As you glance down at the skimpy, khaki skirt and blue shirt that’s missing far too many buttons on the top end, topped off with a silky, patterned yellow tie and heels that may actually kill you, you find yourself wondering again who in their right mind let Gojo pitch Secret Santa-style costumes for the Halloween party.
18+ ONLY
wc — 5.5k
content — enemies to lovers speed run, protective Nanami, soft dom!Nanami vibes, "fucking it out", gagged with a tie, oral fixation, spit kink, spitting in mouth, fingering, squirting, handjob, choking, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, creampie, washing machine sex, wall sex, praise kink, Nanami’s big dick
— AKA what if nobody went to Shibuya and everyone went to a Halloween party instead?
╰┈➤ kinktober masterlist
“You’re joking, right?”
There’s a familiar chuckle that rings out over the phone, one that often signifies nothing good is to come when you’re on the receiving end of it.
“Does everything fit?” Gojo asks coyly, as if he’s incapable of hearing the thinly-veiled threat in your prior question. It wouldn’t be the first time.
You glare at your phone where it’s perched atop your dresser before returning your gaze to the mirror in front of you, readjusting the blue button down shirt once again in an attempt to keep your chest at least modestly covered—it’s a lost cause.
“Well, this shirt’s somehow missing half the buttons from the top,” you respond dryly, moving on to fix the silky, yellow tie with black spots that’s secured loosely around your neck.
This is a disaster waiting to happen.
“And?”
“And my ass is basically hanging out of this skirt,” you continue, roughly tugging the khaki-coloured material down in vain, as if that will persuade it to extend past its otherwise permanent resting place against your very upper thighs.
“I really don’t see what the problem is.”
Kicking at the precariously tall pair of heels sitting on the floor waiting to wreck your feet, you grumble, “I can’t even walk in heels.”
“Shoko’s house is small. You’ll be fine.”
You walk over to your bed, eyeing the gift bag that Gojo had left sitting on your desk at the school earlier this morning. Something still remains neatly placed at the bottom—a lacy, red lingerie set.
“Should I ask why you bought me lingerie, too? I don’t see how that’s part of the costume. Unless Nanami likes wearing thongs on his days off.”
There’s that fucking chuckle again.
“Nanami-kun loves the color red, don’t you know?”
An unwelcome flash of heat flares white-hot in your gut at the implication behind his words, and you’re mortified. “You’re aware we hate each other, right? Have you been living under a rock? He’ll probably turn around and leave as soon as he walks in and sees me wearing this.”
Gojo’s chuckle turns into an outright laugh, and you can practically hear him shoving his stupid blindfold up to wipe away the tears of amusement prickling at the corners of his ridiculously blue eyes.
“Hate? Yeah, sure. Alright.”
Asshole.
You hang up on him.
–
You had the (dis)pleasure of becoming acquainted with Kento Nanami just over a year ago, shortly after Gojo roped him back into the world of jujutsu sorcery, despite his best efforts to avoid it during his stint as a salaryman. Given that Jujutsu High isn’t exactly brimming with a large roster of full-fledged sorcerers, the two of you have—naturally—been paired up on your fair share of cases.
To say that you don’t work well together is an understatement.
Nanami’s straightforward and calculated way of operating in the field is a direct contrast to your fast and loose approach, one that relies heavily on acting on your feelings in the heat of the moment, rather than calculating precise, measured ratios that guarantee a critical hit.
You’re too reckless.
Too emotional.
Too spontaneous.
Too sentimental.
You grate on him much in the way Gojo does, but whereas there are years of friendship that give Nanami the patience to put up with the strongest sorcerer’s antics, he has no reason to extend that same courtesy to you.
Needless to say, he’d outright balked when Gojo happily announced that you were a grade 1 sorcerer as well, something that never fails to ruffle his feathers as he watches you flirt with dangerous situations time and time again just for the thrill of it, saving your finishing blow of cursed energy for the last possible moment.
“I can’t work with someone who’s actively trying to get themselves killed,” you’d overheard him snapping at Gojo after your second mission together. “She’s worse than you.”
“She always gets the job done, doesn’t she?”
“At the cost of my sanity, I can’t say it’s worth it.”
Admittedly, you may or may not exacerbate the issue on occasion, exaggerating the aforementioned behavior that you know gets on his nerves just to further get a rise out of him in your attempts to try and dislodge the perpetual stick that’s lodged up his ass.
–
When Shoko opens the door to her apartment later that evening, the sounds of music and laughter spilling out onto her front step, she takes one look at your costume, eyes wide, and laughs, “Oh, Nanami is going to love this.”
You exhale dramatically through your nose, though the exasperated gesture is thrown off by the way you then proceed to shiver, your meager outfit doing little to protect you from the crisp October air. “Tell me again why we didn’t veto Gojo’s Secret Santa Halloween?”
She shrugs, stepping aside to let you in as she offers you a knowing glance. “I seem to remember you saying how fun it would be to surprise each other with costumes.”
“That was before he picked my name,” you lament, glancing down at the outfit that you’ve now begun to refer to as The Slutty Salaryman.
“Guess I’m lucky you picked me, then,” she winks, waving a hand to show off the far more modest and fun rendition of Principal Yaga that you’d put together for her, complete with a faux cursed corpse seated on her shoulder with large googly eyes glued to its little bear face. “If it makes you feel any better, someone with a sense of humor clearly got Gojo.”
Careful not to trip and fall to your death in the heels as you head through the entryway to the party beyond, which is bustling with a mixture of familiar faces and strangers alike, you scan the room for a tall head of white hair. True to Shoko’s words, you’re not at all disappointed when you catch sight of Gojo dressed as Gakuganji, looking completely ridiculous with fake facial hair, crudely drawn makeup to add decades to his appearance, and loose-fitting pants that are amusingly unflattering on his lean frame.
It’s not quite revenge, but it’ll do.
–
Two hours pass without a sign of the man you’re dressed as, and for a moment, you’re relieved at the thought that perhaps you’re off the hook. Every little smug, knowing grin Gojo’s been tossing your way will have been for naught.
But perhaps just to spite you, the front door swings open the moment you take a celebratory swig from the glass of wine in your hands, leaving Shoko to pound on your back while you start choking on the liquid at the goddamn sight standing before you.
Nanami’s dressed as Gojo.
Sort of.
His blonde hair can’t quite disobey the laws of gravity like the other sorcerer’s stark white locks, so it hangs soft and loose over the white blindfold on his face, which is lifted just enough over one eye so he can actually see. Rather than don Gojo’s typical uniform, Nanami’s in an all-black suit (save for the tie he never goes anywhere without), the well-fitting material leaving little to the imagination as it snugly hugs his muscled arms and thick thighs.
You’re too distracted to respond to the way Shoko’s snickering in your ear, and when Nanami turns around to talk to someone—thus offering you a view of the outfit from behind—you choke again.
Naturally, you spend the next hour doing everything in your power to avoid Nanami for reasons you’re not quite ready to examine, utilizing an excessive amount of mental gymnastics to justify the way you keep dipping out of conversations every time you catch a flash of blonde hair out of the corner of your eye. The confusing mixture of feelings you’re experiencing has sent your fight-or-flight response into overdrive.
Your concerted efforts take a nosedive when a far-too-observant Gojo manages to wrangle the two of you into a conversation before you can find an excuse to be somewhere else. It’s disastrous at best, Nanami offering a blunt, disinterested list of every poor decision he felt that you made when Gojo asks how your joint assignment the other day went.
And just when you’re about to lay into Nanami about how difficult he made that mission, Shoko grabs you by the hip, resting her head on your shoulder with a smile as she turns to him and asks in a calculating tone, “Nanami-kun, doesn’t her costume look great?”
