You've been writing to inmates in prison for almost two years now and have helped many feel more at ease with their current situations and possible futures. So it should come to no surprise when the warden of the most notorious prison seeks out your help with a difficult inmate they can hardly contain. The task proves difficult after you receive your first letter back from Bakugou Katsuki. More infamously known as Ground Zero, and you're not so sure you can help a man this far gone.
wc 6.8k warnings: dunno but he's mean and a villain so read at your own risk. MDNI 18+ content
Congratulations!
You've been selected for a special project due to your credentials with previous inmates. Letters exchanged between you and other inmates have had a positive effect on their rehabilitation which is one step closer to getting them assimilated back to the normalcy of society.Β
We ask that you help us by reaching out to inmate B-001174 Bakugou, Katsuki. He has not had mail correspondence nor a visitor due to his self isolation since his incarceration. We are hoping that a letter from the most well received correspondent begins to pave the way for a brighter future for B-001174. Please see the below instructions on what topics to avoid for inmate B-001174
Family members of any relation to inmate
Previous crimes by inmate or inmate's affiliates.Β
Current crimes by inmate's affiliates or any such nature of crimeΒ
Current events of any kind including natural disasters, diseases, political elections or anything of relation.Β
Current hero rankings, change of status or death of any hero since incarceration December 18th 2XXX
Any mention of hero(es) who captured inmate listed as follows : Aizawa, Shouta - Eraserhead, Todoroki, Enji - Endeavor, Toshinori, Yagi - Allmight, Usagiyama, Rumi - MirkoΒ
Current known affiliates are listed as follows : Kirishima, Eijirou, Midoriya, Izuku, Shigaraki, Tomura and Todoroki, Touya.Β
We appreciate your efforts in brightening the dull lives of inmates and hope you pick up your pen and do what you do best, change lives for the better! Please see the following attachments for instructions on how to address the letter and seal inside the pre-paid postage envelope before dropping it off at any post office.
Remember each letter will be opened and read for any sort of criminal activity before being passed along to the inmate.Β
Sincerely,Β
Warden of Tartarus Maximum Prison Facility
You flip the letter over and skim the instructions, the same as they always are expect this time there is an extra line to add, maximum security level ten, as if you had to notate some sort of alert to the mailroom for an extra thorough check of this particular piece of mail. You bite the inside of your lip, toeing off your kitten heels before padding over to your computer with letter in tow.Β Β
The request comes as a surprise, mostly because they listed a specific inmate instead of your usual list of inmates who wished to receive mail but had ties cut from their own families or needed some semblance of someone on the outside to speak with. Never asking you to address some sort of conversation with someone who sounded like they didn't want to have one at all.Β
Snarling your lip when you read the affiliates that you needed to avoid as if their government names gave you any idea of who they were, some of them anyway.Β
Two with whom you were already exchanging letters with weekly.Β
Your usual routine to wind down from work is lost to your undying hunger of who this person was. Although you had to admit Bakugou sounded eerily familiar.Β
A quick search brings up his villain name,Β Ground Zero, captured during a raid of some sort and he alone needed several heroes for his capture. His quirk was dangerous, explosions detonated by sparks along his forearms and palms from his sweat that contained nitroglycerin and it seemed as if his mental health was just as stable as the fuel to his quirk.Β
Looking at him wrong set him off and he was powerful enough to level buildings from just a few juls of output from his intense explosions. Still curiosity killed the cat and you delved deeper.Β
Wondering how Izuku, aka Deku, who was quirkless and Eijirou, aka Blood Riot who could harden his skin, which you knew from their letters, got caught up with a living, breathing nuke.Β
Thankfully most of the documentation and footage involving Katsuki's arrest was released to the public with redactions and edits of course but what you needed was the raw data.Β
Finding unofficially released footage from Mirko's body cam, the only surviving body cam between the pursuing heroes. It starts right in the midst of the action, sirens wailingΒ and people screaming in the background as the scene unfolds. Ground Zero and Mirko exchange blows evenly while Endevor tries to ambush him from behind. The hulking blonde smirks, as if he had no blind spot, swinging his large arm backward hitting Endeavor right in the mouth, hard enough it sends him flying.Β Katsuki's bromine eyes flicker to what must be vantage points off camera as if searching for something.Β
"Got that pesky ass four eyes on me huh? I'm hurt ya don't wanna play with me properly, hops." He dodges a kick to the chest, sliding back and it's obvious his prowess as a fighter is unmatched, even with his quirk silenced.
"Shut the fuck up. Ya talk too much." Β Shifting her weight to fein a kick that he catches, pinning her thick leg between his sturdy ribs and strong arm as he wears the nastiest smile. One that Mirko wipes off quickly with a swift kick from her free foot straight to his handsome face. Turning his cheek and blood arcs from his mouth, still he does not stagger nor falter.Β
He even still has her leg pinned as she stands awkwardly, back arched to him and her bunny tail twitches. The viewer can only see the ground and her free leg but the mic still very much catches what he says next and you're sure the smile he was wearing earlier comes back tenfold.Β
"Careful hops, ya get any rougher with me and I'll cum."Β
His laugh echoes shortly after and the sound should not cause your stomach to flip the way it does before the footage abruptly ends.Β
Taking the time to scroll through a few more pictures and articles, trying to find where it all went wrong when really none of that was your business, still it killed you to know.Β
And when you fail to find anything, fail to find that butterfly effect that puts his whole life askew, it does little to quell the uneasy feeling that gnaws at the pit of your stomach. If anything it fuels it yet still you rummage your desk for stationary and a pen.Β
Sealing away the envelope once you were done and setting it by your purse to grab in the morning when you think you'll be braver.Β
Or maybe less brave as you hesitate by the mail drop off box, your train fast approaching the outside terminal before you shove it into the slot quickly.Β
Too late to take it back now.Β
Besides what were the odds he'd even send one back?
"B-001174, got mail." The guard grunts as he slips the already open letter under the cell door, finishing his rounds before the doors would open and the inmates could roam about the pod as they saw fit.Β
Katsuki snarls, he didn't get mail, letters or pictures or even the cult following he once had he'd scared 'em all off. Tired of all the stupid bullshit they spewed at him, the ideals they placed on him or the words they shoved into his mouth. Worst yet were how they justified their actions, their own wrong doings in the name of Ground Zero, too pussy to even own up to their own actions. Katsuki hated that as much as he hated liars.Β
Besides he didn't ask for all that shit, didn't care. He just wanted to watch the world burn.Β
Wanted to set it on fire and Katsuki's philosophy was that anything was kindling.Β
That everything is kindling.Β
And he thinks he should just ignite the smallest spark despite the quirk "silencing" cuffs and let the letter be devoured by the heat of his palms.Β
But the return address catches his eye, the name does. It's familiar in a way he can't quite place yet. Pulling the paper out of the envelope in the meantime. The first thing he notices is the faint almost perfumey smell of coconut from the paper, not from spraying the stationary but as if it were lotion rubbing across the parchment as you wrote in long looping letters, for a moment he finds the smell pleasant. His poisonous bromine eyes slide over the letter with ease.Β
Dear Bakugou,Β
I heard you don't get letters very often, if any, so I hope this one finds you well. The weather is warming up quickly, the cicadas are starting to scream even though it's barely June, we'll all be sweltering come August. Summer is my favorite season, do you have a favorite? Work slows down around this time and they usually grant us extra leave so we can enjoy the weather, which is quite nice. I hope you're getting to enjoy the sun as well.Β
I know cooking is one of your favorite things, I can see why. It can be relaxing or make you feel good to nourish someone else. What other hobbies do you have aside from cooking? Any favorite books or authors? Maybe I can send your favorite one in! Just let me know.Β
Do you have everything you need? Do you need any money for commissary? Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything at all, I'm only a letter away.Β
Hope to hear from you and maybe soon I can call you Katsuki.Β
Much Love
He snorts as he reads the last line and it finally dawns on him from where he knows your name. Lifting himself out of his prison cot with ease, the cheap thing groaning from his bulk as he exits his cell. Heading towards the neighboring cell that holds Deku and Riot, shoving his way into the too cramped space for the bulking men.Β
"Ka-kaachan!" Izuku chirps, surprised to see the hot headed blonde out of his cell and especially surprised to see Bakugou in his own. Lingering by Izuku's half with a quirked brow, his eyes roaming until they found the hidden stack of papers.Β
"Gonna grab breakfast with us?" Kirishima asks as he watches large hands snatch at the pile. Instantly Izuku stands, eyes darkening as he steps towards Katsuki.
"Put those down, Kaachan." It's that fake polite smile Izuku wears before a fight, the kind that never reaches his eyes and Bakugou doesn't heed the warning, "Please."
