Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x FemReader
Synopsis: Listening to those spicy audios at night was perfect. It got you exactly the way you wanted. Not once did you think you’d meet the man behind them. Until you did.
Warning: 18+ Minors go away. oral (f receiving) unprotected. P in v. Slightly mean Bakugou if you squint. Slight slow burn.
Writers Note: I got this ideas from @pretty-katsuki-baby . They have a version of the story with Kirishima here. I loved the story idea so much so I had to make a Bakugou version. Thank you for reading, I hope you like it🫶🏽 this is much longer than I expected it to be btw.
Not in some cosmic, star-crossed, forehead-touching romance.
More like: it’s two in the morning, your brain is mush, your soul is running on fumes, and you’re doomscrolling Twitter trying to find something you can come to fast enough that you’ll knock out right after. A nightly ritual of champions.
Then your thumb stuttered over a black screen.
Just a username you’d never seen before and a title so minimal it felt like an inside joke you weren’t in on.
You scoffed at your phone. Who titles something with the energy of a cryptid issuing commands from the woods? But you tapped it anyway, because boredom is a disease and you were terminal.
The audio crackled alive.
A drag of gravel made somehow soft, like someone poured honey on a blade and told it to whisper. The sound of heat leaning close enough to fog your skin, murmuring straight into the empty V of your throat.
You forgot you had a name.
People joked about voice audios but you always wrote them off as “good for them, not my circus.”
Then his voice wrapped itself around your spine and proved you devastatingly, humiliatingly wrong.
It pulsed right through your clit, sharp enough that your thighs pressed together on instinct.
You didn’t know his face.
Just dropped these late-night recordings where he told strangers exactly how to touch themselves, exactly how slow to go, when to stop, when to breathe.
Alone in your dark room like some poor soul in a ghost story.
But he made you feel like he was.
Your belly warmed, heat pooling low and thick, the kind that made you curl your toes.
The kind he coaxed out with that tone.
The one he only used when he slipped fully into it, when his voice got so low it felt like a hand closing around your hips.
Those were the audios you ruined your earbuds with. Though you’d never admit that to another living human.
And you weren’t the only one obsessed.
His comments were a feral jungle.
People clawing at theories, hunting some clue to who “DynaMight” actually was.
You didn’t want to solve him.
Liked how he was just a voice, warm and rough, something you let yourself indulge in under blankets and late-night playlists.
Safe because he wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. Nothing that perfect ever was.
So when your friend dragged you out to some stupid get-together, you didn’t think of him. Didn’t think of that voice. Didn’t expect anything but mild social suffering and mediocre drinks.
But, the universe loves catching you off guard.
You were zoning out, staring at a wall like it owed you money, when you heard it.
Thrown across the room at someone who probably didn’t deserve it.
Your stomach did this pathetic little swoop.
You tilted your head like you were a confused puppy. Listened again, straining through the noise of chatter and clinking glasses.
Maybe you were hearing things.
Maybe you were exhausted.
Then he dropped his tone.
One low, irritated mutter from deep in his chest, barely louder than a sigh.
And your whole body erupted in fireworks.
Heat flushed so fast up your chest that you felt like you’d been slapped with a fever.
Your breath caught in this tiny, shameful little hitch you prayed no one heard.
You stared down at your shoes, pretending so hard your soul almost left your body.
Pretending your stomach wasn’t flipping on itself. Pretending your thighs weren’t trembling. Pretending you weren’t suddenly hyper-aware of him in the room, like your skin had turned into a radar.
Because if you did, and he looked back, you knew exactly what would happen.
He’d see every late-night moment his voice carved into you.
Every tremble, every whine, every bit of heat he’d ever coaxed out of you.
All of it written all over your face.
And that thought alone nearly made your heart detonate. You weren’t even trying to look at him.
You’d spent the whole evening paying attention to literally anything else. The condensation sliding down your drink, the threads on your sleeve, the absolutely fascinating void where your confidence used to be.
Because every time he spoke, your chest tightened.
Every time he laughed, heat prickled at the back of your neck.
Every time his voice dipped, your stomach fluttered like you’d swallowed a live wire.
You shouldn’t be reacting like this.
But your body remembered him, even if your mind didn’t want to admit it.
You’d tried so hard not to stare that you completely messed up the timing, glanced up at the exact same moment he turned to look your way.
But it hit you like a shove to the chest.
His eyes swept over you fast, sharp, and then tightened with a kind of focus that made your breath catch.