He glances at you with a gaze full of disinterest before turning to Gojo with an unimpressed look. “I’d never wear such a cheap tie.”
Nanami walks away to get another drink before you can think of a good comeback, though admittedly, the tie is a terrible knock off.
—
“Shit, sorry!”
Cold beer splashes across your chest and soaks the front of your shirt as a man trips and stumbles in your direction, and you groan in annoyance at the feeling of the sticky liquid dripping down your skin. Despite the fact that you wave him off, heading toward the kitchen in search of paper towels, he follows you, spilling out a string of apologies as he himself scrambles for a pile of napkins.
It’s an awkward shuffle of you trying to clean your chest off without flashing him and the man getting entirely too close as he awkwardly makes an attempt to dab your shirt dry. To your relief, he doesn’t make it that far, the fingers now wrapped around his wrist halting his arm midair.
“She’s fine.”
Nanami.
The blindfold is long gone, leaving behind the rare sight of him with no glasses and soft, tousled hair. Internally, you scramble to rustle up the familiar feeling of annoyance that always weighs heavily in your gut at the sight of him. Instead, it’s all you can do to try and keep the hitch in your breath inaudible as you feel your stupid heart trip over itself.
“I’m just—”
“Do you need his help?” Nanami interrupts the man’s slightly slurred words, directing his steely gaze to you.
For all of the endless comebacks you can normally conjure up to hurl back at him between one breath and the next, you’re temporarily rendered speechless in confusion as to why he’s helping you. So instead, you just shake your head.
“She doesn’t need your help,” he repeats, nothing friendly in the way he says it.
The man apologizes again as he drops your arm and scurries from the kitchen, and you turn away from Nanami, leaning against the counter as you attempt to catch your breath and school your expression into something that doesn’t scream, “Why the fuck was that so hot?”
“Are you alright?” he asks carefully, the tinge of concern in his voice sinking into your bones.
Hand coming up short from the now-empty paper towel roll, you let out a sound of frustration, though it’s moreso due to the infuriating way your body’s been reacting all night to a man you normally can’t even be in the same room with without arguing about something.
“Like you said, I’m fine,” you tell him sarcastically, spinning around and pushing past him to grab napkins from the table instead. When all else fails, deflect.
Unfortunately, spinning in heels is arguably one of your worst decisions of the evening, because you instantly lose your balance on the smooth tile floor. When you try to right yourself mid-step, the room tilts as the heel on one shoe cracks under the pressure. Your hands fly up to break your inevitable fall, but it never comes, a pair of arms wrapping firmly around your body and catching you.
Body momentarily on an angle as Nanami holds you against his warm, solid frame, you look up at him with a dumbfounded expression. If he did this in the field, you’d have jumped out of his hold with a snarky remark about not needing his help.
But right now?
Right now, you don’t know what you want.
He stares down at you, nonplussed. “You can’t walk in heels,” he observes.
You blink.
“I can’t walk in heels,” you concede, for once not brimming with the fire to argue.
“And you’re still dripping wet.”
Nanami lifts you back into a standing position, napkins clutched in one hand as he stands on your side with the broken heel and wraps an arm around your waist, helping you to walk. You desperately try to ignore the way it feels to be tucked against him.
You hate him.
Right?
He has you facing the short hallway that you know leads to Shoko’s laundry room instead of the living room. “Should I ask where you’re taking me?”
He looks at you, sighing and shaking his head as he walks you toward another door, flicking on the light before he suddenly hoists you up without warning. You yelp at the feeling of something cold touching the backs of your thighs, short skirt and thin tights doing nothing to protect you from the metal surface you’re now sitting on. Glancing down, you realize he’s put you on top of the washer.
“Here,” he unceremoniously drops the pile of napkins into your lap. “I thought you might want to clean yourself up somewhere more private, given that you seem to be missing most of the buttons on your shirt.”
Is that fucking sarcasm in his voice?
He waves his hand in the direction of the damp blue button down, as if it’s not meant to be an imitation of his trademark outfit.
“And what are you going to d—”
You’re cut off by your own gasp at the feeling of Nanami’s hand wrapping around your ankle, the gentleness of the gesture a stark contrast to the way he’d nearly manhandled the stranger in the kitchen. He raises an eyebrow, holding up the broken-off heel in his other hand.
“Can’t have you limping around Shoko’s house the rest of the night, can we? That’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
You can’t bring yourself to argue, too mesmerized by the way he drags a hand through his blonde hair to push it out of his face, the stubborn locks fighting their way back across his forehead as his brows furrow together in concentration.
You want to card your own hands through it, to see what kind of expression his face will morph into.
No.
“I think they’re a lost cause,” you sigh, leaning forward to take them off and admit defeat. You’re sure Shoko has a pair of slippers somewhere.
You get a face full of Nanami’s hair instead as he beats you to the punch, his long, deft fingers making surprisingly quick work of the tiny buckles as you try not to make it too obvious that you’re now purposely inhaling the scent of his shampoo for whatever fucking reason has compelled your traitorous body to do so.
This entire night is a write off at this point.
Head elsewhere, you belatedly realize that your legs are spread far too wide for the microscopic length of your skirt, which may be why Nanami’s gaze has remained dutifully trained on your feet, rather than the bright red thong you know is staring him in the face. You try not to make it too obvious as you inch your thighs back together.
Putting your shoes on top of the dryer, Nanami goes to leave, turning his head to the side once he’s facing the door, “Do you want me to get Shoko?”
You should say yes.
You should say yes and watch him go back out to the party, letting the door swing shut on this strange, baffling detour in your contemptuous, stormy relationship.
You’ll go home and sleep off the tightening of your throat and the pressure in your chest, these hazy, confusing feelings sure to fade in the night, long gone after sunrise like the evaporation of morning dew.
But you’ve never been one to make things easy for yourself.
“So that’s it?”
Nanami turns around fully, eyes meeting yours. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully.
“You’re just going to go back out to the party?” You’re not sure why you’re pushing him.
He takes two slow steps back toward you, hip brushing against your knee when he comes to a stop. “Are you incapable of getting off of the washer without hurting yourself, too?”
There’s an unfamiliar, teasing lilt to the way he says it, and you shift in place, blood prickling hot beneath your skin. What’s wrong with you tonight?
“You really have nothing to say about my costume?” The words are out of your mouth faster than you can take back the idle thought that’s been nagging you since he walked in the door.
Since you caught him looking at you from across the room several times after his initial biting remark about the tie, his expression unreadable.
Nanami scoffs quietly, the scent of his cologne licking its way up your nostrils as he leans one hand atop the washer, just beside your thigh. Veins bulge against his forearm, and you find yourself wondering when he rolled his sleeves up.
Electricity shoots down your spine as a caress of hot breath tickles the shell of your ear. “What do you want me to say?”
You stare straight ahead, not turning to face him. “How much you hate it.”
The air in the small room is thick with the tension that hangs heavily in the scant space between your bodies. Nanami’s quiet for a moment.
“I do hate it.”
Why do you feel so disappointed by the response you knew you’d get?
Then, his dress shoes scuff against the floor, his right hand coming to rest on your other side as he slides over and cages you in entirely.
“I hate how badly it makes me want to fuck you,” he breathes out.
Suddenly, you feel far too hot and dizzy to be perched atop Shoko’s washer. “What?”
He chuckles darkly. “Don’t act stupid, princess.”
The air feels like it’s rattling in your chest as you inhale, your increased intake of oxygen doing nothing to clear your clouded brain. “You hate me,” you say dumbly.
His thumb twitches, brushing against the outside of your thigh where there’s a small run in your sheer stockings. The contact is so minimal, you barely feel it, but it leaves a burning hot brand echoing through your nervous system all the same.
