Yuuta being super apologetic about the little slip ups of strength he has when he's fucking you but then he sees the way your eyes are literally rolling to the back of your skull when he's got you in a headlock and he's like "oh :D"
My favorite scenes in the LotR books are the ones where Legolas has vital information and just decides it's not important to share.
Like when Gandalf spent literal PAGES trying to figure out why the vibes were off in Moria and Legolas chimes in with just "it's a balrog :) that shit's evil :) we're so fucked :)" like what do you MEAN you knew already and just didn't tell him??
Or at the beginning of Two Towers when Aragorn thinks there's something nearby so he puts his ear to the ground to listen, and then like 10 minutes later is like "hmmm i hear horses" and Legolas is just like "mm yep. there are 105 blond bitches with spears" like you just let your friend put his face in the dirt and you can SEE them??
It's because legolas hasn't spent enough time with non-elves to remember that they don't know what he knows.
gandalf is scratching his head in moria, and legolas is thinking "oh man, the wizard noticed something off *besides* the obvious balrog that we all are aware of??"
"I wonder what aragorn is listening for? must be hard to hear, what with all of the horses. How many horses are there, actually? 1... 2... 3..."
"What do your elvish eyes see?" is Aragorn saying, as politely as possible, "Because the REST OF US are at a significant disadvantage, Prince Dipshit."
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! gojo who doesn’t let you touch his cock and gets you off a few times before he puts it in because he claims that he is pretty much useless after he cums. (smut, p in v, fingering, oral f receiving)
the first thing you learn about dating satoru gojo is that he is a menace. a beautiful, cocky, six-foot-three menace with a smile that could launch a thousand ships and a personality that could sink them just as quickly. the second thing you learn is that he’s a liar. a bold-faced, shameless liar.
the evidence for this second fact is currently pressed against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, a promise he has no intention of keeping.
“satoru,” you whine, bucking your hips up against the unyielding weight of his palm flat on your lower stomach. “please.”
“please what, baby?” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, velvet-dark rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
his other hand isn’t on his cock, which you know is leaking and neglected, trapped between his stomach and your hip. no, his other hand is between your legs, fingers slick with your arousal, slowly, agonizingly slowly, circling your clit.
“you know what,” you gasp, trying to arch into his touch.
he’s propped above you on one elbow, a fallen angel with moonlight from the window painting silver streaks through his white hair. his blindfold is long gone, and those impossibly blue eyes are fixed on your face, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-off moan.
“i want to hear you say it,” he teases, pressing a little firmer, drawing a tight circle that makes your vision blur. “use your words.”
you glare at him, but it lacks any real heat.
it’s hard to be angry when your entire body is a live wire, humming for him. “i want you. i want it. i want you to fuck me, toruuu.”
despite you using his favourite nickname, he seems to be adamant on not giving you what you want. a slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face. “nope.”
the flat of his palm presses down on your stomach again, just as his fingers slide down to sink two knuckles deep inside you without warning. your protest dies in your throat, replaced by a sharp cry. he curls them perfectly, finding that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, while the heel of his hand grinds against your clit.
“not yet,” he says, his voice deceptively gentle as he watches you fall apart around his fingers. “i told you. i’m useless after i cum. it’s a well-documented fact. gojo satoru, the strongest, reduced to a puddle of useless goo the second he comes. so.” he twists his wrist, and you see stars. “we have to make this worth it. for you.”
“that’s—ah!—that’s the stupidest—oh god—”
“is it?” he pulls his fingers out, and you sob at the sudden emptiness. he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with an exaggerated show of satisfaction, his eyes never leaving yours. “lemme taste how ready you are. but i think you can give me one more. two, maybe. we have time.”
he shifts, moving down your body, and the reality of his intent crashes over you.
“satoru, no, i’m—i’m sensitive—”
“good,” he says, and then his mouth is on you.
there’s no teasing now, he’s relentless. his tongue is a weapon, just like the rest of him, and he wields it with devastating precision.
he flattens it against your clit, then flicks it, then sucks the aching bundle of nerves into the heat of his mouth. you grab fistfuls of his white hair, a tether in the storm. he groans against you, the vibration shattering your thoughts into a million pieces.
“look at me,” he commands, his voice muffled but no less authoritative. when you force your eyes open, he’s looking up at you from between your legs, his chin glistening, his gaze burning with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. “watch. i want you to watch me make you cum again.”
he doesn’t relent. he builds you up with the patience of a man who has all the time in the world, which is ironic because he’s the most impatient person you know. but here, like this, he’s a sculptor, and your pleasure is his clay. he shapes it, draws it out, lets it teeter on the edge before pulling back with a soft kiss to your inner thigh that makes you want to scream.
“satoru, please,” you beg, tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
“one more,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion. he slips two fingers back inside you, crooking them just so, and lowers his mouth again.
this time when you fall, you shatter. it’s a supernova behind your eyelids, a wave that crashes over you and pulls you under. you’re vaguely aware of your own voice, broken and raw, of your hips bucking against his face, of his steady, grounding hands holding you in place as he works you through it, gentling his touch until you’re a trembling, whimpering mess.
he crawls back up your body, a predator who has just played with his food and is finally, finally ready to feast. his face is flushed, his lips swollen, and there’s a wild, possessive gleam in his eyes. he’s hard as a rock, you can feel him against your thigh, but he makes no move to guide himself in.
instead, he cups your face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.
“how many was that?” he asks, his voice a little hoarse. “three? four?”
you can’t speak, can only manage a weak, incredulous laugh.
he grins, that brilliant, boyish grin that first made you fall for him. “goood girl.”
he reaches down then, finally wrapping his long fingers around his cock.
you watch him give himself a few slow, deliberate strokes, his jaw clenching as his eyes fall shut for a moment. when he opens them again, they’re darker, the sky-blue swallowed by the pupil.
“this,” he says, positioning himself at your entrance, the blunt head pressing against your slick, hypersensitive flesh, “is the part where i become useless. so you’d better enjoy it.”
and then he pushes in.
the stretch is exquisite. you’re so wet, so open from his relentless attention that he sinks in with one long, smooth stroke. he fills you completely, and you both groan in unison. he rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants.
“fuck,” he breathes. for once, the single word holds no humor, no arrogance. just pure, unadulterated awe. “every time. feels like the first time.”
he starts to move, and it’s everything you’ve been waiting for. he’s not teasing now. he pulls out slowly, almost all the way, then snaps his hips forward, driving a choked cry from your throat. he sets a pace that is deep and punishing, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision white out.
“sato—yes—there—fuck—”
“yeah?” his voice is strained, the veneer of control cracking. his thrusts become more erratic, less measured. “this what you wanted? for me to fuck you stupid?”
you can only nod, words lost as he leans back, grabbing your hips and tilting them up.
the new angle makes you see stars, and you claw at the sheets, a litany of his name falling from your lips.
you can tell he’s close. his rhythm is fracturing, his usually endless stamina burning bright and fast. he was telling the truth; after years of holding back his immense power, when it comes to this, he lets go completely. and once he starts to fall, it’s a short trip.
his hand snakes between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. “with me,” he grits out. “cum with me, baby. last one.”
it’s too much. the overstimulation from before, the relentless pounding, the desperate look on his beautiful face— it all converges. you feel the pressure building again, impossibly. this time when you fall, you take him with you.
your orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave that steals your breath. you clench around him, a vise of molten heat, it’s the final blow. he buries himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. his body goes taut as a bowstring, a tremor running through his powerful frame, and then he collapses.
just like he said. useless.
he’s a dead weight on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. his cock, still buried inside you, gives a few final, lazy pulses. for a long moment, neither of you moves. the only sounds are your combined, panting breaths slowly returning to normal.
“see?” he murmurs, his voice a drowsy rumble. “useless.”
you reach up, your limbs feeling like jelly, and push a damp lock of hair from his forehead.
“you’re an idiot,” you whisper, but there’s no heat in it. only a profound, bone-deep affection.
he hums, nuzzling back into your neck, and shifts, finally pulling out. you both wince at the loss. he rolls to the side, immediately wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against his chest. he’s still warm, still pliant.
