ ⭆ ⭆ Mɑtʋɾe cσɳteɳt wɾitteɳ/ɾeɓlσɠɠeɗ ɧeɾe ⭅ ⭅ Anyone under 18, GO AWAY.

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

***** IN PROGRESS ******

𝖡𝖾 𝖠𝖽𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽 ✰ 𝖬𝗒 𝖣𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 ✰

+18 Material will be posted and reblogged here

I'm either irrevocably damaged or completely fine.

MASTERLIST

𝙶𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚝𝚊

»»ᅳKaiju № 8ᅳ►

Ｔｏｋｙｏ Ｒｅｖｅｎｇｅｒｓ

𝙼𝚢 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝙰𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚊

𝘋𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘚𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳

𝑱𝒖𝒋𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒖 𝑲𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒏

𝙰𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝚃𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚗

𝙷𝚊𝚒𝚔𝚢𝚞𝚞!!

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

I'm going to try something.

I've taken a pretty severe liking to baking macarons and the ppl that interact with me in the FB group ... my god. So many of them are just absurdly rude. Telling me I'm cheating. Like, no shit Sherlock. I'm aware, ok? But that doesnt take away my joy and love for baking these little fakers!

So ... here. Here's my non-traditional all-purpose flour macaron bc I cant get the almond flour macarons to bake properly in my piece of shit oven.

*Disclaimer: I KNOW TRADITIONAL MACARONS ARE MADE WITH ALMOND FLOUR. I KNOWWWWWW. But those of us who cant bake with almond flour ... find other ways. All-purpose flour is my way.

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

CW: SFW ~~ Angst / Emotional Neglect / Unrequited Feelings / No Comfort / Alcohol Use / Holiday ... despair? / And just in case, I say something in here about cancer and radiation & chemo. It's not about anyone in the story being sick, just a metaphor. But I don't want to ruin anyone's day like THAT. So just be aware.

WC: 2k + some change (Google Docs)

A/N: It just wouldn't be the holidays if I didn't subject myself and all of you amazing people out there to some Enjin HURT. I hope you all had a really nice time doing what makes you happiest with your favorite people.

Part 1 – Christmas Eve

“Where the hell did the time go?”

That’s what you ask him, eyes bleary and heart three drinks past safe. The party’s still spinning, music low and warm like candlelight, and someone’s definitely throwing up on the lawn --- but none of that matters. Not when he’s looking at you like this. Like he’s suddenly seeing you instead of just looking at you.

You never meant for this to last this long. You were supposed to get over him after the first six months. You were supposed to stop bringing him coffee after that one time he said “I could kiss you for this.” You were supposed to let go after he thanked you for the cookies with that sleepy grin and said, “You’re gonna be trouble, aren’t you?”

But you didn’t.

It’s been almost two years, and you still remember the way he laughed the first time he made you snort. You remember the exact tone of his voice when he said your name on accident in front of another coworker --- like he forgot other people existed when he talked to you. You remember the pause. The hesitation.

You also remember every time he pulled back.

It’s Christmas Eve, technically. A few hours till midnight. A few minutes since you stopped pretending your heart wasn’t full of him. You’ve folded your feelings into quiet gestures --- found ways to love him out loud without calling it that. A coffee left on his desk. A rare ingredient tracked down for a recipe he once mentioned. A thoughtful note he pretended not to keep but never threw away.

You know him better than you should. His favorite pen type. The way he likes his eggs. The exact cadence of his laugh when it’s real --- not polite, not staged. You know when he’s in pain even when he pretends otherwise.

He knows all this.

The lie you carry in your throat tonight --- the only thing keeping you upright --- is that you’re fine with this. That it’s enough.

But it’s not. And you’re tired.

Enjin chuckles, slow and sweet, and leans against the wall beside you. His eyes are red-rimmed, the flush in his cheeks pure whiskey. “I don’t know. I blinked and we’re back here again. I think time hates me.”

“You and me both,” you mutter, taking a sip to fill the silence before you say something stupid. But your brain’s already started spiraling. “I’d give anything for you to hate time with me.”

There’s a beat. You feel yourself swaying. Not to the music --- you don’t even know what song is playing. Your chest starts to heave. You know your expression isn’t holding. You know he’s watching.

He turns to you slowly. “What?”

You force a smile. “Nothing!” (Too sharp. Too fast. Too fake.) “What’re your plans for New Year’s?”

He shrugs, but not like it means nothing. Like he’s trying to figure out how to lie gently. “Same as always. Sit around. Pretend I’m not lonely. You?” He chuckles. But you see something in the way his smile fades too quickly. 

You laugh, short and bitter. “Same. Maybe I’ll make something fancy. Something no one wants.”

That lands. He looks at you too long. You look right back.

He knows what you mean.

And for a moment --- for one moment --- you think he’s going to say something real. You think that he might tell you he’s tired of pretending he doesn’t have some fucking feelings for you. 

Instead, he shifts closer.

You brace yourself. You always brace yourself because you know it’ll all come crashing down as soon as you pick it up.

You feel it before you see it --- the way the air changes when something dangerous starts to look like a memory you’ll hyperfixate on for the next month. His hand comes up slow, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. Fingers linger. His palm cups the side of your face like it belongs there.

It doesn’t.

It’s nothing. It’s. Nothing. But Jesus Christ --- it’s everything.

You almost flinch when he speaks.

“Y’know,” he says, low and so close to you that you can feel the heat from his breath. Smell the alcohol on his breath. “I always liked how you look in red.”

Your face is on fire. Your heart stutters.

He smiles --- quiet and devastating. That rare, barely-there thing that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and your knees forget how to work.

And you think --- this is it.This is finally it.

He’s touching you like someone who’s sure. He’s looking at you like someone who’s ready.

But he isn’t.

Because tomorrow, he won’t text. He won’t call. He won’t anything.

He’ll disappear into that quiet vacuum he always does when things get too real.

And you’ll sit there, drunk on nothing but memory, tasting the ghost of his hand and wondering why the fuck you ever let yourself hope again.

Part 2 – December 25th to New Year’s Eve

You wake up with your mouth dry like you swallowed the desert with a cactus chaser. Your head is pounding. Your heart is pounding too --- but not in the scary-bad way. It’s worse. It’s hopeful.

For a second, you lie there blinking at the ceiling, brain scrambling to pull together the fuzzy edges of the night before. Then it clicks --- Enjin. His smile. His hand in your hair. The way he looked at you like you were made of something delicate for once and not the one holding the place together. 

Oh god.

Did he text?

You sit up too fast, the hangover screaming across your skull like a freight train. Your phone’s right there on the nightstand. Face-down. Mocking you.

You flip it over.

One notification. Group text.

Enjin: Merry Christmas, all.

That’s it. No name. No inside joke. No emoji.

Just all.

He remembered you --- but only as part of a crowd. You’re clumped in with the people who ask him about his weekend and pretend to care. The ones who don’t know how he takes his coffee or what brand of pen he buys in bulk or how he sighs when he doesn’t think anyone’s listening.

It wasn’t meant for you. Not really.

You stare at the message for way too long, your thumb hovering like maybe it’ll change if you blink. But it won’t.

It’s the kind of acknowledgment that feels more insulting than forgetting entirely. Like someone handing you a glass of water when you’re already two retches away from total dehydration --- and saying, “Here. I did my part. I hope I helped you before it’s too late.”

You don’t reply. You don’t even heart the message.

But you still check your phone forty-three more times that day. Just in case.

New Year’s Eve arrives like a bad rerun of a show you swore you stopped watching. You didn’t want to go to the party, but here you are --- curled into your tightest red dress, cheeks already flushed from the wine you didn’t wait to sip slowly.

You never liked yourself in red. Not really. But he said he did.

So you’re wearing it. And now you’re mad about that, too.

Booze plus anger makes a sharp mix. It squares up behind your eyes, threatens to spill over at every clink of a champagne flute, every “This year flew by, huh?” from someone who doesn’t know they’re pouring acid on your already blistered heart.

You watch Enjin work the room the way he does. Leaving his charm behind like a cancer that no amount of chemo or radiation can wipe away. Smile here. Handshake there. Arm slung around someone’s shoulder. Laughs that you can decipher are either real or forced depending on who he’s talking with. 

You don’t go to him. You won’t. You plant yourself near the punch bowl like a threat and let your mascara do the work of keeping people away.

He doesn’t look for you. Not at first.

He’s halfway through his rounds before his eyes even land on you. And when they do, it’s like he suddenly remembers you exist.

Right. You. The one he touched like a secret. The one he ghosted like a stranger.

He makes his way over to you last. 

Of course he does. You were always the afterthought. The ending, not the beginning.

When he finally stands in front of you, he looks ...  nice. Clean. Charming. Like someone who wouldn’t break hearts if you didn’t know any better.

“Hey,” he says, with that same stupid voice you’ve spent the whole week trying not to dream about.

You take a slow sip of your drink before responding. “Hey.” Painfully aware that your eyebrows are doing more talking than your lips. 

You don’t ask him how he is. You don’t say Happy New Year. You don’t fucking offer him anything. And fuck it was hard to keep yourself in check like that.  

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning your face for something --- approval? forgiveness? vulnerability?

You give him nothing.

But he still leans in, a little too close.

“I was gonna text ya, y’know. I just ...  figured you were busy. Didn’t wanna bother ya.”

You blink at him. Once. Slowly. Then smile, sweet and venomous.

“Yeah. I was actually  ...  busy. Reading your group text. Super personal. I really felt like you wanted me to have a Merry Christmas. So thanks for thinkin’ of me, Enjin. Truly.” You put your hand over your bare chest, the skin surprisingly cool under the heat of your palm. 

His smile falters. “That’s not what I --- ”

You laugh. Sharp and joyless. “It’s fine. It’s whatever. Everyone got the same words. It’s nice to feel ...  included I guess. Should be happy you thought to add me to that fucking group text at all. Right?”

You’re doing it. You’re keeping it together. But your voice? It’s not cooperating. It’s wet at the edges. You know it. He knows it.

You set your drink down too hard. The liquid jumps on impact, like his shoulders. You don’t care that some spills on your hand.

He reaches for your wrist like he might catch you before you fall --- but you aren’t falling.

You’re floating, above it. Watching yourself ache like a character in a book you’d throw across the room if it didn’t remind you so much of you.

You want to pull your arm back. But the way his hand feels --- the way his fingers wrap all the way around your wrist hurts in a way you never expected. Like someone handing you a Valentine that says “I’m glad you’re my friend.” So you stop trying to run away. And you lie to yourself again: It has nothing to do with him holding you there. Like he wants you to stay with him. 

And then --- 

Enjin leans in to you, “Do you wanna talk?” he asks, almost a whisper.

You don’t know what pisses you off more --- that he asked, or that he sounds like he means it.

You stare at him, eyes glassy.

“I wanted to talk a week ago, Enjin. I have wanted to talk to you every fucking day since the first time we met.” 

His name tastes bitter now. Like there's a charge for saying it.

He doesn’t respond. Not with words.

The countdown starts in the background but you're both glued to the moment. Ten. Nine. Eight.

You step back from him, just slightly.

Seven. Six.

Someone calls your name. You don’t turn around.

Five. Four.

Enjin’s eyes are locked on yours. He looks like he might say something.

Three.

You hope he doesn’t. You hope he does.

Two.

You’re not sure you could survive it.

One.

And then it’s midnight.

Everyone kisses. Champagne pops. Laughter rings out like fireworks. Fireworks ring out like they’re blowing up the bullshit from last year. 

Enjin just stands there, staring at you.

And you? You finally look away.

Because it’s a new year.

And he’s still the same.

And you can’t keep pretending that you’re waiting for him when you’re the one who’s not showing up. 

@kazutora-kurokawa @kenpachisbrat @southside-otaku @darkstarlight82 @bakubunny @breathofthewind29 @carriesctrl

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

I got MHA Monopoly for my daughter for Christmas and everyone can eat a bag of dicks. I HATE Monopoly and I beat EVERYONE'S asses so hard. I had every property (hero/student) and so much money. I didnt count it. But you can see here just how much I ruled 🤣.

[southside-otaku]

Baby, it’s cold outside ⛄️

So this was a self indulgent winter fic because I was shoving snow like a week ago and thought this would be a nice thing to come home to irl🩵 here’s a warm, slightly suggestive, Aizawa for everyone! Merry Christmas Eve🎅🏼

There’s not much that can stop hero work, except a snow storm. I mean what human is gonna go out and steal in the middle of a blizzard? An ice lady of course.

Shouta stumbles through the front door half drenched from the snow. He takes his shoes off, tosses his capture weapon, and just as he starts to take his shirt off he hears you. “Sho sweetie, cmere you’ve gotta be freezing!” You jog to him dressed in one of those blanket hoodies and pj pants, ready to grab his clothes and get him into the shower. “I thought I heard you so I already started the shower.” He glances up at you after shaking the snow out of his hair. “Why not make it a bath? You can join me right?”

