dee

23, flailing katsuki lover and book-shelver

[kozumelts]

dee, 23, queer follows via @inchwerm

writing blog! formerly @redbeansoups. you can still find me on ao3 as redbeansoups :)

currently into: bakugou katsuki + hq + bnha + persona series :) getting into lads n gachiakuta! requests and suggestions welcome!

this blog is 18+ – mdni! i will occasionally write/rb mature content, so please have your age visible in your bio.

writing tag is #d.writes

!bnha masterlist!

[hunnismokah]

enjin !!!!!!! i started watchign gachiakuta its really good

[deltamel]

THINK I NEED SOMEONE (OLDER) aizawa shouta x f!reader x shinsou hitoshi

A mentor like Aizawa can teach you many valuable life lessons: how to survive U.A., how to become the greatest underground hero Japan has ever seen, and how to properly fuck your girlfriend. Hitoshi faces a jarring realisation in the process.

CONTENT: 18+, post-timeskip, prone bone, daddy kink, light choking, spit kink, manhandling/being pinned down, cucking, suspicious sensei/protégée dynamics (open to interpretation lol), overstim, oral (f!receiving), pussy slapping, implied sub space, 8k words.

MEL'S NOTE: breaking the shackles of my 6-month creative stasis with this fic. enjoy!

READ ON AO3 ・ MASTERLIST

You're calling Shouta "Daddy."

Not even calling, really—you're crying. Big, fat tears which roll down the apple of your cheeks and strike clean through the blush settled on their peaks. The sight is distracting. Hitoshi isn't sure there's enough blood left in his brain to do anything but leer at how Aizawa's form swamps your own—your pretty hands scrabbling at the bicep tucked around your neck, your throat working around strangled, shallow gasps.

He's never seen you from this angle before, so when Aizawa snaps his hips into you, Hitoshi watches both your toes curl and your hips rise from the bed like a wave cresting with some strange out-of-body feeling. As though he’s an incorporeal being merely floating by the scene.

With Aizawa's weight settled atop you, pressing you flat to the bed, there isn't far for you to go.

Hitoshi swallows.

You cry again—a sweet, high-pitched noise of alarm—and Hitoshi's fingers tighten in his pants, twisting the fabric beneath fingers like a child as he’s drawn to soothe the noise through pure Pavlovian response. He has to remind himself that, for once, he isn't in charge of the scene.

Not tonight.

"Daddy."

A brush of lips on your sweaty nape. "What is it, sweet girl?"

Your expression screws up as though it's a slice of paper put to flame. "Please, I— I—"

Heat crawls up Hitoshi's spine at the panic lacing your voice. The lilting vowels and consonants so familiar to Hitoshi suddenly sound foreign. He doesn't recognise your headspace, and if the way you buck under Aizawa's hold like a spooked animal is any indication, neither do you.

Aizawa squeezes your waist with a big hand. "Words."

"Dad-dy," you repeat, a sob fracturing the word in two. "I—" You suck in a quick breath, exactly the way you do when you're trying to suppress more tears.

Hitoshi bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. Are you okay? Aizawa doesn't appear worried, but he never does. While Hitoshi trusts his Sensei with his life, entrusting him with yours is a different ball game entirely. He finds his fingers itching to reach out and touch you.

"I can't." Shaking your head, you press your cheek into the comforter miserably, and Aizawa lays his cheek atop yours.

"Yes, you can."

"No—"

"You can," Aizawa repeats, nothing but confidence to be found in his tone. He slows his movements down, grinding deep and slow inside until you're able to gulp in a few big, shuddering breaths.

Hitoshi likes seeing you cry when you're feeling good.

This is… this is decidedly not that.

The pout twisting your lips is nothing short of overwhelmed. Wetness clumps your lashes. Splotches of red decorate your face. And yet, Hitoshi feels the arousal rush to meet him like a physical force, sweeping him under as though caught in a rip current and carried out to sea.

Why is he into this?

Why is he into his girlfriend crying because she's fighting subspace as another man fucks her? Not even another man—Aizawa. Sensei, pseudo-father figure, and friend all rolled into one mess of a relationship.

Surely this isn't right.

Then his gaze drifts up to Aizawa, and he realises… maybe it is. Because Aizawa is staring down at you with an expression nothing short of smug, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards into the most irritatingly attractive expression Hitoshi has seen in his life.

And isn't that another realisation…

Hitoshi trembles slightly as the ferocity of his arousal worsens.

He could jerk off. He knows he could. But he's never been great at keeping quiet, and if either of you acknowledges Hitoshi's involvement in this scene, even as an uninvolved third party, he might spontaneously combust in the most humiliating death of all time.

"Words," Aizawa murmurs, when you seem only an inch more lucid than before. Though he punctuates it with a particularly deep roll of his hips, the hand on your waist lifting you slightly to meet him, and you keen like you've been shot.

Because he's mean.

Meaner than Hitoshi thought he would be, anyway.

Yet, you don't seem to hate it. The opposite, really. You raise your hips further—it must feel good, the way his thick cock is splitting you open—and Aizawa switches attitudes abruptly, forcing your hips back down in a blink. Somehow, this makes you moan the loudest.

Hitoshi manhandles you in bed. He throws you around, slaps you when you ask, ties you up and fucks you until you're babbling so good so good 'toshiii. So perhaps it's truly the fact that he's never seen seen you from this perspective that's skewing his own, but he's sure you've never sounded quite so pathetic about it—as helplessly turned on as you do now. As though you're powerless under Aizawa’s touch and enjoying every second of it. The thought sends a fission of arousal lancing straight through Hitoshi's sanity and heat curls into the cavernous reach like a cat. Hitoshi slouches further in his chair, thighs spreading wide and hisses when his hard cock brushes the seam of his pants before wincing at the fact he’s made any noise at all.

You appear to search your brain for a few seconds before moaning another guileless, "Daddy."

"Hm?"

Aizawa is plastered over you from head to toe. You sigh when he presses his knees against the outsides of yours, forcing your legs tighter together. Hitoshi knows from experience you love the drag of a cock inside you like this—how it stretches you perfectly, strokes your pussy just right, the pressure high enough to have your head swimming.

You love how you're forced to take it when you're trapped under Hitoshi.

When you're trapped under Aizawa, too.

"What are you whinin' for, huh?"

"I'm not," you exhale shakily. "I'm not whining."

"Oh yeah?"

You shake your head petulantly.

"Not whining on my cock?" Aizawa slows to a stop and both men watch the way you bite back a noise of complaint, desperate not to prove his point. "Not scarin' poor Shinsou here?"

Hitoshi lurches at the reminder that this is happening. That he's merely sat and watched as Aizawa has fucked you silly. Your bleary gaze falls to Hitoshi, and he tries his best to look normal.

If the small quirk of your lips is anything to go by, he failed.

Your voice is small when you ask, "Y'scared, 'tosh?"

Hitoshi shakes his head, mutely.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow.

Hitoshi straightens slightly. "No, I'm—" He clears his throat. "No, baby."

"Liar," Aizawa accuses blandly, eyes slitting in amusement.

You bristle, the palms you have pressed to the comforter suddenly trying to push you upright; as though the possibility of Hitoshi not being into this isn't funny to you, as though you're being dragged from the space you were so close to with an abruptness that brings only strident. Aizawa stops the motion easily, his chest barring you from getting any further than a scant few inches from the bed. You let out an uneasy noise from the back of your throat.

"Hey, hey."

Your eyes are fixed on Hitoshi. "Let me up."

Hitoshi can't find the words to soothe you.

"Sweetheart—"

"No. Let me up."

Aizawa sighs—quiet and long-suffering—before releasing his bicep from around your neck, grabbing your chin in the same big hand and forcefully turning your head downwards. You bristle at the manhandling this time and try to rip your chin away. He doesn't budge, though, shaking your jaw once sharply.

"Look."

"Shouta," you growl, lowly.

"Does Shinsou really look scared to you?"

For a second, Hitoshi thinks you're going to fight the older man again. Instead, you hesitate and do as he says.

You look.

Your gaze drifts up from Hitoshi's feet. He fights to keep still under the worried heat of it. Only moments before you reach his crotch, Hitoshi realises exactly what Aizawa is playing at and blood rushes to his cheeks. He sits up quickly, flexes his fists on his legs. He can't cover his dick because you're his fucking girlfriend and you've seen it before and more importantly, it would only make him look super guilty.