It's clipped and now Kirishima thinks to rise, doesn't want either of them to do solitary or to deal with the month long bickering if they do get into a physical fight.Β
Katsuki looks over the letters, reading them quickly and appreciating that Izuku is meticulous enough to keep them in chronological order, each one signed off the same way. Much love.Β
Such bullshit.Β
Izuku shoves Bakugou when he still scowls down at the papers that also smell like coconut. Katsuki drops the letters unceremoniously and Izuku scrambles to keep them from hitting the concrete floor. Bakugou already on Kirishima's side who watches with a confused glare.Β
"What are you-" But Kirishima doesn't get to say much else as Katsuki lifts the thin mattress from the metal frame to find the hidden letters. Tucked away safely as if the battle worn villain took comfort in the false words in shiny black ink.Β
Same return address, same name, same bull shit sign off.Β
"Katsuki!" Kirishima shoves him and the blonde hardly moves, Eijirou's skin half hardening out of habit before he tries to shove again. Katsuki hits his forearm harshly, a soft pop in warning although neither could do too much with the amount of sedation and silencing that came from the collar from around their thick throats. Izuku sans silencing cuffs, has no worries about a part of him being dulled. He was built like an ox with the metabolism of a pubescent teen despite being in his late twenties so sedatives or mood stabilizers hardly have any effect.Β
Bakugou tosses the letters onto Kirishima's scratchy blanket before he scoffs.Β
"Tsk, believe that bullshit?" He's rolling his eyes as he leaves the cell with nothing but the rustle of paper as they try to rehide what they act like is their dirty little secret.Β
God weak hearted fools were so fucking annoying.Β
Post through the prison system could take some time, especially when it came to newer exchanges. It could be anywhere between two weeks to two months before you saw a reply from Katsuki. If you got one at all.Β
But the thought of his phantom reply slips to the back of your head what with your current workload and the other correspondents so when you see a sealed envelope the prison's return address you think nothing of it.Β
Not until you open it to see an open envelope with your address but instead of your name is spelled out Fake Bitch.Β
Blinking furiously you pull out the letter, unfolding it quickly to let your eyes scan over the page, each word burning into your retinas.
Piece of shit,Β
Such a pathetic fuckin slut, writing any and every desperate man behind bars you think is hot, hopin you'll get a conjugal visit. Already fucked everyone at surface level ya gotta try prison dick?Β
Or is it worst than that?Β Mommy and daddy didn't love ya enough? Didn't give ya enough attention so you look for it in anyone that'll give ya the time of day? Prey on those with no one to talk to knowing you'd get a reply out of desperation.Β
Lickin knives all ya know sweetheart? Pretty fuckin scummy if ya ask me.Β
Fuck off and die,Β
Bakugou KatsukiΒ
Now you've received your fair share of mean and asshole letters but this? This was different.Β
This felt personal.Β
It was rule number one you'd given yourself when you were asked to start penning letters while in a shitty place yourself.Β
And yet here you were breaking it for some asshat who thought the cityscape was his to destroy.Β
Heart ringing in your ears as you try to calm yourself, counting your breaths until you finally could see straight. Penning up something simple yet effective telling yourself that even if he didn't reply it didn't matter.Β
You drop it into the mail the next day, two weeks later the same guard is slipping another opened letter under Bakugou's cell door. A snarl to his lip, he didn't expect you to reply and if he was being honest he may have forgotten about you, still the envelope was addressed to his inmate number and no longer is his name written in your cute script.Β
While you may think you know everything there is to know about life and me, I'd like to point out your position over mine.Β
Last I checked I'm not miles and miles in the ground, under heavy security, among other things a civilian wouldn't be privy to. However I will put it into lame man's terms as it seems your cognitive abilities have declined.Β
I'm not the one behind bars, asshole.Β
Much Hate
Bakugou clicks his tongue, he was used to the insult, wore it proudly most days but he knew his first letter would go one of two ways.
One, you'd cry when you read it and never replied to him again, which was his hope or two there was a very slim chance he'd get under your skin enough you'd feel the innate need to respond and defend yourself.Β
Bakugou does what he does best and burrows further under your pretty skin twirling the pen he finds in the library with ease as he takes to writing out a delicious reply.Β
Mail from Tartarus normally came on Wednesday or Thursday as if someone at the facility always forgot to send it out at the beginning of the week. So it became a part of your routine to check your PO Box you set up in a prefecture over in order to preserve your safety should something ever go awry with any of your pen pals or to receive online purchases. Mail day used to be a day you looked forward to, something to help you get through the remainder of your work week but today it was a day you dreaded.Β
The excitement from seeing the others' responses in the mail is overshadowed by one particular envelope that slips out of the Manila folder that all of the letters to the same correspondent were sent in to save postage.Β
You should be reading Touya's letter or hell anyone else's for that matter, yet here you stood, going for that obnoxious scrawl as he still refused to spell out your name and instead gave you some horrible insult.Β
Pathetic Slut
If lying to yourself by writing half ass disingenuine letters to prisoners out of pity makes ya feel like yer changing the world then by all fucking means write away sweetheart.Β
Just don't be surprised when you get an asshole response from an asshole behind bars.Β
Cause we both know that's what you think of all of us don'tchya?Β
Die,Β
Bakugou KatsukiΒ
It shouldn't bother you, it shouldn't burrow so deep into your skin that his inky words scratch at your bones. Like his fingers could dig around in the marrow like maggots yet still it makes your cheeks heat. Makes your eyes burn from frustration and lack of blinking as your palms sweat.Β
Soles of your feet burning as you walk further into your apartment to rummage through the drawers of your desk.Β Uncaring how things topple over as you furiously grab for a permanent marker, pens and books scattering over the hardwood floors.Β
Heart pounding as it resounds through your body like metal striking a bell. Each beat faster, harder than the last until you think your vision starts to ehb at the edges from how much hatred burns away at any of the kindness you built up over the last decade.Β
Snapping the marker in half by the time you're done writing your final letter to the asshole.Β
FUCKΒ
YOUΒ
You don't read it, don't care if it makes it past screening and he never sees it at all. Shoving it into one of your personal envelopes on your desk slapping on a floral postage stamp before stomping down to the express box that sat just outside of your apartment complex.Β
It takes a full week for you to calm down, another week to stop thinking about it daily, and one more week to even reply to the letters you got almost a month ago.Β
An email comes in from the post office, alerting you to something being placed in your box. You hope it's the new sun dress you bought as retail therapy after a long week and an even bigger bottle of booze that you'd drained. Spending quite a pretty penny on something you didn't even really have an occasion to wear it to.Β
More like a nice date, the type of dress you could dress up or down depending on what sorts of accessories you paired with it.Β
Taking the train three stops past your own to head into the post office. Turning the key to your decent sized box finding within the metal your promised package.Β
And on top of that a familiar manila folder with the return address to Tartarus.Β
You grit your teeth, holding onto the mail harder than you should as you take those three long stops back home. Swallowing thickly as you climb your steps, the folder and plastic bag package punctured from your sharp nails as you quickly press in your seven digit key code to get into your apartment and out of the sweltering mid August air.
When your door shuts it closed off the sound of the screaming cicadas and the few crickets that lie in the green space beside your apartment as you try to force yourself to follow your nightly routine.Β
Remove shoes, take off makeup, eat, shower, sleep.Β
But that damn folder was burning a hole into your fingers as you go to your desk, rocking your chair side to side before you just rip it open like you'd rip off a bandaid.Β
This time the letter addresses you in a new way.Β
Sweetheart,Β
I dare you to come say that shit to my face. You fuckin better show up Saturday other wise I'll let your precious Izu and Eiji know just how much of a fake bitch ya really are. Imagine what it would do to them? Break their hearts I'm sure.Β Β
Ya'd hate to mess with their progress wouldn't ya?Β
Don't forget to wear something cute, it'd be nice to see some fat tits in my face at the very least. If a shitty woman like you even owns anything relatively sexy.
Fuck offΒ
Bakugou KatsukiΒ
You see red, breathing deeply as you re-read the letter again, who the fuck was this asshole? Black mailing you into visiting him so it wouldn't hurt your other correspondents because Bakugou was so fucking selfish.Β
So black out angry you don't seem to wake up, not when you put yourself in that sleek summer sun dress that went to your mid thigh, not when you stare at your angry scowl as you apply light make up, and especially not on the hour drive and then two hour ferry ride to Tartarus. Especially not during the twenty minute descent in a cramped elevator box with a guard in front and behind you with AKs clipped to their chests, the sweltering heat seeping down this low in the ground due to body heat and poor ventilation of the prison.Β
Not until the buzzer of the barred door in front of you screams its demands, that the handle was "live" and could be opened by the guard standing in the cage between the hallway that led back to freedom and the other where you could already see toxic bromine burning into your skin.Β
This was a bad idea. This was a really fucking bad idea.Β Β
You swallow thickly, it was too late to turn back now wasn't it? The door had already swung shut as the guard came closer to you for one final inspection.
"Dress is kinda short." Katsuki can overhear the guard mumble to you, can see how the guard's fingers twitch and for some reason his own do too. He watches how the guard lingers, how the man's hand press against your body and bunches up your dress as he pats you down a little too roughly. How you bite your lip when the man squeezes your ribs and under the weight of your breasts a little too roughly.Β
Katsuki is starting to see red, sweat begins to collect on his brow. He hasn't even fully seen you at least not without an obstructed view but already he can tell he likes what he sees.Β
Likes how the dress clings to parts of you you'd favor, the parts you want to really highlight. How the hem flusters higher with each step of your strappy flat shoes.
Loves the scowl that pinches up your cute face when the door buzzes to allow you into the room with him and another six guards. Likes how you straighten your spine as if you've gotten fresh resolve when you come in.Β
Looking at him like he was trash and he smirks, like how you don't recoil from him despite how he looks now.Β Β
Plexiglass spit guard with metal framing afixed to his face to keep more than his salvia to himself, more so to keep his gnashing teeth away from people's skin. How his throat is encircled with a thick black collar with a red light set far past stun and closer to kill that would send an electric pulse if he misbehaved but only if they could reach their remote fast enough.Β
How the silver cuffs around his thick wrists chain him to the table top, thick forearms exposed from him rolling up his bright orange suit that was harsh on the eyes thanks to the flickering fluorescent lighting overhead. Soft ash blonde hair messy at the top with a self given undercut beneath, iris so bloody red it was as if he was born straight from the calf of Ares himself.Β
"Hey Sweetheart." He purrs and his voice is pure sin.Β
Pure fucking sin.Β
Sending a jolt straight to your clit as his pretty lips curl up into a deadly smirk, showing his sharp canines.Β
Bakugou can't contain the feeling of triumph that dances in his veins, purposely egging you on in his letter with the closest Saturday knowing you'd be allowed to come on such short notice. See, most visitors needed to have thorough background checks and intensive mental testing before coming to meet anyone in maximum security five hundred meters below sea level.Β
But the conniving blonde knew you were special.Β
Knew the warden of Tartarus favored you and would allow you to skip these precautions, especially after what that dumbass thinks you've done. In less than a month of writing to him, that damn Deku finally added Inko-san back to his visiting list, actually came to the visit and cupped her hands. Murmuring on and on that her baby boy with the wavy emerald curls was okay. Inko cried and returned every month since.