Bubbles cascade over rough skin as Shouta lays in the large bathtub waiting for you. Once you step into the bathroom he stops and stares, you may have been together for years, married even, but there’s nothing more stunning to him than his beautiful wife-in the nude is just a plus. “Sho, you’re staring~” he chuckles, “of course I am, when graced with you and all you come with.” Rouge comes over your face, “even after so many years you’ll never stop making me feel like the greatest woman in the world. Where would I be without you handsome?” You grab his outstretched hand as you climb into the bath with your husband. Head on his shoulder, his hair is tied up, you look at him like he strung up the moon and stars for you and he will never tire of seeing that face.

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

Freaking adorable dividers and an even sweeter little story! I'd love to take a bath with Aizawa 😮‍💨.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

writing is hard but coming up with a cunty title and catchy summary will slay even god's strongest soldier

[vamptits]

noo smoking is so bad for you put that out. on me. please

[notiddygothgf]

@ aki hayakawa

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

@ Toji. @ Enjin. @ Gris (don't even care if he smokes. Just light the damn thing and make it hurt so good). @ Katsuki (or use his hands ... a little blasty on my ass is fiiinnee).

Idk what happened to me along the way in my life that I'm like "burn my flesh with a cigarette and then fuck me immobile. But here we are, people.

🫡

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

You were fucked so dumb. Like ... a single brain cell was all that was left and each time he drove his dick into your dripping cunt, that little cell threatened to split apart even more.

"You ... you're fucking mine now. Don't care whose ya were before. Nah. Jus' that now y'er mine. You hear that, sweetheart? You hear how wet that pussy is f'me? Imagine how much she'd be leaking if I took my time with'er. Fuck, though. I had to be here now. I smelled the sex in the room soon as I walked in. You're on the bed, thighs wide open. Fucking yourself so hard with that toy like it's ever gonna feel as good as my cock. Mm-mm, babycakes. Nothin' ever gonna feel as good as this. So goddamn tight around me. Fucking choking me out. Spread your legs a bit wider. Wanna fuck you with my balls, too. C'mon. Don't got all day. Got shit to do. But you come first, sweetheart. Right on this shit right here. Fuckin' cover me in'nit."

@southside-otaku @kenpachisbrat it's bad tonight, guys 😆

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

PART 1 -- And if I Said Yes? PART 2 -- And if I Lied?

Song Rec: Son Lux -- Easy

🔞 CW: Power dynamics (Reader in control, consensual), Voyeurism (Enjin watching), Exhibitionism, Dom/sub undertones (verbal control, begging, praise kink), Foreplay-focused heavy petting, Multiple partners (MFM threesome context), Orgasm denial (Enjin), Reader takes control of both men, Male-receiving oral (implied), Mind/body overwhelm (Gris), Gentle degradation/praise (“good boy” language), Consent emphasized through language ("ask for it"), Slight humiliation play (Enjin being denied), Sexual teasing (Reader to both men), Swearing / explicit language

WC: Just under 3k

A/N: This isn't as crazy long as the other 2. I think I might put this on the shelf for a bit. I'm exhausted and it's only Tue. Let me know what you guys think! If anyone has any ideas please send me an ask! I love hearing from people!

Enjin x Reader x Gris | Reader-Initiated, Tease & Tension, Blanket Hijinks, Accidental Voyeurism Turned Invitation

It’s not like you planned this.

You didn’t wake up thinking, “Hey, I should jerk off my incredibly hot, occasionally insufferable, emotionally feral boyfriend on the couch tonight.”

But the universe?

She had other ideas.

Specifically, she had you, nestled into the curve of Enjin’s side with your legs thrown across his lap, watching some documentary about serial killers that you’ve both seen four times. And Enjin had been rubbing slow, absent circles into your calf with the calloused pads of his fingers like he forgot what those giant hands are capable of.

So you moved your hand.

Down.

Just a little.

Just enough to find that he was hard.

“Did you even notice this?” you whisper, nosing at his jaw, voice smug.

“I noticed you,” he growls back.

You slid your hand beneath the blanket - the same one Gris had yanked off your half-naked body less than a week ago - and wrapped your fingers around him.

He made a noise low in his throat, head tilting back just slightly, neck taut and exposed.

So now you’re stroking him - slow, lazy, smug.

The documentary is long forgotten. Your body is warm. Heavy. Your smile like cream.

Enjin’s hand fists in the blanket, but he doesn’t stop you. Of course he doesn’t.

And that’s when the door opens.

“Honey's, m'home.”

You don’t even flinch.

You look over your shoulder at Gris like he’s a mild inconvenience. A hiccup. A floating dust mite that dared interrupt your indulgence.

Enjin huffs through his nose. His jaw is tight. His eyes flick toward Gris and then back to you, like don’t stop.

Gris freezes halfway through the doorway.

“Are you - seriously? You’re jerking him off? On the couch. Is that? That’s my blanket - ”

“It was,” you purr. Your hand doesn’t stop moving. In fact, you squeeze a little harder just to make Enjin grunt.

Gris stares.

You tip your chin, all bedroom eyes and sleepy menace.

“You wanna watch?” you ask, voice dripping honey. “Wanna play?”

He looks stunned. Not because he’s scandalized - he knows what you’re like.

But because you’re not blushing.

You’re glowing.

A slow smile spreads across your lips as you shift just enough for Gris to really see what you’re doing under the blanket. And you don’t look away.

“What, Gris?” you murmur. “Just tell me.”

He swallows.

“...You’re evil,” he says, stepping inside, kicking the door shut with his heel. “You two are actual menaces.”

You smile. “Says the man who showed up without texting like some porch gremlin.”

Enjin groans, hips twitching under your hand.

“You comin’ over here,” he rasps, “or you just gonna stand there with your dick cryin’ in your jeans?”

Gris crosses the room in two strides.

“You asked for it.”

“I know,” you purr.

And the universe?

She cackles somewhere in the stars -

Because this was always going to happen.

Again.

Gris doesn’t even sit. Not properly.

He collapses next to you, hip bumping yours, thigh warm and solid as he shifts closer. You don't stop moving your hand under the blanket - Enjin twitches, a warning in the low rumble of his chest - but you angle your body, curling toward Gris, letting him feel the heat rolling off you.

“Y’look smug,” he mutters, voice already rough.

You hum like a cat in a sunbeam.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He’s looking down now. At the way your arm moves under the blanket. At Enjin’s flushed face and parted lips. At the greedy, possessive way those dark eyes track every breath you take.

“You two are fucking dangerous,” Gris says. And he says it like a prayer.

Your fingers glide a little faster and Enjin’s hips shift upward, ever so slightly, jaw tight with restraint. He’s close. You know it. You can feel it in the way his thigh jumps under yours, the way his head tips back against the couch cushion, neck bared and glistening with sweat.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” you ask Enjin, purring against his ear.

“Tch no, m'not close,” he growls, but it’s a lie, and everyone in this room knows it.

You turn back to Gris with a wicked little smile, like you’re offering him a bite of something sweet and stolen.

“You just gonna watch, Gris?” you ask. “Or are you gonna beg?”

That hits him. Right in the gut.

His mouth parts. His fingers twitch. You swear, if you reached down and unzipped his jeans for him, he’d whimper. But you don’t. Not yet.

Instead, you stop.

Hand going still. A cruel pause. Enjin groans, hips jerking forward as you pull away entirely and settle the blanket over his lap, smug as a cat licking cream from her claws.

Gris stares at you. Disbelieving. Needy.

And then you lean forward.

Kiss the corner of his mouth.

And whisper, “If you want to play with me, you have to ask him.”

Gris blinks. Looks at Enjin.

Enjin's flushed, hard, still twitching beneath the blanket - and grinning. That feral, knowing, possessive grin he only wears when he’s three steps ahead of everybody else in the room.

“Well?” he rasps, eyes locked on Gris like a challenge. “What’s it gonna be?”

Gris swallows hard. Looks at you. Then at Enjin.

Then back to you - his voice a gravel-rough whisper:

“…Please.”

You tilt your head.

Just slightly.

A little angle to the left that screams problem.Your lips curl, amusement flickering at the corners like a secret you’re not ready to share. Enjin’s watching you now - shoulders pressed back into the couch, chest rising slow and heavy - but he’s not interfering.

He knows a show when he sees one.

You drag your gaze back to Gris.

He’s shifting in his seat already, thighs tense, hands braced on his knees like he doesn’t know what else to do with them. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.

You smile wider. Languid. Dangerous.

“Hmm…” you murmur, sweet as syrup.

“That doesn’t quite sound like asking to me.”

Gris blinks.

You lean closer, close enough he can smell the heat on your skin. You say his name like it’s the last drop of water in a desert.

“What do you want, Gris?”

His mouth opens - then shuts again. His hands flex. His breathing is a little too loud now, a little too ragged for someone who’s supposedly in control of himself.

You wait.

The silence is heavy. Intimate. The air hums with it.

Enjin’s voice breaks it like a match snapping in half.

“She asked you a question, boy.”

Rough. Quiet. With a thread of laughter curling under it.

Gris turns his head slightly, eyes flicking toward Enjin.

“I want…” he starts. Pauses. Looks back at you like it physically pains him to admit the next part.

“I want you.”

You blink. Smile slowly.

“Mmm ... See. Still not asking.”

He lets out a breath that’s half growl, half moan, and you swear you feel Enjin’s chest shake with the effort it takes not to laugh.

Gris clenches his jaw.

“Please,” he says, and it’s softer this time. Realer. “Please touch me?”

Your lashes flutter as you look at Enjin.

“Think he means it?” you ask, all faux innocence.

Enjin tilts his head like he’s thinking, but the smirk playing on his lips says otherwise.

“Let’s see if he earns it.”

And just like that - Gris is moving again. Shifting toward you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His hands hover, unsure of where to make himself available first. And you?

You sit back, just slightly, letting your thighs part enough to make room between them.

Gris doesn’t even pretend to play it cool - he inches closer, his gaze darting from your lips to your collarbone to where your fingers toy with the edge of your shorts, like an invitation might be coming but you haven’t fully decided yet.

“Hands,” you murmur, not even looking at him.

Gris freezes. Then slowly - carefully - places them on your thighs, heavy and warm and trembling just a little.

Enjin hums low beside you, a sound you know by now: approval and arousal twined together. He’s watching it all, sharp-eyed, mouth barely parted, fingers drumming casually on the inside of his knee like he’s letting you lead but keeping score.

You lean forward until your nose brushes Gris’s cheek.

“You remember how Enjin made you ask him for it?” you whisper, barely audible.

Gris nods, throat tight. “Ye-ah.”

“Mmhmm.” You nuzzle closer, dragging your lips across the corner of his mouth. “I like that. I think I’ll keep that rule for myself.”

He exhales shakily.

You straddle his lap before he can answer, one hand slipping into his hair, the other gripping his jaw.

“But I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

Your voice is low, firm. Commanding.

“Not yet.”

Gris's eyes search yours, wide and full of want.

“You’re gonna show me,” you say. “You’re gonna show me how bad you want to be good for me. And if you fuck it up? Enjin can sit in your place and show you how to behave.”

From beside you, Enjin snorts, low and smug.

“Y’wanna go ahead and take your shot, boy,” he mutters. “She’s not bluffin’. And I ain’t picky.”

Gris stiffens.

You feel it immediately - his hands go still on your thighs, his jaw clenches beneath your palm.

He doesn’t look at Enjin when he answers. He keeps his eyes on you, voice low and tight:

“Y'know I’m not a fuckin' kid, Enjin.”

The way he says it - clipped, quiet, warning - makes Enjin’s smirk deepen, not shrink.

“Sure,” Enjin drawls. “But look at you - already panting, already beggin’. If it quacks…”

“Fuck off.”

It’s not venomous. It’s just exasperated. A dry bite, the kind you throw at someone who’s had your number too many times for it to really sting anymore.

You press a kiss just beneath Gris’s jaw before he can say more.

And like magic - his mouth shuts. His breath catches.

“You gonna let him rile you up, or are you gonna focus on me?” you ask, soft and dangerous.

Gris blinks.

Then sighs through his nose and leans his forehead into yours, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders like he’s dropped the fight without even realizing it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Was distracted.”

You hum, pleased, fingers threading deeper into his blond hair.

Enjin chuckles from the couch corner, smug and content.

“Good boy,” you whisper against Gris’s mouth - and this time, he doesn’t argue.

Gris is putty beneath you - compliant, hot-blooded, jaw slack as your fingers trail lightly up his chest. You’ve taken your time with him, just like you said you would, exploring every reaction, every twitch of his hips or hiss between his teeth. He’s nearly panting now, fighting to keep himself grounded under your touch.

It’s satisfying.

It’s empowering.

And you’re nowhere near done with him yet.

But then - 

Behind you, the couch creaks.

A low rustle of fabric.

You glance over your shoulder just in time to catch Enjin standing up, stretching his long arms above his head like this is intermission and not the middle of your personal power trip. His hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of pale skin and the sharp cut of his waist.

He’s clearly enjoying himself.

And he’s clearly about to cause a problem.

Your eyes narrow.

“’Scuse you?” you say, voice sharp and syrupy all at once.