Like incriminatingly so.

Your eyes land on his crotch.

Hitoshi wants to sink into the floor as he watches your body lock into a kind of stillness he's only ever seen in nature documentaries, right as a predator spots its prey. It's not a dynamic Hitoshi is used to with you and his eyes blow wide in surprise, dick twitching in his boxers. You notice. He knows you do.

Does Aizawa notice, too?

Fuck, he hopes not. This is humiliating enough as is. He knows once the two of you get back to your flat, he's never living this down.

He has no idea what his expression is right now, but it can't be anything good.

"Y'see?" Aizawa asks quietly, right by your ear.

You nod, still staring at Hitoshi's straining cock.

"He's scared because he's never seen you like this."

You swallow. Blink slowly.

"Never seen you fucked into silence."

Some emotion caught between shame and arousal washes over Hitoshi.

Is that true? Has he not been treating you right?

Experiencing a similar awakening of your own, you wriggle under Aizawa. He only braces his palms on the comforter, either side of your tits, and starts up a harsh rhythm again, fucking into you without remorse. You let out a startled moan, collapsing bonelessly into the sheets.

"Guess you needed a real daddy, hm?"

At that, you really do cry. An awful sound, tangled high in pleasure and embarrassment, which snakes across the room to settle on Hitoshi's shoulders like a curse. Aizawa fucks into you as though you're rabbits in heat, muscled limbs weighing your own down to the bed and Hitoshi feels like he's losing his mind a bit, so he can't imagine how you're feeling. Sole subject to his mentor's fierceness. Limbs pinned like a butterfly's wings.

Your eyes flutter. "Fuck-nghhh— yesyesyes!"

"Y'call Shinsou daddy, too?" Aizawa asks conversationally. "Let him treat you like this?

Gasping, your palm hits the comforter once, as though you need some sense of control in the face of Aizawa's onslaught.

Aizawa grins, thick thighs tensing with each thrust. "You shouldn't, you know. It goes to people's heads."

"Ohmygod."

"Feel good?"

"Yeah— yes."

"Good."

A moan lights up the air. Even Hitoshi smiles at that noise—Aizawa wasn't calling you good, but you've reacted as though he was all the same. He loves how you respond so freely to praise, instinct overriding any overthinking. There's something so… sweet about it.

About you, really.

Naturally, Aizawa recognises you for what you are immediately.

"You want me to tell you how good you're bein' for me?"

Expression flashing, you arch deeper into the bed, presenting yourself to him.

"How gorgeous you look right now."

A broken whine. More tears.

"How well you're takin' me."

Your thighs tremble violently, legs bending at the knee and kicking up into Aizawa. You don't seem like you're trying to escape. Not with how you're also biting your lip raw to stifle your moans. Out of nowhere, Aizawa changes the angle, shifting higher up your body to drill down into you and the reaction is instantaneous—like a forest fire to bone dry tinder. Even Hitoshi inhales at the slick noise of Aizawa's cock fucking your dripping pussy, the sight of your brain quieting right in front of him.

Aizawa chuckles, though it's tense, lined by the pleasure he's clearly trying hard to ignore for your benefit.

"You always this sweet for Shinsou?"

It's a pointless question.

You're drooling into the comforter, small fingers tangled in the sheets like you're holding on for dear life. You try to suck in a breath, but Aizawa fucks the answer out of you within a second. You never stood a chance.

Instead, Aizawa turns his head to Hitoshi.

He jolts at being remembered.

Jolts again at the molten arousal in his Sensei's eyes.

"Uhhh, she's usually…"

You let out a high whine, animalistic in quality. Both men glance at you for a second, at the way you're slipping through your own fingers with every thrust.

"…more… lucid," Hitoshi finishes lamely.

"Is that right?"

Hitoshi suppresses a shiver at his gravelly tone. He nods.

Aizawa's lips quirk up.

The new angle appears to be your undoing, because very quickly you're tumbling back into teary-territory—wet lines streaking down your face as you get flung towards your edge.

"Daddy," you sob.

"Daddy's here."

"Da—" you suck in a shuddering breath, "—ddyyy."

"I know, baby."

You must tighten around Aizawa because he releases a low, choked moan and you respond to the sound like a flower blooming in the sun—squeezing around him again, fingers twitching with the urge to touch when you can't do anything but take what Aizawa is giving you.

You hiccup. "I'm—"

"You close?"

"I'm close," you echo.

Aizawa fucks into you faster somehow, and you all but bow off the bed, trapped between sweaty sheets and his hulking body—your orgasm clearly biting at your heels.

Hitoshi would know.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah—"

Can read desperation in your climbing voice. Delirium in your glassy eyes. Mind-numbing pleasure in the severe quakes lining your entire body, as though you can't take much more, as though you'll meet your edge and be lost in its abyss.

"Please, daddy."

Aizawa doesn't say a word, dragging his palms up the bed until he's pressing his big hands over your forearms. You whine, the noise spun out endlessly with each wet schtick of Aizawa's cock slamming into your pussy until it's one continuous mewl, until it's barely anything more than mindless crying. Hitoshi's sanity is in tatters—his mind swimming in the knowledge that all it takes to get you like this is apparently Aizawa's low murmurs and his older cock. Your fingers spasm on the bed and Aizawa slides his hands up your arms, tangling his fingers over yours to press them into the bed harder.

You let out a choked sob. "Please, pleaseplease—"

Aizawa brushes his stubble over your shoulder, biting down lightly on your shoulder.

"Daddy's got you."

You gasp. "Don'tstopdon'tstop!"

Turning your head to the side, you search blearily for Aizawa's eyes. He tilts his own and meets your gaze. Hitoshi watches quietly as your own flick down to his Sensei's lips, as the idea of kissing him crawls into the forefront of your mind, exactly how it always does with him when you're close. When you want to cum with Hitoshi's mouth on yours.

Aizawa watches you carefully. You lean forward, a whine on your lips begging to be pressed against his. Hitoshi waits with bated breath for the moment you both connect. At the last second, you stop. Wide eyes flicker to Hitoshi's, a clear question in them and feeling for the first time tonight like he's back in control, even if for a brief blink, Hitoshi straightens and nods his chin.

"Go on."

You whimper in relief, wasting no time as you immediately turn to Aizawa and kiss him, wet lips parting to lick into his mouth, shame a long-forgotten concept with Aizawa bullying into you. Sensei's eyes don't close fully, but it's a near thing, and he returns your hungry kiss with just as much heat—tipping his head to deepen it with a groan from the back of his throat.

You sink into the kiss like someone coming home, all worries and anxieties and thoughts left at the door for tomorrow. All the matters is now, Aizawa on you, in you, coaxing you right where he wants.

Hitoshi's dick twitches again, and he slides his palms under his thighs.

You press a broken whine into Aizawa's mouth.

Aizawa swallows it easily before raising himself up slightly—cock still fucking your wet heat, fingers still tangled with yours—and breaking apart for a breath. Hitoshi watches a string of spit lengthen until it snaps, hitting your cheek to become indistinguishable from the tears spilling with each thrust. His Sensei pants an inch from your mouth. Then, he's lifting his head higher and waiting for yours to echo his movements.

Inevitably, you do. Your head tipping back to stare at him, cock-drunk.

Aizawa smiles, something small.

"Open your mouth," he murmurs.

There's no hesitation as your lips drop open obediently.

Hitoshi watches, shell-shocked for a reason he doesn't want to face, as Aizawa drops a glob of spit into your waiting mouth.

You light up, moaning louder than he's heard all night, and he finds out why a second later as you cum—body shaking through your orgasm. Face screwed up in surprise, thighs trembling fiercely. Aizawa fucks you through it in a way that can only be described as mean. Quick, fast thrusts that quickly have you gasping, choking air into your lungs, hands pushing up against where Aizawa has them pinned as you ride out the blinding pleasure.

Hitoshi's hips kick up into the air at your broken keens.

Maybe he can touch himself… it's not like either of you will notice right now. And he's so hard that if he doesn't do something soon, he'll have no blood left to drive you both home after this, and surely that can't be safe. Driving with a boner has got to be somewhat like driving while tired… right? Nodding to himself, he frees a hand from under his thigh to drop it down atop his cock. He hisses at the light pressure and grinds the heel of his palm along his hard length, biting his lip.