You looked away so quickly your neck almost cracked. Your fingers twisted together, fidgety, restless. You tugged at the hem of your top just to give your hands something to do because suddenly you felt too seen.
You could feel his gaze on you.
And you made it worse by reacting every single time he spoke. Whenever his voice carried across the room, your shoulders tensed, your thighs pressed together, your breath stuttered.
The blush creeping up your throat.
The way your lips parted but no words came out.
The way your eyes avoided him like he was staring straight through your clothes.
He didn’t say a damn thing.
Then something shifted in his expression.
Slow and wicked, dawning across his face.
His lips tilted into the kind of grin that should be illegal.
Cocky in a way that said he’d put the entire puzzle together.
He could feel it in the way you reacted to the smallest drop in his voice.
You listened to him in the dark. In your bed. With your hand between your thighs. You let his voice break you in private.
And now here you were, in the same room, blushing your soul out of your body, trying to pretend you weren’t remembering every sound he ever made.
His grin deepened, just a fraction.
He just leaned back, arms crossing over his chest, eyes fixed on you like he was giving you time.
Room to breathe before he decided to close the distance.
He let you pretend you were safe.
But oh, he’d already marked you in his head.
Someone bumped your shoulder.
“Hellooo? Earth to you,” your friend sing-songed, waving a red cup dangerously close to your face. “You good? You look like you saw God.”
If only she knew it was more like you heard God and His voice had the audacity to sound exactly like your late-night playlist. Before you could form a coherent lie, another cup was shoved into your hand.
Cold, wet, sloshing slightly. “Drink,” someone else commanded. You blinked, flustered, fingers tightening around the cup like it was a lifeline.
Not a lot, but enough to drag you back from the edge of whatever spiraling embarrassment you were drowning in.
So you forced yourself to breathe.
To laugh at the stupid jokes your friends made.
To pretend your skin wasn’t buzzing every time you accidentally heard his voice again from across the room.
You tried. You really did.
But every time the bass in his tone dipped even slightly, warmth rolled through you like a tide. You kept your eyes down, kept your hands busy, pretended the trembling in your fingers was from the cold drink and not because you were unraveling in real time.
Still, your friends got you laughing, talking, dancing a little.
Enough noise and chaos to drown him out.
The get-together thinned out gradually. People left in pairs, trios, stumbling out into the warm night air.
You gathered your things, ready to disappear before he got anywhere near you again. Your heart couldn’t handle a second round of eye contact. Not when he looked at you like he could read your mind. Your playlist. Your browser history.
You turned toward the door.
And that’s when he did it.
Something so small you almost missed it. So tiny it could have meant nothing. Except your body reacted like it meant everything.
Spoken low, soft, rich with gravel. Not loud enough for the whole room, but perfectly aimed so it hit the space just behind your ear.
Your whole spine tingled.
Your fingers tightened around your phone.
And when you finally looked up, he was already watching you… again. That same knowing grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. Private.
A message carved into a look:
Then he turned away, like he hadn’t just set your nervous system on fire, grabbed his jacket, and made his way toward the door.
He just left you with that one soft, devastating sound of him saying goodnight, echoing inside you like a secret you could never say out loud.
Too much for you actually.
Exactly what he intended.
A few weeks passed, and you were still spiraling over the fact that you knew what DynaMight looked like. Wild. Unwanted. Completely unhelpful to your emotional stability.
Then another invite showed up.
So clearly the logical choice was to decline.
You told yourself that ten separate times. You said it while washing your face. Said it while picking out clothes. Said it while actually putting the clothes on.
But your friend begged. And apparently your spine is made of warm pudding, so you caved.
You walked in determined.
Channeling the ferocity of a wet cat trying to convince people it isn’t scared.
– erase his voice from your brain
– stop living in a horny podcast fever dream
Reasonable. Achievable. Totally delusional.
Leaning back in a chair like he owned gravity.
A cup hanging from his fingers.
Head tipped as he talked to someone, and that voice rolled across the room in this low, warm ripple that hit you directly in the ribs.
Your pulse jumped like it was trying to flee your body. Heat flushed through your face so fast you slapped a hand over it like that would hide anything. You spun around and made a beeline to the snack table like it was the last safe zone in a zombie apocalypse.
You blended into a group conversation.
Then, astonishingly, into the literal wall like you planned to fuse with it. Every time you felt the faintest prickle of his gaze, you moved.
Like you were powered by fear and spite.
And you thought you were being slick.