Despite the fact that he has you caged atop the washing machine, he’s barely touching you, his body arched just enough to avoid the idle sway of your legs. His tie dangles in the space between your bodies, and you have to fight the urge to wrap your fingers around it and tug.
Nanami stares at you, an odd expression on his face. “I hate the way you make me feel,” he corrects you.
Oh.
“But you—”
“You’re reckless.”
“I’m—”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Well—”
“You’re too fucking smart to be risking your life in jujutsu sorcery.”
“You’re one to tal—”
“Too talented—”
“Well that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever—”
“—you have no regard for your own life in the field.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“You infuriate me to no end—”
“Are you hitting on me or trying to hurt my feelings I really can’t te—”
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he rasps, chest heaving.
You stare at him, blinking slowly. “The feeling’s mutual.”
He runs his tongue over his lower lip. “I can’t stand it.”
You can hardly hear the sounds of the party anymore.
“Then do something about it.”
Nanami’s lips come crashing into yours, and every flickering ember in your body flares to life.
There’s a dizzying precision to the way Nanami kisses, mouth claiming yours so thoroughly that a moan crawls its way up your throat before he’s even begun to skirt the seam of your lips with his tongue. Your lips part for him, and he deepens the kiss, one hand cupping the back of your head as his tongue slides over yours.
He explores your mouth like he wants to devour you, and you let him, already dangerously addicted to the taste of his saliva mixing with your own, keening when he takes your bottom lip between his teeth and bites down.
His hand drifts from your thigh to your shirt, and he grunts as he feels the still-damp material. Without hesitation, you begin to undo the few buttons Gojo hadn’t torn off before giving it to you, overcome with the need to feel the pressure of Nanami’s large, callused hands against your bare skin. He slips the loose tie over your head as you toss the soiled shirt aside, a groan escaping his mouth when he finally takes in the unhindered sight of your bright red bra.
While the straps are lace, the cups are thin and sheer, leaving your peaked nipples on display. You almost hadn’t worn it after realizing how little it left to the imagination.
But now, seeing the way Nanami’s jaw ticks as he stares down at you, fingers twitching where they’re resting against the tops of your thighs, you don’t regret it one bit.
Your breasts feel heavy and tender under his rapt attention, and the coil nestled in your gut tightens.
Nanami looks like he’s holding himself back, and you feel a surge of arousal drip between your legs as you watch him teeter at the knife’s edge of his restraint.
“You don’t need to be gentle with me,” you tell him, overcome with the need to feel exactly what it is that he wants to do to you.
He cradles the side of your face, fingers curling behind your ear as he slots his mouth against yours. The kiss is thorough but brief, and soon he’s dragging his lips along the curve of your jaw, mouth blazing a trail down the side of your neck, tongue exploring the dip of your collarbone.
While you know where he’s headed, your entire body still arches hard into him when he finally cups your breasts with both hands, leaning in to wetly mouth at one of them through the material of your bra. He licks and sucks, the sensation making you tremble, and you throw your head back and moan, one leg hooking around his waist to pull him in as you scoot closer to the edge of the washer.
You’re about to take off your bra, but Nanami beats you to the punch, fingers easily flicking open the hooks and allowing your supple breasts to spill out before him. He dives back in, groaning as his lips close around your bare nipple, tongue dancing along the sensitive skin that surrounds the hard bud. His mouth is hot, and slick saliva coats your breasts as he goes back and forth between the two, kneading and sucking.
With both of your legs now wrapped around his waist in the haze of your arousal, you inadvertently begin to rock into him, your short skirt hiked up around your hips and rendered useless. You moan at the feeling of the sizeable shaft that presses hard into the heat between your legs, his erection straining against the zipper of his slacks. Nanami groans as you start shamelessly dry humping him, and your panties dampen further at the feeling of the sound vibrating against your tits. He gazes one of your nipples with his teeth, teasing it a final time before he straightens, hand coming up to cup your cheek.
Nanami stares at you intently, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, eyes tracking the way your pupils dilate in turn. He does it again, and your tongue darts out, grazing the tip. Tilting his head ever so slightly to the side, he presses the tip of his thumb just past the entrance of your lips, eyes darkening as he watches how easily you welcome the intrusion. He drags his thumb down the side of your chin, pulling down your lower lip with his pointer finger, and your lips part.
A small, eager thrum flares in your gut as you take his finger into your mouth, tongue wrapping around it as you coat it with saliva. Your panties are slick with arousal as you continue to chase the friction of his cock, moaning when he puts another finger in your mouth. You begin to bob your head on the digits, sucking on them so eagerly that you can’t bring yourself to care about the drool sliding from the corner of your mouth.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he groans, wiping off the stray saliva with his other thumb and licking his finger clean.
He’s said the same thing time and time again before, but it’s far more preferable in this context.
You whimper in relief when he finally slides that hand down your body, bringing it to rest at the apex of your thighs. The sound is muffled by the fingers still shoved in your mouth, and a sound of amusement rumbles in his chest as he watches you desperately keen and writhe for him.
He drags a finger down the length of your wet pussy, though the contact is muted by your stockings. You begin to shift your hips, a plea for him to tear them off of you, but his impatience wins out as he outright tears them open to gain access to the plush, dripping warmth of your cunt.
“More red,” he murmurs in approval, running his fingers over the matching sheer material that covers your mound, one digit sliding up to firmly tug at the thick, lace waistband that sits high against your hip bones.
“You like red?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
But he surprises you, still. “I like you in red.”
Nanami uses his thumb to push your thong aside, steadily dragging his finger down your soaking wet slit now exposed to him. The digit slides right through your sensitive folds, and he smirks before sliding one long digit knuckle-deep into your tight hole.
You gasp, toes curling as you buck into his touch, already greedy for more. Greedy to be filled.
“More,” you pant out as he slowly pumps the finger in and out of your cunt.
“Open for me,” he tells you, voice low and rough.
You don’t hesitate, lips falling open, and your body radiates with tremors of pleasure as Nanami spits directly into your mouth. Swallowing it down, you moan, drunk on the feeling of submission as he slides in another digit and continues fucking you on his fingers.
“Good girl,” he breathes out heavily. “So pretty like this.”
You shudder under the weight of his praise, something unlocking inside of you as you begin to realize maybe you’ve wanted this from him all along. Needed this from him all along.
“Fuck me, Nanami. Please.”
“Kento,” he corrects you, hair tickling your neck as he leans in, licking and sucking at the junction between your shoulder and neck.
“Fuck me,” you moan, loosening his tie as your fingers trail their way down opening each button of his shirt. “Kento.”
He bites down hard at the sound of his first name on your lips, his gravelly voice like fire against your skin, “Come for me first.”
He picks up his pace, fingers squelching lewdly in your cunt. Your mouth falls open as you try to temper down the loud moans of pleasure you want to give him, aware that all that separates you from the partygoers is the closed door a few feet away.
Kento roughly spits into your mouth again at the same moment that he brings his free hand between your legs to tease your clit, the fingers buried inside of you curling as he strokes your sensitive, spongey wall. A choked out sob leaves you when you come, and he swallows it down with a messy kiss, meeting your muffled cries of pleasure with his own rough moan as he feels you squirt all over him, clear liquid spraying his shirt and pants.
“Fuck,” he groans, the wavering loss of his composure now evident in his voice as you ride out the last waves of your orgasm on his hand.
Overcome with the desire to feel the large erection tented painfully at the front of his pants, your fingers fumble with the button and zipper, a sigh of pleasure leaving you when you finally wrap your hands around his long, thick cock. Kento kisses you filthily, moaning into your mouth as you begin pumping his cock, thumb sliding over the precum dripping from the head.