No different for Kirishima either, adding Fat Gum, who was like a father figure to him during their shared time at UA, to his visitor list. Surprisingly Taishiro came, still comes, him and Inko car pool together.Β
Not even a few heartbeats pass between the two of you before you feel your tongue slicing up the sensitive skin of the roof of your mouth. Of the hard bone of your teeth.Β
"Fuck. You." The words drip with sticky poison that even one of the guards behind him flinches but not Bakugou.Β
No never Bakugou Katsuki, the Ground Zero himself who leveled a city for the fucking fun of itΒ
He smiles, both sides of his mouth curling up and it should be disturbing how much he obviously gets off on your frustration, on your hate. But it isn't, it's almost mesmerizing how he looks at you. Like you're something to triumph and conquer, something he wants to keep for himself.Β
With that you turn to leave, skirt fluttering from the movement and Katsuki can see the tattoo on your upper thigh, the ink making his mouth salivate as he wonders if he can find any more you've got hidden on that fine body.Β
He lunges despite the rattling chains that keep him close to the table, still he has enough leeway to grab onto your arm in one giant hand. Foolishly you try to pull free.Β
"Oh come on sweetheart. I've got a whole hour of play time for this. Yer not leaving, sit down."Β
His grip on you is tight, his hand big enough to engulf half of your forearm and it gets tighter still. Hot palm making your bones creak from the pressure as he smiles up at you cruelly. All you can do is glare down at him, bore all of your hate where the two of you are connected, his skin feels electric against yours.Β
"Ya know, I could probably still blow your arm off." He doesn't bother to say it quietly, chuckles when you look at the quirk silencing cuffs and collar he dons, "They ain't shit against strong quirks."Β
Your eyes flash, anger spiking your blood and stupidly you strike. Hand stinging as badly as the tears that come to your eyes and threaten to fall past your lash line. Clawed fingers met with the metal framing of the glass spit guard mask that covers his mouth. Still one of your claws cuts his cheeks and he howls with laughter.Β
"Like I said-" He yanks you down harshly, playful tone from his voice gone as your ribs smack into the edge of the metal table, puffs of hot breath fogging the glass of his spit guard, "Sit."Β
The awkward angle forces your knees to bend, settling on to the cold metal stool while his warm fingers leave blossoms of black and blue on the skin. As if returning the favor for the cut.Β
"I can feel your heart pounding princess,yer pussy throbin this hard too?" He licks his lips, laughs when you lean away from him in disgust, "Ya like it. All sluts play hard to get at first."Β
Your eyes flicker to the guards behind him, all six pretend not to notice, panic shoots through your veins and the realization of just how bad of a fucking idea this was settles over you harshly. Like ice water flowing from the nape of your neck.Β Β
He follows your gaze, even cranes his head like he didn't know who was behind him and exactly where they stood.Β
"Oh them? They ain't gonna do shit. They're too scared of me. Blew a guy's head off last week." He smiles and one of the guards suddenly finds the floor interesting, "Do ya know how drugged up I am right now baby? How much force these cuffs have to use to bring my quirk down to half power?"Β
Choosing not to respond you let your eyes fall back on his handsome face watching it snarl as you ignore him.Β
Oh he'd make you see him.Β
"What cat got yer tongue now ya scared cause I'm so strong? Invincible?" Your eyes narrow as he speaks the arrogance of this man is far beyond your comprehension.Β
"You bleed like every other man." He loves the way you speak, how you wield that sharp tongue. How he wants it pressed and slashing over his own as he's two fingers deep into your tight cunt, moaning into his mouth.Β
He brings the thick digits of his free hand parting gift you bestowed upon him. The long thin slash as rough pads bring smeared blood into view so he can lick away the dark red beads.Β
"Bloody men are usually the most dangerous, you never know if it's his or that of another's." He lets his hot thumb roll over the cut, cauterizing the small wound hoping it scars.Β
Eyes widening as he blatantly uses his quirk as if there weren't armed guards behind him. You're watching his eyes closely as he does and finally you realize what he said is true. There is a dullness to them that was lacking in the raw footage you saw all those months ago.Β
Then his eyes were vibrant, sharp and slicing, much more intense then the hazy glare he gives you now. It didn't make him any less of an apex predator.Β
Still watching you, recording your small movements and committing your soft skin to his memory as he studies you.Β
"Got a quirk?" He grunts out after a moment, after he collects whatever information he was looking for, "I wanna guess first. Manipulation?"Β
He smirks at his own joke and you roll your eyes, trying to ignore how his thumb swipes at the underside of your forearm idly. How the motion twists your stomach violently with dizzying emotions.Β
Rolling your eyes before you scoff an answer, "No. Besides you expect me to manipulate through what? Ink?"Β
"Ya never know. Went to school with some asshole whose quirk was comic book sound effects." He leans back never letting go but now his hand is around your wrist. His fingers twitch when he looks at yours, fights the urge to roughly lace them with his own.Β
"Well I don't. Manipulate I mean." You adjust in your seat, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny, "And I won't disclose whether I have a quirk or not."Β
"Haaah? Worried I'll like it?" When you don't answer he adds, "Is it compatible with mine?"Β
Slowly blinking at him trying not to read into what you think he means. He groans at your silence, the higher dosage of his morning meds finally catching up making him a little lethargic. Taking his edge off when all he wants to do is rise over the crashing wave of the pending high he can barely keep at bay and whisk you out of the depths of hell the two of you currently sit in.Β
"So then what? You just used regular words to manipulate them?" He fights back a yawn.Β
"Who?" Your ribs still ache from his actions earlier, it doesn't warn you like it should.Β
"Don't play fuckin stupid, Sweetheart." He's lurching into your space again, hand moving back over your bruise. It makes your stomach clench when it shouldn't, especially not as the chains rattle against the metal table top, serving as a heavy reminder of the setting of this conversation.Β
Still his breath comes in quick puffs as it fogs up the glass again, "Shitty hair. Deku."Β
Your brows furrow for a moment, another groan from him.Β
"For fucks sake." Light squeeze of your arm as he spits their names, "Fuckin nerdy ass Izuku. Eijirou."
"I can't talk about them." Looking away from his darkened eyes that flash with a fury of emotion.
"Who's stoppin ya? Them?" He tilts his head towards the guards, "I told ya-"Β
"B-001174, you have five minutes left for visitation." A voice crackled over an old speaker in the visitation cell, "Please remove your hands from the guest or we will apply force."Β
The small light on his collar flashes red and he just smirks, looking up, well above your head. Staring directly at the warden like he knows exactly where he stood behind the two way mirror.Β
"Yea? You'll apply force? Go ahead. Nothin but a little shock t' me but t' her? She'll die warden." There is no mirth in his smirk, lips twitching as his eyes are shrouded in dark warning, "And we wouldn't want that would we?"Β
The way he speaks sends a chill down your spine, the haze of whatever sedative they had him on is now gone and you're left sitting across from those vibrant radioactive eyes. Burning through the mirror to sear the warden's skin in a threat, a promise.Β
A buzz rings out as the seventh guard comes in, he scrunches his nose and it makes his oddly shaped mustache twitch.Β
"Miss." He grunts holding out his hand for you to take too close in your personal space for your liking. Slapping it out of your face before following your right arm down to where Katsuki held fast. Peeling off his thick digits with your finely manicured claws.Β
He hisses at the loss of contact, glaring at the guard when his hands hover close and the older man is smart enough not to antagonize a literal monster. Katsuki stands suddenly, a scream comes from the bolts securing metal to metal as he rips the table out of the ground, unable to break the chains for now.Β
Everyone but Bakugou in the room freezes, guns cocked and aimed at the bulking villain who rose to his full height, sticking his prison issued white shoe onto the seat he just sat on to push down roughly. Thick thigh muscles straining against the fabric of the bright orange pants. A smile to his face when the chains finally snap and he can move his hands more freely before ripping off the plexiglass spit guard letting it clink on to the ground. His large hands run through his hair as if to fix it.Β
"I'm entitled to a proper fuckin good bye." He hisses at everyone in the room, they keep their guns aimed at him but make no move to pull any trigger.Β
Katsuki stalks closer, a wall of muscle, broad chest and shoulders, slim waist that leads down to powerful legs and you try not to let your breath catch in your throat.Β
Try not to let the big bad wolf win by letting him know just how scared you were. Over how impressive it was that he snapped reinforced titanium chains so easily.Β
He's well within your arms reach now, so close heat radiates from his chest.Β
"I'll see ya soon, Sweetheart." He bids you a final goodbye, waving his fingers that pop with burning caramel explosions. You're not sure why it sets you off, maybe it was the way he wore that stupid smirk on his face, maybe it was the way he demonstrated his power or his dominance in an attempt to intimidate you one last time.Β
Maybe it's the way he was arrogant enough to think you'd waste six hours round trip on his ass ever again.Β
Either way it makes your temper flair, burrows deep into your subdermis to scarpe at your bones one final time before you unknowingly seal your own fate. Not knowing how his body would react to your parting words.Β
"There won't be a next time. I came here for one thing and that was to say fuck you." Delivered with just as much clotting venom as it was before, middle finger held high.