Because while you were panicking, Bakugou watched you with an unsettling kind of ease.
Like he was indulging you.
He didn’t approach. Didn’t call your name. Didn’t corner you.
Every time you relocated, he repositioned himself by the smallest amount.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough that he remained directly in your line of sight whenever you looked up.
A fixed star in your orbit.
And then you made your fatal mistake.
Your breath caught hard. Heat rushed up your throat, dizzying and instant. You tore your gaze away so fast the whole room spun.
And that was all it took.
A wicked edge of satisfaction carving its way across his mouth.
The night kept drifting. You kept pretending to have fun. He kept pretending not to track your every move like it was a sport. At one point, your eyes clashed again.
A warning disguised as a promise.
A silent whisper: I know you listen to me at night.
And then that smirk followed.
Direct enough to make your knees nearly buckle.
People started leaving. Coats were grabbed. Doors opened. Goodbyes floated. You seized the opportunity to escape. You were halfway to the door when you heard footsteps closing in.
You didn’t have to look. Your body already knew it was him. But you looked anyway.
Close enough that his heat brushed your bare skin like a touch he hadn’t given you yet.
He held out his hand. “Phone,” he said. Low. Firm.
Barely above a whisper, but it rolled through you like distant thunder crawling over the horizon.
You stared at his outstretched hand like it was a detonator.
But you still fished out your phone.
Unlocked it with trembling fingers.
Placed it in his palm like an offering.
Didn’t go hunting for your saved audios even though curiosity burned in his eyes like a fuse.
Then called himself. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He placed your phone back into your hand gently.
Like he knew exactly what that simple, casual contact did to you.
He stepped past you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Heat and static zipped up your spine.
At the door, he glanced back.
Like he’d peeled back your secret and tucked it into his pocket for safekeeping.
Leaving you standing there with your heartbeat doing Olympic events and your hands shaking around your phone.
A glowing little portal to trouble.
To everything you’d been trying so hard not to think about.
And now he had made contact. On purpose.
Home felt different tonight.
You couldn’t stop replaying it.
The heat that rolled through you when he stood close enough to breathe the same air. His number glowing on your phone screen like a trap wrapped in velvet.
You showered to clear your head, but the steam didn’t help. Neither did slipping into soft pajamas or curling into your blankets like a burrito of denial.
You kept glancing at your phone. He hadn’t texted. You should text him, right? Except… what would you even say?
“Hey, sorry for running away from you all night because I’m embarrassingly down bad for your anonymous audio persona”?
You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart jumping everytime your phone lit up with some unrelated notification.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. You just couldn’t bring yourself to text anything. He could text first anyway, right?
Your phone buzzed. A single vibration. Your body went rigid. Breath held. Heart slamming so hard you felt it in your palms.
You turned the screen over.
The message preview glowed:
“You really gonna make me text first?”
Your stomach dropped straight to the center of the earth. You opened it. Another message came in instantly
“I thought you’d be in my phone the second you got home.”
“Guess you needed a push.”
You just stared, heat flooding every inch of you. “I didn’t know what to say.”
His reply came in three seconds flat. “Then start with the truth.”
Your throat tightened. “…I’m nervous.”
You let out a shaky laugh. Texting back. “You’re impossible.”
Your face went hot. And that was how it began.
It surprised you how easy it was.
But there was a warmth under all that roughness, a slow-burning kind of sincerity that felt… grounding.
He complained about dumb stuff in a way that made you smile at your phone like an idiot.
And sometimes—only sometimes—he’d say something that made your stomach twist deliciously.
A comment that dipped too close to the truth of what you’d listened to at night.
Two whole weeks of tension simmering between every message. And then one evening, after a back-and-forth that left your pulse racing, he sent:
“Yeah. Tonight, I’ll leave the door open. Just walk in.”
Your heart skipped. “Is it… a date?”
He took longer this time.
Not because he didn’t know the answer.
But because he wanted you to feel the weight of it.
His place wasn’t loud or messy like you expected. It was clean. Warm. Lived in. And he looked unfair standing there, leaning against the counter while something sizzled on the stove.
He turned toward you when you walked in. Eyes dark. Slowly dragging over you. Not in a hungry way—yet. More like he was memorizing you.
Just that. But it rolled through you like silk dipped in gravel. Dinner was… disarming. Soft, even.
He listened when you talked.
Elbow on the table, chin tilted toward you, eyes never straying.
Every few minutes his gaze flicked to your mouth.