His large hands grasp your thighs, pulling you as close to the edge of the washer as possible. Kento wraps his own hand around his dick, firmly dragging the head down your creamy slit. You rock forward, chest heaving, muscles clenched tight with desire and need, only to be met with a sharp burst of pleasure as he slaps his cock heavily against your pussy. You whimper for him.
Placing a finger over your lips, which have been far from quiet throughout this ordeal, Kento goes to grab the tie left discarded beside you. However, after his fingers close around the material, he raises a brow and shakes his head, letting it drop to the floor as he begins to loosen his own tie instead.
You make no effort to hide the shameless need on your face as he smirks at you, shaking his head before wrapping the tie around your mouth and gagging you with it.
“I like seeing you desperate,” he murmurs against your ear, before finally sheathing his thick cock inside of you.
His dick is so big, your tight pussy throbs from the stretch while he splits you open, flooding your body with an overwhelming wave of pleasure. Suit jacket already discarded somewhere along the way, your fingers tug off his unbuttoned dress shirt, leaving your hands free to explore the firm expanse of his abdomen.
The washing machine begins to shake loudly with each thrust, and Kento grunts, arms wrapping tightly around you as he lifts you, choosing to fuck you up against the wall instead. The continuous push and drag of his fat cock through your slick channel leaves your mind begging for more.
Your lewd moans are quiet and muffled against the gag, but he can still hear it when you beg, “Harder.”
He obliges, the shelf leaning against the wall beside you trembling ever so slightly when he begins to roughly thrust in and out of your cunt. His cock relentless plunges in to the hilt, your pussy greedily taking every long, thick inch as he fucks you deep. One of his hands runs down the side of your neck, and you find yourself leaning into the pressure, whimpering against the wet material blocking your mouth.
“Should have known you’d like this,” he rasps, hand sliding to the front of your throat as he tightens his grip and starts to choke you. “Now come on my cock.”
The pleasure that erupts inside of you swipes every remaining bit of air from your lungs, a choked out sob crawling its way up your throat as you tremble and shake in Kento’s steady grip, cunt squelching wetly around his dick.
He looks down between your bodies, the sight of the creamy ring you’ve left around the base of his shaft drawing a rough, aroused noise of appreciation from him.
Kento goes to pull out, but you shake your head, a small whine slipping past the tie, and he groans heavily, forehead falling against yours as he slams his cock back in to the hilt. It only takes a few strokes before he’s coming, too, shaft pulsing and throbbing within the tight grip of your slick cunt as he dumps rope after rope of hot cum inside of you, filling you to the brim.
When you’re finished, Kento sets you down carefully, his fingers tender as he undoes the gag and leans in, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss, tongue swiping along your lower lip.
“Are you alright?” He asks, thumb stroking your neck.
You don’t answer him for a beat, and his mouth curls downward in concern, meeting your gaze only to find the deceivingly innocent pout of your lips.
“Don’t tell me you’re done already?” you say.
You should be exhausted from how thoroughly he just fucked you, but instead, you’re already thinking about feeling the thick stretch of his cock inside of you again, and your cunt flutters and aches with a need that’s yet to be sated.
Kento laughs, the sound deep and rich, and you think you could get used to hearing it.
He pulls up your underwear, along with your now-ruined tights, lowering himself down on one knee before you as he presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your cunt while his thick, sticky cum begins to soak into your panties. You exhale shakily, already far too close to undone just from the sight before you alone, and he smirks, standing back up.
Kento takes your chin between his pointer finger and thumb, teasing your bottom lip. “We’re not done, we’re just going to go somewhere where I don’t need to cover your pretty lips next time.”
— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!
warnings— afab!reader. dubcon (sex pollen/heats, but both have been pining like idiots). breeding if you squint.
keigo's beloved crush sidekick gets hit with the unluckiest quirk possible. he quickly discovers his rut suppressants ain't shit.
Through all the horrors and adverse life events Keigo has endured in this line of work— brutal near-assassinations, negotiations with international crime syndicates, purchasing sugar-free canned coffee with Splenda substitute by mistake before his morning shift— he has always been able to find a silver lining in the darkest of moments.
Which makes it infinitely more concerning that for the first time in his life, he nearly whines through his teeth the words, "why me?"
A palm drags once down his face, thumb and index finger pulling down his darkened eye bags. His hand collects the beads of sweat and stops to rest over his mouth.
He supposes this must be his penance for taking a risk and trusting faulty intel.
Keigo's informant told him the villain he and his darling sidekick were meeting would have a limited-ranged fire quirk, so the diligent hero stuffed ointment and cold packs in his pockets before leaving just in case.
If he had known the villain was a plant heteromorph and possessed a heat-inducing mist quirk instead, and that the person he was hopelessly in love with had a bit of a crush on would be caught in the direct line of fire?
He would have brought a paper bag to hyperventilate into instead. And some prayer beads. The god to which the prayer is delivered doesn't necessarily matter, he thinks. He'd simply pick one and drop to his knees in a bid for mercy.
"I'm taking you to a medic," Keigo puts his foot down for the fourth time this evening.
"Fuck no," you groan from the couch, shifting to squeeze your thighs together. It offers not even a modicum of relief from the incessant throb. "Do you want my cause of death to be humiliation? Is that your plan, genius? 'S bad enough as it is that you're here."
The subtext is unspoken, but clear to him through your adorable pout: I only trust you to see me like this.
It's unlucky that the man you've had the most innapropriate-for-work crush on for the better part of two years happened to be the one beside you that day. And it's just your sorry luck, you lament, that Keigo would also be the one to catch you, to fly you home cradled in his painfully capable arms, to refuse to leave your side and insist on making his favorite chicken soup for you in a desperate flail of support.
He'd respect your decision and leave, should you ask him to. You know that. And yet the humbling truth gnaws at your pride: doing so wouldn't do much to save your image at this point. He’s already seen you like this, you grumble. The proverbial cat has long since escaped the bag, waltzing its way over to rub its purring body against Keigo’s leg to your abject horror.
If you close your eyes, you can attempt to trick your brain into thinking this affliction is a flu of some kind.
Yes, this is just some common cold. You're wearing nothing but your work partner's shirt (your clothes were contaminated by the quirk's dust, Keigo explained, speaking in that strict work mode voice that makes you picture your mouth stuffed and drooling somewhere beneath his desk and between his spread legs). You pull the damned fabric down over your core as you try your hardest to not writhe in fits of pleasure underneath the blankets, rubbing your thighs together for any friction against your swollen clit.
All symptoms of an affliction of the flu, of course.
You don't need to reach down and touch to know the slick would string those thighs together, should you attempt to pull them apart.
Keigo knows that, too. But he doesn't say anything about it.
You would be mortified if you were aware of the truth.
That he knows everything.
Keigo knows exactly how you ache. Like you're constantly on the precipice of an orgasm, perpetually ablaze from the heavy heat scorching your body from its surface to the boiling core.
You try to suppress your glee as he spoon feeds you the broth, reminding yourself that this is just what good friends do for each other.
Friends coo praises at each other when they swallow, friends tilt each other's chins up with one finger and mutter things like that’s a good dove and you can take another as they watch their throat bob in tandem.
Friends shiver from their wingtips down their spine when they pull the spoon back. They let their gaze linger for just a second on those lips that open wide, aching to touch.
Ever the gentleman, Keigo stays lowered to his haunches and places one hand over your forehead to check for a fever, redirecting his focus toward taking inventory of your vitals. He doesn't wince when he hears your moan at the contact, even though the pitiful sound pings at his weak points. His avian instincts remind him he needs to protect you, please you, take care of you; to make it go away, to fix that feeling he knows better than anyone is aching like a bruise between your thighs.