His smirk turns deadly, blowing out a snort as he leans closer as if to share a secret. You can smell the cheap commissary soap that clings to his skin that's starting to lose out to the rapidly building nimbus of smoking caramel that clouds the air as his lips press to your ear.Β Β
"Don't have t'. I'll come to you." He pulls back and winks as you're guided out of the room, glare fixed on him as he stands unbothered.Β
He's lying, prisoners lie all the time especially if they think they can get the upper hand. He couldn't come to you. He couldn't escape prison for starters and lastly there was no way in hell he'd ever find out where you lived.Β The prison made sure of that by always including a fresh envelope with their own return address in the top left corner, you should know. You only triple checked each time you sealed away the letter, even a fourth time at the post box staring down at the address on the envelope making sure both were correct.
So fuck Bakugou Katsuki for being a dirty liar, fucking hypocrite.
Shoving yourself into an oversized shirt after your body shower you finally get to plop down into bed. Relishing the feel of fresh sheets and blankets as you sigh deeply. It had been a long, long day and no amount of self care could get his toxic blood red eyes out of your head.
Switching on the TV to pull up some show to numb your mind with familiarity when the channel cuts out. Breaking news flashing across the screen makes your body go rigid.Β
A prison break from Tartarus has occurred in the late evening hours, several high profile villains are believed to have escaped such as Shigaraki Tomura, Todoroki Touya, aka Dabi, Kirishima Eijirou aka Blood Riot,Β Midoriya Izuku aka Deku and Bakugou Katsuki better known as Ground Zero. Please do not approach suspected escapees, please report any suspicious person or activities immediately. Most importantly keep all doors and windows locked at all times. I repeat do not engage with the inmates.Β
A knock comes from your left, making you jump out of your skin as you fist the sheets. A cold sweat breaking out over your skin in goose flesh as your hearing rings in your ears. Unable to bring yourself to look at the sliding glass door to your balcony just yet as if you could ignore it and the cause of the sound would simply go away.
Another rapt of knuckles pulls your attention once more before you finally dare to peek to see glowing red eyes peering in. The devil himself at your door and you knew better than to let him in.Β
Knew better that a locked door couldn't keep him out.Β
Bromine burning in the night like ever fanned flames, orange jumpsuit obnoxiously out of place against the night sky, stained in deep burgundy red and ash grays, the same colors streaking his face before he knocks again. But this time it's in warning, hard enough to rattle the door that you both know he could rip off the track with ease.
"How- how did you?" Teeth chattering that you grit closed still refusing to give in to his tactics until he presses a small envelope against the glass. Your personal envelope with your real home address listed for return.Β
Panic bubbles up your throat in a scream that dies at the back of your teeth as you sit frozen a minute longer while he gives a predatory grin, large hands pressing against the glass before his palms glow bright orange. Brighter than his jumpsuit before the glass shatters and your scream finally escapes your lungs.Β
In an instant he's towering over you, palms pressing into biting shards as he cages you against the plush comforter dipping his head low so he can nose at your throat, hot palm at your ribs. Leave a searing bite pulling a strangled yelp from your soft lips that makes him laugh before his mouth is at your ear for the second time today. Finally speaking dangerously low.
idk how to word this but something so hot about a man being antagonistic towards you during sex. not necessarily like . rough. but like literally antagonizing you for being aroused or getting embarrassed. lord have mercy
werewolf cowboy... he has you tie him up every full moon (so he doesnt end up pursuing you or another woman through the town)
"I'm a big man, sugar," he comments softly. its almost impossible to tell when he's starting to lose himself to the change, but you see it now, in that golden twinge in his eyes.
"I see that," you say. He's all tied up, no strain in the lines.
"Nah," he grins with too sharp teeth, his eyes glancing down at his own lap. "I'm a big man."
Your face burns at the implication.
"Got nine inches for you all month and you won't even take one-" he sighs, hips rolling into the air. "come sit on it before it gets too big for you to handle."
"I can't-"
"You can, sug', you can. It's real simple and I'll be real nice-"
"I'm not on birth control."
"I fucking know, darling, baby, sugar-" the ropes are tight as he tries to strain forward, "You're in fucking heat."
SYNOPSIS: upset with each other after a mission ends in a near-death encounter, the tension on the drive back to the city finally erupts in a culmination of old arguments and unexpressed feelings. you push nanami too far, and what starts as another fight spirals quickly into backseat heat, fogged windows, and unexpected confessions.
CONTENT: hate fucking, car sex, rough (but tender) sex, porn with plot, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, reader is snarky and a huge brat, brat tamer nanami, both are sorcerers this is important to the plot, tsundere-ish behaviour from nanami, so much sexual tension it fucking explodes, consent checks, fingering, we fuck first and talk later, hurt/comfort, two emotionally repressed fools, happy ending β wc: 8.5k
A/N: there is some semblance of a deeper plot hidden within all this messy hate fucking stuff but iβll let you discover it for yourself! i hope you enjoy the read <3 β ao3 link
Itβs not a secret that you donβt exactly get along with Nanami Kento.
They all say Nanami is a gentleman. Heβs the gold-standard of what it takes to be a first-grade sorcerer β razor-sharp judgement paired with flawless execution and the kind of combat experience that makes him near untouchable in the field. Heβs the role model for rookie sorcerers, the example every teacher points to.
And heβs handsome, too, in the unfair kind of way that has old ladies on the street stopping to stare, the kind of handsome that gets him free bread at the bakery and phone numbers scribbled on coffee cups with a little heart next to them.
You know him a little better than that though.
Nanami Kento is a gentleman β to everyone else but you. Heβs not an asshole in the traditional sense of the word, neither has he ever raised his voice or stooped to insults (you canβt exactly say youβve adhered to the same principles), but that doesnβt mean you get along.
The feud between you has been simmering for two years at this point β and it runs deeper than the clipped cadence of his voice when he speaks to you, or the ridiculous leopard print tie he favours so much, or even the suffocating pragmatism he wields like a second blade.
No, what truly grates is your differences in philosophy, the way they surface in every battle, every mission. To him, youβre reckless. To you, heβs inflexible. Stuck up. Condescending. If someone asked him directly, he might have a few choice words to describe you in return.
Still, the higher-ups thought they were clever, pairing your technique with his. Perfect synergy, as they called it. Too valuable to waste. The younger sorcerer brimming with potential, paired up with the seasoned veteran to temper her recklessness.
Stuck together, as you preferred to call it.
And the thing was β youβd actually managed to make it work. Somehow, despite your fundamental differences, baring a few squabbles and disagreements here and there, you fought well side by side. You covered each otherβs weaknesses, filled in each otherβs gaps.
At least, thatβs how it used to be.
Until the mission in July happened.
Ever since then, Nanami has never treated you the same.
You hear it in his tone, now sharper than usual, the way he wonβt meet your eyes and yet his gaze lingers on your back like he doesnβt quite trust you to execute a simple assignment without tripping on your shoelaces, and in the way you sometimes catch him staring at the jagged scar running down your left arm β one of the injuries youβd sustained from the mission β his lips pursed and brow creased.
On the surface, things carried on as per usual. You were still being paired together to tackle harder missions better left to more experienced sorcerers. Nothing had really changed about your dynamic, either. You still go out of your way to annoy him, and he still remains largely unimpressed by your attempts to push his buttons.
Most importantly, the implicit trust between two partners on the battlefield was still there, unbroken.
But underneath, you knew that the air between you had permanently shifted, charged with a tension you couldnβt quite name. Sharp and lingering, it polluted every interaction, every word too heavy, every sentence too loaded.
Sometimes, you wondered if it was hatred, that maybe after your fuck up in July heβd decided you werenβt worth his respect anymore. That the semblance of friendship youβd been slowly progressing towards no longer meant anything.
Or maybe, that the scar on your arm was such a jarring reminder of your failure that he could no longer bring himself to look at you without remembering how badly youβd messed up.
And after tonight, when youβd come so close to messing up again, it feels even worse.
Nanami hasnβt said a word for the better part of an hour, weary eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of highway ahead. His jaw is set in that way that means heβs stewing β about you, about the mission, about the split-second decision you made that forced him to step in and save your ass.
Oh, and about the fact that you were supposed to be back in Tokyo by the afternoon, and itβs 9pm.
The next day.
Working overtime. He hates that shit. Possibly even a little more than he hates you.
Nanamiβs sleep deprived β you both are β but the difference is that whilst youβve been able to take little naps in the passenger seat, he looks like his restraint is being held together by the last shreds of sheer willpower and caffeine. Heβs on third, maybe fourth cup of cheap convenience store coffee, and his hands are clutching the steering wheel so tight his knuckles have gone white.
For the record, youβd sincerely offered to take over the wheel, but heβd insisted on driving, claiming he didnβt trust you on the road, or with his car.
Youβre stealing glances at him β his typically crisp dress shirt rumpled, tie lost to the backseat (thank god he took that monstrosity off), fatigue carved deep in the lines of the stone statue that is his face.
Heβd graciously let you have the bed last night, when you were stuck in a shitty motel with only one room available, whilst he slept on the floor with a spare pillow and a towel draped over him to act as a makeshift blanket.
So really, you should probably feel a little guilty.
And you do, really, you do. You just canβt sit still in the quiet for any longer.
Your lips twitch, and you reach for the console to turn the volume up a notch.
βDonβt,β Nanami says, without looking.
Your fingers rest on the display, leaving a little fingerprint across the surface of his otherwise pristine touchscreen β because of course the man keeps his car immaculately tidy and maintained like he just drove it out of the Mercedes dealership the day before.