“told you i had to make it worth it,” he mumbles into your hair, his voice already thick with sleep. “can’t have my girl feeling neglected.”
you laugh softly, tracing idle patterns on his chest. “you’re ridiculous.”
“mm. but you came. like, a lot.”
you can’t argue with that. you’re pretty sure you’d forgotten your own name for a solid five minutes.
he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“best part is, after a while… i become useful again.”
you feel the faint, stirring interest of his body against your hip, and your eyes widen.
he chuckles, a low, sleepy sound that vibrates through his chest. “give me twenty minutes. maybe thirty. i’m old.”
“you’re twenty-nine.”
“ancient,” he corrects, his arms tightening around you. “now shh. let me recharge. got a reputation to uphold.”
you settle into his embrace, your body humming with a pleasant, bone-deep exhaustion. you’re wrapped in the warmth of him, the scent of him, the ridiculousness of him. and as his breathing evens out into the soft rhythm of sleep, you find yourself smiling into his chest, already counting down the minutes until he’s “useful” again.
god i love being humiliated for being turned on. "ohh, you like that?" "are you actually getting off on this?" "ohh did that do something for you sweetheart?" hhhbhhbbh
play fighting with him where he tells you to run only to catch you and you keep struggling to get out of his grasp only for him to hold you down tight and watching you go from fighting him to loving the way he makes you feel and eventually giving into him, that kind of submission has him rock hard in his pants
to think about: him grabbing your ankle and pulling you in when you try to run away, holding your hips down when you try to wriggle out of his grasp, a hand circling around your wrists and pinning you down, him pulling your cunt into his mouth until you stop trying to get away and start chasing the pleasure he's giving you
(Left to right) 1. Hayao Miyazaki- “Totoro Was Not Made as a Nostalgia Piece” (1979-1996) // 2. Somali proverb // 3. Over the Garden Wall (2014) // 4. Richard Adams, “…But first they must catch you.” -Watership Down // 5. Chris Maser, Forest Primeval: The Natural History of an Ancient Forest // 6. Cheryl Strayed-Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail // 7. Adrienne Rich- The Dream of a Common Language // 8. Princess Mononoke (1997) // 9. Henry David Thoreau- The Dead Poets society // 10. Angela Carter-The Bloody Chamber // 11. Mushishi (2005)
summary: Atsumu x Reader. you've gone camping with your friends every summer for years. some things change, some stay the same.
wc: 1k
cw: nada
a/n: wow this is longer than i wanted it to be lmaooo it unexpectedly gave me trouble because i was struggling to balance the goofy and tender tones i wanted it to have. lmk if i struck the right chord
"yo," atsumu says around a mouthful of orange. "you want?"
"i'm okay, thanks," you say. you're staring thoughtfully across the pond, your gaze seeming to pass right through the cattail reeds. it's the last day of summer for a little more than the twentieth time in your life and the fireflies are coming out early for the occasion. it's too bright out still, the air warm, the season's lingering kiss leaving a soft red mark on your skin, so you have to tilt your head and squint to know what you're looking at. while you do this, atsumu mimics you, narrowing his eyes until he can see the light coming clear through your skin.
"so you hate me," he grouses, flopping onto his back. the grass is itchy under his bare skin, probably leaving green streaking across it, his own memento of the day. his legs are freckled with red, too, love bites from all the bugs who think his type o-negative blood is irresistable. osamu and your other friends are back at the campsite already, arguing over how to turn on kita's ancient propane grill and trying to ward suna away from eating the hot dogs cold.
"yuh-huh," you say. "you dunked me, so now i don't want your orange slices. actions have—" you shriek and dodge as he blindly reaches out to squeeze your side, a tickling sensation that gets under your skin and has since you were children. "have consequences!"
"it was only three times," he gives up and throws an arm over his face, trying to remember. "nine times."
"i'm gonna smother you in your sleep," you say, flopping back and rolling over so his body is half-covered by yours. your skin is warm against him, unusually so. he'll enjoy lording your sunburn over you, always arguing that you can't burn, running away when he tries to spray you down with sunscreen. "gimme that."
you pop a slice of orange into your mouth anyway, the juice bursting more than you'd expected and leaving your lips sticky. you'll need another dunk in the water to get clean again, and another hundred days of summer to bake yourself dry in the sun and repeat.
atsumu watches while you help yourself, your cheeks bulging out, your eyes happy, lazy half-crescents. you're still all over him, your denim shorts chafing against him uncomfortably, one leg slotted between both of his. orange juice drips down your hand onto his chest; you dip your head down and kitten lick it straight off of him.
he sighs, a despondent, horny sigh, emptied out from the day at the lake and years of practice. you're his best friend—he had a big, big, giant, massive crush on you in high school. everyone used to tease him for it, the way he'd turn bright red and walk into walls whenever you were around, two horrible years after he'd hit puberty and realized that there were more things to want then volleyball. he made you hate him, loud, vain miya atsumu, who threw balls at your head and stole pieces of your lunch and couldn't live without trying to make you look at him but didn't know anything about how to. his good fortune or bad luck, then, that you wanted to be suna's friend more than you hated him and started sitting at lunch with them and never noticed all the sneaky glances and muttered jokes at atsumu's expense until he got over it.
that was a million years ago and he loves you now: he loves you like a pinky promise, friendly and innocent and childish, and sometimes he can forget that he loves you like a man does.
"it's cold," you say with surprise, "how did you do that? bokuto was so upset when the cooler didn't work and all his ice cream bars melted."
"stuck the bag between some rocks in the creek," he grunts, mostly immune to the wonder in your eyes and the way you grope for the rest of the fruit he peeled immediately. "stop that, stop that, lemme just get it."
you do, and he crams three orange slices in your mouth at a time until you can barely close your teeth.
you try to cuss at him, but your words are trapped behind a citric wall and he laughs at you openly, jostling both of your bodies with it until you are no longer shaking with rage or him with guffaws until you're actually wrestling. you chew furiously while you push at his shoulders and he almost chokes on his mirth while he tries to hold you off from his throat.
you roll over the grass together, both of you covered in blades of grass and chlorophyll blotches, shouting obscenities.
"get off me, witch," he grasps at one of your wrists while you fist a hand in his hair, snapping his teeth at you. "geroff. i fuckin' hate you. i'm gonna tell—i'm gonna—AUGH!"
he finally rolls you over, pinning all your limbs under you. you still have a hand in his hair, a fistful of blond strands that are softer than they look, forcing his neck to bend at an awkward angle.
"i win," you say smugly.
"you're literally about to pass out," he huffs. "you're so annoyin'. just give up."
"never," you say, the word hissing from between your teeth. you're pulling his hair again, forcing him to hiss and let go of one of your wrists, and your face is coming closer. he panics—he's going to land right on top of you, mouth-to-mouth if he doesn't do something.
the air is molasses, a little bitter from the evaporated pondwater lingering in his nostrils. your lips are soft and it's not until you start moving them, opening your mouth to him to taste the remnants of orange juice on your tongue, that he realizes that you're kissing him on purpose.
you kiss like you wrestled. you wrestled because you wanted to kiss him and didn't know how to do it. you kiss for a long time, there in the grass, the crickets' song rising as the sun sets.
"i always liked you," he says, lips against your pulse point. he has so many years of kissing to get done right away.
"i see it now," you say, thinking for a moment that the fireflies are stars until you try to blink them away.
I want to write. I have ideas. I open document. I type four of the worst sentences ever created in the english language. I daydream the rest of the scene. I close document.
does running to ur bsf after breaking up ur shitty bf and crying to him about how much it hurts and asking him to fix it and totally platonically riding his thigh while u still have tears running down ur face. does that count. is that anything. and who would u see this with (i am a #1 akaashi enjoyer but im curious who u think fits)
“what else did he say?”
“he-“ you hiccup. keiji swipes his knuckle over your cheeks, unable to help himself. you plant your hands in his lap, and he has to pretend he cant feel the heat between your legs starting to warm his thigh. “he said such mean things, ‘kaashi. he called me mean things.”