He doesn't allow his eyes to wander astray or trail their way downwards, especially when you're in such a vulnerable state; but his professional assessment is that if he could only wet his appetite, the flat of his tongue alone could—
He shakes his head and blows a puff to cool the soup, raising another spoonful to your lips.
"Here. Another. You need to keep your energy up," he reminds you, voice stern. It's nearly clinical and achieves the opposite of its desired effect.
Your heart rate picks up to thump at a steady, thrumming beat at the innocuous gesture of domesticity.
How have you never noticed how capable of a mate Keigo would be…? He’s all musculature and sincerity, sharp ridges at his knuckles and soft curves at the small of his waist where he only trusts you to touch.
You huff an involuntary moan.
He picks another god to praise that the couch you're laying on obscures his lower half.
Today, Keigo discovers his suppressants are only designed to reduce the chance of a rut being triggered. It brings the possibility of it starting in the first place to a comfortable near-zero, allowing him to carry out the spring and fall seasons as if he were entirely quirkless.
But if that rut passes through the blockers' biochemistry in, say, the event Keigo's luck rears its ugly head, for example… It does fuck all to reduce the actual symptoms.
More importantly than his own anguish, however, is this: his mate work partner got hurt because of him— hurt being a stretch, he'd know if he weren't overthinking so much, given the blissed out panting just two feet away from him; but you’re probably suffering and it's all his fault. It’s all because of an unlucky, once in a lifetime slip up from Keigo Takami himself, and he can't detangle himself from the guilt.
If drowning in the unexpected whirlpool that is his first rut in half a decade is his penance for the crime, then Keigo will hang his head and take it.
The huff he lets out is your last straw.
"I'm going to my room," you state, moving to leave like you left the stove on and are trying to avoid an upcoming house fire.
When his hand darts out to stop you, the touch against your shoulder sends shockwaves down your stomach.
He's touching you. He's taking such good care of you, feeding you, providing for you in his nest and now he's touching you?
It sends your hormones into overdrive.
You'd do well to conceal it, if his heightened instincts couldn't smell your desperation.
"I'm afraid it ain't that easy, dove," he warns, eye contact averted. "I'd avoid doing that, if I were you."
Keigo schools his expression, but not before you catch a flash of something hungry.
There's no chance in hell he's letting you out of his sight. Not like this. You're confined to the couch while he keeps an eye on you. Attempting to fix it yourself will only make the feeling unfathomably worse, something he tries to communicate to you with a look that only ends up making him look like a kicked puppy.
You squint right back when you process the implication of his words, eyes raking down his form in suspicion.
"How do you know all this, anyway," you ask.
Keigo goes silent, hand concealing his mouth.
Ah, it hits you.
Bird things.
Your head falls back against one of the numerous pillows your partner propped up behind you.
"The couch is soft," you murmur, situating yourself against the cushions and throw blankets he so carefully arranged, trailing your fingertips along a silk pillow. Keigo slams his eyes shut.
"Please don't say it like that."
"Why not?" Your lids droop, heat overtaking your better judgement. Tentatively, you play along the bounds. You allow your hands to run along the soft divots of the blanket covering your body, squeezing your chest and pinching the peaks. "It's like a little nest, isn't it?"
His hand drags down his face before pinching his nose bridge, suppressing a whine. "Baby, please—"
"You don't wanna join me?"
"You don't know what you're talking about. It's just the heat," Keigo tells himself more than you. "For the love of God, dove, stop talking—"
"But it hurts, Kei'." It’s a low blow, judging by the protective coo that escapes his lips.
Fed up, he leans forward and swings his right leg over your hip, crawling atop you as if his body has a mind of its own, utterly bogged by desire and yanked like puppet strings.
With him kneeling tall above you, the bodysuit of his hero costume hides absolutely nothing. The musculature is quite impressive, actually. Proof of his viability as a mate— all dominant and masculine and gorgeous.
And at this angle, you can see the most painful erection straining against his pants.
"I need you, Kei'. I need— mmph!"
A palm silences you; slapped down, hot, imposing, and heavy like a weight against your mouth.
The authority of the action makes your cunt clench; and Keigo would die before he lets that feeling go to waste, so his hips drop down to grind once against it.
Your eyes go wide, doughy and stunned, darting down in haste, following the trail of his thick bicep up toward the disciplinary scowl on his face.
His nostrils flare with the heaving in his chest, eyes screwed shut with his last slivers of patience holding its grip on his psyche.
"One more word," He says, pulling his hand away. "One more word and I'm ripping this blanket off and fucking you raw."
After a moment of silence, you speak.
"Please."
Keigo is wordless when he unbuckles his belt and lets it— and his inhibitions— drop with a satisfying clink.
The reality of what you've gotten yourself into comes crashing down as it hits you how utterly fucked you are. The scaffolding of years of sexual tension comes crumbling down like bricks to rubble, a city of restraint reduced to pure, animalistic desire.
Years of Keigo's eyes darting away when you nonchalantly change into your uniform in front of him, even though he never seemed bothered by any of his other peers doing the same; years of you both curling in on yourselves at the furthest edges of the bed you had to share, cramped close in those under-the-radar motels on stealth missions; years of the words "idiot, can I kiss you," held back by your lips as you watch him moan when he sinks his teeth into his comfort restaurant's chicken teriyaki every stupid Friday night, sitting cross-legged and at home on the carpet of your apartment floor.
Not a single word is exchanged as he pulls his cock free from its confines, nearly too thick for his fingers to meet when they wrap around it. He tosses the blanket to the side with haste, dragging your shirt (his shirt) up to your collar, exposing your chest when he lines his cock with your entrance.
"Please, Kei'," you sniffle. "Hurts."
"Oh, I know, baby... I know." His lips are pursed when he shushes you, tracing your cheek with his palm. "I'll make it go away."
When your lips meet, it's like static electricity; and it's entirely remorseless.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he groans against your mouth, dragging his length along your sticky thighs before plopping the thick of it atop your soaked cunt.
"So wet for me," he reveres, dragging the plump tip through your mess to get it slick enough to rub against your clit.
Your rutting hips buck with impatience in an attempt to glide his length against your swollen pussy, but that only serves to fuel his desire; and those desperate little whines only feed into his insatiable need to fuck, to breed you until you're silent.
Until you shut the fuck up.
Those pathetic little sounds are music to his ears, a siren's song that used to play only in his most shameful fantasies; the ones that kept his fist tight around his cock the moment he returned home after missions, the sight of you panting and spitting blood after battle with a smile on your face still fresh in his memory.
Keigo wants to hear you moan.
But his rut needs to fuck you wordless with satisfaction.
"Oh, fuck," he hitches, shifting his hips back and forth to the tune of the audible shlicks below. Unable to stay upright any longer, his chest falls flush into yours in a rut-afflicted haze, rutting against you like animals.
When he slips his cock inside, it's with a kiss to muffle his voice.
And he wastes no time setting a punishing pace, aided nicely by the slickness that coats the sides of his cock. The legs of the couch surely must be scraping indents into the floorboards, judging by the creaks that mingle with the sounds of his belt buckle at every thrust. You'd notice if either of you were lucid enough to care.
It's a brief consideration of a possibility of an afterthought, like a sheepish voice behind a roaring crowd.
Pulling out, that is.
Yeah, if he were a stronger man, he could probably will his hips to stall. There's a chance someone far stronger than him would hiss when he does it. His cock would weep in denial of that sweet, velvet entanglement, dripping out in the cold when he fists himself to completion mere inches away from what might as well be the center of his goddamn universe.
But when it comes to you, when it comes to his rut, Keigo is not a strong man.
He allows his cock to throb in the vice of your cunt, instead.
"God, baby," he moans into your neck, wings flapping once, twice with each thrust, shedding a few feathers before straightening out and grazing the ceiling behind his back. "Baby. Oh, baby. You're so tight. You're so— fuck!"