You hover over the volume button, then, whilst meeting his gaze, you slowly drag your fingertip in a tiny crescent. The bass lifts just a breath β some obnoxious song on the radio youβre only going to pretend to like when he tells you to turn it off β and you hear him audibly exhale.
Nanamiβs jaw flexes. βOff.β
Bingo.
You feign a pout. βYou havenβt even heard the song. Itβs my favourite, you know.β
βDoesnβt matter,β he replies, voice flat. βMy car is not a club.β
βDisagree,β you say, tapping the dash, where the LED panels extending across the length of it alternates in the colours of the rainbow, pulsing slowly. βYou have the lights. Youβre just lacking the vibes.β
He ignores the last end of your statement. βI told you not to mess with my settings.β
βWhy buy a fancy car if you donβt play with it a little, Grandpa?β You grin at him sideways, knowing full well the nickname makes his eye twitch every time.
Nanami isnβt one for overtly emotional displays, but itβs the little chips in his composure β so tiny youβd have to squint to see it β that makes pushing his buttons so entertaining. Heβs normally a lot better at denying you the satisfaction of seeing it happen, but now, when sleep-deprived and running low on patience, those cracks show easier.
βI am not your grandfather,β he mutters.
βCouldβve fooled me,β you hum. βYou sure drive like one.β
βI drive safely.β His gaze flicks to you, entirely unimpressed. βIf Iβm being honest, I preferred when you were asleep. It would spare me your commentary.β
Oh, good. Heβs talking again. Talking is good. Anything is better than the silence heβs been submerged in ever since the mission ended.
βDonβt be so mean, Kento,β you sing-song, drawing out the βOβ consonant to his name. βI happen to like talking to you.β
Thatβs a half-truth. You like getting on Nanamiβs nerves, mainly because you seem to be able to draw a reaction out of him unlike another other. Not even Gojo comes close, and thatβs saying something. Heβs just a lot moreβ¦ reactive when it comes to you, and youβve always been more than happy to exploit that fact.
And the other half of it? Because any reaction is better than the suffocating quiet that engulfs the car. That, and the sidelong glances of contempt heβs been casting you. You understand Nanami well enough to know that heβs biting his tongue, another sharp lecture waiting on the edge of his teeth.
So why not speed the process up a little?
You reach for the volume button again, dragging it up just a notch. The bass hums louder, grating and insistent, filling the silence he clearer prefers.
βAre you,β he inhales deeply, shooting you a glare, βpurposely trying to rile me up?β
Your grin deepens, teeth flashing. βDid you just figure that out?β
That seems to do it.
His head snaps towards you, eyes narrowed. βDo you have any idea how close you came to screwing up that mission?β
βBut I didnβt!β you groan in exasperation, your own mood souring instantly. βI didnβt, and we got out safely. God, why are you still being such a hardass about it?β
βWe only got out because I had your back,β Nanami retorts, his tone sharper than usual. βIf I hadnβt pulled you out at the last second you would have died.β
βOh my god.β You drop your head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling of the car. βThe point is that I didnβt die. I didnβt die, and now Iβm in your car listening to you lecture me, and itβs starting to make me wish I died instead.β
His grip on the wheel tightens. βDo you hear yourself? That was reckless, and you know it. You got lucky.β He drags out the last word, as if to further emphasise his point.
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. βPeople were saved. Thatβs all that matters to me.β
βNot if it costs you your life,β his voice comes out low, harsh. βYour life is not an expendable resource you can throw away. We had a plan, and you insisted on veering away from it because you got emotional.β
βIt wasnβt emotional,β you grit, dragging a hand down your face in frustration. Maybe death by flinging yourself out of a moving vehicle wouldnβt be such a bad idea after all.
βIt was a sacrifice I was willing to make. And I succeeded. With my life intact,β you scowl. Shouldnβt you be thanking me instead? What, Mr. First-Grade Sorcerer over here thinks that the only right calls are the ones he makes?β
Nanami lets out a long exhale through his nose, slow and deliberate. βThat is not what this is about.β
βWhat else could it be about?β You throw your hands up in frustration. βDonβt act like you donβt gamble with your own life every day. This whole job is a gamble. Why is that so hard for you to understand?β
βThe difference is that your life matters,β he snaps, and the crack in his composure comes so suddenly it silences the car for half a beat.
You blink, but recover your snark quickly.
βMatters to who?β you scoff incredulously. βCertainly not to you, given the way youβve been glaring at me this whole time.β
Nanami opens his mouth, seemingly about to retort, before changing his mind and snapping his mouth shut. His jaw ticks, and you swear his eye twitches, but he says nothing. Absolutely nothing. The car goes quiet, with only the hum of tires on asphalt and the low rush of air through the vents filling the void.Β Β
The silence is heavier than before, and itβs somehow worse than the fighting, worse than the stupid back and forth youβve been doing since the day you met, and although you canβt for the life of you figure out why youβre so determined to get a rise out of him β stoic, stone-faced Nanami Kento that everyone respects and looks up to β you reach for the handle, yanking it hard. Just to see what heβll do.
βPull over,β you demand, giving the locked handle another hard tug.
His head whips towards you with a glare so sharp it borders on panic. Itβs not because you want to get out, or because you want to run, but because you want to start a proper fight and you canβt exactly do it sitting down.
βNo.β His tone is entirely flat. βAnd stop doing that. Weβre not splitting up on the side of the motorway at night. If I can tolerate you for twenty seven hours,β he checks his watch, eyes narrowing, βno, twenty eight, then you can tolerate me for another sixty more minutes.β
βSo you do care.β You canβt help yourself. Pissing him off really is that fun. βSay it, Kento. Say youβd miss me if I got smeared across the road.β
Nanamiβs jaw ticks, but he doesnβt answer. His eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, although his knuckles return to white from how hard heβs gripping the steering wheel again.
βYouβd even cry,β you push. βYouβd probably request bereavement leave and take the full week off. Nanami Kento, mourning the brat who drove him insaneββ
He breathes in through his nose, chest rising sharply with every measured inhale. You wonder if heβs in the middle of doing one of those breathing exercises they advise you to do to manage anxiety β or in his case, to manage you.
In any case, he doesnβt answer. Doesnβt rise to the bait. Instead, he signals, and without so much as sparing you another glance, contemptuous or otherwise, he veers into the next exit, guiding the car down a ramp and into an industrial strip of shuttered shopfronts.
He pulls into a deserted parking lot in front of a closed bakery and parks, pointedly ignoring your increasingly incredulous questions of what the hell are you doing and have you gone completely mad. The engine ticks as it cools, rain threading down the windshield in tired streams and blurring the warm glow of the streetlamps above.
Only then does he turn to you.
The look on his face, somehow made harsher by the dim streetlamps outside is worse than angry.
It is concentrated. Darkened and unyielding, like the electric pulse of the sky before a storm breaks.
βGet out,β he says.
You blink. βExcuse me?β
βYou wanted me to pull over,β his brow lifts just so, the tiniest flicker of a challenge in his otherwise flat expression. βSo, get out.β
You set your jaw. βIf youβre seriously thinking about making me walk home in the middle of nowhereββ
He undoes his seatbelt with a sharp click of the button, and you almost jolt at the way it snaps back into the retractor. βI am not asking you to walk. I am asking you to get out of the car.β
Everything inside you thrums.
You shouldnβt move. You should lock your arms and snark until he eventually deflates.
Instead, your fingers reach for the handle, opening the door and stepping out into the drizzle of rain and wet concrete. You wanted an argument, but it feels like this has spiralled headfirst into something else entirely.
You round the hood, fingers curled into tight fists to hide how your hands tremble. How theyβve been trembling ever since the mission ended. He swiftly meets you at the passenger side, door closing behind him with a loud thud that makes something in you brace for impact and roar to life all at once.
Rain stipples his hair, under eyes shadowed with hours and stress he probably blames on you. He looks even taller out here, broad and solid, his eyes hard and unyielding, collar undone.
You hate that you still find him unbearably, breathtakingly handsome.
With a breath held immensely tight in your chest, you watch as Nanami opens the back door. The back seat is immaculate, as is the rest of his car β quilted chestnut leather that still smells faintly new, without any indication of creases or crumbs to suggest anyone had ever sat there before.
βNow get in,β he orders.
Your throat goes dry.
βWhat are you doing?β you ask stupidly, even though you think the heat behind is eyes is an answer in itself.
Nanami steps in closer, and you swear you feel the warmth radiating off him, even through the drizzle of rain. You swear it would burn if you dared to reach for him.
βPolite conversation clearly doesnβt work with you. Iβm trying another way.β His voice is a low note, like thunder murmuring in the distance. βSo get in the car.β
You tilt your chin in another act of defiance. βAnd if I donβt?β
You expect him to bite back at you, to return tit for tat, but he lowers his gaze, eyes softening unexpectedly.
βThen,β he murmurs, taking a half-step backwards, βyou get back into the front seat, and we go home like this never happened.β
Your pulse is an uneven flutter at the base of your throat. Of course he offers you the choice. Of course he gives you an out. Even now, when the air around you wears thin with tension that threatens to snap, of course he is kind.
And you should take it.
You should stalk back to the passenger seat, shut the door with force and raise the volume loud enough just to spite him. You should ignore how the only decoration in his car is an incredibly out-of-place Pompompurin keychain dangling from the rearview mirror β something you absentmindedly picked out during a gift exchange event. You should pretend youβve never once questioned why he hasnβt taken it down, especially if itβs as unsightly as he claims.