Enjin arches a brow, unbothered. “What?”

“You get your pale little ass back on this couch now - before I change my mind about this whole arrangement.”

Gris’s chest jumps with a choked laugh under your palms.

Enjin lets out a low whistle, smirk returning in full force.

“Oh, is that how it is?”

You don’t blink. Don’t even flinch.

“Don’t ruin the field trip for the whole class, Enjin. I swear to God.”

Gris makes a noise that might be a gasp or a laugh or both, turning his head into your neck to muffle it.

Enjin holds up both hands in surrender and drops back down onto the cushions with a bounce, spreading his legs wide and slouching like a man who knows when he’s been leashed - and likes it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters.

You don’t look at him.

You turn your full attention back to Gris, eyes gleaming.

“That’s better.”

And just like that, the field trip continues.

Your hands. Your rules. Your boys.

Gris comes apart like he’s never done it before - a guttural moan, eyes squeezed shut, jaw slack and desperate as you drive him straight over the edge. His hands scrabble for purchase - on the couch, on your hips, in your hair - but nothing holds. Not really. You’ve undone him. You own him.

The man is doing his best.

He really is.

But the problem is - you already know his best. You’ve seen it. Pushed past it. You’ve mapped every twitch in his thighs, every stutter in his breath, every delicious shiver that gives him away.

And now?

Now you’ve got him caged between your knees, one hand braced on his chest and the other teasing slow, maddening circles that never quite give him what he wants. You lean in, mouth at his ear, whispering things no sane man could survive with dignity intact.

“Still holding on?” you murmur, watching the flush spread down his neck.

Gris gasps, one hand flying up to grip your wrist.

“Fuck - I’m - nghh - I’m trying,” he chokes, hips jerking, breath coming in ragged little sobs.

He looks up at you like he’s begging, but he doesn’t say the words.

Not yet.

So you give him a cruel smile. A slow drag of your palm. A bite to his collarbone that makes him wail.

“Trying’s not good enough, baby,” you coo. “I wanna see you fall apart.”

And oh, does he.

He stutters out your name, a whimper punched from his lungs like a deathblow, head thrown back against the cushion, mouth slack. His legs twitch, his fingers dig into your hips like anchors, and for a moment he’s just gone - eyes squeezed shut, throat arched, completely lost in it.

You can feel the tremble running through him like a live wire. Hear the broken curse, the helpless little “fuck, fuck, fuck - ” as he shudders his way down from the high you dragged him to.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear again.

“That’s what I wanted.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth first - soft, slow, so damn gentle it makes his whole body jolt like he was expecting teeth instead. His hands clutch at your hips, trying not to grip too tight, trying not to beg. But you feel him - tensing and trembling like a fish out of water under your touch.

You smile against his skin.

“Mm-hmm,” you breathe, nudging your nose along his cheekbone, down to the sharp line of his jaw. “So good for me right now…”

Your voice is low, syrupy, all breath and heat and devastation.

Gris shudders - a full-body tremble that punches a soft, wrecked little grunt out of him. His knees draw up slightly like he needs to contain himself somehow, but there’s no containing this.

Your lips find the shell of his ear, and your hand moves lower again - just enough pressure to make him twitch, whimper.

“Yeah,” you murmur, rubbing your nose along his ear before giving the lobe a slow, sensual suck. “You like being good for me?”

He nods, frantically, brain clearly fried.

But that’s not enough.

You shift your hips just slightly - grinding into the soft part of his belly, hand working him in slow, torturous strokes as you whisper filth into his skin.

“Say it.”

“I - I do,” he gasps, voice barely a whisper. “I like it - I like being good for you - ”

“Goddamn right you do.”

You kiss his jaw. His neck. Rub your nose beneath his ear, just where his scent clings the strongest - heady and warm and utterly his. Your drag your lips over him and your breath fans across his sweat-damp skin, and it sends another violent tremor through him.

When you pull back to look at him - his chest heaving, pupils blown wide, mouth open and wet - he’s done for.

Completely.

“Look at you,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Falling apart just because I asked you to.”

He collapses back onto the cushions breathing like he just outran the apocalypse, you just smile and press a gentle kiss to the curve of his neck.

“Good boy,” you whisper.

A low, strangled noise escapes from the other side of the couch.

You turn your head, slowly.

Enjin is still seated - barely. Knees wide, arms braced on his thighs, a very obvious problem in his sweats, and the most tragic look on his face.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“Buh - but - me,” he manages, actually pouting. “What about meeeee?”

You blink at him, sweet as can be.

Then yawn - long and stretched and obnoxiously casual.

“M’tired,” you mumble. “Think I’m gonna take a long, hot bath.”

Enjin sits up straight like he’s been stabbed.

“You what - ”

You’re already on your feet, sauntering off toward the bathroom with the smugness of a woman who has absolutely no intention of being swayed.

“Night, boys~” you call over your shoulder. “Don’t wait up.”

Gris just wheezes a laugh where he lies sprawled, boneless and broken.

Enjin slumps back onto the couch, muttering something about betrayal and blue balls and “I did not raise her to be like this, goddamn woman.”

But you?

You just hum as the bath fills, every bit of you warm and satisfied - because the best part?

You know for a fact they’ll still come crawling back the next time you snap your fingers.

@southside-otaku @kenpachisbrat @kazutora-kurokawa @darkstarlight82 @my-anime-garden @breathofthewind29 @bakubunny

[ryoride]

muscle man ✮ p.2

✮ includes: dabi, keigo takami & tomura shigaraki

✮ fem!reader, kissing, light 18+ content, & fluff

✮ synopsis: a girlfriend who's addicted to their touch

⋆ dabi

He used to give you weird looks when you'd touch him randomly—he wouldn't push you away or anything, just go stiff the moment he felt your face smushing his or your hands all over him

He takes notice how you're so careful around the seams & staples that scatter across his skin—even while squeezing his muscles or biting him, you're doing it reverently

if you slip your hand under his shirt and palm at his abs, he'll lift his shirt up and stare at his flesh against yours, before gently resting his palm over yours

Though if you ever tell a soul how gently he is with you, he adamantly swears he'll deny it with his entire soul and refuse to touch you ever again—even though he knows it's a lie

Every night you're lying in bed together; he curls an arm around your waist every time you curl into him and try to mold your bodies together. sometimes he'll roll on top of you and just heat up a little, so you don't need a blanket

Even in front of the league, he doesn't really have a problem with you having your hands all over him—knowing no one there thinks less than of the two of you for wanting to be comfortable at your home

The only person who's ever looked even remotely taken aback was Tomura, and that was only because he'd never witnessed people in love divulging affectionate intimacy

⋆ keigo takami

He love, love, loves how much you touch him

Coming home from a stressful day at work and barely getting his shoes off before you're on him, kissing his shoulder rapidly & squeezing him close to you

He'll lean his head down to your throat to tickle you with his stubble as you press your hands against his abs. whispering soft 'i missed you' 's in your skin as you fight back giggles

He knows you worry about him, so at night as you're whispering before bed, he always pulls your hand to his bare chest—letting you feel his heartbeat before his wings tug you flush against him

he'll squish his face against yours for you sometimes, and jokingly flex his arms if he catches you staring for too long

Publicly acknowledges you at least once every time he gets asked what he does in his time off: 'I have a couch, a movie, and two arms waiting for me at home.'

Everyone at the agency knows how affectionate the two of you are together—it reminds them of two teenagers stuck in the honeymoon phase, but an entire year in and you still giggle whenever he takes his shirt off in front of you.

He loves kissing your stomach; he'll lay on top of you while watching TV and just plant random kisses to your skin while one of your hands lazily tousle his hair

With his career he knows you need to make the most out of every fleeting moment you two get to spend together, and he takes immense joy whenever you wrap yourself around him and refuse to let go.

⋆ tomura shigaraki

He long ago had accepted his fate. If you wanted to touch him, he was going to be touched—even if he didn't understand why you wanted to touch him so bad.

Back when you two were younger, it almost annoyed him how you would just want to touch him all the time—it wasn't like he could freely lay his hands on you in return without a few worries.

He could remember when the two of you were 17, and you'd come to his room with lotion, moisturizer, vaseline, and hair ties in hand—offering to try and help keep his skin from cracking

the vivid memories of his hair being pulled up and way from his neck and chest so you could rub the globs of balm in, delicately dancing over his skin—

how his breath hitched when you rubbed the moisturizer onto his face, eyes going in every direction but yours, and how his hands clenched at his sides when you rubbed vaseline over his lips, hoping they wouldn't run raw

He didn't know it then, but those were always just excuses to be able to touch him—though, now? You get to keep your hands on him at all times, even if it leaves him a little confused.

While you keep his skin from flaking, it's still dry—irritatingly dry. So, you nuzzling your face against his when it's nowhere near as soft as yours leaves him bewildered.

Same with when you trace over his nonexistent muscles, squeezing his arm while he plays video games, feeling the small ghost of muscle—still tracing shapes and kissing his skin like he were a boxer

your hands on his waist rubbing softly whenever the chance arose, not caring if the other league members were near—like the only thing on your mind was that you could kiss his shoulder and whisper 'mine' and no one would bat an eye

[kamoswrld]

routine checkup

content: 18+ mdni! nanami x fem reader, gyno nanami, needy horny ass reader, dub con-ish, corruption kink-ish. smut with a little plot, mentions of masturbation, sex toys. sex in inappropriate places (doctors office), begging, praise, dom-ish nanami, squirting, doggy style, creampie

eli's notes: hi hi hiii, nanami fic incoming, this is 1.8k words, i hope yall like it! i'll be traveling for the holidays so for the next two weeks, i'll be doing reposts but i'll update dirtroad darling soon and release a pilot suguru fic i had in mind hehe thank you again for 4k babies, mwah! fanart cred to @/MyaoRuki

how long had it been since you had a good fuck?

two…three years?

maybe that’s a bit of an over exaggeration but regardless it’d been too long. too many nights in been scrolling through twitter porn or reading smut. too many visits to your local sex shop, too. all the workers knew you. always seeing you come in to buy a new creature cock or some batteries for your vibe, a bottle of your favorite lube or toy cleansers.

though, you were wondering why you were so goddamn horny all the time! it started to become a habit that you couldn’t break, practically fucking yourself with your silicone see through nine inch dildo till you squirted all over your sheets almost every night.

you decided this was a call for the gynecologist. i mean,the vagina doctor has to have all the answers right?

but when you walked in to your appointment that day, you weren’t expecting to be seen by kento nanami.

the hottie gyno you've only seen in passing, greeting you with a soft smile and nod. a man with hands that you've imagined wrapped around your hair, your neck. you've imagined them roaming your body, gripping your hips so tight while he bounced you on his cock that you just know is big by the way he walks.

you expected your sweet old lady, mrs yamanaka that you’ve been seeing since your first physical at 15. but according to miss maki at the front desk, she’s out sick.

so nanami it is.

he steps into the exam room calm, his white coat crisp, black tie straight, stethoscope hanging around his neck, gorgeous blonde hair pushed back just enough to show those sharp brown eyes behind thin glasses.

“miss, i’m doctor nanami. i’ll be handling your visit today.” his voice rolls low and even, no bullshit, straight to the point.

you nod quickly, cheeks already heating up, plush thighs already pressing together under the thin paper gown they gave you.

he flips through your chart, brow furrowing a little. “says here you’re dealing with heightened arousal. totally normal, i'm thinking possible hormonal imbalance. but it's nothing to worry about though. we’ll do a standard pelvic exam, check everything looks healthy, okay? do you have any pain, unusual discharge?”

you shake your head, voice catching. “no pain. just…um…really wet all the time. can’t stop thinking about getting off. it’s driving me nuts.”

he pauses, pen stopping mid-note, then clears his throat. “alright. understood. go ahead and lie back, put your feet in the stirrups. i’ll be as quick as possible.”

you scoot down the table, legs spreading wide, paper crinkling loud under your ass. cool air hits your bare pussy and you bite your lip—already slick, already swollen just from seeing him. he pulls on pink nitrile gloves, snaps them tight at his wrists, and the sound alone makes your clit throb.

he sits on the rolling stool between your thighs, adjusts the light, and you feel his breath ghost over your skin as he leans in.

“relax for me. i'll be gentle, don't worry.” two gloved fingers part your folds slow, spreading you open, exposing every pink inch. you hear him exhale sharp through his nose.

“visually everything appears healthy. swollen labia, significant natural lubrication.” his tone stays flat, professional, but his fingers linger longer than they need to, tracing your entrance gentle. he slides one thick finger inside, slow and careful, curling just a bit to feel around.

your walls clamp down instant, greedy, sucking him deeper. a soft whine slips out your throat before you can stop it.

he freezes. “everything alright?”

you nod too fast. “yeah—yeah, sorry. just sensitive.”

he adds the second finger, stretching you wider, knuckles pressing in till his palm cups your pussy. he pumps once, twice, checking tissue, feeling for any abnormalities, whatever the fuck doctors check. but every drag of those gloves against your g-spot lights you up, hips twitching up for more.

you can’t take it. your hand shoots down without thinking, wrapping around his wrist, holding his fingers buried knuckle-deep inside you. his head snaps up, eyes wide behind the glasses, lips parting in pure shock.