He's babbling, but so are you. Legs hooked across the small of his back, you bump your hips as best you can to aid in his efforts; and with your last shreds of lucidity, you decide for the both of you how things will end.
With watery lashes, you open your eyes enough to blink away some tears and clear your vision just enough. Your gaze crawls up his legs that are still clothed to the thighs, over the curvature of his ass and up his shuddering spine— all to mark onto your scarlet red prize.
When you entangle your fingers into the downy feathers at the base of his wings, it shoots straight to his cock and he spills.
With eyes wide open and a strangled choke at the back of his throat, Keigo's hips stutter when he empties himself. With every throb comes another rope from the tip, sticky and excessive from the rut, mixing with your wetness as you crash over the edge soon after.
When the ringing in your ears ceases and you finally come to, it's to the sight of your now probably-more-than-a-work-partner pulling out and staring between your legs as if under a trance, eyes glimmering.
"Kei', you okay?"
"Uh huh," He answers absentmindedly, utterly transfixed on the mess he made.
It's strange, he thinks. Whatever urges his rut transcribed into cravings, every instinct that tugged at the avian etched in his DNA and called him to fill you pales in comparison to the satisfaction of having indulged himself at last.
His eyes flick back to meet yours.
"Does this mean I can kiss you at work now?"
You snort. So that's where his mind goes in the end.
"It means a whole lot more than that," you say, rolling you both over so he lands square on his back.
pro hero!keigo takami aka hawks x singer/influencer!reader, established relationship
( this is very much fluff and indulgence, take a shot if you’ve ever thought abt hawks n his eyeliner bc c’mon we all have, it’s hot as shit )
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You’d taken your time, setting up your special ring lights and tripod, writing down the questions you’d be answering during your video, and making sure all your makeup supplies were set out in an order that wouldn’t make it obvious which order they went in.
During your last live video, you’d been asked multiple times for your boyfriend to do your makeup for a video.
Now, your boyfriend was a busy man (being the number two hero and all), but your audience had been requesting his presence in a video for some time now and you had to admit the idea sounded quite fun. Keigo was always welcome to your ideas, happy to show up during your lives if your fans asked where he was and eager to help you with your set ups whenever you were going to film something new. He’d actually done a voice over for you once a few months back (your fans had went nuts over that) when you lost your voice post concert and you’d promised to get your routine up before a certain point so it shouldn’t be too difficult for him. That, and the fact that he liked to watch you get ready most days.
You’d tweeted out a week earlier for them to send in some questions as a bonus while he did your makeup.
“We ready, baby?”
A pair of familiar hands hugged you around the middle, your boyfriend resting his chin on your shoulder and kissing your cheek repeatedly.
“Just about, you wanna approve the questions we’ll be answering this video?” You asked, holding up the notebook for him to see.
“Nah, I’m an open book, plus I trust you chose appropriate questions.”
“The amount of people that are curious about our sex lives is insane.” You rolled your eyes as you took a seat on the floor and patted the spot next to you for him to sit too.
He glanced at the coffee table, you guessed he was trying to picture the order of things.
You started off the video with your basic greeting that you always used before introducing your boyfriend (as if he needed an introduction) and he grinned as he gave a wave to the camera,“I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
A nervous smile lit up your face as you clapped your hands together and explained the gist of what your viewers would be seeing today,“As you all have been requesting, Keigo will be doing my makeup for me today. A bunch of you noticed he watches me get ready a lot and said he should be able to do it and—”
“I’d never turn down a challenge.” He cut in, smirking,“Trust me, I got this.”
“For my sake, I really hope so.” You then picked up your notebook,“As a treat so you guys won’t be too bored, I sent out an ask for questions, many of you guys always wonder about our relationship and while we do like to keep things private, we thought a little insider from us couldn’t hurt.”
“Do you know what you’re gonna start with?” You asked your boyfriend and he grinned, surprising you by picking up the correct item.
“You gotta prime your surface first, don’t ya?”
You turned your body toward him instead of facing the camera so he could begin, Keigo placed both hands on your face and kissed your nose before adjusting your position.
“Alright, first question.” He said as he uncapped the primer.
You glanced at your notebook out of your periphery,“How did you and Hawks meet?”
“Of course.” He rolled his eyes playfully as he rubbed the primer in with his fingers, letting it dry while he scanned the table for his next item.
He faced the camera briefly,“We met at the grocery store, we’re boring people, okay?”
“Truth.” You giggled, as you were sure people expected a much more exciting story.
Keigo, now armed with an eyebrow pencil, began running the brush through your brows before slightly marking a few empty spots. You grinned, he knew you so well.
“I’m sure many of you think we met at that gala where I interviewed Keigo on whether he preferred chicken or beef and he said—”
“Take me out to dinner and find out.” He quoted himself from that night.
You laughed,“Sorry to disappoint, but by then we’d actually been on a couple dates and I very much knew the answer to that question, I was asking stuff from his fans. We were pretty lovesick already at that point, I think, and then everyone started shipping us.”
“Unbeknownst to you all, we were seeing everything and just laughing.” Keigo chuckled.
He tapped his chin as he picked up an eyeshadow palette and opened it up to sniff it.
He searched the pile of brushes while you asked the next question,“What was your first date like?”
“Ooh, I have this one!” Keigo dipped his brush into what he guessed was your favorite color based on how much was missing,“Initially, I wanted to fly her to our date spot, but since I happened to know how deathly afraid of heights she was… I knew it wouldn’t happen — not on the first date, I thought — so we took a nice little stroll there, I picked her up and she was wearing a sparkly dress and looked oh so pretty—”
“There’s a picture of me in that outfit up on my accounts, actually, if you know you know.” You commented before he grabbed your chin and instructed for you to close your eyes.
“I took that picture.” He made sure to clarify, and you felt him tap something (glitter, you were guessing) into your inner eyelids as he continued,“Anyway, I had this gazebo set up really nice, lots of lights, flowers, cute shit, and we had dinner and talked the whole night, super romantic. By the end of it, she loved me—”
“Don’t lie!”
“You did, dove, I mean, c’mon, you let me fly you around by the end of it.”
“Okay, I did.” You sighed,“But only because you made me feel like I could really trust you.”
“And have I ever given you any reason to doubt that?” He looked into your eyes and again, you sighed.
“No…”
“Then?”
“Whatever. What’s next?” You pointed at your makeup pile that he was slowly going through, putting aside what he’d already used.
He went through and placed foundation all over your face, making sure to blend it into your neck while you went through a few more questions.
“Who does Hawks’s eyeliner?” You giggled.
Your boyfriend scoffed, facing the camera with a deadpan expression on his face,“Okay, I’m saying this once and only once, much to contrary belief, the ‘eyeliner’?” He rubbed at his eye and even dragged his finger down,“Is not makeup, it’s not a part of my costume or a fun little gimmick, the closest I can get to explaining it is a beauty mark. It’s permanent.”
“You tell ‘em, babe.” You continued to laugh, only to stop as he picked up your actual eyeliner.
“Just for that we’re gonna replicate this on you.”
“Awe.” You pouted,“I can’t pull that off.”
And he knew it too since you only ever applied eyeliner very minimally.
“Shush and hold still.” He paused the step he was on to attempt the new look for your eyes.
“I’d like you all to know, Keigo is very much holding his breath right now and his mouth is wide open, he’s definitely one of us.” You said smugly, an inside joke only those who wore makeup and did anything eye related could understand.
“Hold on, shh.” Your boyfriend paused as he swiped a finger under your eye and held it out to you,“Make a wish.”
This wasn’t a rare occurrence actually, you often lost many eyelashes due to rapid blinking whenever your eyes became strained and he loved for you to make wishes. You often did the same to him; and so you closed your eyes and thought of your wish before blowing away the eyelash.