“well, thats not very nice.” no, whats not very nice is the fact that hes tracing circles into your hips with his thumbs, knowing it’ll make you squirm. you rut your hips back and forth on his thigh, ticklish, and he has to tell himself that hes not very nice.
he doesnt listen to the little voice in his head, not when your breath catches like that after he flexes his thigh. not when your hips rock back and forth involuntarily, your eyelashes fluttering at the feeling.
“did he say anything else?”
keiji knows his name came up in your fight with your ex. he knows that his presence always made the guy unhappy. in keiji’s defense, he never touched you. not once. you were always just his best friend.
that doesnt totally explain why you seem so comfortable here in his lap, why hes oh so accommodating about it.
it doesnt explain why his cock twitches in his jeans when your lip wobbles on your exhale. “yeah,” you admit, and keiji can see the shame clouding your gaze. “he said i was a whore.” keiji tightens his grip, anger flaring through him, but he keeps quiet. “said i’d probably come crying to you and let you comfort me with your-“ you clam up, your cheeks burning.
he flexes his thigh again, careful not to react when you shiver and roll your hips. careful about how much pressure he puts on your hips so you dont notice that hes moving you back and forth, too.
“with my what?”
you puff your cheeks, splotchy and warm, and scrub your hand across your teary eyes. “with your cock,” you mumble half-heartedly.
keiji doesnt let you see his emotions, keeps them in check even with the strain in his jeans.
“well,” he starts, tugging you toward him suddenly. you bite down on a moan. he feels your heartbeat against his thigh.
ushijima learning how to make you cum when you first ride his huge thigh, alternating between tensing and un-tensing his muscle, hands hesitantly guiding your hips until the both of you find a rhythm. he’s pretty sure the grip he has on your hips will leave bruises tomorrow, but the way you’re whining and hiccuping into his neck tells him you’d kill him if he stopped — not that he could, not with the way your tits bounce each time he rolls you on top of his thigh, not with the cute little voice he gets out of you when you’re close, telling him how big and strong he feels under you, especially not when he feels your pussy fluttering like a heart, desperately searching for something to fill it
sooooo... I caved and made a substack :/ only a couple things up so far but more to come if anyone's interested! hoping to start writing on here again, the inspiration bug has come back to bite me :D
a short missive born from the radical act of doing absolutely nothing
when doms coo out a soft ‘there you arreee’ the moment their sub finally gives in and starts whimpering, gasping, making the prettiest noises while being absolutely ruined >>>
i don’t think you’re intimate with suo for a long time. you’re both highly intuitive people - he sees your hyper-independence and raises you emotional unavailability, so it takes a while for you two to build a a sexual rapport. but suo does want to see how you respond to taking directions, accepting praise, so he starts dropping them in throughout the day to see how you respond. “would you grab my wallet? thank you, darling,” coupled with a gentle kiss to the temple so he can feel you shiver against him. “read that passage out loud for me. i like hearing your pretty voice,” all while smiling to himself at the pleased look on your face.
and slowly, when you chafe less at his caretaking and he starts to lean on you emotionally, the two of you start getting ballistically horny for each other, and the directions take on a different bend: “relax for me, sweetheart. there you go, wrap your legs around me just like that. perfect girl. perfect fucking girl.”
boyfriend bakugou tells you to stop being a little pervert when he catches you making eyes at his bare biceps but then puts a little extra flex into everything he does
content warning(s) — f!reader, afab anatomy, and they were roommates, solo masturbation (f), toys, extreme levels of Horny, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, issei being Hot :(
author’s note — i have been writing this for Ages and it has finally (finally!) left the wip graveyard. i <3 my man and this fic hehe
“No, no, no, no, no, fuck-“ The orgasm you’ve been chasing fizzles out from beneath you, despite you trying to grasp at it with both hands like fine grains of sand slipping through your fingers.
You let out a groan of frustration, wrenching the still buzzing vibrator from your aching, sore cunt, to toss it onto the sweat-soaked sheets beside you.
It’s hot, humiliatingly so. The smell of sex lingers heavily in the air, reminding you of your failures.
This is the fourth time this week that you’ve tried to get off and have been woefully unsuccessful, but the issue has been an ongoing one.
You don’t think you’ve had a real orgasm — the toe curling, breath stealing, eyes rolling kind — in ages. Not since you broke up with your last boyfriend over 8 months ago at this point, but even then, life altering climaxes were few and far between.
For a while, you’d convinced yourself it just wasn’t possible — that you were one of the unlucky ones, forced to go through life with a shadow of the real thing, both by your hand and others.
That was until you drunkenly hooked up with a tall, dark, and handsome stranger in the bathroom of a club who ate you out until you cried and then fucked you so hard you saw fireworks.
Like actually. Starbursts behind your eyes and everything. No, you’re not being dramatic.
Unfortunately for you and your pussy, however, you were so wasted you don’t remember any of the man’s defining features at all and you were too dazed after actually cumming to ask for his phone number. Or his name, for that matter.
Not one of your better moments, but you did meet Matsukawa the next day while nursing your hangover at the local diner, a man who has since become one of your best friends and roommate so that night wasn't all for naught.
God, Matsukawa.
He’s half (two-thirds, if we’re being honest) of the reason you’re in this mess to begin with.
He’s so hot. Effortlessly so.
You knew this was the case when you met him, of course, but you had no way of knowing how close the two of you would get. Past you had no idea you would end up moving in with him and his biceps, and curly, dark hair, and patience, and dry humor, and big fucking hands, and did you mention his biceps?
It’s been hell on your libido, especially when he seems to have zero (0) sense of propriety or privacy, perfectly content to sit beside you on the couch fresh from the shower, clad in only a tiny terry cloth towel that does absolutely nothing to hide the jut of his hips and the whorls of dark hair leading down, down, down.
He doesn’t seem to think about how his hand spans the entire length of your lower back when he gently coaxes you out of his way in the kitchen, his tall, broad body slipping behind you far too close for comfort.
It’s almost like he doesn’t know his power — that you’ll do nearly anything to get him to talk to you in that rumbly baritone, a smirk playing on the corners of his full lips — but he must.
You’ve (unfortunately) been privy to his flirtations, know what it looks like when he recognizes how attractive he is and leverages it for his own gain, but those dark looks and well-placed, genuine compliments have never been sent in your direction. Well, not in the way you’d prefer.
So, you assume he’s disinterested. Which is fine! Or, it would be if you weren’t always around him and his … everything that sets your pulse racing and nether regions throbbing.
If you were regularly getting some, it probably wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but ever since you became single again, it’s like every little thing he does sets you off.
You feel like you’ve never masturbated so much in your life.
Like take this afternoon for instance, the very thing that landed you here, violently horny, sweaty and unsatisfied.
You and Matsukawa were having a lazy day, lounging around the living room in as few clothes you could manage without being entirely inappropriate — your first mistake.
It hadn’t been that big of a deal for you to leave your room in just a tank top — no bra obviously, you’re not insane enough to be uncomfortable in your own home — and your pajama shorts, but you hadn’t accounted for Matsukawa Issei, unintentional slut extraordinaire.
He was shirtless (!!!!) and wearing thin, revealing gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, the imprint of his (very proportional) cock obvious beneath the fabric. You had to fight to keep your eyes above the waist which hadn't been much easier, faced with the one tattoo that creeps over his side and up towards his pec, plaguing most of your waking thoughts.
Of course, your first instinct when gifted pure, unadulterated attractiveness was to run, to hole yourself up in your room under the guise of suddenly falling ill, but it's almost like Issei knows you and your bad habits.
He'd wrapped an arm around your waist and herded you towards the kitchen where he had filled your arms with all your favorite snacks before spinning you off in the direction of the couch with a firm smack to the ass.
You'd all but bluescreened the second he touched you, but the pat to your behind was the end of your rational mind as you knew it. Autopilot took over and carried you to the couch where you'd crammed yourself against one arm, hoping, praying he would take the hint.
Of course he didn't. (Issei has always taken pleasure in torturing you, but never like this.)