You should ignore how you seem to be the only person he lets sit in this immaculate shrine of leather upholstery and polish. Itβs almost as untouched as a showroom piece, and yet he continues to let you eat your lunch in his car when youβre starving and rushing from assignment to assignment. He never says yes, but he never says no either. He just readjusts his glasses with a sigh and attacks the seat with a mini vacuum when you get out.
You should do all of that, then meet him at 9am sharp tomorrow for that briefing with the higher-ups. Poke fun at his perpetual frown and that hideous tie β because what the hell, honestly β and pretend your scars donβt itch under the heavy weight of his gaze.
You really, really should.
Instead, your spine liquifies, and you move before you can think better of it, slipping into the backseat, the leather sinking under your weight. He follows after you, and if it was quiet in the car before, it is positively oppressive now, the unbearably small space between you closing further as he leans down, knees bracketing your thighs.
The distinctive smell of his cologne still clings to him, softened now by the rain and a long day on the road, but itβs still enough to make your pulse trip as his gaze drags over your face, tender and hot all at once, almost like a caress across the surface of your skin.
βTell me to stop,β Nanami says, and you donβt understand why, for all the restraint he seems to embody, all that iron discipline that defines him β he seems to be begging you, of all people, to hold him back.
Itβs too bad youβve always been a little reckless.
βI wonβt.β
His jaw flexes. βYou can.β
βI know.β
Thatβs the last thing you say before you reach out, a hand grabbing at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer until the space between your faces all but evaporates. Heβs still leaning over you, the breadth of his shoulders caging you in, and you long to find out if heβs just as hard as you imagine β if perhaps the restraint pulling itself taut on every line of his body is fighting back something far more primal underneath.
Your hips shift β just the barest brush against his β and the low growl from the base of his throat tells you enough.
βYou want me,β you taunt, chin jutting out like itβs a dare, because maybe you really are stupid and reckless, and maybe poking the bear helps hide the shakiness to your voice, or the hammering of your heart against your ribs. βMaybe you hate that you want me, but you want mββ
Nanami cuts you off. βI want you,β he replies evenly, βto shut up.β
You grin, wide, all teeth. Youβve always loved watching a storm brew. βThen shut me up.β
And he does exactly that.
He curses once under his breath, soft but not at all sweet, and then his lips crash down upon yours, silencing every single thought with a kiss that is all heat and fervour.
Your hands are mean, or maybe just plain greedy, threading through his damp hair, tugging at the strands, before trailing down the width of his shoulders and down his back with a hunger you donβt bother to conceal.
Meanwhile, Nanamiβs hands wander lower, gathering up your skirt in impatient fists and flipping the fabric up around your thighs. The sudden rush of cool air makes you shudder, and you hope to god he canβt see how youβve already soaked through the fabric of your cotton panties.
βYou wear this fucking thingββ he rasps, pulling back to let his eyes drag across your body, from your spread thighs to the sharp rise and fall of your chest, ββand wonder why youβre driving me crazy.β
You bite down on another grin, somehow managing a retort despite the dizzy rush of blood in your ears and the furious knocking of your heart against its cage.
βThought it was my mouth that drives you crazy.β
βOh, believe me,β he scoffs, breath ghosting your neck. βThat too.β
And then, as to prove his point, he leans down to kiss you again, harder this time.
There was a conversation to be had, a fight waiting to be fought, but somehow β when his lips press against yours and his hand trails down your thigh β the only battle you want is the one waged by teeth scraping against teeth, in the slick slide of tongues and in gasps withheld and coaxed out of the other.
You shove at his shirt in between messy kisses, fumbling with the buttons in the dark until you lose patience and practically rip it open with force. It leaves his chest bare, and you canβt stop the satisfied curl of your lips when you run a palm down his body and over his abs, the barest touch pulling a low groan from his chest.
Itβs easy to get lost in the moment, in the frenzied fight for dominance youβre sure to eventually lose, but you freeze completely when Nanamiβs hands curl at the bottom of your shirt, his intent clear in the way hazel eyes narrow, fixed and focused on your exposed skin.
βD-donβtββ your fingers rush to clamp around his wrist, the slight, frantic tremble in your voice more obvious than youβd hoped.
Itβs fairly dark in the car, but even then you canβt bear the thought of him seeing it.
The scars β god, itβs always about the scars β one running down your left arm, crooked and ugly, and the other on your upper chest, evidence of a blade that tore through skin like it was paper, the tissue raised and raw even after all of Shokoβs best efforts.
I canβt do much about the cosmetics, sheβd told you with an apologetic wince. Still, youβre very lucky to be alive.
I donβt feel very lucky, youβd wanted to say, your legs hanging off her examination table as you shrugged your shirt back on. I know I should. But I donβt.
Not when he canβt seem to ever look at me the same.
You canβt tell if your wide-eyed gaze has indeed betrayed you, or if Nanami simply decides not to cross a boundary you donβt want crossed, but his movements halt, fingers slowly unfurling from the edge of your shirt.
βAlright,β he murmurs.
Heβs chooses to be merciful, although you know deep down heβs always been this way and it just kills you to admit that, because he simply doesnβt press. Instead, he moves on like nothing happened, pulling your top the full length down, then slipping away from where his hand once hovered and down to your parted thighs.
βYouβre soaked,β he breathes, in half-awe and half-surprise, when he feels the way slick already coats your inner thighs sticky.
βS-shut up,β you bite back weakly, nails digging into his shoulder when his fingers test the wet heat of your core through the thin fabric of your panties. βAre you gonna fuck me or not?β
βImpatient,β Nanami chides with a click of his tongue, but he gives you more anyway, pushing aside the thin cotton barrier and dragging a thumb through your slick, rubbing over your clit as he goes, the pressure enough to make your hips buck up desperately. Β
You bite down hard on your bottom lip, wanting to deny him the satisfaction of hearing the whimper threatening to fall from the tip of your tongue.
βTalk,β he orders, a hand closing on your hips to hold you in place. βYou never stop. Go on.β
βI hate you,β you say, too quickly, because you need ground under your feet. βYouβre a condescendingβ ahβ ohβ fuckβ β
Your protest dissolves into a strangled gasp β more air than sound β when he presses two thick fingers into you without warning, the stretch burning and maddening all at once. Hands fly up to grip his shoulders, every push of air from your throat leaving more broken than the last.
You cry out as he works you open, merciless and unrelenting, darkened eyes watching the way your body trembles and twitches under his control. He is precise, measured even in the way he unravels you, every curl of his fingers and brush against your sensitive clit a deliberate act to unmake you.
βWhat do you want?β Nanami rasps, fingers picking up their pace.
The car is too small, too hot, the wet drag of his fingers and your fractured moans echoing in the cramped space.
βYou,β you say, shameless, gone. Youβll lose the battle if it means winning the war. βI want you.β
βSay it again,β he demands. βTell me you want this.β
βYou,β youβre pawing at him, hungry with want, eyes raking down the length of his bare chest and wishing he would just go ahead and ruin you. The sincerity of your confession β just how deep it truly goes β is lost on you. βW-want youββΒ
Thatβs all it takes for the remnants of his composure to crack like sugared glass, pulling his hand from you to fumble at his belt before yanking it off and pushing his pants down just far enough to tug himself free.
Your gaze flickers down at the low rasp of fabric, the clink of metal hitting against the door, eyes widening despite yourself.
Heβs fucking hung. Well-endowed. Blessed by the gods, clearly, or whatever you call the kind of cock even the average male porn star canβt compete with. Your mouth goes a little dry at the sight of it.
βThat wonβtβ wonβt fit,β you say breathlessly, eyes transfixed on the way he fists his cock, once, twice, hand sliding tight over his swollen tip.
βWeβll make it fit,β he grunts.
His free hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wider for him. Your hips donβt mean to cant up to chase his touch, but your body betrays you anyway, the movement needy and shameless.
Nanami drags the head of his cock against your slick folds and another shaky whimper is torn from your throat when it nudges against your entrance, rubbing up against your wet heat.
βKentoββ You gasp when he presses in just enough to have you stretching around his tip, thighs tensing around him at the weight of it, hands curling into fists.
Youβre forced to hold his gaze in this position, eyes locked on each other even as yours roll back and his threaten to flutter shut just the same. But he keeps them open β stubborn and determined to the last β fixated on the way your face contorts in a convoluted mix of pain and pleasure as he inches deeper.
βIs this what you wanted?β Nanami rasps, a hand on your hip pinning you down to the leather as your body fights against the intrusion. βWhy you keep running your mouth? God,β the laugh he lets out is more dark than it is humorous. βYou drive me crazy.β
βYou alreadyβ hahβ said thatββ
Another inch deeper.
Another groan falls from your bitten lips, increasingly more shattered as your body gradually yields to the stretch. Your nails dig into this shoulders, fingers curling into hardened muscle, the sheer desperation almost overwhelming. Β
βYouβll get yourself killed one day,β he grits through clenched teeth.
βLet it go, already, old man,β you snap back, too breathless to carry any heat, βItβs none of your business how I dieββ
βIs that so?β He seems to grow incensed at that statement, because he pushes all the way to the hilt, hips snapping against you with a decisive thrust. βEven if Iβm the one who has to bury your dead body?β
The force of it makes you choke on a moan, back arching against the seat, hands bracing at your sides for purchase. You swear to god Nanami must truly hate you or he wouldnβt be fucking you this good, this ruthlessly, like every thrust is intent to break you into something less frustrating for him to handle.
And then he leans down, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. His face is half-obscured by the darkness, but even then you can see thereβs nothing darker, nothing quite as agitated compared to the look in his eyes.
βIf thereβs even anything left of you next time.β
He spits it out bitterly, eyes narrowing into slits, the next harsh thrust after that almost serving to further punctuate his statement.