And each time, your heart tripped over itself. His knee brushed yours under the table. Accidentally on purpose. His fingers grazed yours when he passed the salt, and he didn’t pull away immediately. Just let the touch linger a half-second too long.
He asked you questions like he cared.
But beneath it—all that warmth, all that attention, something less innocent simmered in the shadows of his gaze.
A thought he wasn’t saying yet.
A thought he’d been carrying for two weeks.
A thought you could feel in the air like static:
“I wonder if your voice sounds the same when I make you fall apart.”
And he didn’t need to say it.
You felt it with every look.
Every slow drift of his eyes to your mouth.
But it was also a countdown.
A quiet, inevitable, dangerous pull drawing both of you toward the moment he stopped pretending to be patient.
The two of you end up on the couch without even realizing when the migration happened, knees angled toward each other, the TV murmuring something neither of you were really watching. The room feels smaller now, warmer, like the walls were leaning in to eavesdrop.
You’re relaxed in a way you didn’t expect to be, words spilling easy, laughter bubbling up every time he answers something in that gruff little growl like he’s personally offended by oxygen. He isn’t even trying to be funny, you just can’t help it. Something about him calling a character on the screen “a fuckin’ annoying ass” has you snorting, and he glances over like he’s trying to memorize the sound.
And that’s when it starts.
“Your smile is beautiful,” he mutters during a lull, so casual it almost sounds accidental… except he’s watching you too closely for it to be anything but on purpose.
Then, a minute later, softly but with intent, “Keep talkin’. I like hearin’ you.”
Your breath stumbles. The air thickens. He notices. Your words trail off mid-sentence, and he leans a little closer. Something slow, something deliberate flickers across his face not heat, not exactly, but the beginning of it.
He tilts his head. “Shut up a minute.”
You blink and a small chuckle leaves your lips. “What? Rude.” His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up with zero shame. “I’m gonna kiss you.”
You don’t even have time to respond, he’s already leaning in.
His mouth meets yours warm, sure, hungry in that controlled way he does everything. The kiss starts slow, intentional, and then deepens by degrees you can feel all the way down your spine. His hand cups your jaw, tilts your face up as if he’s claiming the angle, claiming the moment.
Then he’s guiding you, pulling you into his lap like he’s been waiting two weeks for this exact second. You settle across him, thighs bracketing his hips, and his palms slide down, gripping your ass without hesitation, fingers sinking in like he’s anchoring himself.
He groans against your mouth, low, pleased, possessive. And just like that, the night shifts. The air shifts. Everything shifts. His breath mixes with yours, his hands holding you there like you’re exactly where he wants you.
Exactly where he knew you’d end up.
His tongue slips into your mouth like he’s been starving for you longer than you’ve even known his name. Not weeks. Years. The kiss goes molten in seconds, heat sweeping through your chest like a sudden fever. Your whimper breaks out before you can even think of swallowing it down, and he hears it.
You feel his mouth curve against yours in that smug, sinful little smirk like your sounds are his personal reward.
His grip on your ass tightens, firm enough to drag a gasp straight out of your lungs. Then the floor drops out from under you. You’re lifted—effortlessly. Your legs clamp around his waist on instinct, your fingers scrambling against his shoulders as he holds you up like you weigh nothing.
His palms are steady beneath you, locked in place, guiding you through the room with a hunger so focused it makes your pulse skip.
He doesn’t stop kissing you. Barely even breaks for air. And when he does, it’s only so he can get to your neck.
His mouth hits your pulse point with the accuracy of someone who’s been imagining this exact moment in explicit detail. Hot lips, open and greedy, teeth grazing sharp against sensitive skin. Your back arches without permission.
“Fuck, I want you so bad,” he murmurs into your throat, voice dragging over your nerves like smoke over glass. “Gonna fuck the shit outta you. Better than you’ve ever had.”
He bites you again—gentler this time, teasing, like he’s tasting your reactions.
“Been thinkin’ about this for too damn long.” Your brain fizzles out. Short circuits. Toasts itself.
He gets you through his doorway and onto the bed in one smooth, practiced motion. Places you in the center like something precious. Something breakable. Something he fully intends to break.
He starts stripping you with the intensity of a man personally offended by the existence of clothing.
Every piece hits the floor with the force of his impatience. When you’re finally bare on his bed, he doesn’t touch you right away.
His jaw tightens. His pupils darken. Something hungry curls behind his eyes like smoke.