Your whines get louder as Aizawa fucks you right through your orgasm and into oversensitivity. Hitoshi can hear the wet squelch of your pussy sucking in Aizawa's cock despite your little pained whimpers.

"Shouta," you plead.

Aizawa snaps his hips into you cruelly.

You correct yourself without missing a beat. "Daddy."

"There you go."

Hitoshi shivers.

Then, abruptly, Aizawa slides out of you. Neither of you is expecting it, if yours and Hitoshi's twin inhales are anything to go by.

A whine gets punched out of your chest at the emptiness and when Aizawa lifts his weight from you, it seems the combined absence of everything him is enough to have a fresh bought of tears spilling down your face. You slump into the bed like a puppet with its strings cut and press your face into the comforter pitifully as your body trembles through the aftershocks. Hitoshi watches Aizawa crawl down your body and peer at your swollen cunt. He palms at the globes of your ass. You jolt, clearly not expecting the touch. It's this side of sweet—thumbs stroking at the crease where your ass meets your thighs, long fingers squeezing the flesh like a stressball.

Then, he tightens his grip.

Hitoshi has barely a moment to wonder what he's doing before Aizawa is using his hold to expose your cunt further and lift your hips from the bed slightly. You make a low noise of discontent at being manhandled so soon after cumming.

Even from where he's sat, Hitoshi can see the arousal slicking your folds and the creamy white dripping down to your clit. The longer Aizawa keeps you like this, the further it leaks over your swollen folds.

Luckily, his Sensei has never been a patient man.

The only warning you get is Aizawa gently blowing air on your clit before he's licking a lazy, wide stripe up your core as though mimicking a big cat preening their young.

You light up like a firework.

"No—" you gasp, "daddy, no!"

Aizawa swirls his tongue around your clit and sucks, humming airily. You jolt as though electrocuted. Hitoshi supposes it isn't that far off. Not with the way you immediately tense up, legs kicking out helplessly. Aizawa isn't even holding your down anymore, but you still can't move—boneless and held in place by your hips as easily as one would a child.

"Please, it's too much— I— ahhh-nghh—"

Aizawa fucks his tongue back into you and moans. His clear noise of pleasure only seems to make you panic further.

"No, nonono—"

Hitoshi finds himself leaning forward in his seat subconsciously, following your call like an ancient summons. Something so intrinsically written in his DNA, he can't ignore it.

He should say something, right?

Tell Sensei to stop.

For some reason, he opens his mouth and cannot find the words.

Hitoshi brushes an anxious hand back through his hair, sweeping it off his forehead, and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Aizawa's ruby eyes flicker over to him at the movement. Face still buried in your cunt, he leans back enough to bite out a sharp, "Sit."

The word lances through Hitoshi's dazed panic before he even registers it as a command. His spine locks immediately, and he presses it against the chair's back as though cornered by Aizawa’s voice. He hadn't been planning on getting up, despite his ruminations on interrupting, but he certainly isn't going to now. The command pools like liquid honey in his stomach as he silently wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

Aizawa licks at you, sliding his tongue inside again within a blink and forgetting about Hitoshi just as quickly. Meanwhile, he's still reeling from being chastised in this context.

Your cries, somehow, aren't the loudest thing in the room.

Because sure, he's been scolded by Aizawa countless times. Cuffed over the head and yanked back by the collar and levelled with looks that could topple villains. Yet here he is—inarguably aroused by his Sensei directing a slice of that dominance on him.

"Hurts," you whimper lowly.

"I know it does." Aizawa presses a kiss to your clit. "Doing so good, sweetheart."

You settle at once, though not without a quiet sniffle.

Hitoshi feels much like he's drifting out at sea with no hope of finding land. No life raft. No meager drift wood to cling to until he's saved.

He watches you sink deeper while he's drowning himself.

Aizawa leans back and trails a glob of spit onto your pussy.

You moan.

"Daddy," you turn your head, "'s' t'much."

Hitoshi stares unseeingly at your foggy expression, hears through layers of cotton the slurring of your words.

Sensei doesn't stop.

"You're okay," he murmurs into your cunt.

You keen at the vibrations, arms splaying wide, feet kicking out. Pretty face smushed in Aizawa's comforter as though you belong there. If anything, the slack leash on your composure only seems to spur Aizawa on more, who squeezes your ass in two big hands, lifting you higher to eat up into you like a starving man with his final meal. The temperature in the room is rising; Hitoshi can feel sweat beading along his collar despite barely moving; you are covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.

Aizawa almost purrs against you, and your spine arches so deeply it looks as though it should hurt. A drawn-out whine tipping into the first vestiges of pleasure once more.

"Daddyyy—"

You don't sound like you're complaining anymore.

By Aizawa's rumbling laugh into your cunt, it's clear he's realised the same.

Pleasure licks up Hitoshi's spine as he grinds his hand down against his cock, and he exhales a shaky sigh—thighs spreading, spine relaxing from its rigid posture into his chair’s soft back. His eyes flicker between Aizawa's wet face, buried in your cunt as though he's trying to carve a home for himself there, and the way you're gasping and writhing and crying into the comforter, like it's a tennis match.

Hitoshi's dick twitches under his hand when you try to squirm away—clearly panicking as the pleasure creeps back up on you in the face of Aizawa's relentlessness—only for his Sensei to tug you backwards as easily as breathing, straight onto his waiting mouth, two large hands spanning your hips and digging into the meat painfully.

You cry out, hips spasming.

Hitoshi watches through some kind of fog as Aizawa stops fucking his tongue into the mess you've made and drags it down to your clit instead, mouth closing around the sensitive bundle of nerves much like an airlock on a spaceship.

You know you can't escape. Hitoshi does too.

He's not even sure he could escape his Sensei.

But you seem much more confident to try, chest heaving and fingers clutching the comforter like you're holding on for dear life as your hips jolt up and down. Hitoshi's not even sure it's a conscious movement, but Aizawa follows you easily, abusing your clit and your sensitive cunt with his tongue and his mouth and the attractive scruff on his face.

You get no reprieve.

A loud slurp rings in the air, right as Aizawa sucks your clit into his mouth, and you almost yell, a shrill, strangled noise caught in the back of your throat begging to be heard. You turn your head to the side and search for Hitoshi's gaze. Hitoshi takes in your blown-out eyes and the glassy way you stare at him in supplication. His heart stutters in his chest.

"Daddy," you stretch out a hand towards him along the bed, breath hiccuping, "help."

At that, Aizawa stills. Hitoshi tenses a moment later. You don't even seem to realise you've said anything wrong. Fingers lifting to grab at Hitoshi as though pure will could summon him to your side. Sensei lifts himself from your cunt a few inches to utter carefully.

"'Daddy,' huh?"

Aizawa's tone bites at his ankles. The urge to run far away from the older man and drag you with him rises, flash flood-fast.

"Shinsou can't help you, sweetheart. Not tonight."

Your whimper cracks the air like a whip.

"You think he's going to come save you?" Aizawa asks, hands kneading your ass.

You gasp when he slides a thumb between the two globes, only to drag it up and down your swollen folds. He circles your clit once, twice, enough to hear a hitch in your breath, before he presses his thumb inside your cunt and hooks it. Your hips drop down to the bed without both his hands holding you up. His Sensei doesn't seem bothered, though, content to let you flump under his touch.

"He's sat there getting himself off, sweet girl."

Hitoshi's hand flies from his cock and to the safety of the chair seat embarrassingly fast. He had almost forgotten—had been grinding against his palm like a teenager and so wrapped up in the fantasy before him, despite still scarcely believing it to be real.

"Little pervert loves this."

Aizawa nods his chin at Shinsou like he's showing you, despite your face still being buried in the sheets as you whimper lowly at every brush of Aizawa's fingers over your clit, every twitch of his thumb inside you.

"Seeing you crying on my cock," he continues through a small grin. "My face."

At the reminder, Hitoshi's eyes flicker to Aizawa's mouth—glistening with your slick in the low light of his bedroom. He trails upwards and almost exits his own body when he sees his Sensei's dark gaze locked onto him.

How long has he been staring?

Aizawa's next words are directed at you; Hitoshi knows they are, but the way his Sensei doesn't glance away has him twitching in his slacks. "You're stuck with me tonight."

Hitoshi feels a wave of fire consume his thoughts for a rational second.

"Jesus."