He had sat right beside you, practically plastered against your side, so close you could feel the heat radiating off of his skin. could smell the vanilla and sandalwood in his aftershave.
Maybe you would've been able to grit your teeth through the entire two hour run of Rocky, pretending like your enormous crush wasn't being broadcast across your entire being, but of course, Issei wouldn't make things easy on you.
About 10 minutes into the movie, the arm that had been previously resting on the back of the couch behind you drifted down to rest around your shoulders, startling you and drawing up your body tight.
Your roommate had laughed, low and smoky, before dragging his fingertips up and down your bare arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. It was jarring, and more than that, it was arousing. To your horror, you'd felt warmth pooling in your gut and dampening the gusset of your panties.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. You'd prayed to all that was holy that Issei didn't notice the way your legs were clenched together or the way you went entirely mute — unusual for you during a movie night, but thankfully, he didn't comment on it.
(God allows you small mercies.)
So, you sat through the entire film, feeling like you were set aflame from the inside out, but the second the credits started rolling, you were off like a shot to your room where you are now. Suffering.
You know you're going to have to face him at some point — sooner rather than later as your slick is coating your thighs and, again, the sweat — but the idea of walking past the living room where he still sits to get to the bathroom is making you borderline inert, unable to do anything but lay there for at least a few minutes longer.
After all, you're getting worked up for nothing. There's no way he knows what you were doing. The walls are too thick for that.
… right?
—//—
Matsukawa Issei is hard.
He’s so hard, he feels like he could cut diamonds with his dick (a very Makki thing to say, honestly, they need to stop hanging out so much), and has been ever since you disappeared into your room with a half-muttered, half-squeak of an excuse he didn't even catch.
And then, the moaning started.
Issei knows he should probably (definitely) tell you the walls aren't nearly as thick as you think they are, but the pervert in him would die if he couldn't hear your whimpers and whines, your sad little groans as you're hit with yet another unsatisfying orgasm.
You're his roommate, one of his closest friends and confidants, but he can't help but preen at the idea that you can't make yourself cum as hard as he did years ago.
Yes, Matsukawa is in fact the tall, dark, and handsome stranger that rocked your world at the club, a fact that you do not let him forget when you're wine drunk and lamenting your extended dry spell.
He meant to tell you, honest, the second he saw you looking absolutely miserable at a diner the next morning, but he was quickly enchanted by your biting remarks, bright eyes, and mischievous demeanor.
(Your beauty is an added bonus, of course.)
Matsukawa had left that diner a secret and brand new roommate heavier, but he wouldn't change it for the world — wouldn't change you for the world.
That doesn't mean it's easy, god no. If anything, it's been impossible. Watching you walk around in next to nothing, knowing exactly what you look like underneath. Having to listen to your frustrated moans, having your authentic noises of pleasure seared into his mind like a brand.
Pretending has never been Issei's strong suit (Oikawa and his plaid shorts know firsthand) so the last couple of years has been preying on his patience, wearing it paper thin.
Right now, where he sits on the couch — cock leaking into his boxers, the cotton rubbing against the tip with his every move, so turned on he can hardly think — Issei knows it's over.
He's tired of waiting, lying, pretending. He knows he's the only one who can give you what you want, what you need and he's sick of acting like he's not.
Invigorated (and mind-numbingly horny), Issei stands, adjusting his bulge to sit a little less… threateningly and heads for your door. He runs a hand through his curls to ground himself before raising a hand to knock, only —
The door swings open right in front of him to reveal you, clad in only an oversized jersey that is definitely his, looking sweaty, upset, and fuckable.
Your lips are bitten to hell, glossy with your spit, and there's a thin sheen of sweat across your chest and inner thighs (Mattsun cannot acknowledge the idea that might be your slick without feeling like he's dying) that's making you glow.
You look beautiful, even in your obvious confusion, the furrow in your brow getting more pronounced the longer he stands there, silent.
"Issei?" You open the door a little wider and the smell of pure, unadulterated sex hits him square in the face, sending a bolt of arousal to his gut so strong, his vision gets hazy. He clenches his jaw, fighting against the urge to consume you whole, which only seems to concern you more. "Are you okay? Did you need me?"
Does he need you? Only every goddamn second of every goddamn day, but it's not like he can say that to you.
No, Matsukawa has to play it chill. Normal. Charming. He's trying to seduce you, not scare you off.
He leans against your doorjamb, his lazy, cocksure persona slipping over him like a second skin. His eyes drag down your body, heavy enough for you to feel it like a physical sensation. You shiver and Issei bats down the urge to pounce.
"Nah, 'm good. Are you, though? Ran off pretty quick after the movie ended," his voice is raspy, low. "Wanted to check on my favorite person, make sure you weren't having a rough go of it."
Satisfaction joins the pulsing heat in his veins as he watches your pupils expand in real time, watches the way you soften like you're waiting for him to put his hands on you and mold you exactly the way you both want.
Deep inhale. Not yet.
"No, I'm - I'm good," you respond, faintly embarrassed, "Just, uh, working out. Rocky inspired me I guess, haha."
Matsukawa joins you in your awkward laughter, but his is smoky. Predatory. He watches you gulp with unabashed interest, but because he's looking so closely, he clocks the exact moment you decide to run.
Unfortunately for you, there is no running. You and Issei are inevitable and it's about time you realize that.
"Well! This was… fun, but that shower is calling my na—"
"Ah, ah, ah," Issei tuts stepping towards you, forcing you back into your room. He spots your dildo, the brightly colored silicon barely hidden by your duvet, shiny beneath your lamp, and has to take a deep, steadying breath, his cock kicking hard in his sweats. Oh, he's going to eat you alive. "Working out? That's the story you want to go with?"
Your eyes widen, chest heaving as he herds you towards your bed, looming above you. You try to stammer out a response, an excuse most definitely, but Issei is not having it.
A large hand comes up to encompass your jaw, one of his fingers resting on your lips, silencing you immediately. He can't stop himself from dragging the pad of his finger across the soft skin, reveling in the way you part so easy for him in your shock, the tip of your tongue inadvertently wetting the digit.
The action, however small, makes him inhale sharply, dick throbbing where it's trapped in his boxers.
"I-Issei, I—"
"These walls are thin, y'know. Can hear pretty much everything, especially out in the living room."
Mattsun watches in delight as the realization sets in, followed by abject horror. You wrench yourself out of his arms, mortification dripping from your every orifice as you bury your face in your hands.
"Oh, my god, I am so fucking sorry," You sit down on the bed and when you look back up at him, tears rim your eyes, collecting in your lashes. Cute. "I had no idea, I swear, okay? I'm not a - a pervert—"
Issei's low chuckle interrupts you, stopping you in your tracks. "Oh, baby. If you only knew…"
You start to open your mouth, confusion winning out against the embarrassment for a moment, but you're halted by your roommate's hand on your shoulder, carefully but firmly pushing you back until you're lying flat on your rumpled sheets.
Suddenly indignant, you try to rise, but he holds you down, a look of warning in his eyes. He knows you're feisty, it's something he loves about you, but to give you what you need, he wants you obedient.
"C'mon, be good now," he murmurs, almost distracted by the sight of you splayed out beneath him. Glassy eyes, parted lips, rucked up jersey. Matsukawa lets out a low groan when he notices you aren't wearing any underwear, the first outward sign his control is slipping.
It affects you and you go limp, your legs falling apart to give him more access, though you look away, unwilling or unable to look Issei in the eye as he takes you apart.
It's no matter. Mattsun has the whole night to get your eyes on him.
He takes your acquiesence as permission, hooking his fingers under the hem of his jersey and draaaggggingg it up, calloused fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Swathes of your skin are exposed to him — plush thighs, hard nipples, glistening thatch of hair in between your legs.
"Fuck." It's involuntary, his curse, but you're so fucking stunning, more than he remembered, that he can't help it. You're aphrodite incarnate. A goddess. He can't wait to ruin you.
Your impatient whine cuts through his mental noise and he looks up to see you, face scrunched and teary, hand covering your mouth. "Please." The sound comes out muffled, but the plea is clear.