“There you are,” he says, voice low and dark enough to curl heat straight between your legs. “Look at you. Laid out for me.”
His hands slide up your thighs, firm and sure, spreading you open with the casual confidence of someone who’s thought about doing this far too many times. His thumbs drag over sensitive skin, slow and purposeful, and there’s no hiding anything from him.
“All this,” he murmurs, awe slipping into his voice, “just from me kissin’ you? You’re fuckin’ soaked.”
Your whole body feels too hot.
Then he’s lowering himself between your thighs like he’s starving and you’re the only thing on earth that could possibly satisfy him.
The first stroke of his tongue is slow, thick, devastatingly intentional. The second sinks deeper. The third steals the breath from your chest.
He eats you like he’s trying to rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. Holds your thighs open, keeps you exactly where he wants you, groaning into you every time a moan slips from your lips. Like your pleasure is feeding something in him—fuel added to a fire.
His tongue circles your clit, then sucks it into his mouth with a sharp pull that sends your back arcing off the bed. “Oh shit—” you choke out, hands flying into his hair, clinging like you’re bracing for impact.
Your first orgasm hits fast.
A punch of heat and light that tears a sound from your throat he swallows like it belongs to him.
His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you down when your instinct is to jerk away from the intensity. Your whines bounce off the walls, echoing, filling the room. He groans at the sound—like he loves the way you fall apart.
Your second orgasm breaks you open.
Your whole body spasms beneath his mouth, but he keeps going, chasing every twitch, every cry, every tiny shake he can pull from you.
You’re trembling when he finally lifts his face.
His pupils are blown wide.
that slow, hungry, victorious thing he does.
Like he already knows he’s barely gotten started with you.
He doesn’t give you time to breathe. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes locked on the way you tremble. “Turn over.”
You barely get halfway before he grabs your hip and flips you the rest of the way, pressing you onto your stomach. His palm settles right between your shoulder blades, heavy and unyielding, pushing you into a deep arch that makes your breath hitch.
“Just like that,” he rasps, leaning over you, heat rolling off him. “Stay right there.”
Your fingers tighten in the sheets.
He shifts behind you, and you feel it, the weight of him. Thick, long girthy veiny. He wraps one hand around the base of his cock, hissing under his breath at the sight of you. Then he drags the length of it through your folds, slow and greedy, the tip nudging your clit every pass.
He slaps your ass hard enough to make a yelp burst out of you.
“Don’t move,” he growls, voice low and sharp, hand gripping your flesh like it belongs to him.
The stretch is deep, thick, overwhelming, and your eyes roll back the moment he pushes inside. His groan shatters the air raw, undone.
“Fuck… that’s it.” His hips grind forward, burying himself fully. “I knew you’d feel like this.”
You moan into the pillow, loving the burn, loving how full he feels, loving the way he fills you like he’s trying to carve space for himself inside you.
Hands spreading your ass so he can watch every inch disappear into you. His thumbs pull you open wider, the filth in his voice dripping down your spine.
“Just like that,” he mutters, losing his breath in the middle of a groan. “Milk my fuckin’ cock just like that.”
Your hips push back on instinct.
He snaps his hand to your waist, holds you still, and then picks up the pace.
The sound of him hitting you fills the room rhythmic, obscene. His hips slam into you over and over, each thrust punching breathless sounds out of you, the angle brutal and perfect. He drives into that spot deep inside you, the one that steals thought, steals control, steals everything.
“Shit—look at you.” His voice cracks into a growl. “All those nights… all that breathin’ into your pillow. This what you were thinkin’ about?”
You whimper so hard it almost sounds like a yes.
He bends over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear again.
You can’t. Your lips part but no sound comes out except a shaky inhale.
His fingers slide around your throat. Not squeezing—just holding. Just claiming.
“Then I’ll say it for you,” he murmurs, thrusting harder, deeper, meaner. “You wanted this cock. You came to my house wantin’ it.”
Your whole body trembles.
Just enough that you feel the absence.
Just enough to make your body beg.
“Yes,” you breathe. You don’t even recognize your own voice.
He groans so deep it vibrates against your back. “Good girl.” Then he buries himself in you with a thrust that knocks the air out of your lungs. You yelp, knees buckling, but he holds you up, his grip unyielding, his breath hot against your spine.
His balls slap your clit with every thrust, sending sparks firing through your whole body. You whimper, close to unraveling again.
Before you can, he pulls out, the sudden emptiness dragging a broken sound from you.