The first word Hitoshi has uttered tonight, and great… he sounds like a fucking idiot.

A bleary set of curious eyes flickers over to him. He can feel the blush staining his face and fights to keep a straight face despite the way he can feel precum leaking from his tip and wetting his boxers.

There's a suspended moment of quiet and then a gentle slap echoes in the room.

"Ohhh…" You bow from the bed immediately, back curling up like a cat's.

It takes Hitoshi a second to figure out what happened, but he catches on just in time to see Aizawa's fingers—his thumb still hooked inside you—lifting from your pussy and landing in another wet smack.

"Hh—nghh—"

His fingers smooth over your clit in apology. Three more slaps in quick succession—each wet plap further stuttering the gasp you try to inhale.

You hide your face back in the sheets and release a muffled whine. "Da—a-ddyyy."

Hitoshi swallows. You don't sound like you anymore, voice high and ready and plaintive in a way he so rarely hears—if ever. A part of him wants to panic. But he knows Aizawa has got you. Can read it in the confident tilt of his body, the assured look on his face. If Hitoshi had to guess, he had this scene planned down to the minutiae from the moment you brought it up.

You're only playing right into his hands.

"More?"

You shake your head into the bed and press a dull, pathetic whine there. Aizawa delivers another slick slap to your clit, and you shiver, hips jerking once instinctively.

"Can't think, huh?"

You shake your head again.

"That's alright," Aizawa murmurs kindly, pressing a small kiss to the back of your thigh—right on the crease where it meets your ass. "Daddy can think for you."

Hitoshi watches as those words fall over you like a weighted blanket, the only thing tethering you to this world, he's sure. For your expression loses all its indignant colour at once, smoothing out into a calm ocean. It's almost disquieting. Hitoshi knows you carry too much, knows you struggle to leave it at the door—knows what you really need is someone to force you to drop it. He didn't expect Aizawa to catch on this quickly. As though he's had years to learn you inside and out the way Hitoshi has, and not a matter of an hour, if that.

The corner of Aizawa's lips quirk up, though this time it's less mean and more pleased. Hitoshi swallows at the way you're spread out like a waiting sacrifice. Without hesitation, Aizawa dips back down and licks into you once more, tongue flicking inside you alongside his thumb. Your gasp is muted. All your subsequent sounds too. As though they're being forcefully filtered before they can be heard, and all that's meeting the air is you at your core, peeled back and bare and so raw, Hitoshi could cry.

He doesn't.

But it's a near thing. Especially when you close your eyes and start to bask in the attention Aizawa is lavishing on you, hips drawing back and forth to meet his mouth.

His Sensei hums happily into you.

You whimper in response, as though there's nothing better to you than hearing your partner pleased, than the knowledge that you're doing something right, doing good.

Hitoshi bites his lip. Between one blink and the next, his hand finds its way back to his cock—grasping the shape of himself through his pants and stroking it firmly. His hips jump up from the chair at the first wholehearted touch.

He wants more.

Wants to get his cock out and stroke himself until he's cumming all over the smart shirt he put on earlier this evening when he was still a bundle of nerves at the prospect of Aizawa fucking his girlfriend. But he forces himself to be happy with the heavy petting, instead. Anymore, and it would mean admitting quite how much it's turning him on to see his beloved Sensei turn you into a sobbing mess.

In his eagerness to consume you, Aizawa is near unhinging his jaw—tongue licking wide stripes up your pussy, dipping inside you, curling around your clit. You tremble beneath it all, body melting into the sheets and hands twitching absently at each touch. You seem overwhelmed. Like your edge is approaching closer than you thought it would. Your hips rock back onto Aizawa's face more insistently, and he matches you easily, doubling down his efforts until you're releasing a litany of sweet, short whines consecutively—toes curling and shins kicking upwards at the knee.

Hitoshi can smell the sweat in the air—see the beads of perspiration catching the light along the dips and curves of your body. Aching to taste, his jaw unsticks itself from the iron grip it's been held in, and a small sound of arousal meets the air. Hitoshi winces immediately, but neither of you notices, not when you're a breath away from cumming, nor when Aizawa is clutching you like a meal—all big predator hands and tongue.

"Closecloseclose, 'm close, daddy-nghhh, daddy—"

Aizawa hums into your cunt, pulling out his thumb, petting one hand down your thigh and tightening his fingers there, using his hold to splay you open further. Your hands jerk out. One stretched wide and clutching the bedspread. Another flinging back in an effort to find Aizawa's.

"Daddy," you plead.

Sensei glances over the swell of your ass and sees the request for what it is—touch, connection. A rock in an open ocean threatening to swallow you whole. He reaches for you easily with his other hand, as though the action of grounding you is as familiar to him as breathing. As natural as the tides and the wind and the way a predator plays with its food.

Tangling your fingers together, Aizawa lowers them to the bed and squeezes. Hitoshi's breathing has long since surpassed shaky. He thinks he might actually be dying. Lungs expanding and contracting in short, heaving spurts that bring nothing but madness to poison his mind.

You sob, the sound lined with comfort—you know you're safe.

Daddy's got you.

Daddy's making you feel so good.

Daddy's in charge. You don't need to think.

Hitoshi swallows back a groan, head tipping back slightly as the pleasure surges—as you clutch Aizawa's hand so tightly the colour bleeds into white.

When you cum, there's a strangely silent air about it for someone usually so loud.

Your mouth opens around a moan that he never hears, another gasp cut off at its head. Your eyes open and then widen. Every muscle in your body locks tight—thighs tightening around Aizawa's head, toes and fingers curling. It's the hottest thing Hitoshi's ever seen.

But Aizawa doesn't let up.

Doesn't seem phased by the death grip, nor the way you're trying to strangle him.

He licks you through it, slurping on your clit and flicking his tongue cruelly. You shake and shake and shake. Trembling like a leaf barely clinging to its tree in the heart of a storm. Eventually, you find your voice again. A light, throaty keen tumbling from your lips.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Your keen turns into a whimper, blown-out like spun sugar.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

More tears fall down your face. Body tensing and relaxing rhythmically, as though you wish to escape, to crawl away from Aizawa, but that endless well of your energy is finally dried up.

A broken sob. Helpless.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Hitoshi's so close. Boxers soaked through, hard cock pulsing under his hand. Every noise you make has his dick twitching like a reflexive action—like you're both one and the same, one mind in two bodies.

"Da-ah-ddy," you sob, hiccuping over the word. "T'mucht'mucht'much."

You try to lift the hand tangled with his to push at his face, but Aizawa shuts that down quickly, chuckling into your cunt when you let out a panicked whine, too limp to do anything but take what he's giving you.

Aizawa doesn't say anything, keeps his mouth close to your pussy. Eats away at you like oxygen corroding metal—stripping back layer after layer until there's nothing left, until you're twitching like a dying animal, until you're crying out and cumming on his face again. Cunt fluttering on Aizawa's mouth, arousal dripping down the stubble on his chin—the insides of your thighs rubbed pink and raw.

You have nothing left to give after this one. Hitoshi can see it as clear as day.

You're gone.

The cries he hears aren't your own, nor is the way your body shakes through your third orgasm helplessly.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Hitoshi feels his stomach swoop.

Your hips spasm madly and he uses his hold on your thigh to push you wider, to push you down into the bed and scrape his teeth gently over your clit just to hear you sob.

"Da-ah—"

You try. You really do.

"Da-ddy-ple-ah-seee-uhhh-nghhh—"

Your cries fall on deaf ears, though. And Hitoshi can do nothing about it. Can't help you. Can't soothe you. Can't do anything but watch you fall apart and hope that his Sensei knows how to pick up the pieces after the scene ends.

"Please-ah-ahh-ngh-plea—" you hiccup wetly. "—please."

Hitoshi doesn't even know what you're begging for. If you want Aizawa to stop or keep going until there are truly no thoughts left in your brain. If you're begging for the sake of begging or begging because you really will rupture at the seams, if all your insides will tumble onto the bed in a vulnerable, undignified heap of entrails that Hitoshi honestly doesn't think he's equipped to handle.

Aizawa slurps at your cunt. All it takes is him fucking his tongue inside you, chin brushing your clit roughly, and you're coming again with a sharp, startled cry.

"Daddy!"