He grinned and pecked your lips,“So what’d you wish for?”
“Can’t tell you, it won’t come true.”
He pouted, but knew the rules just as well. He finished up his eyeliner and immediately resuming his last step. Now you were the one pouting,“I wanna see.”
“Nope, wait until the end.”
“Boo.”
“Next question, lovebird.”
You continued through the questions until Keigo seemed satisfied enough with your looks, finishing off with a kiss to seal the deal and you smiled,“Done?”
“Mhm.”
“No lipstick?”
“No point.” He shrugged, leaning back on his hands,“I’ll end up eating it all off in a second anyway.”
You didn’t bother correcting him, picking up a mirror to check out the eyeliner that he actually made a little thinner than what his non-eyeliner looked like and you smiled, it didn’t look half bad and he got all the steps right. Though he didn’t do them in the order you did them, they weren’t technically wrong and you looked pretty alright.
As you finished off the video, your boyfriend waved at the tripod and you shut off the camera.
“Well, I’d call that a success.” You smiled at him.
“Great, wanna go get ice cream?” He looked up at you in adoration before teasing,“I wanna show off my hard work.”
Keigo never really stopped to think about his size before he met you.
He's aware he's big. He has eyes. But it never really mattered much to him besides the typical "huh, nice." when glancing down that men try to pretend they don't do.
So when he first tugs his cock free and your eyes practically pop out of your head, a whisper of "Jesus Christ" escaping, his first instinct is to worry.
He's about to ask "wait, is something wrong?" before he realizes it's not fear, but admiration he sees in those eyes that are laser-focused and transfixed between his legs.
Well. Maybe a little bit of fear. But it's a good kind.
It doesn't take him long at all to develop an ego.
By the third time he has you sobbing on his thick cock, insides stretched to the brim while his thighs grind against your ass, those sweet little words he coos carry an unshakeable confidence.
Words like, "you can take it baby, c'mon, it's okay. Shh, it's alright, so good f'me. Take me inside, baby. I'll make it fit. You've done it before, yeah? So proud of you, you take big cock so good."
Before long, he's faking obnoxious yawns next you on the couch— an excuse to place his arms behind the seat and spread his legs apart, enticing your predictable stare. He couldn't hold back that knowing grin if he tried. His boisterous laugh in response to your accusation of "stop being a slut, Kei'" only ceases once it's cut off by a moan, your knees thudding against the floor to properly kiss his prominent bulge through the clothes.
By the tenth time, he praises himself nearly as much as you.
"You love taking this fat fuckin' cock, don't you? Love being split open on my dick, yeah? Only mine? Shit— yeah, you do. Don't even care that it's stretching your guts, do you? Nah, you love it, you fuckin' love it. 'S that why you're screaming so loud, baby? Sound so pretty when you do. Get your head out the pillow, wanna hear you. Wanna hear that pretty voice scream my name when I take you."
"Mine," he snarls. "All fuckin' mine."
Once the post-nut clarity hits, he promises he'll go back to normal: wings drooping in apology like a kicked puppy as he thumbs away your thick tears of pleasure.
"Ah... Sorry, baby. Wasn't too rough, was I? You did so good. You sore? Want me to run a bath?"
All you're capable of providing is a shaky thumbs up.
"keigo can’t help that the sight of you with kids makes him want to put a baby in you, and you’re so willing to let him"
cw: rut, breeding, marking/biting, possessiveness, unprotected sex, cream pie
KINKTOBER MASTERLIST
It started with your niece and nephew.
When the two of you knocked on the door, only for the five-year-old girl to open it a sliver, scream your name in glee, and immediately start giggling and running around, Keigo already felt it in his stomach.
Then it was the way you sat on the couch, and she crawled into your lap while her older brother started showing you his latest drawings. The way you could so easily switch between talking to the two of them, holding your niece as she started climbing all over your shoulders, had him tuning out his brother-in-law in favour of admiring you with the unknowing feeling again.
The next was the way you handled your nephew when he tried running up the stairs in his clean socks, only to slip and hit his knee. Keigo could only freeze up when he heard the crying, wanting to comfort him but not knowing how. When you bent down to his level and showed him one of the little scars you got when you were younger and fell off your bike, explaining how you also cried when you hurt yourself, he felt his cheeks heat up.
The final straw was when your niece, who carried around her hawks plushy everywhere, whispered in your ear while looking at him with a shy glance. You smiled kindly at her and said, "I don't think so. I'm gonna marry him." And he finally recognized what he was feeling.
He wanted to make you a mom.
The whole way home, he was quiet, and it was a little unnerving. But Keigo couldn't help the thoughts going through his mind. If you had a little girl, would she look as beautiful as her mother? His heart couldn't help but swell at the thought of going home to his two favourite girls and holding them close. If you had a son, he would definitely be a mama's boy, smiling up at you for praise every time he did something. You were just so good with kids that it would be impossible for him not to be.
And then he started thinking about making a baby. He couldn't help the way his cock twitched in his pants when he thought about fucking you raw. You two had never done that before; clean-up was always easier when he had a condom, and it gave the two of you peace of mind with his hectic job, but thinking that he could make a mess of you by filling you up with his cum so that it was dripping out onto the sheets beneath you was something he didn't know he needed in life until that exact moment.
The noises you would make as he fingered his cum back into your sopping pussy, the way you'd waddle around when you're pregnant with his kid, the fact that you'd be forever his when he gives you a child—it all made his brain fuzzy.
So when you softly asked if he was okay when you came home, he couldn't help but grab you and kiss you. He held you tightly, feeling a deadly rush of emotions and gratitude for having you in his life.
And the way you so easily let him slip his tongue into your mouth without question had him whining in need.
"I wanna give you a baby." He mumbled between kisses, pushing you blindly to your shared bedroom.
You uttered a sound in confusion, but it was interrupted by a gasp when he started sucking at your neck.
"Need to make you mine, baby, all mine." He babbled. "need to get you pregnant—need to fill you up."
You whined loudly at that and grabbed the belt of his pants, yanking his body right up against yours and pushing his hard cock into your hips.
"You wanna fuck me raw, baby?" You asked with such a sweet voice that his legs wobbled. "Finally wanna cum inside?"
He nodded his head vigorously, his cloudy eyes filled with desire.
"Yes, please," he whimpered, his voice laced with desperation.
Your hands reached down to grope him. You could feel his arousal growing beneath your touch, and a wicked smile played on your lips.
"Mmm, you're so hard for me," you purred as you teasingly squeezed him. "I can't wait to feel you deep inside me."
His breath hitched as he let out a low moan, completely lost in the moment.
As you pushed him onto the bed, his muscle memory nearly kicked in, and he almost reached to the side table to grab a condom when he remembered what you two wanted. Instead, he grabbed your hips and threw you down beside him, foggy mind barely registering the harsh bounce against the mattress.
With animal-like speed, he pounced on you, strong hands gripping your wrists like iron as they held them above your head. His mouth dipped to the curve between your shoulder and neck, pearly white teeth sinking into the flesh that had you hissing in pain and rubbing your legs together.
"Keigo!" you shouted, completely enraptured with this new feeling.
"Sorry, baby," he muttered half-heartedly, his whispers tickling the edge of your ear before he bit down there too.
You couldn't stop the delightful shivers if you wanted to. Keigo's mouth continued its trek, nipping at all the soft spots along your beautiful skin that had you panting. He only released your wrists when he couldn't take the confinement of his pants anymore; the pathetic whimpers he let out as he clumsily undressed his lower half had you equally rushing your jeans off as well. You didn't have time to take off your shirt when your boyfriend smashed his lips into yours for a heated kiss, his cold tongue immediately swiping across your own in a desperate attempt to taste you. and you didn't bother slowing him down; the rational hero he was by day was long gone, and the man in front of you held no other purpose than to be completely yours. His rough fingers slid under your shirt, one hand groping your tits through your bra and the other sliding between your legs.