He laughs quietly, a low satisfied thing. “Shut up,” he mutters, gripping your hips and flipping you onto your back. “ God, you’re so desperate.”
Relax,” he mutters. “I’m givin’ you what you want.”
Your legs fall open for him like instinct.
He doesn’t make you wait long.
He pushes back in one hard, perfect stroke that knocks a gasp out of your chest. His hands slide under your thighs, grip tight, and then he folds you in half — legs pinned to your chest, your body open and helpless beneath him.
“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning over you, eyes dark and hungry. “Right where I want you.”
He fucks into you like he has something to prove.
Your legs are pinned to your chest, your body folded under him as he slams his hips forward again and again. Every thrust knocks another breathless sound out of you, the heat of him overwhelming, the rhythm relentless.
His voice cracks over the command. You try — god, you try — but your vision blurs, head tipping back as pleasure crashes through you.
His hand snaps to your jaw, thumb dragging your lower lip down. “Hey,” he growls, breath hot, pupils blown wide. “Don’t look away. I want your eyes on mine.”
You force your eyes open, and the moment you meet his, your whole body trembles.
Tears slip down your temples, rolling into your hair, and he watches them fall like each one is something he earned.
“Katsuki…” you whimper, voice breaking. His hips stutter. Just once.
He leans down until his forehead nearly touches yours, his mouth hovering over your lips. “Fuck,” he grits, voice wrecked. “Say my name again. It sounds so good from your lips.”
He groans, a deep, torn sound that punches straight into your chest, and starts rutting into you with raw, urgent need. Your body bounces with every thrust, the bed protesting under the force, your breath coming in broken gasps.
You can feel it building — that sharp, white-hot pressure winding tight in your belly.
“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs, almost gentle except for the way he’s pounding into you. “Come on. Let me have it.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders.
The orgasm hits hard, ripping through you in waves that leave you crying out his name, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath.
He doesn’t slow. Not even a little.
Your aftershocks squeeze around him, dragging ragged groans out of his throat, and that’s when you feel it — the heavy twitch of his cock inside you.
He drops his forehead to the side of your neck, breath hot and uneven. “Shit… take it,” he grunts, voice cracking. “Just a little longer. Don’t— don’t let go.”
You wrap your arms around him without thinking, holding on as he thrusts through the last desperate handful of strokes deep, fast, losing precision as pleasure overtakes him.
Then his hips snap forward one final time.
His moan spills against your skin as he comes, thick and hot inside you, pulse after pulse filling you while you whimper beneath him.
His breath shakes. Yours does too.
And for a long moment, neither of you move. Just the sound of your mingled breathing and the slow, lazy roll of his hips as he lets the last waves of release wash through him.
His breathing is ragged, uneven, forehead pressed against yours. You feel the shiver run through him as he pulls his half-limp cock from your walls, the heat of him lingering, pressing into your skin like a memory that won’t fade.
Slow. Careful. Reverent. He eases your legs down, keeping you close, like he’s afraid to lose this fragile connection now that the haze between you has thinned. Your body collapses into the mattress, every muscle spent.
He leans in, lips brushing yours in a kiss that lingers too long to be casual. Deep. Claiming. Yet tender. Your pulse pounds against his chest, your hands tracing the wild lines of him, and it feels like a promise more than an ending.
When he finally pulls back, lips still grazing yours, his breath hot and trembling, he whispers.
He sits up, hand raking through his hair, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath. Then, without a word, he moves around you, cleaning up the mess you both made, checking in with his eyes, making sure you’re okay, making sure you’re still glowing, still here.
He tugs on a pair of boxers onto you, the worn waistband sliding easily into place, then grabs one of his soft, faded shirts. Helping you slip into it, he steadies you when your arms feel too weak to hold yourself.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he pulls on his own boxers, climbs back into bed, and presses you into his chest.
His touch is a contrast, strong, heated, and yet impossibly gentle. Arms wrapping around you possessively, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, fingertips brushing over your hair, your shoulders, your neck. Every stroke is deliberate, grounding, intoxicating.
“Sleep,” he murmurs against the crown of your head, voice thick, low, and edged with exhaustion and desire. “I’ll be here when you open those pretty eyes.”
You can feel the last lingering passion of your shared heat in the press of his body, in the slow, teasing movements of his fingers through your scalp, in the gentle squeeze of his arms around you. Calming. Protective. Possessive.
Every heartbeat, every whisper, every lingering touch says the same thing. The world can wait, He’s yours if you’ll have him.