Hitoshi's toes curl, thighs tense. He takes one look at the blissed out expression on your face and cums too, thick spurts of release wetting his already damp boxers. Warmth drips down to his balls. He kicks up into his touch with a hiss and notes the way Aizawa's gaze flickers over to him for just a moment before he's focusing back on you, sucking your clit into his mouth as you tumble within moments back into overstimulation. The pleasant wave of your orgasm is barely a wave at all—as though you dipped a toe in the water only to be submerged entirely a beat later, yanked so deep you can't breathe.

You honestly look like you're about to pass out.

"Haaa-ngh-ahhh, st-stop n'moren'morepleaseda-ah-ddy."

Now, you’re desperate enough to try to crawl up the bed, body heavy with delirium, and you try to get your knees under you to move. It doesn't work. As soon as your hips raise up a scant few inches, they drop back to the bed with another brush of Aizawa's tongue. As though that's all it takes to render you utterly useless.

You get an elbow under you—another suck on your clit—and collapse face-first into the sheets.

"Daddydaddyda-ah-ddy," you chant listlessly, as effective as words being carried away by the wind. "I c'n't— can't— nonono, n'moreplease— ple-hah-please. Please!"

Aizawa hums against you and your gasp melds with a low, wounded whine—more pain than pleasure, but Hitoshi can't help the way his spent dick twitches anyway. He's sick in the head like that. Enjoys seeing you writhe and cry. He's never seen you quite this fucked out before, though.

"St-sto-ah-stop," you whine. "Pleasedaddyplease, stop."

Hitoshi wonders where the line is for his Sensei. What would it take to get him to actually stop? Is there a number of orgasms he's going for? Or is he reading your body and listening to your little whimpers the same way animals sense air pressure changes? Hitoshi would've hesitated when you were trying to crawl away from him at least. Aizawa didn't even seem phased. In fact, he's still eating you out like there's nowhere he'd rather be. Perfectly settled on his stomach, lapping at the wet mess of arousal dripping from your core, with one big hand keeping your pussy on his face and the other pressing your weak hand to the bed.

"N'moren'more I c'n't— daaaddyyyy!"

Aizawa laughs again, a soft puff of breath that only serves to make you arch your back, thighs tightening and spasming through a weird, panicked stretch as you relax them right after. You let out a choked sob and press your face into the blankets. You've been crying for so long that your entire face is wet, and Hitoshi stares at the sight in some kind of daze.

Aizawa is tongue-fucking you again. Your chest is still heaving—not even recovered from your last orgasm, or the one before that—and Hitoshi might actually die. He can feel his dick hardening again in his ruined boxers, and the feeling is simultaneously uncomfortable and so hot that he bites his bottom lip until he feels it split. Until there's an iron tang along his tongue. Until he wishes he were the one with his face buried between your legs instead. Until he wishes he were the one beneath—

"Daddydaddydaddy—" you jerk the hand under his again, desperate for something, anything, but Aizawa merely squeezes his own, "—nghhh stopstop, plea-uhhhhhhh—"

Between one breath and the next, you're tipping over into another orgasm, but this time it isn't pretty. You let out a loud, cracked cry—so pitiful that Hitoshi winces in sympathy immediately—and immediately dissolve into shuddering tears, riding out the orgasm through wet, gasping breaths. Hitoshi isn't even sure if it feels good this time. There's been no real break between orgasms, and Sensei has been torturing you nonstop.

Though Aizawa does lap at you more gently this time, tongue licking wide, flat stripes up your pussy. When your whine overflows into anguish, Aizawa finally slows to a stop. Apparently, stopping doesn’t mean not touching you at all. He gives you a brief reprieve, letting you suck in one stuttering breath, another, lets you open your eyes—Hitoshi didn't even realise they'd closed, gaze caught on Aizawa’s vigour—then, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss on your clit: a brush of lips, a quiet, wet smacking sound as he parts, like how Hitoshi kisses the forehead of his cat.

Hitoshi startles at the wall of heat that realisation brings.

You whimper, entire body twitching like a live wire.

A kiss.

Another.

Hitoshi inhales something shaky. More tears stream down your face.

You both know he's winding down the scene now—that you're okay, that you're good, that you got through it. But you're still reacting to every kiss like it's a brand. As though each one could be the promise of more trials and tribulations you won't survive.

Aizawa tilts his head up and kisses your entrance. Places a chaste kiss on either side of your pussy. One on your perineum. Another on the crease of your ass. He loosens his fingers around yours and brushes his thumb over the back of your hand kindly.

"Did so well," he murmurs into your thigh, pressing a kiss there. "So well, sweet girl."

Your sob of relief splinters in two as you recognise the words for what they are—you're done.

Aizawa sits up after placing one final kiss on the globe of your asscheek, and you immediately slump deadweight onto the bed without his hand propping your hip up. You're a mess. Flushed and sweaty and teary-eyed. Trembles wrack your body with every shaky breath you inhale as you try to get oxygen back in your lungs—as you try to slow down the borderline-hyperventilating you've been doing.

Unfortunately, Hitoshi is immediately distracted by Aizawa's cock. Red and weepy, slapping against his stomach when Aizawa shifts his legs under to sit between your spread ones. He rolls his shoulders before brushing big palms up and down your legs soothingly, content to quietly watch for now as you regulate your breathing. Hitoshi watches the exchange with a strange pain in his heart, as though someone has reached through his chest and squeezed it in their fist.

"There y'go," Aizawa says, a palm massaging the meat of your thigh.

You whine lowly, but it's more for the sake of making noise than anything else. This is particularly apparent when you make no move to do anything after—lying like a corpse as though Aizawa literally ate your soul out through your pussy. Leaning down to brush the hair matted to your nape, Aizawa's mouth tips up into a small, satisfied smile. It's fond, too—Hitoshi realises with a start. Undeniably sweet and soft and… affectionate, where he stares down at your spent, quivering form.

Hitoshi feels like he's going to throw up. His dick is also half-hard again.

Predictably, this moment of panic is precisely when Sensei decides to turn towards him.

Aizawa gives him a once-over before quirking a brow.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, as though preserving the peace of your afterglow.

Hitoshi nods. Swallows once against the sand in his throat. Brushes an antsy hand back through his hair to try to burn some of the weird energy simmering low in his gut. He isn't okay, not really, but he can't say as such to the older man.

Aizawa doesn't chastise, but Hitshi can tell he wants to.

"I'm okay," he corrects, putting his thoughts into words—stomach swooping when he registers the rough notes to his voice, coarse from disuse.

Narrowing his eyes, Aizawa gives him a short nod.

Then, "Go shower. I'll clean her up."

Hitoshi winces. Shouldn't he be the one looking after them both? After all, he wasn't even technically involved in the scene.

"No, it's— it's okay. I'll, uh," he moves to stand, "I'll get you both a wet flannel."

"Shinsou."

Hitoshi's spine locks again embarrassingly fast, despite being only halfway out of his seat. Jesus. He really hopes his Sensei doesn't notice how weird he's being. A bit of weird after his girlfriend just got fucked is fine, but if he realises why he's acting weird…

Hitoshi will die.

He tilts his head, trying to seem nonchalant. "Hm?"

Aizawa only trails his eyes down to Hitoshi's crotch. He's confused for all of a heartbeat before he follows his Sensei's gaze to where there's an absurdly obvious cum stain on his trousers. He tenses his jaw. That's humiliating, Hitoshi thinks to himself dryly. What am I, a teenager?

But then again, this is less humiliating than the alternative: jerking off and having his spent dick in his hand and cum all over his nice shirt, had he not thought better of it.

Thank god he did cum in his pants, all things considered.

Aizawa smirks, the corner of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Go shower," he repeats. "I've got her, don't worry."

Hitoshi glances down at you and—oh. You're asleep.

Upset expression smoothed out into peacefulness. Face still wet and flushed. Hands still half-clutching the sheets like you're not quite convinced you're safe just yet. He looks back up at Aizawa, but his gaze gets caught on the way.

"But you're still..." he gestures helplessly to Aizawa's hard cock, hanging between his legs.

How the hell do you tell your mentor they're still hard?

How the hell do you say it's okay if you need to go and deal with that?

"I'm okay," Aizawa chuckles. Hitoshi feels his skin break out into gooseflesh "Why don't you both stay the night? I'll get you some clean clothes. Cook you dinner.

Hitoshi bites his lip uncertainly.

"Saves you driving home…" Aizawa adds.

Hitoshi can't find his words. Aizawa seems to notice.