“what are you—”

“please,” you whisper, voice cracking raw. “please don’t stop. it feels so good. i need it.”

his jaw tightens, nostrils flaring. “this isn’t appropriate, miss. i’m your physician—”

“i don’t care,” you cut him off, rolling your hips so his fingers shift inside you. “just—keep going. finger me. make me cum, doctor. i’m so close already.”

you start moving his hand yourself, guiding his wrist in and out, fucking yourself on his fingers while he sits there stunned. the wet squelch fills the quiet room, obscene and loud. your juices coat the blue glove, making it shiny, dripping down his knuckles.

“dear god,” he mutters under his breath, first crack in the mask. his free hand grips the edge of the table hard.

you keep rocking, faster, chasing that burn, eager for release. “more—deeper, doctor nanami, please—”

he tries one last time. “we should stop. this crosses—”

but you clench hard around him, milking his fingers, and his resolve snaps clean in half. a low growl rumbles out his chest. suddenly his hand takes over—no more guiding from you—he thrusts deep and rough, curling both fingers hard against that spongy spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

“goddamn it,” he hisses, leaning forward, glasses fogging slightly. “you’re soaked, sweetheart. dripping down my wrist. you really need this bad, don’t you?”

you moan loud, back arching off the table. “yes—fuck, yes—rub my clit too, please—”

his thumb finds your swollen nub instantly, circling fast and firm, slick from your mess. your thighs shaking in the stirrups as he spreads his fingers inside you, scissoring your tight cunt wide, stretching your walls while his thumb grinds relentless.

“look at this pretty pussy sucking me in,” he groans, voice dropping darker. “gonna squirt for me? gonna make a mess all over my hand?”

you sob out a broken “yes doctor—” and he speeds up, pounding into you with his fingers, thumb flicking your clit side to side till the coil snaps.

your orgasm hits viciously—pussy spasming wild, gushing hot and clear in messy spurts that splash his coat sleeve, the table, the floor. he keeps rubbing you through it, drawing every last shake and squirt out your body till you’re limp and gasping.

he pulls his fingers free slowly, pink glove drenched and shiny. stares at the mess you made, chest heaving under the coat. then his eyes lock on yours—dark, hungry, all that professionalism burned away.

“we’re not done,” he says low, standing up, unbuckling his belt with one slick hand. “turn over, darling. i’m fucking you properly now.”

you flip over fast, paper gown ripping at the seams as you scramble onto your hands and knees, ass up high, thighs slick and trembling. the table feels cold against your nipples through the thin fabric, but heat pulses everywhere else—especially between your legs where your pussy still flutters empty, aching for more.

nanami shrugs off the white coat roughly, lets it drop to the floor in a heap. his shirt stretches tight over broad shoulders as he yanks the tie loose, pops the top buttons open. belt clinks loud when he pulls it free, zipper rasping down. you glance back and catch the first glimpse—thick cock springing out heavy and flushed, veins bulging along the shaft, tip already leaking clear beads that drip onto the tile, golden bush trimmed perfectly.

“fuck,” you breathe out shaky, pushing your hips back toward him. “hurry—need you inside me.”

he steps close, one big hand spreading your cheek wide, the other guiding his cockhead through your soaked folds. he drags it slow up and down, coating himself in the mess you made earlier, nudging your clit till you jolt.

“so goddamn wet,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough now. “pretty little pussy is still twitching from squirting all over my hand. how cute”

you whine, the sound high in your throat, trying to sink back onto him, but he holds your hip firmly—teasing, punishing. “beg properly for it, darling.”

“please, doctor nanami—please fuck me. stretch me out with that fat cock. been empty too long.”

that does it. he lines up and thrusts in one brutal push, burying every thick inch to the root. your walls burn sweetly with the sudden fill, stretching wide around his girth, fluttering helpless as he bottoms out. balls press snug against your clit, heavy and hot.

he groans deep, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “so tight—choking me already. such a greedy little cunt. you feel perfect, sweetheart—like a glove.”

then he pulls back slowly, dragging every ridge along your sensitive spots, before slamming forward again. the table rocks under the force, metal legs scraping floor. he sets a punishing rhythm quick—hard, deep strokes that punch the air from your lungs, cockhead kissing your cervix each time.

wet slaps echo filthy in the small room, mixed with your broken moans and his low grunts. “take it, sweetheart. you can do it. take every fucking inch,” he growls, leaning over you, chest pressing to your back. one hand snakes under the gown, cups your tit rough, pinches the nipple till you cry out sharp.

your arms give out fast, face smashing into the padded table, ass still arched high for him. he straightens, both hands gripping your waist now, pounding relentless. sweat beads on his forehead, glasses sliding down his nose, blonde strands sticking messy.

pressure coils brutally again low in your belly, faster this time from how full he keeps you. “gonna cum, nana— fuck, gonna cum on your cock—”

“do it, sweetheart,” he snarls, angling hips sharper, grinding against that spot inside that makes your vision spark white. his thumb finds your clit again, rubs sloppy circles through the slick mess leaking down your thighs. “squirt on me. soak my dick like a good girl.”

the words snap something inside you. orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave— walls clamping viciously around his thrusting cock, milking him hard as you gush hot and messy clear streams spray out around his shaft, splattering his thighs, puddling under your knees on the table. you scream muffled into the padding, body shaking uncontrollably.

he curses loud, pace stuttering. “s-so fucking tight—” three more brutal thrusts and he buries deep, cock pulsing thick ropes of cum straight against your cervix. heat floods you full, spilling hot inside, leaking out around his base as he grinds slow, riding the aftershocks.

you both stay locked like that—panting harshly, sweat cooling on his and your skin. he pulls out gradually, watching his cum drip from your puffy hole, mixing with your own slick on the ruined paper sheet.

he exhales ragged, tucks himself away, but his eyes stay dark on you. “your hormonal issue,” he says quiet, voice still rough, “might need regular treatment. weekly appointments. private ones. routine check ups.”

you push up weakly on your elbows, turning to look at him over your shoulder, pussy still twitching, empty.

“yeah,” you rasp, smirking small. “think i’ll need a lot of hands-on care.”

KAMOSWRLD 2025 ©

masterlist!

tags - @cupidstrace @1stqueenofhell @whimsic @motel6killer

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

PART 1 -- And if I Said Yes? PART 2 -- And if I Lied?

Song Rec: Son Lux -- Easy

🔞 CW: Power dynamics (Reader in control), Voyeurism (Enjin watching), Exhibitionism, Dom/sub undertones (verbal control, begging, praise kink), Foreplay-focused heavy petting, Multiple partners (MFM threesome context), Orgasm denial (Enjin), Reader takes control of both men, Mind/body overwhelm (Gris), Gentle degradation/praise (“good boy” language), Consent emphasized through language ("ask for it"), Slight humiliation play (Enjin being denied), Swearing / explicit language

WC: Just under 3k

A/N: This isn't as crazy long as the other 2. I think I might put this on the shelf for a bit. I'm exhausted and it's only Tue. Let me know what you guys think! If anyone has any ideas please send me an ask! I love hearing from people!

Enjin x Reader x Gris | Reader-Initiated

It’s not like you planned this.

You didn’t wake up thinking, “Hey, I should jerk off my incredibly hot, occasionally insufferable, emotionally feral boyfriend on the couch tonight.”

But the universe?

She had other ideas.

Specifically, she had you, nestled into the curve of Enjin’s side with your legs thrown across his lap, watching some documentary about serial killers that you’ve both seen four times. And Enjin had been rubbing slow, absent circles into your calf with the calloused pads of his fingers like he forgot what those giant hands are capable of.

So you moved your hand.

Down.

Just a little.

Just enough to find that he was hard.

“Did you even notice this?” you whisper, nosing at his jaw, voice smug.

“I noticed you,” he growls back.

You slid your hand beneath the blanket - the same one Gris had yanked off your half-naked body less than a week ago - and wrapped your fingers around him.

He made a noise low in his throat, head tilting back just slightly, neck taut and exposed.

So now you’re stroking him - slow, lazy, smug.

The documentary is long forgotten. Your body is warm. Heavy. Your smile like cream.

Enjin’s hand fists in the blanket, but he doesn’t stop you. Of course he doesn’t.

And that’s when the door opens.

“Honey's, m'home.”

You don’t even flinch.

You look over your shoulder at Gris like he’s a mild inconvenience. A hiccup. A floating dust mite that dared interrupt your indulgence.

Enjin huffs through his nose. His jaw is tight. His eyes flick toward Gris and then back to you, like don’t stop.

Gris freezes halfway through the doorway.

“Are you - seriously? You’re jerking him off? On the couch. Is that? That’s my blanket - ”

“It was,” you purr. Your hand doesn’t stop moving. In fact, you squeeze a little harder just to make Enjin grunt.

Gris stares.

You tip your chin, all bedroom eyes and sleepy menace.

“You wanna watch?” you ask, voice dripping honey. “Wanna play?”

He looks stunned. Not because he’s scandalized - he knows what you’re like.

But because you’re not blushing.

You’re glowing.

A slow smile spreads across your lips as you shift just enough for Gris to really see what you’re doing under the blanket. And you don’t look away.

“What, Gris?” you murmur. “Just tell me.”

He swallows.

“...You’re evil,” he says, stepping inside, kicking the door shut with his heel. “You two are actual menaces.”

You smile. “Says the man who showed up without texting like some porch gremlin.”

Enjin groans, hips twitching under your hand.

“You comin’ over here,” he rasps, “or you just gonna stand there with your dick cryin’ in your jeans?”

Gris crosses the room in two strides.

“You asked for it.”

“I know,” you purr.

And the universe?

She cackles somewhere in the stars -

Because this was always going to happen.

Again.

Gris doesn’t even sit. Not properly.

He collapses next to you, hip bumping yours, thigh warm and solid as he shifts closer. You don't stop moving your hand under the blanket - Enjin twitches, a warning in the low rumble of his chest - but you angle your body, curling toward Gris, letting him feel the heat rolling off you.

“Y’look smug,” he mutters, voice already rough.

You hum like a cat in a sunbeam.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He’s looking down now. At the way your arm moves under the blanket. At Enjin’s flushed face and parted lips. At the greedy, possessive way those dark eyes track every breath you take.

“You two are fucking dangerous,” Gris says. And he says it like a prayer.

Your fingers glide a little faster and Enjin’s hips shift upward, ever so slightly, jaw tight with restraint. He’s close. You know it. You can feel it in the way his thigh jumps under yours, the way his head tips back against the couch cushion, neck bared and glistening with sweat.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” you ask Enjin, purring against his ear.

“Tch no, m'not close,” he growls, but it’s a lie, and everyone in this room knows it.

You turn back to Gris with a wicked little smile, like you’re offering him a bite of something sweet and stolen.

“You just gonna watch, Gris?” you ask. “Or are you gonna beg?”

That hits him. Right in the gut.

His mouth parts. His fingers twitch. You swear, if you reached down and unzipped his jeans for him, he’d whimper. But you don’t. Not yet.

Instead, you stop.

Hand going still. A cruel pause. Enjin groans, hips jerking forward as you pull away entirely and settle the blanket over his lap, smug as a cat licking cream from her claws.

Gris stares at you. Disbelieving. Needy.

And then you lean forward.

Kiss the corner of his mouth.

And whisper, “If you want to play with me, you have to ask him.”

Gris blinks. Looks at Enjin.

Enjin's flushed, hard, still twitching beneath the blanket - and grinning. That feral, knowing, possessive grin he only wears when he’s three steps ahead of everybody else in the room.

“Well?” he rasps, eyes locked on Gris like a challenge. “What’s it gonna be?”

Gris swallows hard. Looks at you. Then at Enjin.

Then back to you - his voice a gravel-rough whisper:

“…Please.”

You tilt your head.

Just slightly.

A little angle to the left that screams problem.Your lips curl, amusement flickering at the corners like a secret you’re not ready to share. Enjin’s watching you now - shoulders pressed back into the couch, chest rising slow and heavy - but he’s not interfering.

He knows a show when he sees one.

You drag your gaze back to Gris.

He’s shifting in his seat already, thighs tense, hands braced on his knees like he doesn’t know what else to do with them. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.

You smile wider. Languid. Dangerous.

“Hmm…” you murmur, sweet as syrup.

“That doesn’t quite sound like asking to me.”

Gris blinks.

You lean closer, close enough he can smell the heat on your skin. You say his name like it’s the last drop of water in a desert.

“What do you want, Gris?”

His mouth opens - then shuts again. His hands flex. His breathing is a little too loud now, a little too ragged for someone who’s supposedly in control of himself.

You wait.

The silence is heavy. Intimate. The air hums with it.

Enjin’s voice breaks it like a match snapping in half.

“She asked you a question, boy.”

Rough. Quiet. With a thread of laughter curling under it.