He whined into your mouth, barely detaching your lips to mumble, "How are you so wet, baby? want this just as bad as me?"
All you could do was clumsily nod, your boyfriend not letting you leave his touch for more than a moment. It didn't matter, though, because with the way you wrapped your legs around his waist, he could tell you only wanted to be closer.
There was a messy overlap of hands as the two of you feverishly grasped for Keigo's thick, leaking cock and lined it up to your heat. The erratic atmosphere only cooled down for a second when he slipped inside you--you both releasing sighs of euphoria--before your boyfriend when absolutely feral.
His movements became all the more intense and primal, as if all those years of pent-up desire and longing were finally free. He gripped your hip with one hand, the other balanced your leg over his shoulder while you clawed at the soft skin of his arms in an attempt to clear your mind from the pleasure he was giving you. The room was filled with the sounds of your moans and the rhythmic collision of your bodies, heightening the passion between you both.
"Fuck, baby, you're mine—you're all mine," he panted. "'m gonna make you feel so good. 'm gonna fill you up."
"Gonna give me a baby, Kei?" You responded, just to hear him whimper and see a thin line of tears well up in his closed eyes.
If it was possible, he slammed into you harder, sending your back to arch in ecstasy at the feeling and the sound of your dripping cunt sucking him in.
"Fuck, mama, you'll be so good." He babbled, moving the hand that was digging into your hip to your leg and pushing them both forward.
You gasped breathlessly as your knees hit your chest, but you didn't have time to say anything when your voice broke in a scream at the feeling of keigo hitting you so deeply in this new position.
Your body trembled uncontrollably as the intense pleasure consumed you. Your senses were overwhelmed by everything—the heat of his body against yours, the sound of his pants and the thrusts moving the bed, the smell of both of your arousals dripping from your leaking pussy—it was all too much. Every thrust from Keigo sent waves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, pushing you closer to the edge of bliss. You didn't have any sense left in you to warn him that you were cumming; instead, you let out a strangled gasp as your head rolled back.
Whether or not your boyfriend understood what happened didn't matter, because seconds later he was screaming your name in a daze and releasing his hot cum into your abused pussy.
Then the atmosphere became softer, tired and satisfied pants coming from both of you as he laid his sweating body on top of yours. His hot breath tickled at your neck, his arms wrapped around you, and his now-softening cock stayed stubbornly inside you. It took a few minutes before you could catch your breath and say something, but neither of you minded, not when you lovingly kissed his head and traced the red scratches you left on his biceps.
hear me out....Hawks hcs with a significant other who has a Chemist/Potion quirk. Like im talking a buncha potion bottles and glasses of little remedies they've made and have yet to test 🙏. Kei would occasionally find her notebook on the counter or table, the notebook being filled with ideas of new mixes or something specifically for healing for Keigo when he comes home injured
Also love your work! Some of the best things I've read have come from your page
good chemistry (pun intended)
cw/tags: fem!reader, established relationship, pet names (my girl, love, baby)
note: YASS YOU ARE COOKING and so is reader!! please excuse any chemistry misrepresentations i got a 2 on the ap chem exam LMAOO. thank you for the love, i hope you enjoy this!!!! been a hot minute since i wrote for keigo and i missed him :))
likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated <3
"you've got a visitor."
you startle when your coworker's head peeks into your lab, carefully setting down the beakers of volatilely combustible liquids on the black counter of the bench. she tilts her head to the side, urgently commanding you to check out whatever was making her so concerned. slipping off your gloves and sliding your goggles up on your forehead, you thank her as she opens the door and your jaw hits the floor. talking to an obviously starstruck receptionist was your boyfriend, still in his flight jacket and sunglasses and causing the biggest scene you've witnessed in the office since all might accidentally set off the sprinkler system. golden eyes flick over to you in the doorway and his mouth breaks out into a dazzling smile, one that has your coworker clutching the back of a chair for support.
"there's my girl," he murmurs, embracing you with strong, open arms and a chaste peck on your forehead, right under your goggles. you can feel the jealous eyes of the entire staff, but all keigo only pays attention to you. "you look beautiful today, birdie."
"you're saying that because i have goggle marks on my face, kei," you remark, unfazed, and he shrugs in defeat. red feathers sprinkle onto the floor and you make a note to remind him to recall them before he leaves.
"eh, worth a shot. you're unfortunately immune to my charm, now. just means i have to come up with some new lines." you scoff despite your racing heartbeat. with his stupid superhuman senses, he definitely knew exactly what he was doing to you.
"shouldn't you be on patrol?"
"i am, but i wanted to see you and bask in your radiance," he grins boyishly, running his tongue over a sharp tooth. despite every cell in your body wanting to drag him into the nearest supply closet and kiss him until you're breathless, you're still skeptical about the unexpected visit. his voice drops to a low, private octave that sends goosebumps up your arms. "also, i think you left a certain notebook on the kitchen table." your eyebrows blast off into the ceiling, panic overtaking you as you whirl your head toward your lab where you thought your formula book was.
"oh my god, did someone take-"
"no, baby. you're okay," he reassures you and the notebook magically appears from the depths of his jacket pockets. "i'm glad i picked it up before i left this morning," he chuckles. for good measure, you flip through the worn pages to verify that every experiment was, in fact, still there. exhaling a deep sigh of relief, you meet his gentle gaze with a thankful smile. the pages were worth more to you than any sum of money, since it held all the formulas for the antidotes and counteragents you made for keigo when he was injured.
you'd created it after he asked, between colorful strings of expletives, why getting patched up hurt more than the actual injury. being the loving partner you are, you decided to do something about it. your quirk allowed you to visualize all possible outcomes for a chemical reaction depending on the quantities of reactants and lab conditions. it ensured that every experiment you instigated would be successful, as long as you followed the conditions in your head down to the air temperature of the lab. your recordings in the notebook started as a simple antiseptic that didn't have the sting of store-bought bottles, one that could douse a wound without so much as a flinch from the injured patient. now, you were part of an independent company that created first aid products for heroes to use and distribute during rescues. and, it was all thanks to the oversized chicken-man that slept in your bed.
"whatcha workin' on right now?"
"some stronger eyedrops for eraserhead," you reply, taking his gloved hand and guiding him into your lab. he delicately picks up a few beakers, inspecting their color through the bottom of the glass like a kid in a soda shop.
"like the stuff you put in my eyes when-"
"when you got hit by that smoke quirk, mhmm," you hum, milling about in front of the shelf of chemicals. "if i figure this out, it'll also help when your eyes get dry from flying."
"you mean, when you figure this out," he reminds you, turning you to face him and pulling you close by your hips. he leans into your hand when you card your fingers through his wind-mussed hair, melting against your touch. "there's nothing in this world that you can't do."
"you're a really sappy guy, you know that?"
"i know it, as much as i know that you're never getting rid of me."
"you promise?"
"as long as the birds still fly, baby."
if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)
the funniest dynamc between my boyfriend and i is the chef/baker divide runs so deep. experimentally my boyfriend is a genius with figuring out what flavor profiles will not just taste good together but also will be enjoyed by the specific audience he is cooking for. a recipe is not a guidebook so much as a suggestion and he will frankenstein ideas together to get exactly what he wants to happen. he also didnt know that sugar will not work properly if you dont mix it with the wet ingredients in banana bread and when i asked 'why didnt you do it in the order of the recipe' he said 'i didnt really think it mattered'. autistically i exploded his head in my mind
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