"That was heavier than I was anticipating," he offers lowly, eyes turning kind.

So his Sensei didn't have it all planned out then. Weirdly, Hitoshi feels some relief at that.

"It was," Hitoshi agrees a bit uselessly, still lost as to the turn tonight's taken—the realisations he's been forced to reckon with.

Aizawa nods. "So stay."

He says it like it's simple.

Maybe it is.

Hitoshi stares at his fucked out girlfriend strewn across Aizawa's bed. At his Sensei, hovering over her like a sentinel.

Yeah, Hitoshi thinks to himself quietly, tipping his chin up to meet Aizawa's wine-pool eyes. Maybe it is.

"Alright, we'll stay."

‹‹ MASTERLIST

thank you for reading if you got this far! please consider leaving a comment, reblogging, or dropping into my inbox if you enjoyed! ♡

[jeaniefranklins]

Sex scene as character study is so good. What is your relationship to your body? What is your relationship to your partner? What lessons have you absorbed from the culture about yourself as a sexual being? How much do you have to trust someone before being comfortable with intimacy? What fears and insecurities come to the fore for you when you take your clothes off? It's so good.

[lavenderprose]

I love how some fics are called shit like "They Only Shoot The Birds Who Cannot Sing" and it's like the most insane porn you're ever read and then some fics are called Spit On Me and it's 18,000 words of the most achingly id-scratching prose you've ever read and they're both. They're both so fucking good. thank God for fanfiction.

[sp1ritb0x]

Red riot on the scene

[butchizuku]

faking it with dynamight ࿐𓂃◞⠀

The rapid flash of cameras burns at the corners of your irises but you keep your expression schooled into a demure smile. The man at your elbow lacks the same poise. He scowls at the photographers, his irritation barely concealed. His body is rigid against yours, blood thrumming beneath his skin as they take turns shouting over one another to tell you to pose this way and that.

Your cheeks ache from how you bit down in the flesh. Saliva sharp with a metallic tang. You turn to face him, vermillion eyes crusted with flecks of gold and charcoal snap to meet yours. They melt when you force a giggle, pretending to whisper against the shell of his ear. Your lips graze chunky, jewelled earrings that match the embellishments on his shirt. Your hand gently caresses the expanse of his chest, pinky brushing the barest bit of skin exposed by the neckline. The crowd surrounding the two of you jeers, goading for something more salacious. They needed something they could sink their teeth into. 

As if their jeers would penetrate the sweet bubble that surrounds the two of you.

You lean closer, until your breaths mingle. His smells of the cinnamon gum he always carries. Spiced, warm, with just a whisper of sweetness. He snakes his hand around your waist, pressing you flush against him. He kisses you, tonguing his way into your mouth. The photographers cheer before scrambling to get the best shot before the two of you are ushered off the carpet. 

The walk way between the carpet and your dressing room stinks of sweat and desperation. Interns run back and forth with arms filled with miscellaneous junk. You offer a look of sympathy before the door is slammed shut behind you and him.

“Oh my god, Katsuki,” you groan, flicking your hair over your shoulders, “Your parents own a fashion house, I seriously don’t get how you’re always so stiff!”

Katsuki drops onto the sofa, sinking low into the cushions, “I’m a hero, not a model,” he says as if it were obvious, “If you wanted arm candy you should’ve found a pretty boy to accompany you.”

Your heels click loudly against the linoleum. The vanity is large and illuminated by a dozen bright white blubs. There’s a handful of assorted drinks and treats spread out amongst your crew's material. Your lipstick was smeared all over your chin and cheeks from your kiss. You roll your eyes, sending a quick text to your makeup girl. At least you had an hour before you were needed on stage.

“You forget that the whole point of this arrangement is for your benefit,” you huff, turning away from the mirror with a grimace, “Make that reputation of yours sparkle so everyone forgets you blew up that animal sanctuary.”

Katsuki huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, “You know that was an accident,” he grits, his jaw tense, “If that damn villian hadn’t-”

“Hadn’t hid out in the sanctuary you wouldn’t have had to use your quirk, I know.”

You stand over him, eyes lidded as you peer at him. There’s lipstick smeared on his chin in equal measure. His eyes flicker upwards to meet yours, something unreadable simmering within his vermillion gaze. Katsuki nods, his shoulders dropping into a shrug.

You hitch the skirt of your dress up, looping a leg over his hip as you settle into his lap. Though the only eyes in this room were yours and his, Katsuki lets his hands settle on the small of your back. You cup his jaw, your pointed nails pressing into the stubbly flesh.

“Poor baby,” you coo, pouting. With your free hand, you swipe your thumb across his plush bottom lip. 

Katsuki licks his lips, his tongue brushes your thumb. Your eyes remain locked on his. The palms of his hands are warm, it bleeds through the layers of your dress. Your heart pounds against your rib cage, blood rushing past your ears. Such strength in the palm of his hands, it made your throat dry.

“Get it together, Katsuki.”

There's a knock on your dressing room door, you slink away. Shooing Katsuki with a flick of your wrist. Katsuki had a job to do, so did you.

[drawnbymabel]

girls girls girls!

[seirxi]

decora

[sketchyvero]

Takin a break in the teachers lounge 😚

[savsketches]

HAII I ADORE UR MINA?? SHES SO CUTE?? MY FAV MINA ARTIST RAHH

TYSM!!

i absolutely loooovveddd her in her little black dress in the future episode :,)

[drawnbymabel]

third year study sesh (good luck guys…!!)

[olivebowl]

DEVILS GOT YOUR NUMBER TONIGHT

matsukawa likes an audience, you like being listened to, and iwaizumi really should have hung up. (or— matsukawa answers the phone mid-shift at the pussy eating factory. iwaizumi stays on the line.)

MATSUKAWA ISSEI X FEM!READER ft. IWAIZUMI HAJIME | timeskip, friends with benefits (mattsun and reader use each purely for their bodies), smut, exhibitionism/voyeurism, phone sex, dubious consent in the beginning, third party listening, oral sex f receiving, fingering, vaginal sex, dirty talk, size kink, multiple orgasms, creampie, implied masturbation

word count: 3.7k

hi from marcel: my demons. MY DEMONS. @swordsteel picked iwa so he is here...... title from an mcr lyric (can you guess which ill give you a kiss)

it starts stupidly, like most good things do.

because everything with matsukawa issei starts stupidly.

he is between your thighs, hair mussed from your hands, mouth warm and lazy against you like he’s got nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. which is a lie. he had somewhere to be. he had told the boys he might meet up later, maybe, if he “felt like being social.”

you had known exactly what that meant.

so did he.

so did makki, probably, given the string of texts sitting unread on his lock screen.

you’re already half-melted into the mattress, one knee hooked over his shoulder, fingers twisted in the sheets because issei is being unfair about it. not rushed. not even particularly mean yet. just focused in that loose, maddening way he has, like he’s barely trying and still knows exactly how to make your spine turn to warm water.

his phone starts buzzing on the bed.

you glance over.

iwaizumi.

your stomach flips before issei even lifts his head.

he feels it.

of course he feels it.

his eyes flick up to yours from between your thighs, dark and amused.

“no,” you whisper, already smiling because you are a liar and a freak.

his mouth curves.

the phone keeps buzzing.

issei wipes his thumb slowly over the inside of your thigh, watching your face like he’s waiting for the part where you tell him not to.

you don’t.

so he reaches for his phone.

“issei,” you hiss, but there’s no heat in it. no real warning.

he answers with his mouth still shiny.

“yo.”

you slap both hands over your face.

because unlike makki, iwaizumi doesn’t immediately start laughing.

there’s just... a pause.

then hajime’s voice, low and normal and totally unaware of the crime scene he has stepped into. “you busy?”

issei looks directly at you.

you shake your head at him in horror and delight.

he licks his lips.

“little bit.”

“then why’d you answer?”

“’cause you called. i’m polite, iwa.”

“you sound weird.”

issei hums, and his thumb slides back over you, slow enough to make your legs tense.

you bite down on your knuckle.

“do i?”

another pause.

oh, hajime knows now.

you can hear the exact second he knows. the silence changes shape. gets heavier. more aware.

“... matsukawa.”

“yeah?”

“are you fucking around right now?”

issei’s smile is lazy and lethal.