Gris turns his head slightly, eyes flicking toward Enjin.

“I want…” he starts. Pauses. Looks back at you like it physically pains him to admit the next part.

“I want you.”

You blink. Smile slowly.

“Mmm ... See. Still not asking.”

He lets out a breath that’s half growl, half moan, and you swear you feel Enjin’s chest shake with the effort it takes not to laugh.

Gris clenches his jaw.

“Please,” he says, and it’s softer this time. Realer. “Please touch me?”

Your lashes flutter as you look at Enjin.

“Think he means it?” you ask, all faux innocence.

Enjin tilts his head like he’s thinking, but the smirk playing on his lips says otherwise.

“Let’s see if he earns it.”

And just like that - Gris is moving again. Shifting toward you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His hands hover, unsure of where to make himself available first. And you?

You sit back, just slightly, letting your thighs part enough to make room between them.

Gris doesn’t even pretend to play it cool - he inches closer, his gaze darting from your lips to your collarbone to where your fingers toy with the edge of your shorts, like an invitation might be coming but you haven’t fully decided yet.

“Hands,” you murmur, not even looking at him.

Gris freezes. Then slowly - carefully - places them on your thighs, heavy and warm and trembling just a little.

Enjin hums low beside you, a sound you know by now: approval and arousal twined together. He’s watching it all, sharp-eyed, mouth barely parted, fingers drumming casually on the inside of his knee like he’s letting you lead but keeping score.

You lean forward until your nose brushes Gris’s cheek.

“You remember how Enjin made you ask him for it?” you whisper, barely audible.

Gris nods, throat tight. “Ye-ah.”

“Mmhmm.” You nuzzle closer, dragging your lips across the corner of his mouth. “I like that. I think I’ll keep that rule for myself.”

He exhales shakily.

You straddle his lap before he can answer, one hand slipping into his hair, the other gripping his jaw.

“But I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

Your voice is low, firm. Commanding.

“Not yet.”

Gris's eyes search yours, wide and full of want.

“You’re gonna show me,” you say. “You’re gonna show me how bad you want to be good for me. And if you fuck it up? Enjin can sit in your place and show you how to behave.”

From beside you, Enjin snorts, low and smug.

“Y’wanna go ahead and take your shot, boy,” he mutters. “She’s not bluffin’. And I ain’t picky.”

Gris stiffens.

You feel it immediately - his hands go still on your thighs, his jaw clenches beneath your palm.

He doesn’t look at Enjin when he answers. He keeps his eyes on you, voice low and tight:

“Y'know I’m not a fuckin' kid, Enjin.”

The way he says it - clipped, quiet, warning - makes Enjin’s smirk deepen, not shrink.

“Sure,” Enjin drawls. “But look at you - already panting, already beggin’. If it quacks…”

“Fuck off.”

It’s not venomous. It’s just exasperated. A dry bite, the kind you throw at someone who’s had your number too many times for it to really sting anymore.

You press a kiss just beneath Gris’s jaw before he can say more.

And like magic - his mouth shuts. His breath catches.

“You gonna let him rile you up, or are you gonna focus on me?” you ask, soft and dangerous.

Gris blinks.

Then sighs through his nose and leans his forehead into yours, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders like he’s dropped the fight without even realizing it.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Was distracted.”

You hum, pleased, fingers threading deeper into his blond hair.

Enjin chuckles from the couch corner, smug and content.

“Good boy,” you whisper against Gris’s mouth - and this time, he doesn’t argue.

Gris is putty beneath you - compliant, hot-blooded, jaw slack as your fingers trail lightly up his chest. You’ve taken your time with him, just like you said you would, exploring every reaction, every twitch of his hips or hiss between his teeth. He’s nearly panting now, fighting to keep himself grounded under your touch.

It’s satisfying.

It’s empowering.

And you’re nowhere near done with him yet.

But then - 

Behind you, the couch creaks.

A low rustle of fabric.

You glance over your shoulder just in time to catch Enjin standing up, stretching his long arms above his head like this is intermission and not the middle of your personal power trip. His hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of pale skin and the sharp cut of his waist.

He’s clearly enjoying himself.

And he’s clearly about to cause a problem.

Your eyes narrow.

“’Scuse you?” you say, voice sharp and syrupy all at once.

Enjin arches a brow, unbothered. “What?”

“You get your pale little ass back on this couch now - before I change my mind about this whole arrangement.”

Gris’s chest jumps with a choked laugh under your palms.

Enjin lets out a low whistle, smirk returning in full force.

“Oh, is that how it is?”

You don’t blink. Don’t even flinch.

“Don’t ruin the field trip for the whole class, Enjin. I swear to God.”

Gris makes a noise that might be a gasp or a laugh or both, turning his head into your neck to muffle it.

Enjin holds up both hands in surrender and drops back down onto the cushions with a bounce, spreading his legs wide and slouching like a man who knows when he’s been leashed - and likes it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters.

You don’t look at him.

You turn your full attention back to Gris, eyes gleaming.

“That’s better.”

And just like that, the field trip continues.

Your hands. Your rules. Your boys.

Gris comes apart like he’s never done it before - a guttural moan, eyes squeezed shut, jaw slack and desperate as you drive him straight over the edge. His hands scrabble for purchase - on the couch, on your hips, in your hair - but nothing holds. Not really. You’ve undone him. You own him.

The man is doing his best.

He really is.

But the problem is - you already know his best. You’ve seen it. Pushed past it. You’ve mapped every twitch in his thighs, every stutter in his breath, every delicious shiver that gives him away.

And now?

Now you’ve got him caged between your knees, one hand braced on his chest and the other teasing slow, maddening circles that never quite give him what he wants. You lean in, mouth at his ear, whispering things no sane man could survive with dignity intact.

“Still holding on?” you murmur, watching the flush spread down his neck.

Gris gasps, one hand flying up to grip your wrist.

“Fuck - I’m - nghh - I’m trying,” he chokes, hips jerking, breath coming in ragged little sobs.

He looks up at you like he’s begging, but he doesn’t say the words.

Not yet.

So you give him a cruel smile. A slow drag of your palm. A bite to his collarbone that makes him wail.

“Trying’s not good enough, baby,” you coo. “I wanna see you fall apart.”

And oh, does he.

He stutters out your name, a whimper punched from his lungs like a deathblow, head thrown back against the cushion, mouth slack. His legs twitch, his fingers dig into your hips like anchors, and for a moment he’s just gone - eyes squeezed shut, throat arched, completely lost in it.

You can feel the tremble running through him like a live wire. Hear the broken curse, the helpless little “fuck, fuck, fuck - ” as he shudders his way down from the high you dragged him to.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear again.

“That’s what I wanted.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth first - soft, slow, so damn gentle it makes his whole body jolt like he was expecting teeth instead. His hands clutch at your hips, trying not to grip too tight, trying not to beg. But you feel him - tensing and trembling like a fish out of water under your touch.

You smile against his skin.

“Mm-hmm,” you breathe, nudging your nose along his cheekbone, down to the sharp line of his jaw. “So good for me right now…”

Your voice is low, syrupy, all breath and heat and devastation.

Gris shudders - a full-body tremble that punches a soft, wrecked little grunt out of him. His knees draw up slightly like he needs to contain himself somehow, but there’s no containing this.

Your lips find the shell of his ear, and your hand moves lower again - just enough pressure to make him twitch, whimper.

“Yeah,” you murmur, rubbing your nose along his ear before giving the lobe a slow, sensual suck. “You like being good for me?”

He nods, frantically, brain clearly fried.

But that’s not enough.

You shift your hips just slightly - grinding into the soft part of his belly, hand working him in slow, torturous strokes as you whisper filth into his skin.

“Say it.”

“I - I do,” he gasps, voice barely a whisper. “I like it - I like being good for you - ”

“Goddamn right you do.”

You kiss his jaw. His neck. Rub your nose beneath his ear, just where his scent clings the strongest - heady and warm and utterly his. Your drag your lips over him and your breath fans across his sweat-damp skin, and it sends another violent tremor through him.

When you pull back to look at him - his chest heaving, pupils blown wide, mouth open and wet - he’s done for.

Completely.

“Look at you,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Falling apart just because I asked you to.”

He collapses back onto the cushions breathing like he just outran the apocalypse, you just smile and press a gentle kiss to the curve of his neck.

“Good boy,” you whisper.

A low, strangled noise escapes from the other side of the couch.

You turn your head, slowly.

Enjin is still seated - barely. Knees wide, arms braced on his thighs, a very obvious problem in his sweats, and the most tragic look on his face.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“Buh - but - me,” he manages, actually pouting. “What about meeeee?”

You blink at him, sweet as can be.

Then yawn - long and stretched and obnoxiously casual.

“M’tired,” you mumble. “Think I’m gonna take a long, hot bath.”

Enjin sits up straight like he’s been stabbed.

“You what - ”

You’re already on your feet, sauntering off toward the bathroom with the smugness of a woman who has absolutely no intention of being swayed.

“Night, boys~” you call over your shoulder. “Don’t wait up.”

Gris just wheezes a laugh where he lies sprawled, boneless and broken.

Enjin slumps back onto the couch, muttering something about betrayal and blue balls and “I did not raise her to be like this, goddamn woman.”

But you?

You just hum as the bath fills, every bit of you warm and satisfied - because the best part?

You know for a fact they’ll still come crawling back the next time you snap your fingers.

@southside-otaku @kenpachisbrat @kazutora-kurokawa @darkstarlight82 @my-anime-garden @breathofthewind29 @bakubunny

[southside-otaku]

Warm bodies are tangled together in the middle of the night sleeping soundlessly. That is until you hear little footsteps trudging down the hall to your bedroom. Enjin had spent the night again in your little house and he’s been around your kids before, hell they loved it when mom’s boyfriend was around. Your youngest usually comes in in the middle of the night if he wasn’t wore out enough during the day, needless to say the days Enjin was over the little boy was tuckered out and that meant you and Enjin had more time with each other at night. However, that apparently wasn’t the case tonight. Typically your son slept next to you so when he climbed in bed it was unusual but instead he crawled in the middle and laid in between you and Enjin. You started to coax your son to your side of the bed but Enjin stopped you “nah nah, ‘s fine. Cmere little man” he spoke in that sexy half asleep voice. Enjin swung his arm around your son and kept his other arm on you successfully sandwiching your son in between you and him. That’s when you both looked at each other and it was over. Months later you and Enjin are announcing your third child to the Cleaners!

@i-literally-cant-with-this @kenpachisbrat I’m cooked yall I haven’t been this in love since Draken 🤪

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

I would NEVER not be pregnant if that man was my man.

[sexchangedotcom]

being young and having grey hair is hot hello beautiful what’s got you so tortured

[8nin]

that’s disgusting… and i’m into that

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

PART 1: AND IF I SAID YES? (you won't be too lost if you read these out of order, btw)

PART 3: AND IF I BEGGED?

Song Suggestion: Chase Atlantic -- Friends

🔞 CW: Explicit sexual content / NSFW (18+), Threesome dynamic (M/M/F), Established relationship (Enjin x Reader, Gris as welcomed third), Voyeurism / exhibitionism (Enjin watching), Power dynamics / light D/s energy, Orgasm control / edging, Begging kink, Praise kink / instruction kink, Mentorship vibes (Enjin "coaching" Gris), Hands-only (so far) / external stimulation, Verbal dominance, Sensory overload / reader overwhelm, Maybe some dub-con here, Filthy bestfriend energy between the guys

WC: 3400 +/-. These 3 are obviously too problematic for me to keep it short and sweet. You're welcome ;).

A/N: @southside-otaku and @kenpachisbrat started this. @kazutora-kurokawa asked for it to continue. Me, cackling into the sunset ->💃✨💃✨.

(Gris x Reader | Enjin's Trap)

You didn’t even hear the front door open.

One second, you were on the couch, curled up in a blanket burrito with a bowl of half-stale popcorn, and the next - a low, familiar voice rumbled from the doorway.

“...The hell are you watchin’?”

You bolt upright so fast you nearly launch the popcorn. The blanket tangles around your ankles and your heart goes full cardiac arrest mode.

“G–Gris?! You’re - early.”

He’s already stepping inside, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy like he towel-dried it and said good enough. His boots thud across the floor and his eyes are glued to the TV.

Onscreen: breathy moans, a man with suspicious abs, and a woman on her knees - enthusiastically occupied.

You fumble for the remote. “Oh my God - I didn’t even - this was just on - I wasn’t - I was folding laundry!!”

Gris raises one brow, then - sits down next to you. Like it’s nothing.

Like you aren’t dying inside.

“Y’just watch whatever’s on, huh?” he says, arms stretched across the back of the couch. “Even when it’s… that?”

You’re mortified. You look like someone who planned this. Like some thirsty housewife who wants to fuck her man’s best friend. But the worst part?

This isn’t the first time Enjin has “accidentally” left you in awkward situations.

He knows you clean in the afternoons. Knows you collapse on the couch after and watch whatever’s on. Knows what’s scheduled on that ridiculous late-afternoon adult channel. He has joked about it.