"I have you, darling, I got you," Issei coos, finally, finally cupping his hands beneath your thighs and spreading you open, legs nearly buckling at the sight. "Jesus, baby."
You are positively soaking. Slick webs across your folds and pours from your hole to pool beneath your ass, your clit flush and swollen where it peeks out, begging for attention. You clench hard at Mattsun's inspection, moaning something unintelligible into your hands.
He ignores whatever it was in favor of dragging a finger through your slit, drenching the digit in you and laughing breathlessly when your hips jerk away from his touch.
Sensitive, clearly, and both over- and understimulated from your earlier ministrations — it's clear you don't know how to treat this cunt well. "Poor fuckin' pussy," he taps his finger against your clit to watch you moan and drip, "Too pretty for you to be treating her like this, yeah? Yeah?"
You nod, sniffling, spreading your legs even wider to give your roommate more room to do whatever he wants, something that makes Issei preen. The motion dislodges blankets around the dildo that hadn't even been well hidden to begin with, giving him an idea.
He drops the hand that had been idly playing with your pussy to grab the vibrator, running his thumb over the ridges meant to stimulate your g-spot and inner walls in interest. Your face drops when you see what he's holding and your legs spasm like you want to close them, but think better of it. Good.
You're learning.
"This is what you were using earlier?" Matsukawa waits until you nod before dragging the cold silicon through your sopping cunt. A startled moan escapes you in response, hole clenching around nothing. "And how many times did you cum?"
You look ashamed at this question, eyes darting away from his face to look at the ceiling. "None," you whisper.
While your answer isn't exactly surprising, it still makes him clench his jaw, tapping the mushroom head against your swollen clit, drawing your attention back to him with a gasp.
"How many do you want?" Issei asks, nothing if not generous. Benevolent. You blink against the pleasure, trying to focus on what he's asking you, now that he's rubbing at you with the dildo in earnest.
"T-two?" It comes out as a question and Matsukawa grins, all dark and sharp, full of promise.
"Eh. we can do better than that."
—//—
You are going to die.
You're going to die and it's going to be a beautiful, fiery, explosive death.
Sweat, slick, and cum cover every inch of your now naked body where Mattsun holds you down against the mattress and wrenches the fifth - sixth? - orgasm from your willing body, his fat cock grinding into your g-spot while he holds the vibrator to your throbbing nub, your cum spilling out around him.
Your roommate groans like you've shot him as your cunt chokes him, tries to pull him in or push him out, you don't know. You're too busy cumming so hard you can't think, eyes rolling back and body shaking under the weight of your pleasure.
"C'mon, g-god, fuck, this p-pussy's so fuckin' good," Issei grunts out, voice shaky and rough, like he's a hairsbreadth away from cumming. You're suprised he hasn't yet, not even after he coaxed two orgasms out on his fingers and another two on his dick.
He must be close, but for some reason, he's holding out, curls plastered to his forehead and toned chest glistening with the effort.
You blindly reach for the vibrator that's still buzzing against your clit, overstimulation wracking your body, but Matsukawa moves it out of reach, pressing it on the underside and picking up his thrusts again in a slow, weighty grind.
The both of you cry out at the sensations — your cunt is a vice around him. He can hardly move.
"'S-Sei," you slur, trying to look at him through bleary eyes, unable to focus. "Wan' you t'come." And you mean it too. You need to watch him fall apart over you, feel him fill you up.
He shakes his head, though, eyes focused on where the both of you are connected, on the frothy ring of cream around his base. "Gimme o-one more, baby, b-been withholding t-this sweet — fuck — p-pussy from me s-since the first t-time. Unfair."
The words make you whine and shake your head, even as your pleasure builds and builds, threatening to crest at any second. You can't even open your eyes against the onslaught, his thrusts picking up speed, heavy balls slapping against your ass. He's so girthy, it's impossible for him not to hit every inch of your cunt.
It's like your entire body is a live-wire, ready to catch fire. It only rachets up when Mattsun repositions the vibrator after pulling back the hood of your clit, your entire body bowing with the assault.
Your arms flail out, searching for something to ground you, and you find purchase when you hit solid muscle, digging your nails into the skin there. He hisses at the sensation, but he doesn't slow down — no, it seems to spur him forward, his hips snapping against yours with a vengeance.
You can feel him throb inside you, can feel his cock kick against your insides, so you know he's close. He just needs that last push.
A choked whine falls from your lips as you wrap your legs around his waist, trapping him against your cervix where you pulse around him. "C'm, cum, cum, 'Sei, need y-you inside—"
You're cut off by your orgasm cresting and crashing down on you with the weight of a freight train. You black out, starbursts exploding behind your eyes as you gush and gush and gush, the force of your orgasm threatening to dispel him if it weren't for the leglock and the tightness of your cunt.
"F-fuck, fuck—" Warmth floods your pussy, rope after rope, plugging you up and spilling out as he fucks you through it, hips shaky where they meet yours. You sigh, loosening your legs so he has space to pull out after he tosses the vibrator to the side, a veritable deluge of slick and cum slipping free and ruining the sheets beneath you.
Issei doesn't let you rest, scooping the mixture up to push it into your worn, sore hole. Your cunt spasms weakly with the intrusion, a whine breaking free from your chest without your consent. You try to push him away with quivering fingers, but he deflects with ease.
"Let me get my fill, sweetheart," he soothes, voice thready and hoarse. It spreads over you like a balm, relaxing you enough to spread your legs for him again, despite the fact it feels like you've lost sensation in your lower half. A small smile graces his face at the easy reaction. "Thank you, baby."
He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, before bending in half and licking a wide stripe up your pussy, collecting your mixed juices with a pleased hum. The sensation startles you for some reason, not having expected it, and you crack an eye open to stare him down.
"What're you doing?" Your words are nothing more than a mumble, but it seems like Mattsun hears you nonetheless as he carefully avoids your reddened, throbbing clit, of which you are very grateful.
He pulls away with a wet sound, the entire (smug) lower half of his face drenched in you. "Cleaning you up."
With a cheeky grin, Issei continues to do just that, laving his long tongue through your folds until you're no longer dripping. His licks are so gentle, so soothing, you fall into a light doze, but something he said earlier keeps you from the sweet release of sleep, niggling at your subconscious.
You crack open your eye again, taking in the sight of a naked Matsukawa appreciatively as he wipes himself down haphazardly with his jersey, before he jumps into bed beside you, bundling you up against his chest with a contented sigh.
"Can I ask you something?" Issei hums affirmatively in response, dragging his fingertips up and down your arm.
"Just did, but shoot."
You roll your eyes, and he just grins, carefree and loose. "Okay, smartass."
He pinches you playfully, laughing at your yelp. "Go, go, say what you were gonna say."
"I was going to ask," you glare over your shoulder at him before just adjusting to face him, your legs tangled together. "What did you mean when you said this wasn't the first time we've fucked?"
A miracle happens right before your eyes as your words hit Issei — he gets bashful. It's only a little bit, to be fair, just a little reddening around the edges, but this has never happened within your eyesight.
He's always cool, calm, collected, no matter what, so this side of him is rewarding to see.
You raise an eyebrow, an amused smile playing at your lips, though you try to tamp it down to little success. "What is it? I would definitely remember fucking you."
Matsukawa lets out a delighted huff of air, shaking his head. "You might not remember fucking me, but she does." He cups your pussy in his hand, laughing aloud at your scandalized look as you swat him away.
"What the fuck are you —"
No. No, no, no, no. No fucking way. No fucking way.
Realization sets in, chilling you to the marrow. Matsukawa motherfucking Issei is the man who rocked your world at the club? The one who you won't stop talking about to your roommate, Matsukawa motherfucking Issei?
You look over at him in horror and he grins at you, all proud (despite the fact his ears are still bright red). "Stop smiling, you dick!" You slap at him recklessly until he grabs your hands and pins them above your head, stealing the breath from your lungs.