“technically, my mouth’s occupied.”

you make the worst sound into your hand.

hajime goes dead silent.

not scandalised loud like oikawa. not delighted loud like makki.

silent.

issei’s brows lift like he’s fascinated.

then, with the calm of a man setting down a drink, he taps speaker and lays the phone flat on your stomach.

the cool edge of it makes you twitch.

you choke on a laugh, which turns into a gasp when he slides two fingers back into you, slow and deliberate.

“oh my god,” you breathe.

the phone is right there. resting on your stomach, speaker up, close enough that every little broken sound you make has nowhere to hide.

issei looks too pleased with himself.

“iwa,” he says casually, as if he is not knuckle-deep and watching your hips start to lift. “you still there?”

no answer.

issei’s fingers curl.

your back arches.

“hajime,” issei sings, awful and soft. “don’t be rude.”

“i’m here,” iwaizumi says, voice tight.

there it is.

not hanging up. not telling him to stop. not even pretending hard enough to hate this.

issei’s grin goes slow.

“yeah?” he murmurs. “you wanna be?”

the silence after that is fucking insane.

you stare at issei, wide-eyed, breath catching in little pieces as he keeps touching you. he’s not even going down on you anymore. he’s just watching. sitting between your legs with his cheek against your thigh, fingers moving steadily, gaze flicking between your face and the phone on your stomach like this is some kind of casual group activity.

“i asked you something,” issei says.

hajime exhales through his nose.

“... if she’s okay with it.”

your whole body tenses.

issei’s fingers pause.

not stop, exactly. just slow.

his eyes come to yours, humour gone thin for half a second. the real question underneath it.

you nod.

he waits.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i’m okay with it.”

issei’s smile comes back, softer first.

then worse.

“you hear that?”

“i heard,” hajime says.

his voice sounds different now. lower. rougher around the edges.

god help you.

issei kisses the inside of your knee. “good. then stay quiet if you’re gonna be shy about it.”

“fuck off,” hajime says, but it has no bite.

“mm. that isn’t very nice, hajime.”

you laugh, breathless, and issei rewards it by dragging his fingers just right.

your laugh snaps into a moan.

hajime makes a sound.

tiny. barely there.

but it is a sound.

issei hears it.

of course he does.

“oh?” he says.

“don’t.”

“didn’t say anything.”

“you were about to.”

“i was just thinking.”

“do that privately.”

issei’s fingers slow, and you whine before you can stop yourself.

he looks down at you with mock pity.

“see what you did? distracted me.”

“issei,” you complain.

“yeah, baby?”

he says it so casually. so warm. like he isn’t turning you into a trembling mess with his best friend listening.

“don’t stop.”

iwaizumi’s breath catches audibly.

issei’s eyes darken.

“bossy.”

“you’re being annoying.”

“i’m being generous.” his gaze flicks to the phone. “aren’t i, iwa?”

hajime says nothing.

issei laughs quietly.

“still there?”

“yeah.”

“quiet.”

“yeah.”

“you jerking off, boy scout?”

the silence is immediate and catastrophic.

your eyes go huge.

“issei.”

“what?” he asks, innocent as a knife. “it’s a question.”

hajime’s voice comes back strangled. “you’re a fucking asshole.”

“that wasn’t a no.”

“jesus christ.”

“that wasn’t either.”

you are going to die.

you are actually going to die in this bed because matsukawa issei cannot behave for five consecutive minutes and iwaizumi hajime apparently has a closet pervert streak big enough to qualify as a second apartment.

issei leans down and kisses you, right above where his fingers are still moving.

soft. terrible.

then he speaks, not to you this time.

“she’s so wet,” he says, conversationally. “you should feel this.”

your face burns so hot you think you might pass out.

hajime swears under his breath.

issei watches your reaction like he loves it.

“she likes when i talk about her,” he continues, still lazy, still cruelly calm. “acts embarrassed, but she gets tighter every time.”

you shake your head.

his fingers curl again.

your hips jerk.

“liar,” he murmurs to you.

“i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

“i might.”

“you’d miss me.”

“i’d miss your dick.”

“same thing.”

hajime makes another sound then, partly a laugh, half a curse. like he can’t believe he is hearing this. like he cannot believe he is not hanging up.

issei’s smile sharpens.

“there you go,” he says. “knew you were alive.”

“shut up.”

“nah. iwa, she’s trying so hard not to make noise.”

“don’t drag me into it.”

“you’re on speaker on her stomach. you dragged yourself in.”

“that was you.”

“you could hang up.”

nothing.

issei hums.

“thought so.”

then he lowers his mouth back to you.

and if the fingering was bad, this is worse.

because now he is showing off.

not in a clumsy way. not obvious and exaggerated. issei is too smooth for that, too confident in the exact way that makes him irritating. he just settles back between your thighs and eats you out like he knows hajime is listening to every wet sound, every shaky breath, every broken little syllable of his name you fail to swallow.

your hand flies into his hair.

the phone shifts on your stomach as you arch.

“careful,” issei murmurs against you, and the vibration makes your legs tremble. “don’t drop him.”

“i’m going to kill you,” you gasp.

“after?”

“maybe.”

he laughs into you.

hajime says nothing.

but he is breathing.

that’s the thing that gets you. the quiet on the other end isn’t empty anymore. it’s full of him. tense and controlled and too present. you can imagine him sitting somewhere with his jaw clenched, phone in one hand, the other maybe—

you whimper.

issei’s eyes flick up.

“oh, what was that?”

“shut up.”

“you thinking about him?”

you try to close your thighs, which is a mistake because his shoulders are there and he just spreads you open again.

“don’t hide now.”

“issei.”

“answer.”

your pulse is in your throat. “maybe.”

hajime curses.

issei grins against you.

“cute.”

then he stops talking and gets serious.

which is how you know you’re fucked.

he knows exactly how to pull you apart when he wants to. knows when to tease and when to shut up, when to give you pressure, when to back off just enough that your body chases him. his hands lock around your thighs, his mouth gets precise, and everything narrows down to heat and breath and the weight of the phone rising and falling with your stomach.

you come with hajime listening.

it’s not graceful.

it never is with issei when he’s showing off.

your back arches, one hand in his hair, the other clutching at the sheets, and the sound that leaves you is loud enough that you hear hajime inhale sharply through the speaker. issei doesn’t let up until you’re squirming, thighs trembling against his cheeks, voice breaking around a too-much little sob.

then he lifts his head.

slowly.

mouth wet.

eyes dark.

“good?” he asks.

you nod weakly.

“words.”

“i’m good.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

he pats your thigh once.

“great.”

then he grabs your hips and yanks you down the bed.

you squeal.

actually squeal.

because you’re overstimulated and boneless and he moves you like you weigh nothing, dragging you to the edge so suddenly that the phone nearly slides off your stomach. you catch it with one clumsy hand, laughing breathlessly even while your whole body is still shaking.

on speaker, hajime makes the craziest fucking sound.

not a full moan.

not a word.

just this punched-out, involuntary thing that tells on him so badly the room goes still for half a second.

issei freezes.

then looks at the phone.

then at you.

his smile becomes a war crime.

“iwa.”

“don’t.”

“that was cute.”

“don’t.”

“you liked that?”

“fuck you.”

“i’ll pencil you in.”

you laugh again, helpless, and hajime sounds like he might be suffering psychic damage.

issei stands at the end of the bed.

and yeah.

yeah, you forget how to speak for a second.

because he is tall. tall in that loose, lanky way that hides the sheer size of him until he is standing over you with your hips in his hands and his hair falling into his eyes. he drags you to the very edge, lifts your ass like it’s nothing, adjusts you until your legs are hooked just right.

the angle alone makes your stomach flip.

then he lays his cock over your lower stomach.

just rests there.

heavy and hard and obscene against your skin.

you stare down.

he does too.

“issei,” you breathe.

“i know.”

he loves this.

loves seeing it. loves the visual of how deep he’ll reach, how far up your body he can mark the promise of it before he even gets inside. it makes him smug in the worst way, quiet and satisfied and absolutely aware of what it does to you.

his thumb strokes your hip.

“look at that,” he murmurs.

hajime is dead silent.

issei tilts his head toward the phone.

“wish you were looking, iwa?”

“don’t be mean,” you manage.

“shame. i’m so good at it.”

hajime’s voice is rough when he says, “you’re evil.”

“little bit.”

“more than a little.”