And now Gris is here. Early. Alone. And Enjin?

Nowhere. To. Be. Found.

You swallow, glancing at the clock. “He said he’d be home by four.”

Gris checks his phone. “It’s almost five.”

Oh.

You clench your fists in your blanket. Try to change the channel again - but the remote slips and rewinds to a scene even worse. You yelp and slap the screen off.

Gris chuckles. “Cute.”

You snap your head toward him. “What is?”

He shifts closer. Just slightly. Just enough to make your skin burn.

“You. All flustered like that. Like you’re not thinkin’ about what we did the other night every time you blink.”

You can’t speak.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Y’know Enjin wants me to touch you when he’s not around, right? That was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

Your breath hitches.

Gris sits back like he didn’t just light your brain on fire. Like he’s waiting. Patient. Knowing.

The door creaks open.

And Enjin’s voice, all smug and innocent, floats in:

“Hey, babe. Gris beat me here, huh? Damn. Hope y’all weren’t too bored without me.”

You turn to glare at him.

But Enjin’s eyes flick to the remote in your hand…

Then to your flushed cheeks…

Then to Gris’s fingers still draped behind your neck - 

And he smiles.

Like he just won.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s been over a week and a half since that night. Since they had you pinned between them, wrecked and worshipped and made to forget your own damn name. You hadn’t talked about it since. Not really. Not out loud.

And now Gris is here. Sitting next to you. Watching you squirm.

Knowing.

He sits back, draping his arm behind you on the couch, pinkie brushing your shoulder. The TV is still blank. But the room is so loud with tension you can barely hear your own heartbeat.

Enjin notices.

Then he notices Gris’s hand casually playing with the edge of your blanket…

And he smiles.

Slow.

Knowing.

Like this was the plan all along.

Like he’s been counting the days since that night.

Like he’s ready to start the clock over.

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet where every breath feels suspicious. You swear you can hear the heat rising off your own skin.

Enjin moves into the kitchen like he doesn’t know what he’s done. Opens the fridge. Gets a drink. Doesn’t even look at you.

And Gris is still next to you. Still calm. Still watching. The TV is off, but he hasn’t moved since the moment Enjin walked in.

You don’t look at him. You can’t.

“Y’know,” Gris says, so casual it makes your stomach flip, “I could lie and say I showed up early by accident.”

Your head turns slowly.

“But I won’t,” he adds, resting his ankle on his opposite knee. “’Cause I didn’t.”

You blink.

“I knew he wasn’t gonna be here yet,” he continues, stretching his arms behind his head. “He told me you’d probably be on the couch, tired, watchin’ TV. Said you don’t check what’s playing - you just let it run. Sounded… familiar.”

You’re paralyzed. Like prey. Like you’ve walked directly into a trap - because you have.

“And I knew exactly what time that filthy-ass movie block starts,” Gris adds, tilting his head. “So yeah. I came early. On purpose. You gonna yell at me, sweetheart?”

Your jaw drops slightly.

“You - both of you - set me up?”

“Oh, nah.” Enjin finally speaks from the kitchen. “I set you up. He just signed on as my accomplice.” He walks back in holding a soda can and shrugs. “Told him it’d be more fun this way.”

Gris grins. “And damn if it ain’t.”

You’re quiet for a long second. Then you reach for the blanket. “You two are so - ”

“Wait,” Gris interrupts, voice sharper now - lower. “You didn’t hate it.”

You freeze.

He leans forward slightly, just enough to crowd your space without touching you. “You liked sitting there with me while all that filth played. Didn’t even change the channel for like five minutes.”

“That’s not true,” you whisper. Trying hard to hold your ground when really, you’re no better off than a newborn deer. 

“Oh, honey,” he drawls. “You don’t lie worth shit.”

Enjin, standing off to the side now with arms crossed, smirks. “Told you she’d blush like hell but not move an inch. You owe me ten bucks.”

Gris chuckles but doesn’t look away from you. “How ‘bout I pay you in moans later if she lets me finish what I started?”

Your breath catches.

They both watch you.

Like wolves circling.

Like this was always going to happen.

Like they knew you’d say yes again.

Because it’s been a week and a half.

Because you’ve been thinking about it too.

Gris leans in close, lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

“Say the word,” he murmurs. “And I’ll give you exactly what you think about at night when you're all alone with your hand between your legs.”

You gasp.

Enjin’s already peeling off his hoodie.

He tosses it onto the arm of the chair. His shirt clings in the front, damp near the hem, rising a little when he lifts his arms to stretch his shoulders back. His eyes flick between the two of you, his brow cocked in mock curiosity, like he's watching an experiment he already knows the outcome of.

He starts pacing the room slowly. Not fast. Not agitated. Just… circling. Stalking. Like a lion pretending it’s not hungry. Like he’s giving Gris a turn with the raw flesh before he dives in for his share.

On the couch, you’re still clutching the blanket, heart pounding against your ribs, mouth dry, thighs clenched under fleece and shame.

Gris shifts beside you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, fingers curling under the edge of your blanket.

He starts to pull.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And you don’t stop him.

The blanket slips down over your legs, catching briefly at your knees before Gris tugs it free. His hand goes still. His eyes drop.

And then - 

A low, slow, long whistle.

“Wife beater. Black bra. Tiny pajama shorts.” His tongue clicks against his teeth. “You always clean house in shit like this?”

You open your mouth. To deny it? Defend yourself? No idea.

He doesn’t give you the chance.

“Might as well be bare-assed, honey.”

You whimper.

Enjin stops pacing.

His eyes drop to your thighs, then drag up your torso like he’s exempt from gravity.

“I told him you’d be like this,” he says, voice low. “Said you always end up sprawled out in somethin’ that makes it real hard to behave.”

Gris hums. “Was it this bad last time?”

Enjin laughs. “Last time, she was tryin’ to play shy, remember? But tonight... mm. No. She wanted us to see this.”

You squeak out a “did not,” but your voice is paper-thin. Embarrassed. Betraying you in real time.

“Oh, honey,” Gris says, grinning, “you wore those shorts knowing what they’d do to us. Hell. What they'd make us wanna do to you.”

Enjin sits down in the armchair like a king on a throne. Legs spread. Elbows resting on his thighs. His shirt’s riding up just enough to show the cut lines of his stomach. He doesn’t blink.

“Well?” he asks. “You gonna let him touch you, or are you just gonna sit there and blush for an hour?”

Your head snaps toward him. “You planned this!”

Gris chuckles beside you. His hand settles on your thigh. Warm. Heavy.

“You keep sayin’ that like it’s a bad thing, doll.”

You’re breathless.

Trapped between the heat of Enjin’s stare and the weight of Gris’s hand. His thumb begins tracing circles just above your knee, and your skin blows up with goosebumps like it’s mapping earthquakes as they're happening.  

“Y/N,” Enjin says, voice suddenly lower. Rougher. Serious. “Let me see those eyes when he makes you fall apart.”

Gris grins wider.

And you?

You start to move.

Because it’s been a week and a half.

Because they waited.

Because you want them to see.

And maybe…

You want to be bare after all.

Gris’s hand hasn’t left your thigh. Not even once. It just lingers, heavy and patient, the pad of his thumb rubbing slow, mindless circles into your skin like he’s got all the time in the world.

You can’t stop watching Enjin.

He’s sitting in that goddamn chair like this is the greatest thing he's ever orchestrated - shirt riding up, legs spread, eyes laser-focused on the two of you like he’s getting paid for every twitch in your face, every catch in your breath.

“You’re nervous,” he says suddenly, voice quiet but sharp. “Not scared. Just buzzin’. Overthinking. You always do this when you want it bad but don’t know how to ask for it.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Gris chuckles. “She always like this?”

Enjin tilts his head, his smirk slow and smug. “Mm. When she wants to be good.”

You make a wounded sound in your throat, and Gris feels it - feels the tremble in your leg.

“She’s real responsive,” Enjin adds, leaning forward a little, forearms braced on his thighs. “Start at her knees and work up. Light touches. She’ll go still, like she’s trying not to fall apart.”

“Sounded like she already was.”

“Oh, she is. But she won’t give it up right away. Not unless you push.”

Gris slides his hand up your thigh, just slightly, fingers curling toward the inside. “Like this?”

You bite your lip hard.

“Yeah,” Enjin says, voice thick. “Just like that. Don’t even go higher yet - just tease. Let her feel how slow it’s gonna be.”

Gris hums low, his palm dragging up another inch. “She’s already warm.”

Enjin smiles like he built you that way.

“Course she is. She’s been sittin’ there thinkin’ about it since you walked through the goddamn door.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Gris leans in beside your ear. “That true, sweetheart?”

You can’t answer.

So Enjin does it for you.

“Wet, ain’t she?”

Gris’s eyes flick to yours, then back to Enjin. “You wanna find out, or should I?”

Enjin huffs a quiet laugh. “Go on. I won't stop you. She ain’t gonna stop ya either.”

Gris moves his hand. Bold now. Confident. And Enjin doesn’t look away. He’s not touching you, not even close - but it feels like he is. Like every breath from his mouth is tethered to your skin.

“Slide up the inside of her thigh. Use the backs of your fingers first. She likes that better than grabbin’. Too much too fast and she’ll stiffen up.”

Gris follows instructions like a professional. His knuckles drag soft and slow up the sensitive skin, and your legs twitch apart just slightly - begging.

“There she goes,” Enjin murmurs. “Told you.”

Gris’s voice is rough now. “You want me to touch you?”

You nod. Small. Desperate.

“Use … your … words,” Enjin says, not moving. “Y’know how this works.”

You look straight at him. “Yes. Please. Touch me.”

He grins - broad and bright and wicked.

“Good girl.”

Gris slides his hand up higher, fingertips brushing the hem of your shorts.

“She’ll tense here,” Enjin says. “She always does. She’s afraid it’s too fast, but it’s not. Keep going.”

Gris slips his hand under the waistband.

Your hips jerk.

Your breath shatters.

“Easy,” Enjin says, still watching. “She doesn’t want gentle. Not really. She just wants to feel owned.”

Gris groans.

“You’re fuckin' drippin', sweetheart,” he says.

And you are. Ruined and panting and already on the verge before anything’s really happened.

Enjin finally stands. Walks toward you. Slow. Deliberate. Circling behind the couch now.

“You okay?” he asks, bending down near your ear, his hand ghosting over your shoulder - but not landing.

You nod.

“She’ll always say yes right before she falls apart,” he tells Gris. “You gotta keep her right there. Let her beg.”

Gris grins. “You like beggin’, sweetheart?”

You do.

You do.

And Enjin?

He already knew that.

Gris has his hand in your shorts.

And Enjin?

Enjin hasn’t touched you once.

But you feel him more than anything.

He’s behind the couch now - close enough to whisper, to see everything, but not close enough to give you what you desperately want from him. His voice is steady. Soft. Like he’s reading instructions from a page he wrote himself.

“Don’t go straight for her clit,” he says, and Gris lets out a breathy laugh like damn, he almost did. “Tease around it. Keep your fingers slick. Brush, don’t press. She gets sensitive fast, and if you do too much - ”

Gris traces you slowly, exactly how Enjin said. Your hips stutter forward, chasing more, but he pulls back just slightly.

“Yeah. Like that,” Enjin murmurs, almost to himself. “She won’t beg yet. Not this early. But her thighs’ll start to shake soon.”

And they do.

Gris smirks down at you. “You’re already this close, honey?”

You nod, eyes fluttering.

Enjin hums like he’s satisfied. “Told you. She walks around with all this tension in her body all day. Barely lets herself feel it. Soon as someone gives her permission to fall apart…” He trails off, smiling like he’s watching his favorite scene unfold.

Gris shifts closer to you, kneeling now on the couch, hand still buried between your thighs. His other arm wraps around your waist to steady you as your legs start to tremble.

“You keep doin’ that,” he says, voice low, “and I’m not gonna make it easy.”

“Don’t,” Enjin replies smoothly. “She likes when it’s not easy.”

Your fingers curl into the cushion. Your breath hiccups.

Gris strokes again - just right, just light - your hips lifting without permission.

“Slower,” Enjin says. “You’re gettin’ too greedy.”

“She’s greedy,” Gris counters, laughing softly. “Listen to her.”

You let out a sound between a moan and a plea.

“She’s close,” Gris says.

Enjin’s voice drops. “Good. Now stop.”

Gris freezes.

So do you.

“What?” you gasp. “No, please - please don’t - ”

Enjin smiles. “See? Told you she’d beg.”

Gris looks over his shoulder. “You want me to really stop?”

“No,” Enjin says. “Not completely. Just… hold her there. Let her hover.”

Your thighs shake harder. Your body burns.

Gris obeys.

His fingers stay inside, but his thumb stops moving, just resting against you - waiting.

“I hate you both,” you hiss.