He looms, that cocky grin still in place, and it hits you, with all the sublety of a brick to the back of the head. You don't really care he fucked you all those months ago and didn't tell you. Is it a little strange he kept it a secret? Well, of course, but you know you never would've gotten to this place with him — a place where you're friends, real ones — without it.
All you care about now is continuing to get fucked by him — and, all the other relationship stuff would be nice too, you reckon.
Mind made up, you lean in and press a lingering kiss to his lips, having missed it when you were braindead from all the orgasms he'd gifted you. He chases after you when you pull away, just as eager, licking into your mouth leisurely.
Neither of you are trying to reignite anything — not that you could if you wanted to; you're worn — you're just taking in each other's company, each other's taste.
Issei pulls away after a moment, lips slick and puffy, his smile softening to something adoring. "'M so glad I approached you in that diner. Even if you nearly cussed me out for it."
Your heart swells, threatening to burst free. You kiss him again, pressing small pecks all over his face until he laughs.
TAGS: pervert best friend!mattsun, massive horse cock mattsun, yandere undertones (honestly it's not that subtle LMAO), panty stealing, voyeurism, masturbation, panty fucking, penetrative sex, issei is a pathetic fucking loser, issei and yn are both freakkkkkkkkkkkssssss
a/n: i.. have nothing polite to say. this is @nectardaddy's fault. i caught a fade over this fic so i hope you all say thank you to dodger for the commission <3333
[commission honee here!]
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"I think I'm going insane."
Issei looks up from his phone, eyeing you as you flop down on the couch beside him. You look exhausted and confused, like there's something you've forgotten but you can't find it.
"Why?" he mumbles, shoving his hand into your family-size bag of chips, which he's long since claimed as his own.
"I can't find, like, most of my underwear."
He chokes, spewing chip crumbs all over his lap and your coffee table. His ears start to burn and ring, so he focuses on brushing his clothes off and clearing his throat.
You just laugh, watching him. "Sorry. Kinda TMI."
"'s fine," he mutters. "Have you checked your laundry basket?"
"'Course I did. I can't find them anywhere." You sigh. "Every time I fold my laundry, the pile gets smaller."
"Maybe your washing machine ate them."
"So many of them? And only the nice ones?"
He shakes his head, plastering a smirk to his face. "Maybe it's the universe telling you to go commando all the time."
You only smack him with a throw pillow, turning the movie back on.
—
He doesn't know when it started.
Probably sometime in college. Years ago. Far too many years ago.
Maybe it started when he found a pair on your bathroom floor one day, clearly forgotten after your shower.
Maybe it started when you'd been in a rush to change between work and a party you were going to together, your door accidently left cracked open.
Maybe it started when he dropped by your apartment unannounced one day, planning to make you dinner after a long day — only to find you cheering yourself up in your own way, a low buzz heard from your bedroom and the door cracked open, just wide enough.
Sometimes he thinks you leave it open on purpose. Sometimes he wonders how you could possibly be so forgetful.
Most times he doesn't care, because it all leads to the same result.
Him with his hands down his jeans, guilty of witnessing your private moments. Guilty of seeking them out.
Guilty of the pile of dirty underwear, shoved deep in his drawers for him to reach into late at night.
He should probably have given them back, slowly over time. But now you've noticed and mentioned it to him, so it would be too suspicious for your panties to start reappearing.
And besides… he doesn't want to give them back. They're his now. They belong to him, the same way you do.
Still, sometimes he worries that he should at least let you know. Some might argue that he should just stop, but that's not going to happen. He already knows that. So, his dilemma is whether or not he should tell you.
You are his best friend. Have been this whole time, since meeting at that boring college orientation where you'd muttered snarky comments under your breath and he'd struggled not to break into laughter.
You deserve to know. You deserve to be aware of the things he's done. You deserve to understand that your privacy hasn't been that at all, not for a long time.
But fuck, the chances of losing you are high. The chances that you'll kick and scream and freak out at him are too high, and he doesn't know how to live his life without you. You're too central to everything in his world. Losing you would ruin him.
So here he is, stuck in the torture of lying to your face about the location of your underwear. About the location about the pretty cotton pair that you'd worn yesterday, that he'd found in your laundry basket when he'd gone to the bathroom. That he'd taken from your apartment on the same night that you'd griped about missing so many of them. Even then, he couldn't help himself — it's an addiction.
That pretty cotton pair is currently wrapped around his cock, stretched tight and barely wrapping all the way around.
He moans low, his t-shirt caught between his teeth as he stares down at himself in the dark of his bedroom. There's something about the way the panties barely fit around him — without fail, he feels something deep in his gut, something primal that wonders if you would barely fit around him, too.
His cock twitches in his hand, and he's deliberate about the slow drag of his fist over the mess of fabric and pre-cum.
He wonders if you would cry and whine about the stretch, or if you would take it with no more than a grit of your teeth and some heavy breathing. If you would want to show him you could do it.
You'd always been that way with him. Determined to be independent, to brush off all his attempts to spoil and pamper you.
"I'm a big girl, Mattsun," you'd say, and he'd just bite his tongue, because he always an unspeakable opinion about that particular string of words on your lips.
Would you be that way in this situation, too? With his hands pushing your thighs apart until you hiss and your knees touching your ears and his name on your tongue? Would you still pretend he's not too big for you?
Or would you fall apart, just for him?
The thought pushes him right over the edge, with a choked moan and his cum coating your panties over and over again.
He breathes heavy, dropping his shirt from between his teeth and wiping his hand on your underwear. He wipes them off hastily with a tissue and tosses them into his laundry basket, relishing in the sight of your pretty cotton panties sitting on top of his all-black pile of clothes.
Yeah. He can't give these back. He's attached.
—
A week goes by. In that span of time, Issei goes through the hell of a lifetime.
On Monday, he arrives at your place with a pizza box and is immediately greeted by a pair of your underwear on the floor by the couch. He freezes, staring down at them and trying to locate the source of his heartbeat, because it's all over the place.
And then you come around the corner, jumping when you see him and saying something along the lines of 'using my house key without telling me is some pervert, creep shit'.
He just laughs it off, his voice tight, and sets the pizza box on the table before kicking your underwear — black lace with little flowers that make his mouth water — into your view with his toe.
"Think I found your missing garments."
He has the pleasure of witnessing the burning flush on your skin, but you don't move to grab them.
"They're new. I'm replacing what I lost."
Issei's just found his next target of robbery. "Ah, okay. And they're here instead of in your hamper because…?"
Your flush is darker. He knows what he's going to think about later.
"Can you toss them to me?"
His brain misfires, stalls. "What?"
You gesture to them. "Toss."
"You want me to touch these? Aren't they dirty?" God, he hopes you say yes.
"Not if you don't think about it for too long."
That makes no sense, and he knows you know it. But he's already halfway bent over, worried that any more prompting will have you doing the task yourself.
"Here, freak." He makes sure to sneakily grab them by the gusset, his cock twitching when he feels that they're damp. These aren't a day old like he'd thought — they're fresh.
The fabric flies across the room to you, and you snatch them out of the air, turning toward your bathroom. The moment you're gone, Issei's shoving his hand down his pants and touching himself, the moment brief but successful in making him rock hard.
By the time you're back — only seconds have passed — he's settling into the couch and grabbing a throw pillow for his lap.
The two of you eat straight from the box while you watch TV, Issei careful to only use his clean hand, and then he disappears to the bathroom. It only takes him five minutes to fuck his fist and come silently into a wad of toilet paper.
When he comes back, red in the face, he answers your questioning look with a gruff 'pizza did a number on me' and lets you give him a grossed-out look.
Better than letting you know what he was actually doing.
—
On Tuesday night, long after you'd texted him goodnight and long after he'd fallen asleep, he wakes to the buzz of a text message. When he squints at the notification, he realizes it's a photo you've sent him. He wonders why you're up — it's almost three in the morning.
Oh.
It's a nude.
Issei blinks, blinks again. Puts the phone down and settles back into sleep, wonders when he'll wake from this dream.
Opens his eyes, reaches for his phone again, just to check.
It's still there. Along with more messages from you.