“you’re still here.”

another pause.

then hajime says, very low, “yeah.”

oh.

oh, that gets everyone.

even issei’s expression flickers for a second, amusement giving way to something hotter. he looks down at you, brows raised like, you hearing this?

you nod, dazed.

“yeah,” issei says softly. “he is.”

then he slides into you.

you lose your breath.

fully.

it’s so deep at that angle that your hands fly to his wrists, nails digging in as he holds you up to meet him. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. just a stunned little gasp that cracks at the edges when he bottoms out.

issei’s jaw tightens.

“fuck.”

hajime mutters something under his breath that you don’t catch.

issei catches it.

“what was that?”

“nothing.”

“liar.”

“keep going.”

the words are clipped. controlled. almost angry.

they make you clench so hard issei groans.

“oh, she liked that.”

“stop narrating everything,” hajime says.

“no.”

then he starts moving.

slow at first, because the angle is insane and because you are still sensitive from his mouth. deep, measured thrusts that push the air out of you every time, his hands firm under your ass, lifting you to meet him like he’s using your body exactly how he wants and making sure it ruins you properly.

the phone is still on you, slid down now to stick to the sweaty skin just below your tits.

you can feel the vibration of hajime’s breathing through the case.

it is obscene.

it is ridiculous.

it is so hot you almost can’t stand it.

issei talks through everything.

of course he does.

he tells you how good you feel, how tight, how pretty you look trying to take him like this. tells hajime how your face changes when he gets deep enough. how your thighs shake. how you get louder when you forget to be embarrassed.

and hajime just listens.

quiet.

too quiet.

until issei pushes.

“say something, iwa.”

“no.”

“why not?”

“because you’re already insufferable.”

“she wants to hear you.”

your eyes fly to his.

issei grins.

“you do.”

“i—”

he thrusts deep, and your words scatter.

“see?”

hajime’s voice is rough. “she okay?”

the question punches right through all the heat.

because it’s hajime, of course it is. repressed pervert or not, he still sounds like himself. grounded. careful. checking, even with his voice strained.

you swallow, breathless.

“yeah. i’m okay.”

“you sure?”

“yeah.”

issei’s expression softens for the smallest second.

then he ruins it by saying, “hear that? she’s okay. you can keep jerking off now, boy scout.”

“mattsun,” hajime snaps.

you make a sound that is half laugh, half moan.

issei’s grin comes back full force.

“there we go.”

“you’re going to hell.”

“probably. wanna come with?”

“not answering that.”

you are absolutely dissolving.

every thrust punches up into that deep, impossible place that makes your legs go useless. issei’s hands hold you steady, thumbs digging into the soft of your hips. your head tips back against the mattress, one hand fisted in the sheet, the other pressed weakly over the phone like you can somehow hide the sounds and keep hajime close at the same time.

issei notices.

“don’t cover him.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“you’re annoying.”

“you love it.”

“you’re too deep.”

his hips slow immediately.

“too deep bad?”

you shake your head fast.

“no. good. just— fuck!”

“more words.”

“good,” you gasp. “it’s good.”

“yeah?” his voice goes warm and filthy. “you want more?”

you nod.

“say it.”

“more.”

hajime exhales sharply.

issei’s eyes glitter.

“oh, he liked that one.”

“i hate both of you,” you breathe.

“liar.”

then he gives you more.

not faster. deeper. meaner in that careful way that has your body going loose and desperate beneath him. the whole bed shifts with it, rhythm steady, your ass lifted in his hands, his cock hitting so deep that your vision goes blurry.

and then he says it.because he knows exactly when to.

“wanna come for iwa?”

you whine.

“yeah?” he asks, voice low. “wanna come while he jerks off to the sound of you getting fucked like this?”

hajime makes a strangled noise.

“issei.”

“what?”

“you’re— fuck.”

issei laughs, breathless and dark. you nod before you can think better of it.

issei’s gaze snaps back to you.

“please,” you whisper.

his hands tighten.

“please what?”

“make me come.”

“who for?”

you are gone. truly gone. no dignity. no shame. just heat and pressure and hajime’s breathing through the speaker.

“for haji.”

the silence after that is violent.

then hajime groans. low. wrecked. utterly ruined.

issei’s composure almost cracks.

almost.

“fuck,” he mutters. “good girl.”

he shifts one hand, keeping you lifted with the other, and gets his thumb on your clit.

that’s it. that’s the end of you.

the angle, the pressure, the phone, hajime’s barely contained sounds, issei’s voice talking you through it like he has all the time in the world. it all collapses at once.

you come hard enough that your voice breaks. hard enough that your whole body shakes in his hands, hips jerking uselessly as he keeps you exactly where he wants you. issei talks you through the entire thing, filthy and soft, telling you there you go, that’s it, let him hear you, while hajime swears on the other end like he’s trying not to fall apart too loudly.

issei follows not long after.

he holds you tight, thrusts going uneven, head tipping back with a groan that would be embarrassing if he were capable of shame. he comes deep, still standing at the edge of the bed, hands locked around you like he’s anchoring himself through it.

for a few seconds, no one says anything.

you are wrecked.

hajime is silent.

issei is breathing hard, staring down at where he’s still inside you with a lazy, satisfied look that makes you want to kick him if your legs worked.

then hajime says, flat and disbelieving, “are you fucking serious?”

issei doesn’t miss a beat. “nah. her name isn’t serious.”

hajime hangs up. immediately. the room goes dead quiet.

then you burst into exhausted laughter.

issei looks down at the phone, then at you, completely calm.

“rude.”

“you are the worst person alive.”

“he asked.”

“you are insane.”

“yeah.” he finally eases you back onto the bed with surprising gentleness, one hand sliding under your thigh so you don’t jolt too hard. “you good?”

you blink up at him, sweaty and ruined and still trying to recover from the fact that iwaizumi hajime just got dragged into this ecosystem and absolutely did not leave.

“yeah,” you mumble. “i’m good.”

“yeah?”

“mhm.”

“nice.”

he pulls out carefully, and you make a tiny miserable sound because everything is too much now. he kisses your knee like he’s apologising, which is offensive because he is not sorry.

then he grabs his phone.

you squint at him. “what are you doing?”

“checking if he blocked me.”

“did he?”

a pause. “no.”

“coward.”

“right?”

the phone buzzes once in his hand.

issei reads it and smiles.

“what?”

“iwa says he hates me.”

“you deserve it.”

“he also says to never call him again.”

“you answered his call.”

“i’ll remind him later.”

“don’t.”

“i won’t.”

“you absolutely will.”

“probably.”

you groan and cover your face.

issei tosses the phone aside and pats your thigh.

“okay. shower.”

“don’t boss me around after ruining my life.”

“you’re gross.”

your eyes snap open. “it’s your fault.”

“yeah.” he shrugs, shameless. “still gross.”

“i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

“i hate your friends.”

“no, you don’t.”

you stare at him and he grins.

“especially not haji.”

you grab a pillow and throw it at him. he catches it against his chest, laughing, then leans down to kiss your forehead like he has any right to be sweet after all of that.

“come on,” he says. “shower before makki finds out and the group chat becomes unlivable ’cause we left him out.”

olivebowl © 2026 — do not copy, translate, repost, or feed my works into ai ⁠⊰

[sodaneko]

osamu is such a teach me guy. teach me how to make that childhood dish of yours. teach me how your name is written. teach me that term of endearment in your language. teach me all those little habits of yours. teach me how to kiss you so your mouth will know no other name than mine. teach me where to touch you to make you feel so good. teach me where your body and your heart aches. teach me, teach me, teach me.

[sodaneko]

and when he did well? oh, he's basking in your praise. sometimes shy, with his cap pulled deeper in his face to hide the smile tugging on the corner of his mouth and the blush dusting the tip of his ears; sometimes unabashed, coming up for air from between your still shaking thighs, his eyes gleaming with an insatiable hunger–for your sweet words and flattery, for everything you offer him so willingly, for you.

[spacelabrathor]

rage baiting katsuki with your stubborn independence while dating

[shouldbewritingnow]

The “draw” of AI doesn’t work on me for the same reason that the Ring couldn’t tempt Samwise. Because I LIKE to write. I like to make things, I like the process of making things, instead of just the end result.

[stricatul]

maybe intimacy isn't taking off your clothes. maybe it's taking off your "i'm fine." maybe it's being naked in ways that have nothing to do with skin.