Gris presses a kiss to your temple, then your forehead. He leans down and brushes his nose against yours. “You say that, but you’re drippin’ all over my fuckin’ hand. There’s a fine love between love and hate, darlin’. And I think you’re confused about where one starts and the other ends. ”

Enjin chuckles behind you. “She’s always like this. Melts under praise, burns under pressure. But never walks away. Never needs a safe word. She’ll take everything if you give it slow. But ya gotta know how to play with 'er. Gotta take the time to get to know what the rules are.”

Gris strokes your inner thigh again with the back of his fingers. “She’s shaking.”

“Mm,” Enjin says. “Keep her there.”

You sob a little. Half-laugh, half-broken.

“She’s gonna cry, Enjin.” Gris murmurs, in awe. You can see the flicker of concern in his eyes. Like he’s the one who's going to take this too far. 

“Let her,” Enjin says gently. “She’s beautiful like this.”

And still - he doesn’t touch.

He watches.

He teaches.

He knows you.

And he’s not letting you cum.

Not yet.

You’re trembling.

Gris has moved you now, half-straddled in his lap, his fingers working you slow and steady beneath your shorts. Not fast. Not deep. Not enough.

But close.

You’re so close it hurts.

Your breathing’s ragged. Your nails dig into his arm, your other hand clutching the couch cushion like a lifeline. Your hips roll instinctively with every stroke, chasing the finish line like you’ve done anything here to have actually earned it.

And now?

Enjin’s back in that damn chair. Arms folded. Watching.

Smirking.

The worst part? He hasn’t touched you. He hasn’t touched himself. He’s just… sitting there.

Studying you.

“Gris,” he says, voice soft, “don’t let her cum.”

Gris slows his hand immediately.

You make a noise. A real one. Desperate. Destroyed.

“Please - please, no - ”

Enjin’s voice is low. “She not ready yet.”

Gris keeps his fingers inside you, but stops his thumb again. His other arm curls tighter around your waist to keep you from grinding down, from trying to finish the job yourself.

“She’s right there,” Gris says, breathless.

“I know,” Enjin replies, voice calm. “I know exactly where she is.”

You look at him.

You gasp, blink hard - eyes wet, lip trembling.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Yes, you can,” Enjin says. “You're going to.” The look on his face is tighter. Less amused. More invested.

Gris strokes again. Just once. Just enough to make you jolt.

“Gr-is - please - ” you pant.

Gris leans close, lips brushing your ear.

“You want me to let you cum?” he murmurs, breath warm. He juts his chin in Enjin's direction. “Then you need to ask him.”

You shake your head, but your body betrays you - grinding against his hand like you’re starving.

“C’mon,” Gris purrs. “Be a good girl. Ask him.”

You turn.

You look at Enjin.

And he’s already waiting.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “All worked up just from someone else’s hands.”

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Enjin.”

He cocks a brow.

“THAT - is not a question, m'love. Try again.”

Your lip trembles.

“Can I - can I cum?”

“LOUDER!”

“Please. Please let me cum.” You're nearly in tears from how close you are to exploding all over Gris.

He hums, tapping one finger against his chin, pretending to think.  

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You can cum, baby.”

Gris groans.

“Oh, fuck, she just squeezed - ”

He doesn’t have to say anything else.

You come apart in his lap like a thunderclap.

Your body arches, locks, breaks - Gris holding you, coaxing you through it with low praise and deep, slow strokes. Enjin watches the whole thing. Proud. Possessive.

His girl. His rules.

When it’s over, you slump forward. A boneless puddle. Shaking. Gris strokes your back, murmuring something soft that you don’t even hear.

And then - finally - Enjin stands.

He walks over. Slow. Quiet.

Leans down. Tilts your face up with two fingers under your chin.

“You were perfect,” he says. “But you know what comes next, right?”

Your eyes flutter open. “What?”

“That was for Gris,” he murmurs, mouth grazing yours. “Now you’re gonna come for me.”

… PART 3 ON THE WAY 💕

@darkstarlight82 @breathofthewind29 @bakubunny @delirious-donna

[i-literally-cant-with-this]

Bakugo x SingleMom!Reader | Explicit (18+) | MDNI MDNI MDNI

CW: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (m->f & f->m), p->v (unprotected ... bc this is fiction), dirty talk, strong language, brief minor injury, dirty talk / praise (“good girl,” “mama”), slow-ish-burn escalation.

WC: 4500 +/-. It's Katsuki, guys. What did you expect.

A/N: Something I wanted to touch on here is how I made a reference to his age. It has NOTHING to do with me reassuring the people out there who cannot distinguish fantasy from reality that he's a grown ass man and can do what he wants. It has to do with how y/n is older and still lands a hot ass 20-something Bakugo.

@southside-otaku You are destroying me. Please keep doing it. 💓

You’ve been out here for fifteen goddamn minutes, kicking at a wall of snow that might as well be concrete for all the progress you’ve made. It’s wet, it’s cold, and your pajama shorts are soaked up to the waistband. You’ve been using your boot like a snowplow, and now your toes are frozen because the neighbor still hasn’t given back the shovel they “borrowed” last February. 

The snow is piled up high against your front door, so now you’re outside via the back patio, slogging around the house in your stupid little penguin pajamas and oversized white plush robe like a disgruntled marshmallow with attitude.

“I swear to God, if I find out they traded that shovel for weed again - ”

A sound cuts you off. It’s unmistakable.

A laugh. Loud. Sharp. Rough around the edges.

You stop kicking snow long enough to whip your head toward the road.

Katsuki Bakugo.

In all his glory - standing near the curb like some smug blond lumberjack, snow sticking to his boots and the ends of his spiky hair. His breath puffs into the air. He’s not even wearing a hat, just standing there with his arms crossed, laughing like he’s watching the best episode of a show he forgot he liked.

You glare. “What.”

“You look like a fuckin’ cartoon,” he calls out.

You scoff, planting your hands on your hips, which only makes the robe puff out more around your waist. “Oh I’m sorry, did you come to help or just laugh like a jackass?”

“Nahh. I'm here to help ya,” he says with a grin. “But mostly laugh.”

Of course he’s here. The one with the arms. The one with the jawline. The one with hands that work better than a damn snow blower.

You point a frozen finger at him. “If you’re not going to help, get your ass back in that ridiculous Jeep of yours before I hurl a snowball directly at your stupid face.”

He smirks. "Ri - ridiculous Jeep? You know, you're not very nice for someone who's about to get their ass saved." 

You realize you’ve got about 0.4 seconds before a much bigger snowball is flying at you like a missile.

You shriek and dive, but not fast enough - the thing explodes across your shoulder and the side of your head, spraying snow down your back and into your robe like the universe is personally punishing you for taking on this feat.

“Katsuki!”

“Oh no,” he says with the fakest innocent face you’ve ever seen. “She knows my first name. Must be serious.”

You’re seething. Shivering. Wet. And your thighs are jiggling with every stomp you make in his direction.

“You are the worst kind of person.” You gasp through your words as the cold permeates your lungs. 

He’s still grinning when you reach him, chest heaving and cheeks pink from the cold. You’re very aware of the way his eyes flick down to your legs, then work their way back up your open robe again.

“What the hell were you tryna do?” He asks. 

“Kick the snow down,” you mutter, embarrassed because even you know better. Snow doesn't respond to jerky kicks. 

He snorts. “Yeah, I saw. Didn’t work.”

Katsuki reaches into the back of his Jeep, still smirking, and pulls out the world’s sexiest snow shovel - red and sleek and wide as a doorway.

You gape. “You had that the whole time?”

“I like to watch people suffer first. Builds character.” He leans in, voice lower. “Also makes for a hell of a view.”

Your brain stalls for a full second before you snap out of it. “You absolute fucking … little menace.”

“C’mon.” He shoulders the shovel. “Let me help, penguin pants.”

You grumble, but you’re already trudging back toward the front of the house, cheeks burning hotter than they should be otherwise for such cold conditions.

“Kids comin’ back today?” he asks casually, walking beside you like it’s not a battlefield of ice.

You stop for a second. Surprised he’s got the slightest clue what’s going on in your life. “They were,” you huff. “But their dad’s snowed in on the other side of town, too.”

He nods, then glances at you from the corner of his eye. “So you’re stuck in the house. Alone. With no shovel. No man. And no clue how to deal with snow.”

You shoot him a look. “Why are you describing my life like a pity party invitation?”

He grins. “Just sayin’. Lucky for you, I’m the whole damn rescue team.” His hand crackles a little, showing you just what he's referring to. "See? Can blast this shit away no problem." The grin on his face is pure evil, you're sure of it. 

You mutter something about him “rescuing this,” while making a crude gesture with your hand, but he’s already at the front of the house, jabbing the shovel into the snow with practiced force and perfected ease.

You’re trying really hard not to stare.

Not at the arms. Not at the back muscles flexing under his tight hoodie. Not at the way his breath fogs around his face, making him look like a pissed-off Angel sent from the disgruntled department of heaven.

He clears the steps in a matter of minutes. 

You blink. “That’s… not fair. You did that like it was nothing.”

He shrugs. “I am simply ... better n' you.” 

You narrow your eyes.

But then he leans the shovel against the house and looks at you a little softer. Less cocky, somehow. “You good now?” His eyebrows crease. He actually looks like he cares. 

You nod. “Yeah. Yes. Thanks.”

There’s a beat. Long enough to feel it.

You realize you’re standing too close to him. You realize he smells good. You realize your fluffy robe is still open at the top and your sleep shirt underneath has multiple coffee stains and says “Mommy Needs Adult Interaction.”

"I like y'er shirt," he says, pulling his gloves off, “anyway, next time ya need somethin', maybe just text me instead of starting a war with the weather.”

You blink. “You want me to text you for snow shoveling?”

He grins. “No. I want you to text me so I can come watch you flail around in the yard again. Wear different jammies next time, though. But I’ll bring the shovel sooner.”

You roll your eyes. “You're lucky you're cute.”

“Cute?" he scoffs. "Cute, huh." He rubs the back of his head, looking at the ground. 

"Whatever, ok? Are you cold? I have water boiling. Or had, probably have to heat it again. I can make you some tea or hot chocolate? As a thank you, y'know. Nothin' special." 

His brow quirks at your offer and he looks you over one more time, chuckling as he takes in what a hot little mess you look like. 

"Well? You comin' or not?" 

He snorts, but follows you to the back anyway.

The kettle whistles on the stove. Steam coats your kitchen windows, blurring the world outside.

You’ve shed your robe and wrapped a towel around your head to dry it a little, and your hands are wrapped around a mug of hot water while you wait for the tea to steep. Katsuki is standing in the middle of your kitchen, dripping snow onto the linoleum, looking entirely out of place and entirely too hot.

“So,” he says, leaning against your counter like he owns it. “This is the famous chaotic mom house I’ve heard so much about.”

You glance around. “Don’t judge me. Wait. People talk about me? About my house? Shit.” You shift your weight to your left hip and stare at the wall, confused and slightly concerned the neighborhood mentions you specifically. 

He laughs. “‘M not judgin’ ya. Calm down. An’ anyway, s’not like they say bad things. You’re just … known around here. But the place is … it’s… homey.”

“‘Homey’ is what people say when they’re too nice to say ‘shit hole’.”

“Nah. Homey is… lived in. Real.” He steps closer, tilting his head. “Looks like your kids are happy here.”

The kettle clicks off, and you busy yourself pouring hot water over the tea bags while you can feel his eyes on you. “They are. Most days.”

“They drive you nuts, huh?”

“All the damn time,” you admit with a laugh.

“Good.”

You glance at him. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Means you’re doin’ it right.”

The silence stretches - soft and warm, thick with the smell of tea and snow and the faint scent of him, something smoky and clean and just too distracting.

You slide the mug toward him. “Here. Tea. Green tea.”

He takes it, fingers brushing yours, warm against your cold skin.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

And just like that - the teasing tone is gone. The smug smirk is gone. All that’s left is him. Just him. 

Standing in your kitchen. Holding a mug you made for him. Watching you like he’s trying to figure something out.

“Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?” you ask, because you can’t not ask.

He huffs, leaning against the counter, swirling the tea in his mug. “Not bein’ nice. I’m bein’ polite.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Yeah. Nice is for people I like.”

You arch an eyebrow. “And polite is for - ?”

"People I care about. People I wanna help. Wanna protect." He looks away, like the words were too honest for him. "And yeah. People I like too, okay?"

“Alright,” you say softly, fighting back a smile. “Alright.”

He looks back at you, and there’s something in his eyes that’s been there for weeks - months, maybe, but you’ve been too stubborn, too busy, too wrapped up in your own life to see it. To let yourself see it.

And you don’t know what to do with it.

“Kids will be back by tomorrow, probably,” you say, because you need to say something to break the silence.

He nods. “Yeah? Good.”

You take a sip of your tea. It’s bitter, but you don’t mind. You’re not really focused on the taste right now anyway. 

“Thanks again,” you say. “For clearing the snow.”

He smirks again. “Anytime, penguin pants.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. "Ya like ‘em? They're from last Christmas."

He steps close to you, nearly backing you against the fridge. "They're uh, yeah. S-somethin'." He slows down his movements and looks over your face, pausing on your lips. "Y'er somethin', too. Y'know that, right, mama?" 