Your lips part, but Nanami doesn't give you the chance to retort β and he knows you well enough to know you always have something to throw back β because he picks up his pace, the rhythm he sets enough to shake the car.
But more than frustration, and more than anger itself, thereβs something else buried deep in the way he splits you apart. Something confusing, something desperate behind every devasting thrust.
His hands on your hip stay almost tender, never bruising, and when you guide his hand towards your breasts, above your clothes, he doesnβt knead your flesh with any force behind it. Where youβd expected sharpness, his touch stays controlled, gentle, even β as though soothing.
Nanami must know, because of course he does.
He must know about the scarred length of skin that still feels raw to the touch, and if he keeps looking at you like this youβre certain heβll know about the nightmares that keep you up on some nights β where you donβt manage to outrun the sharp slice of blade that almost took your life.
He knows everything about you, because heβs worked closely by your side for two straight years, through successes you barely celebrated and losses too deep to speak of, and heβs always right, even when heβs calling you impulsive and reckless.
Even when heβs holding you back by the collar, saving your skin, or giving another sharp lecture with his eyes narrowed and arms crossed β he knows.
And you think thatβs what you hate more than anything.
It isnβt the tie (though god, that one is pushing it pretty close), it isnβt the clipped tone, and it isnβt the petty disagreements on mission strategies or what he deems to be sloppy work on your reports.
No, what you truly hate is the way your mistake in July seems to have cost his respect for you, his trust, and as much as you hated to admit it, you cared more about the broken bond β if anything had existed in the first place β than you cared about the irreversible scars on your chest and arm.
Deep down, what you hated was yourself, for losing something irretrievable.
You silence those thoughts with a desperate reach for him, dragging him down into a kiss that is equal parts messy and all-consuming. Every thrust jolts you against the leather seat, your skin sticky with sweat, nothing but the frantic collision of your bodies echoing in the cramped space.
Youβre greedy for him. You can allow it, just once. And he gives you greed right back, matched and measured, and then not measured at all.
Nanami is methodical even when heβs unravelling; never fully lost to pleasure itself. He brings you to the edge of release first, only letting himself go when youβre already breaking apart under him, trembling and shaking as your orgasm washes over you in waves.
His thrusts finally turn sloppy, losing their rhythm as they morph into urgency, letting himself chase the high heβs been resisting all this while. His forehead presses close to yours, exchanging heated, open-mouthed kisses, as his hips stutter.
βFuckββ he curses, driving into you once, then twice more with a fracturing pace, before spilling into you with a low groan, chest heaving from the exertion.
He stays like that for a moment, a hand braced against the fogged windows to shield you from his weight, the both of you panting heavily from the high. Then, with a sharp but shaky exhale, one hand leaves your hip, reaching up to turn on the overhead light.
The warm amber glow floods the space, and for a moment you squint, shielding your eyes from the brightness above.
βOw,β you bemoan loudly, βdid you have to turn that on right away?β
You hear him rustling in the centre console β because of course that man keeps wet tissues and perhaps even a damn first aid kit in there β but then the movement stops, and his reply doesnβt come.
βHello? The light,β you whine, eyes still squeezed shut.
Still no reply.
Itβs only when you slowly pull your hand away from your face that you see what heβs fixated on.
And of course, itβs the scar.
It always fucking is.
Your shirt had gotten shoved up in the chaos, riding high above your stomach and bunching around your sternum. The scar is raised and silvery under the glow of light, one ugly, crooked line that slices across the middle of your chest and extending towards your right breast.
You freeze.
Panic β or maybe even shame β curls hot in your gut.
Shoko had said it wasnβt that noticeable, which really, was a blatant lie. You knew it was one of those rare times she was sparing you the sympathy you needed to hear in the moment.
Instinct tells you to pull the fabric down yourself, but you go rigid instead, afraid of what expression you might read on his face when you dare to look closely.
Youβre bracing yourself for whatever he might say, or do, next, but he does what you least expect, leaning down, his mouth crashing hot upon yours all over again.
It starts off with equal fervour as the first kiss you shared, but this one is not messy, not a clash of wills and a battle for control like it was previously.
It is distinctively different this time.
Devastatingly tender, gentle in the way his mouth moves softly against yours, woven with something youβre sure is going unsaid at the moment, a hand moving to cup your breasts.
Your breath hitches when Nanami strokes the raised welt of scar tissue, applying no pressure at all, fingertips tracing across the flesh and then moving to pull down your bra so your nipples harden instantly under the cool air.
βKentoββ you jolt when his hand slips further down, back to your parted thighs and your throbbing heat, still messy with his cum. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing circles and sending a sharp rush of pleasure that makes your entire body twitch.
βI alreadyβ I alreadyββ
βAgain,β Nanami rasps. βCum again. Without hiding from me.β
Itβs easy β almost too easy β for him to bring you towards the edge of yet another high.
Heβs already got you worked open from his cock, and he only needs to curl his fingers gently, against that sweet spot that makes the pleasure wind tighter and tighter in your stomach, his hands moving against the mess he left inside you.
Nanami doesnβt let up, not even when your fingers wrap around his wrist, trying to stop the relentless stimulation and the release that quickly threatens to overtake your senses. Β
βGood girl,β he coaxes. βJust let go.β
You cum on his fingers with a sharp whimper, body tensing and shaking until youβre certain you have nothing left to give.
The tears that were pricking your waterline finally overflow when your eyes screw shut, hot streaks trailing down the sides of your face. He reaches for your cheeks, a thumb about to wipe the trickle of tears away when you grab his hand firmly.
βDonβt be soft,β you warn bitterly, voice still raw. βDonβt.β
Nanami doesnβt reply you immediately, but he retracts his hand slowly, an unreadable expression flickering across his face as he studies you. Then, very carefully, like heβs being cautious not to trespass on any more of your space, he pulls your top back down, straightening the fabric. Β
He pulls out wet tissues from the compartment in the centre console and you try not to roll your eyes at how infuriatingly well-prepared he is for any given situation. No further words are exchanged, but he continues to be unbearably soft, gentle hands cleaning up the mess between your legs.
It's only when you both have your clothes back on, fabric hastily tugged back down to cover what shouldnβt have been revealed, that he finally speaks again.
You hear the words leaving him quietly, whispered almost begrudgingly.
βI canβt seem to help it,β he murmurs. βBeing soft with you.β
βItβs ugly,β you say, deflecting β partly because you know his mind still lingers on what he just saw, and your shameful reaction to it, and partly because you donβt want to linger further on what his words might mean.
βNo, it isnβt.β
βI fucked up.β
βMistakes happen.β
You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, and just decide to say it anyway.
βThen why do you hate me so much for it?β
Nanami visibly deflates at that, the soundless sigh he lets out causing his shoulders to droop, almost in surrender. He looks away from you, out of the window and towards the empty parking lots ahead, to where individual stars from the overhead streetlamps illuminate grey concrete floors.
βI donβt hate you.β
βLiar.β You make a sound that could pass as laughter. βIβm the only person you treat this way. Youβre polite to everyone else. You open doors. You donβt raise your voice. You donβt pull them back by the collar,β you opt to stare at the dashboard instead of meeting his eyes, but even then, you canβt hide the rawness to your tone. βWhy am I different?β
ββ¦I believe I open doors for you.β
You make a frustrated sound. βIs that all you got from my monologue?β
A long pause follows, like heβs measuring out the weight of what he wants to say.
Nanami has the tendency to get quiet like this; every time you demand answers to questions he doesnβt quite want to give, or worse β when whatβs about to follow after his momentary silence is something that will hit much harder than what youβre ready for.
For a man that could be so impatient, he sure does take his time to pick his words carefully.
βDo you want to know why I bought a new car?β
ββ¦What?β You blink, uncomprehending. βWhy? Because you were getting paid too much? Needed somewhere to spend the big bucks?β
βBecauseββ his voice raises above yours, eyes screwing shut, jaw tensing as he swallows. βYour blood was all over the seats. My shirt. My fucking hands. I thought you were about to die on the ride back to the school. Fuck,β he curses, voice cracking. βI thought my backseat was going to be where your heart gave out.β
βKentoβ¦β
βEvery time I looked at those stains it made me sick. And every time I look at that scar on your arm, Iβ¦ I think it should have been me instead.β
Every single pushed out of him sounds pained, punctuated with something haunted and heavy, and guilt curls low in your gut at the sight of it.
βSo yes. I treat you differently because you make me furious.β
Nanami turns to you, but his eyes are not at all hardened, not a single trace of resentment behind hazel irises.
βEvery reckless choice. Every time you joke about your life like itβs a game. Every time you blast your shitty music in my car and mess with my settings.β He rakes a hand through dishevelled hair, looking wearier than ever, the trace of something raw ghosting across his face. βYou make me work harder. Longer. Later. You make me have to sleep on the floor and drive for hours at a timeββ
β βI offered to share the bed!β you interject weakly.
ββBut I do not hate you.β
The overhead light is off now, so his face is mostly shadow; but his voice doesnβt need light to be clear.
βI hate how the hard floor felt softer than my own bed because I heard you snoring softy from beside me. Alive. I hate how I canβt stand it when youβre not in my sight. When you throw yourself into danger without thinking. Because if Iβm not thereβ if Iβm not fast enoughββ
Nanami cuts himself off with a shake of his head, hanging low, a mirthless laugh escaping him, broken and tired.
Your throat closes up on you. βWhyβ¦ why are you telling me this now?β
His next words come soft, uttered like a confession it pains him to make.