[2:53 AM]
you: HOLY FUCK
you: SHIT
you: FUCK
you: HOW DO I DELETE A MESSAGE
you: DONT LOOK AT THAT
you: ILL KILL YOU MATTSUN
Issei stares down at the screen, eyes flicking between your incoming barrage of texts and the shot of your arched back, body clad in nothing but see-through underwear. Pastel pink, but it doesn't matter because the fabric is mesh and the photo's taken from the back, so he's just staring right at your cunt, completely visible.
[2:54 AM]
you: FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
you: I CAN SEE YOU READING THESE
you: LOOK AWAY MATSUKAWA ISSEI
you: ILL KILL YOU AND STICK YOUR HEAD ON THE ANTENNA OF MY CAR
He shakes himself out of his stupor and types up a response, fingers trembling.
[2:54 AM]
Issei: i'd like the record to show
Issei: that i did nothing but be here
You: IM GONNA MURDER YOU AND THEN MARCH AROUND WITH YOUR HEAD ON A STICK
Issei: thats quite the artistic photo
Issei: have you considered a career in it
You: LOOK AWAY
You: PROMISE ME YOU WONT LOOK
Issei: i wont look
He doesn't say 'promise', because he already has his hand wrapped tight around his cock.
—
He doesn't bring up the photo, and you eventually figure out how to delete it. He doesn't tell you he'd long saved it to his phone by then, that he'd gotten cum all over his screen, that it had only taken him a few hard strokes to get there.
He just comes by on Wednesday, a box of chocolate in hand as an olive branch, because he knows that — even though it's not his fault — you would only let this go if he lets you blame it on him. And he admits, he does feel a little guilty, same as he always does, for jerking off to the thought of you. Well — the image of you, this time.
So he lets you blame it on him. Lets you smack him on the chest with about as much ire as a bunny, lets you snatch the chocolate from him and cradle it in your arms before letting him in the door.
Leaves it be, until you bring it up. Because if you're going to talk about it, he's not going to be accused of instigating.
"You really didn't look at it, right?"
His eyes flick up from his phone, where he's been settled into his usual spot for an hour already. You're watching him, picking at your nails in what he knows is an anxious habit.
He looks back at his phone, shaking his head. "Nope."
"Not once?"
He looks at you again, eyebrows raised. "I mean, obviously I saw it. But I didn't look again." Lie. "I wouldn't do that to you." Lie. "You know me."
Lie.
You don't know him. Not really. Not everything.
You don't know that it had only taken him a few strokes to come, because he knows now what you look like naked. He knows now, from just one glance, what it would look like to stretch you out. To make you cry when it hurts.
Issei shifts, hiding the tent that's straining against his jeans.
You sigh, nod. Pop another chocolate in your mouth and turn to the TV. He thinks it's finally over.
After another hour, you stretch and yawn, arms high over your head. Issei's trained himself to glance fast and easy, to catch a glimpse of your exposed skin and then look away before you ever notice.
"Did you still wanna go out to eat?" you ask, starting to stand.
He nods simply, knowing very well what comes next. "Yeah."
"'Kay. Gonna get ready."
"Hurry up. I'm hungry."
"Alright, alright," you complain, padding quickly down the hall.
He knows exactly how many seconds to wait before standing, knows how to move through your apartment, knows where to step so that you don't hear him coming.
Knows that he will feel bad about this, like he feels bad about everything, but that he won't ever stop.
You forgot to close the door again. He finds it ironic, that you were so worried about what he'd seen of you but weren't careful about the door.
Just like you weren't careful about the nude.
Just like you're never careful about anyting.
It should concern him, but he's mostly just grateful that it's him and not some other scumbag that gets this privilege.
He peeks through the gap, catching the familiar sight of you stripping, your hands tugging your shirt up and over your head. He lets his eyes linger on your chest, lets himself get hard at the sight, because no one looks like you. No one else meets his every fantasy, which he knows quite well is designed after you.
No one will ever be you.
He swallows, palming himself through his jeans, and leans forward, watching the way your back arches when you pull your pants down your legs.
He watches, hypnotized, when you tug your sports bra over your head so you can replace it with a real bra. Watches the way your tits bounce, watches the way your massage them with a grimace on your face. They must hurt. You must be ovulating.
His mouth waters. There's something seriously wrong with him.
He pulls away from the door quickly, knowing that your dresser is against the same wall and that you'll be turning toward him in half a second. He backs up slow but quiet, his steps to get away the same he takes to get here, every time.
He's on the couch when you emerge, right where you left him.
"Ready?"
He just grunts his agreement and rises, adjusting himself in his jeans as he follows you to the door.
—
It's on Thursday that he almost dies. Truly and genuinely almost dies.
He comes by, like he always does, without permission. Just makes his way to you, like he always does, without thinking about it. He unlocks your door like it's his, leaves his shoes by the door like he lives here. Plans to wait on your couch for you to get home, plans to relax in your place and fuck around on his phone until you get back, because, above all else and no matter what he's done, it's your company he craves most.
He's been sinking into your cushions for about ten minutes when he hears his name being called. Figures you must have heard him come in, must be finishing work in your room. He stands, still distracted by his phone, and pads down the hall to your room. Follows the path that's quiet without even realizing, because it's a habit — a terrible, horrible habit — by now.
Stops at your door, pushes it open slightly with his knuckle.
Looks up from his phone finally.
Freezes.
Watches, unseeing, as you slide two fingers in and out of your cunt, curling at the top and whining when they meet their mark.
His brain stutters, shuts down, flashes through the scene like photos.
Blindfold, tits out, legs spread wide, drool, squelch, squelch, squelch-
"Mattsun-"
Oh.
Your head is tilted back, the blindfold white and wrapped tight around your face. It's the only reason you haven't seen him yet, he realizes.
You have no idea he's here, and if he stands right here and doesn't move, you never will.
Oh.
He should leave.
He should leave.
He should-
"Nggh-Iss-ei-"
The syllables of his name fall out in time with the smack of your palm against your clit.
Everything's so wet. You're so wet. He can see the puddle you're leaving on the blanket. When you pull your fingers out and circle your clit a few times before shoving them back in, you hiss at the stretch.
Shivers run down his spine. Two fingers is enough to make you wince. Two of your fingers, not his.
It's all too easy to imagine the tears that would fall from your pretty eyes and the cry that would fall from your pretty little mouth as he bullies his cock into you.
Issei grips your doorframe, trembling, ears ringing. His jeans are wet.
He just came in his pants.
Oh, god.
He backs away from the door, needing to get away from this. Away from you.
It's as he's slipping your front door closed silently behind him that he hears you come, loud and echoing. His name, echoing.
—
He wants to avoid you. He desperately knows that he should, that he needs to get over this, because coming in his pants just from watching you means that something is seriously, seriously wrong with him. If he's that desperate — that easy — then he really has to stop. Even in a world where you want him (he's still partially convinced he hallucinated that part), you would never want him if you know what he's done.
And he knows he can't keep it from you. He can't keep it a secret until he dies. Even if he tries, it would become painfully clear there's something you're not telling him if you realize how easy it is to make him come. That just looking at you makes him ruin his jeans.
No, this needs to end.
But…
Maybe just one more.
—
He's gripping hard and stroking fast, teeth gnawing into the hem of his t-shirt. He's got your panties around his cock, like he always fucking does, and he's relishing in how tight they are. How tight you would be, and he knows that now. He knows that, and it kills him.
He needs to move fast, because you've just left to pick up the takeout order, and he needs to finish and clean up before you get back. He's already planning how to sneak them out of here. They're the new ones — how long would it take you to notice?
He should be doing this in the bathroom. Even in your bedroom, something with a closed door where he can have enough to time to come up with an excuse.
He shouldn't be jerking off to the thought of you jerking off, in your living room, with your underwear wrapped around his cock.
But he knows that you'd done it, too, not that long ago, and the image of you fucking yourself on your couch, his name on your tongue, makes his mouth dry and his dick hard, so he knows it needs to happen here. If he's going to be done before you get back, it needs to happen here.
"Having fun?"