You drop your tea. It shatters on the floor, broken china and hot liquid washing over your bare feet. 

"Fuck!" you cry, jumping up, trying to avoid getting burned and smashing glass into the sole of your foot.

Katsuki catches you mid-jump and he reaches around you and hits the button for the ice maker on the fridge door and grabs one of the kitchen towels. He wraps the ice in it around your foot. "Shit. Sorry. Here, lemme get that."

Before you can register what’s happened, he’s already turned and sat you on the kitchen chair with ice resting on your foot. 

Then he reaches back, on one knee, grabbing another towel hanging on the oven door and mops up the mess, looking up at you from the floor. "Sor-ry," he repeats, softer now.

You feel heat crawl up your neck, embarrassment and something else twisting dirty together in your stomach. 

“It’s - it’s fine. My fault.”

He finishes cleaning and tosses the soaked towel in the sink, then stands slowly, looking down at you, his eyes fixed on yours again.

“You’re a goddamn disaster,” he says, smiling.

“You’re an idiot,” you retort, but you’re smiling too.

And then he leans down slowly and kisses you.

It’s hot. Demanding in the sense that he needs more but is too timid to take it just yet. Like he’s been waiting for this, too. Like he’s tired of watching you fumble from the sidelines and needs to be put in for the win. 

You kiss him back, pulling him closer, deeper, until there’s nothing left but the taste of tea and snow and him.

You don’t even remember how you stood up.

All you know is that your back hits the wall and Katsuki’s hands are on either side of your face, thumbs brushing the edge of your jaw like he’s trying to sculpt you.

“You been makin’ me crazy,” he growls against your mouth.

Your breath catches. “I literally haven’t done … anything.”

“That’s the problem.” He presses another kiss to the corner of your lips. “You walk around this fuckin’ block in those fuckin’ dumbass shorts and that stupid soft-lookin’ robe, wearin’ your hair up in that wonky ass bun like that, lookin’ like trouble I can’t touch.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to touch me,” you whisper.

He scoffs, low and full of disbelief. “I shoveled your whole damn driveway and let you call me a menace. What the hell else would I do that for?”

You’re flushed, flustered, and still barefoot with one foot wrapped in a towel with melting ice - but you don’t care. Not when his nose bumps yours, not when his voice drops low again.

“Didn’t wanna push,” he mutters. “You got kids. A whole life. Figured I’d stay the hell out of it.”

“You’re not getting into anything you didn’t already know about,” you say, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer. “It is what it is. And the kids are at their dad’s right now.”

Your voice drops.

“It’s just you and me here.”

That does something to him - you feel it in the way his hands flex against your waist, the way his eyes flick to your mouth like he’s barely keeping himself in check.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you, like he’s waiting for a sign. For permission to cross that line.

You tip your chin up and murmur, “So if this is gonna happen … maybe don’t overthink it.”

He surges forward and takes your mouth like he’s been starving for it - like now that you’ve said the words, there’s no going back.

Katsuki moves in like he’s stalking prey - like this moment is a thing he’s earned and he’s gonna enjoy every second of it.

His hand slides up your side, fingers splayed, slow enough that you feel every ridge of his palm through your thin sleep shirt. He pauses at your ribcage, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

You don’t move.

You don’t need to.

His other hand brushes the damp towel off your shoulder and cups the side of your neck, thumb resting just under your jaw, right over your pulse - where he can feel it pounding.

And then he leans in.

This kiss starts like the first snow of the season. Quiet. Deeply intimate and something that has the potential to ruin everything the day after. 

Just a breath. A brush. The faintest press of his lips to yours, so soft you almost whimper at the contrast. He pulls back a millimeter - just to hear the tiny hitch in your breath - and then goes back in deeper, firmer.

Your hands are still gripping his hoodie, but now you’re dragging him closer, rising up on your toes just enough to chase that heat.

His tongue licks the seam of your mouth, and you part for him instinctively - inviting him in, tilting your head, giving him more. And god, he takes it slow, like he wants to imprint how you taste in his oldest memory. He kisses like he fights: intense, focused, in control… but you can feel the edge in him. The tension. The restraint.

He's holding back. Barely.

And it’s delicious.

You moan into his mouth, and that does it.

He groans low in his throat and presses you harder against the fridge, hips grazing yours, hands tightening at your waist like he wants to lift you up and keep you there. Your whole body is singing, lit up like Christmas.

“Shit,” he mutters against your lips, his forehead dropping to yours. “You don’t even know…”

You pant softly, eyes fluttering open. “Try me.”

He laughs - low and breathless - and pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and unreadable but full of heat.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip, “and I’m not gonna stop.”

You don't say anything.

He catches your bottom lip between his teeth with a growl so low you feel it more than hear it. His hands slide down your back, gripping the backs of your thighs and squeezing like he’s been dying to touch you there. You gasp into his mouth - he grins - and then he’s tugging you away from the fridge, guiding you back through the kitchen like he knows exactly where this is going.

“Living room,” he mutters.

You nod, dizzy from the kiss, letting him steer. The tea is forgotten. The glass on the floor? Handled. The rest of the world? Doesn’t exist.

He drags you toward the rug like the floor’s gonna catch fire if you don’t get down fast enough.

And honestly?

It just might.

He goes down first, one knee then the other, tugging you with him so you land in his lap, straddling him. 

“You’re killin’ me,” he says, voice rough as his hands slide under your shirt, thumbs brushing soft skin.

You roll your hips once - just enough to test him - and his head falls back against the couch behind him with a sharp inhale.

“Fuh-huck.”

You smile. “The heat feels nice after bein’ in the cold, huh?”

He shoots you a glare. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Make me.”

And oh, he does.

His hands tighten on your waist as he leans forward, sinking into your soft skin, mouth hot and open against your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make your breath stutter. He sucks at the base of your neck, slow and deliberate, and you arch into it, thighs tightening around his hips.

Your hands are in his hair now, tugging just enough to make him groan, and his grip on you shifts - one hand sliding up your back to unclip your bra with dexterity that honestly should be illegal.

You gasp when it loosens, but his voice cuts through, warm and low.

“Shh. Lemme have time with you.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t even think about arguing.

Because now he’s laying you back onto the rug, covering your body with his like a blanket made of heat and tension and the clean, smoky scent of him that’s embedded in your brain now. His hoodie brushes your bare skin and makes you shiver - he notices.

“Cold?” he murmurs.

“Not even a little,” you whisper back.

He kisses down your chest, slow and maddening, each press of his lips burning a little trail straight to your core. And you swear the way he’s looking at you now - spread out and flushed and ready - is gonna break something in your brain.

His hand dips between your legs, stroking over your pajama shorts, and your hips lift helplessly into his touch.

“Katsuki - ”

“Calm down, mama, I got you now, I’m here,” he says, and his voice is like gravel and silk all at once.

For the next slow, heated stretch of time, he explores you like he’s got nowhere else to be. Like he’s been dreaming about this. Like he’s got a checklist in his head and he’s determined to leave no box unmarked, no gasp unearned.

The storm kicks up outside.

But inside?

In this moment?

You’re burning.

Katsuki’s breath fans over your stomach as he slides your shirt up, baring skin inch by inch like unwrapping a toy he plans to break right away. He kisses the soft spot just beneath your ribs, the subtle dip above your hipbone, the curve of your waist like he means it - like every part of you deserves his mouth.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue along the inside of your thigh. “Could keep you like this all day.”

Your hips twitch and he grins, settling between your legs as if it’s the most natural place on earth.

“You’re - mmn - you’re such a menace,” you breathe.

“Damn right I am.” He kisses the center seam of your shorts, nose nuzzling fabric, voice low and rough. “And you like it.”

You really do.

Your fingers thread into his hair and he groans, eyes fluttering shut like your touch flips a switch in him. He tugs your shorts down slowly - slow enough to make you whimper - and when the cold air hits your thighs, you gasp. But then his mouth is on your inner knee, and the chill is forgotten.

He licks. He nips. He explores.

And when his tongue finally drags over the place you need him most, you choke on a moan and buck into his face.

“Ea-sy,” he rasps, hands pinning your hips. “Let me - fuck - lemme take my time.”

He works you open with his tongue like he was born for it - broad licks, slow sucks, filthy little groans that vibrate straight through your core. You swear you black out a little when he slips two fingers inside you and curls them just right.

Your legs shake. You beg. You don’t even care what you’re saying anymore - please, don’t stop, oh god, Katsuki - and he eats it up like it’s a 5-star dessert.

“You gonna cum, mama?” he murmurs, voice wrecked, lips wet with you. “Wanna feel you come on my fingers, pretty girl.”

“Mmnngh,” is all you can mange. You can’t even see what’s around you, your eyes are rolled so far back into your head. 

And when it hits, it’s molten - hips arching off the rug, hands clutching his shoulders, body clenching around him as he watches you fall apart with a dark, wicked smile.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your hip, then the underside of your breast, then your mouth - deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You’re still catching your breath when he shucks off his hoodie and shirt, revealing bare, scarred skin and lean muscle and a daring glint in his eyes.

“Still good?” he asks, kneeling above you, fingers at his belt.

You nod.

You grin.

And then you roll him onto his back.

You look down at him, still flushed and reeling, and push at his chest. “Stay down, Dynamight.”

His brow ticks up at the nickname - but he obeys, reclining with that slow, deliberate cockiness that makes your thighs clench all over again. Hoodie and shirt gone, belt undone. He stretches his arms out behind his head like a goddamn centerfold and watches you like you’re the main event of the show.

“Gonna climb me like a tree now?” he drawls, voice thick.

“No,” you murmur, tugging his waistband open. “I’m gonna ruin you.”

That gets a low, sharp laugh out of him - until you pull his pants down and wrap your hand around him.

His whole body jolts like you struck a nerve.

“Sh - it,” he breathes, eyes flying open as his hips buck into your grip.

“You were saying?” you whisper, kissing the dip below his navel.

“Sayin’ - ” he grits out, “you better not fuckin’ stop. Not until I’m done with ya.”

You keep your touch slow, teasing, until his hands are fisting the rug beneath him and his abs are clenching like he’s holding on by a thread. You stroke him until he’s fully hard - thick and hot in your hand - and you love how wrecked his sweet, 20-something face already looks.

“Come here,” he growls.

You crawl up his body, dragging your lips across his stomach, his chest, until you’re straddling him again, bare now, skin on skin. His hands slide up your thighs, grip firm, thumbs brushing where your hips curve into softness.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice awed. “Fuck, you’re so hot like this.”

You reach down, guiding him to your entrance, and his mouth falls open as you sink down onto him - slowly, inch by inch, taking your time just to watch him come undone. Your brows curl and twitch with each decent onto him.

His hands shoot up to grip your hips, hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck - fuck, babe - ”

“I told you not to overthink it,” you whisper, breath catching as he fills you. “Just feel.”

And he does.

You start to move - slow rolls of your hips, grinding down in tight, deliberate circles that make his jaw go slack. His eyes are locked on you, pupils blown, sweat starting to bead at his hairline. He looks destroyed - like he’d thank you for every second of it if he could speak full sentences right now. 

“Goddamn, look at you,” he mutters, voice strained. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ … so fuckin’ good, mama. Fuck.”

Your hands find his chest for balance, and he palms your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until you gasp. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his, breath mingling as you rock together.

The rhythm builds.

You speed up.

His grip tightens.

Your moans fill the room, layered over the sound of the storm, the creak of the floor, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“Touch yourself for me,” he rasps. “Wanna see you cum again.”

You don’t hesitate.

Your fingers find your clit and he groans - a sound so deep and desperate you swear it vibrates in your spine.

“Just like that,” he pants. “Fuck, you’re so close again, aren’t you?”

You nod, legs starting to tremble. “Katsuki - ”

“I got you, baby. Let go.”

And when you do - when the orgasm crashes over you in slow, blinding waves - he grabs your waist and thrusts up into you, chasing his own high with gritted teeth and a guttural moan.

You feel it when he finishes - hot, pulsing, deep inside you - and the aftershocks have you clinging to each other like lifelines.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, skin slick and sticky with sweat and satisfaction. He slides a hand up your spine, lazy and warm, and you let yourself melt into him for just a second longer.

Outside, the storm still tears up the city. 

Inside, the only thing left is heat.

You’re still draped over him, chest to chest, trying to remember how breathing works when Katsuki speaks.

“Bet you’re real fuckin’ glad your neighbor never gave that shovel back now, huh?”

You let out a hoarse laugh into his neck. “Oh my god. You’re the worst.”

He grins, smug as ever, hands lazily sliding circles into your back. “Nah. I’m the reason you’re not still out there kickin’ snow in your penguin-ass pajamas.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “Wait … how’d you know the neighbor had my shovel?”

He snorts, reaching down to squeeze your thigh. “Don’t worry about it. But uh, I’ll give it back to you. Tomorrow?”

@kenpachisbrat @darkstarlight82 @kazutora-kurokawa @breathofthewind29 @bakubunny