βBecause the way youβre going makes me think Iβm running out of time to say it.β
βSacrifice is in the nature of our jobs,β you whisper, the same damn lines you recite to yourself every day until the words themselves have hollowed out and lost all meaning. βSurelyβ¦ surely you know that.β
βI know,β Nanami rasps, desperation and stubbornness wreathed in his voice. βYou think I donβt know that? Back in July β in Kusatsu β I know I would have made the same choice you did. You made the right call with the information you had.β
You swallow down the lump in your throat, feeling the hot prick of tears behind your eyes. Youβre used to lectures, not pleas, coming out of his mouth.
βDo youβ do you really think I made the right call?β
βYes,β he says, and thereβs no hesitation in his reply. βOf course.β
βI thoughtβ¦ I thought you resented me because of what happened,β you will yourself not to cry, even as your vision blurs with tears that push against the precipice, threatening to overflow if you only blinked too heavy. βI thought you looked at me and only saw the mistake. That you hated me for it.β
Silence falls over the car, the steady pitter-patter of rain upon the roof and your combined breathing the only thing to fill the void. It stretches and expands, almost unbearable as you wait for his reply.
βI donβt hate you,β Nanami says finally, slower this time, like heβs holding the weight of too many truths between his teeth. βBut I would hate myself if anything ever happened to you. So please,β he looks up and you swear you see the shine of tears in his eyes, though his gaze remains unflinching. βDonβt let it be you. Let me try to keep you safe. Please.β
A thousand things fight desperately for precedence in your mouth β alternating rhythms of Iβm sorry and thank you drum in your head, intertwined with other raw, fragile confessions youβve never dared to voice. Things youβve never dreamed of having the luxury of ever voicing to him.
But in the end, nothing comes out. The lump in your throat too thick, your chest too tight. You blink, once, twice, and the tears fall β coursing down your cheeks in hot streams. You donβt have to be looking at Nanami to know that, from the deep, shuddering breath he takes, heβs crying too.
βIt wonβt be me,β you choke out, voice flimsy. βBut donβtβ donβt let it be you, either.β
βIt wonβt,β he whispers, even though he canβt promise you that. He reaches out β and you let him, this time β a thumb to your cheek in an attempt to wipe away the wet streaks trailing down your face.
βOkay,β you whisper back anyway, because thatβs good enough for you. βThen I wonβt let it be me.β
Nothing is ever promised with this job, no two endings ever look the same. But if itβs coming from him β then youβll let yourself believe it.
Nanami allows himself a laugh, an amused huff of breath through the shimmer of tears collecting in his eyes. βThen youβll have to actually start listening to me.β He pauses, thumb still lingering on your cheek, like he canβt quite bring himself to pull away from you. ββ¦Just sometimes would be enough for me.β
βIβll have to consider it,β you hum, and youβre already breaking out in a wobbly smile to mirror his.
He shakes his head, resigned, though thereβs a trace of something unmistakably fond on his lips. βI suppose thatβs more than youβve ever done before.β
The world seems to tilt on its axis when you lock eyes again. The rain drumming on outside, the tender length of skin under your clothes, even the empty carpark that seems to be holding the weight of this entire moment β all of that fades to grey when he leans in, his hand on your cheek now moving to cradle your jaw.
Your head tips towards him a mere breath after, pulled towards him by something more inevitable than gravity, something almost as steady as the warmth of his touch or the hymns of his pulse thrumming against your skin.
When your lips press against the other, it happens without a fight this time. You meet as partners, savouring the sweetness of his mouth on yours and how his hand fits the curve of your jaw perfectly β like everything was meant to fall into place exactly how it did tonight.
Nanamiβs lips linger on yours, thumb stroking your skin with reverence and longing. He presses one more kiss to your nose β drawing a scrunch from you that is equal parts shy and delighted β and another to your forehead, gentler than anything you have ever known.
No further words are said when his hands fall away, the warmth of his skin still radiating, your hearts still beating in the same tune. Then, as though some unspoken truce has been reached in the simple quiet of the tenebrous night, he starts the engine, the car humming to life once again.
You donβt need words, you think.
You just need the certainty of his presence beside you. You need the careful hand against your lower back when he walks alongside you sometimes. The same one you pretend to resist.
You need the way he sighs when you needle him, not because heβs truly exasperated, but because itβs become your rhythm: your push, his pull, the delicate balance that keeps you tethered together even in the ugliest chaos of your work.
The beam of headlights cut through the rain-soaked darkness, and Tokyo waits for you both, just a half hour drive away. Silence envelops the car like a love letter waiting to be sent out β and what was suffocating now melts down into something softer, blanketing you in the most peace youβve felt in months.
βIβm hungry,β you complain loudly after a bit, when the blur of the city finally takes shape across the line of the horizon. βI need food.β
Nanami spares you a side glance and you pout a little harder. βI believe we ate only three hours ago.β
βSex is a full body workout, you know.β
βConvenience store, then.β
A pause. His lips purse, and you watch his throat work before he quietly adds, a little unsteadily, βOrβ¦ we could go back to my place. I have the seafood cup noodles you like.β
You will your heart to be still. To not flutter at the very notion of an invitation for something more.
βSounds like a plan.β
You turn the radio up one notch, then catch his eye, and turn it back down. He doesnβt comment. You think that he too, might be hiding a smile in the dark where you canβt see it.
You watch Nanani silently, and then, on impulse, you reach across the console and rest your hand briefly on his forearm. He glances down at your fingers. He doesnβt move away.
There are no guarantees with the life you both lead, but there are a few things that are for certain.
Next Monday, heβll still pick you up outside your apartment at 8:30am sharp, ample time before the morning meeting. On your seat will be a teriyaki chicken onigiri and your favourite green tea waiting for you to scarf down, because he says you get more annoying when youβre on an empty stomach.
Youβll still try to push his buttons β even though you refuse to admit that one of the reasons why you do so is because the faint crease of his brow and the pursing of his lips is rather cute. And heβll still sigh, just like he always does, his composure only ever fracturing in your presence. When he does, though, youβll notice a trace of fondness which lingers in the slight curve of his mouth and the softness behind his eyes β little betrayals of the heart he no longer tries to hide from you.
Youβll still fall into his bed many more times after tonight, just like how youβll continue to make him grit his teeth and curse at your recklessness, and how heβll still cause you to roll your eyes and bite back a sharp reply in response.
The label for what started as backseat heat and fogged windows that morphed into nights at his place doing a lot more than just eating cup noodles doesnβt come until many months later. It doesnβt matter, though β because you already like the way the words βmy partnerβ sound coming from his mouth β more than any other terms of endearment one could ever choose.
The scars wonβt ever fade, but Nanami kisses them so much that you start to like the way his lips press against the silvery length of skin. They stop feeling like a reminder of how you faltered, and start feeling like the proof that youβre still here β how you need to keep being here.
For yourself.
For him.
And for everything else that comes after.
For now, you canβt help but smile, a small but satisfied curl of lips.
You did indeed win the war β this one, at least.
And youβll make damn sure you stay alive long enough to fight the next one by his side.
a/n: this fic was largely motivated by my need to write a realistic enough scenario where i could imagine nanami hate fucking the readerβ¦ i totally imagine him being a bit of a hardass about his car so i couldnβt resist putting that in (also the jabs about his tie may or may not contain my true sentiments)
i didnβt mean to make the plot this emotional and honestly it started off as just a horny thing but i simply could not help myself. i hope you enjoyed the read! i want him so fucking bad lol
iβm also here to plug my other enemies to lovers arranged marriage au with nanami β check it out here <3
comments and reblogs appreciated!! i would really love to hear your thoughts + my inbox is open if you wanna yap at me <3 ty for reading (^_^)
This is my first one hehe - these will all be dark themes, PWP oneshots, but also gonna be so much fun! Will be LADS and JJK characters π«Ά ALL MDNI
October 1st - demonic desires - degradation/manipulation/virginity loss - you are taken in by your a distant wealthy family member once you're left alone by your parents. You meet the pretty, enigmatic butler Satoru Gojo, only to discover he is a demon who can't wait to eat your yummy soul - and your pussy π (Black butler au) 5.5k wc
October 8th - Promises, Promises - Wet dreams/mindfucking/voyeur- your personal incubus (you're not sure how he got here?) Sylus loves to fuck you in your sleep, but he feeds off you so much he can start doing it while you're awake! You start to think you're losing your fucking mind, but he's just living the dream inside your pussy - 5.7k wc
October 13th - murder/threesome (dp)/knife play - stoner Frat boys by day, slasher murderers by night - ghost face Toji and Sukuna go on a killing spree for the Halloween party, and they start to kill everyone at the frat party but you!! They decide to fuck you instead along with their knives π«Ά
October 18th - kidnapping/stockholm syndrome/yandere - Serial killer Caleb kidnaps you - the girl he's always loved from the moment he met! He will treat you so, so good. He may have to tell everyone you're dead, and kills everyone you've fucked in front of you, you're never leaving now!
October 24th - religion/taboo/priest kink - Priest Geto is a holy man by day, and a witch hunter by night. He captures you, the pretty little witch hes heard rumors of. You're so pretty, instead of killing you he tries to exorcise the demons from your body with his holy cum all over you </3
Halloween - special feature!!! - blood play/reverse harem/dubcon - you're in a house with four very different but lustful vampires - Gojo, Geto, Choso and Nanami - that took you hostage bc you just taste and smell so good, and they all love to fuck you and drink your blood -yum! You are so anemic and fucked out, but dw they give you plenty of vitamin d <3 (loosely based on diabolik lovers)
p.s.- I'm also doing a oneshot as part of @/redrrem's event for Hannibal Nanami on oct. 10th hehe - tag lists are open for them all π€π«Ά I'm excited!
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