Matsukawa Issei thinks he's died and gone straight to hell.
He chokes, sitting straight up and then bending in half to hide himself.
You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes trained evenly on his. He stares back, eyes wide and fear coursing through his blood — the life-or-death kind.
"I-" His throat dries up, and he starts to cough, scrambling to shove his dick in his pants, not daring to look down and be faced with the sight of your underwear in a place they should never be.
"Well? Are you?"
You don't sound mad. That almost scares him more.
"Y/n-"
"How long?"
He stands, backing far away from you in order to keep the distance, just in case you start swinging. "Y/n, just wait-"
"How long, Issei?"
He shivers. He can't help the memory of you moaning his name from crossing his mind. "I-I don't know."
"You don't know?" you say, stepping further into the room. Issei hopes it doesn't hurt too much when you bash his head in with a lamp. "Okay. Let's say you don't know."
"I don't-"
"Where's the rest of my underwear?"
He swallows, looks away. "My place."
"No, I know that part." His gaze flashes to yours, full of surprise. You keep going. "I'm asking where. I looked everywhere."
"You-"
It's in this precise moment that Issei remembers — crucially, importantly — that you have keys to his place, too.
He stares, processing, and then looks around, glances into the kitchen. There's nothing on the counter. "Where's the takeout?"
You smile. It promises that evil things will happen to him. "I didn't order it."
"Wha-Then," he starts, shaking. "Where did you-Did you go to my house?"
"Nope," you say casually. "Just sat in my car for ten minutes, waiting for you to do what you always do." You place a firm hand on his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.
When had you gotten so close? When had he let that happen?
"I was waiting," you say quietly. "Because you're just that easy, Issei. Just that predictable."
He doesn't know what's happening anymore. His feet are moving, and he registers in the back of his mind that you're pulling him back to the couch, but he's not comprehending.
You shove once, and the backs of his legs hit the couch, and suddenly you're towering over him.
"You're easy, Issei. All it takes is me leaving my door cracked, seriously?" You laugh. He feels mocked.
But he's realizing.
"Leaving your-"
"All it takes is a pair of panties on the floor, and suddenly you're jerking off on my couch?" You drop down over him, thighs on either side of his, and press your hands to his chest. "All it takes is a single photograph, Issei?"
Oh.
He's a fucking idiot.
"Or was it something else?" you whisper, mouth pressed to the shell of his ear. He's hard again, despite the fear that lingers. "Maybe the sound of me moaning your name while I fuck myself?"
He's so fucked.
"H-How long have you-"
"The whole time," you cut him off. He can feel your lips curl into a smile. "Do you think I'm that stupid? You think I don't know what you are?"
Then, you don't need him to say how long it's been since he started this terrible cycle. You already know. You just wanted him to say it.
"I'm not a-"
"You are," you laugh, leaning back to look straight into his eyes. "You're a fucking freak, Mattsun. You're a pervert."
He hates that his dick throbs.
"Admit it," you urge. When he shakes his head, you tut, a fake frown painting over your face. "Admit it, Mattsun."
"No."
The frown goes away. It's replaced by a cutting stare, and that fear — that life-or-death, hunted for sport fear — is back tenfold.
You roll your hips over his.
A moan falls past his lips, loud and desperate.
Your grin is evil, wicked.
Your hands drop to his jeans, still undone and messily hidden under his shirt. You yank them down, exposing the fabric of your underwear — black lace with little flowers that makes his mouth water, even now.
They're tangled around his cock, which is hard and angry and throbbing.
"Not a pervert, Mattsun?"
He can't deny it, but he can't bring himself to say it.
You pull his dick out of his pants, and his head falls back, mouth dropped open, because your hands are so cold and so small compared to his, and he really needs to stop thinking about that, or he's going to come right here, right now-
You lift off of his thighs and reach down between your legs. "If you're going to use me to get off, I'm gonna use you, too."
Issei's head flies up in alarm, and his hands grip your hips tight, stopping you. "Wait. Wait, wait. You're not prepped-"
You yank one of his hands off and pull it between your legs, guiding him to push your panties aside.
You're completely soaked.
Issei groans low and loud, hips thrusting up into the hand you still have on him. You beam down at him, using that hand to slowly — tortuously — roll your messed up, stretched out, brand new lace underwear down his shaft until they sit pretty around the base of his cock.
He twitches when they're a little too tight, and you laugh breathily. "I knew you were gonna be big, but I didn't know it would be like this, Mattsun."
He whines, unable to think about the implications of you wondering how big he'd be.
When you press the tip of his cock against your entrance, it fits snug and tight, unable to slip in. He has to grip the base of his cock — ignoring the underwear — just so he doesn't come like this.
You work against the pressure, and it eventually pushes past your hole with a slight pop that makes both of you jump and moan. You shiver, your hands gripping hard to his shoulders. He doesn't say anything about the sharp dig of your nails, unable to care about anything but the static in his brain that renders him useless while you slowly coax yourself down his cock.
When your hips finally settle on his, you're trembling and sweating and there's a deep frown lodged into your features. And he's suddenly reminded of that thought he'd had, wondering if you'd cry or take it like a champ.
He was wrong.
You do both.
A tear slips past your eyelashes, sliding down your cheek, and you're clinging to him with a very painful clawing of your nails into his skin, but you're also rolling your hips slowly, back and forth. Back and forth. Wincing and whining, but rolling back and forth. Determined to get used to him.
Issei is useless. He's fucking useless, his hands just laid limply on the couch and his chest rising and falling in fast and uneven breaths.
He'd only ever imagined being in control, taking you and watching you struggle, comforting you while you whine.
He has no control here. He's not even sure he's conscious anymore.
You grind forward one more time, and suddenly the sound that falls past your lips isn't a pained whine. It's a moan, low and breathy, and your nails are easing up on his shoulders, and you're very slowly shifting your weight and starting to bounce.
It's slow, subtle, and barely any movement on his cock, but he's still shivering and moaning and trying to get used to the squeeze of you around him. And then your mouth is on his and he's kissing you back open-mouthed, because he's trying so hard to get his body to respond but nothing's working.
His vision starts to go black when you finally get enough height on your bounce that there's a quiet plap, plap, plap that's echoing in his ears when your thighs hit his.
He feels pathetic.
"Admit it, Issei," you breathe, shaky and pleading. "Admit you're a pervert. Admit you like watching me and stealing my stuff and thinking about me."
He still wants to deny it. He knows it's true, but his pride is pressing down on him, trying to keep him from admitting just what a terrible person he is.
But then you whine low and let a single word pass through your lips.
"Please."
You need this.
You need him to admit the terrible things he's done to you.
You need him to say it, because then it makes it okay that you like it so much.
You and Issei are just the same.
He swallows hard, eyes still unseeing as he stares up at the ceiling but his hands finally finding purchase on your hips.
"Take your underwear," he grunts, suddenly painfully aware of the lacy, sticky mess that's still wrapped around his cock, trapped between you. "Take 'em and use 'em. Keep 'em at my place. Don't wanna give 'em back."
You moan pathetically, dropping your head to his shoulder. "Keep 'em," you whisper.
He shivers. "Watch you change. Watch you shower. So pretty."
You lift your shirt to show him your breasts as they bounce, and he shudders visibly, finally given permission to look.
"Saved that photo."
You throw your head back and moan, hands flying to his shoulders again. The gentle plaps have grown into a loud, lewd, echoing sound, and it's yanking him closer and closer to the edge.
And then he admits the truth, and it sends you hurdling right into your orgasm.
"Been creeping on you for years," he mutters. "Years, Y/n."
You still, your back arched and your mouth dropped open and your body shivering again and again and again against his.
You clench so hard around him that his body jerks and he can barely get out a choked groan before he's spilling into you.
He's trembling, long after he's done coming, and he can't find the breath in his lungs. But you're slumped against him, shaking like a leaf, and he thinks maybe it's okay that this moment changed his life.
You don't lift away to talk to him. He's not sure that you can. You just whisper into his chest, and he just wraps his arms around you, keeping you close.
"You can keep doing it. If you want."
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