dating the most popular guy on campus has its perks—flirty glances, watching girls silently envy you, publicity—the whole nine yards.
only, you don’t ever see him much expect for the two classes per week. not at lunch, nor around campus.
so gossip surrounding the two of you always fizzles pretty quickly. most people can’t talk shit without shit to talk about.
some would say its intentional that the heart throb of the past two years and next is never seen with his girlfriend; protecting her from drama and whatnot. others hypothesize it’s because he secretly despises his girlfriend and only shows her off at parties because of her looks.
now that last one always makes you snort.
because the guy that every girl drools over—and every guy secretly wants to be—is nose deep between your thighs with a mission and no intention to complete it.
his tongue flicks against your clit with purpose, nose digging into your pussy with fingers grasping onto your thighs as if he was receiving pleasure himself.
he flattens his tongue, gliding it up and down. and god do you melt.
it’s feverish yet chilling. your hand comes down to fist snowy white locks, head falling back against the lotion and body oil saturated pillow. the room smells like sex and vanilla, the very thing satoru has wet dreams about.
he lifts his head, lower half of his annoying attractive face glistening under the dim lighting. “changed your mind?”
you roll your eyes with flushed cheeks and shallow breaths. “no, satoru,” you say his name like you’re lecturing a child, “you can’t post me on your story.”
he whines.
“why nottt?” he pushes your thighs further apart, “everyone needs to see how pretty you look when we’re alone.”
“and give them something to talk about?” you shake your head as if your point was obvious, “I don’t think so.”
satoru pouts. full on tantrum pout.
as if his own little way of showing defiance, he slides two fingers inside of you. you whimper, tugging at his scalp at the sweet curl of his digits. to make things worse for you, his fingers rouse an embarrassingly loud squelch from your cunt that he’s quick to be obsessed with.
“maybe s’what i want,” he slides his fingers out and then in, “something’ else to brag about.”
his words make your eyes roll and his fingers make your back arch.
maybe if you had given in he would’ve helped you cum and snuggled against your chest like he always does. yet you stayed determined. satoru stayed defiant. and five minutes later, he’s balls deep inside you with your thighs nearly pressed to your ears.
his thrusts show purpose, punching into you so hard to bed begs for a rest with loud creaks and groans. white snowy locs of hair stick to his forehead, soft lips tore apart with heavy breaths and soft grunts and growls.
“lemme- fuck babe- let me post you,” he grunts, hips slapping against your ass so hard it sounds domesticly abusing. “s’so pretty,” he moans, “lemme show them.”
you shake your head as if it helps—his dick has rendered you speechless and all you can do is moan beneath him. he twitches inside of you, his mind reeling from just the sound of your pornographic moans alone.
“p-post- ah! there s’there- yours-self.” your voice is gone, thighs trembling with a pending orgasm that’s just waiting for that specific thrust to send it over the edge. he can feel it- he knows where it is.
“no no,” he shakes his head, “you.”
his tip teases that spot inside of you and suddenly you don’t care anymore about the small argument. there’s only one thing on your mind—one thing he holds the power to give or take.
“fine! fine, post m-me. s’just make me cum, so close- please!”
such sweet words, satoru thinks. three purposeful thrusts later and you’re moaning like your orgasm hurts as it washes over you. he watches it with a feverish look, pressing against that spot again and again until you’re nothing more than whiney whimpers and desperate scratches against his shoulders and arms.
he cums right then and there like he’s been waiting all year—rightfully so, you make him feel on edge with just a single touch.
it doesn’t process what you gave in to until you find satoru giggling over his phone the next day, ivory skin covered in red scratches. and that’s when you see it—a new highlight filled with thirty-seven stories of just you and you alone.
instead of doubling back, you sigh and click open you phone.
(pov; you find a notebook on kento’s side of the closet.)
june 14.
my love,
we got married yesterday, and as i write this, you’re laying in bed with wild yet beautiful hair. my first morning as your husband and i can not imagine a life without this; without you.
after the wedding, you whispered something in my ear that i cannot forget. do you remember? i doubt it, you always are an unfiltered drunk. but, nonetheless, a very amusing one.
you sat on the edge of the bed, that silky number still cradled around your curves in ways that made me jealous. i helped you out of your heels, brushing the sand off your feet, and you sat up. i did not think much of it until i felt your hair brush my cheek, your breath hot on my ear, and my world stopped for a second.
“how did i get so lucky?” is what you whispered in my ear. six words strung together in a sentence that flipped my axis because how did i get so lucky? how did i manage to wife the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid my eyes on, get to have you in a bed and witness your natural beauty?
i fear i’m rambling here; yet i have no regrets.
forever,
yours.
july 25.
my love,
we have had our first fight as newlyweds. i do not like when we fight—i do not like making you upset with me. however, somehow, i still find beauty in the arguments that seem so intense now but will fizzle into something stupid later; they always do.
this time i am at fault, i know that now that i have had time to reflect on it.
i came home late last night—third night this week. you awaited me in bed, lamp on, nestled in bed with a look i could not read. even when upset, i find your beauty to be absolutely breathtaking. you looked at me with such sadness, i could hear the skin around my heart crack under your cold gaze.
“again?” you had said, voice chillingly cold; opposite of that soft dewy voice i am used to hearing. nonetheless, i hadn’t understood where that ice had formed from. i now realize it was because of me.
i am sorry, my love. i see now that my presence is worth more than i thought. it’s humorous, how your presence to me is worth more than life itself, but i did not see how mine is worth moons in your eyes.
i will apologize tonight, if you’ll let me back in.
forever,
yours.
august 19.
my love,
the woman you are.
i cannot think for the words of your attention; of your heart and soul. simply, there are none that capture the beauty of you.
forever,
yours.
october 5.
my love,
the way you worship this month like a holy trinity will always amaze me. everywhere i go, i smell your perfume that holds a hint of spice and love. i know it is never purposeful that your scent clings to my suits like water and cloth, and i would never complain. my love for you is limitless, i have fallen for you every day i wake and you are there beside me. i would trade a kingdom for just a kiss to your cheek; wreck empires for a minute alone with your heart.
this morning you awaited my consciousness with a warm embrace of your smile. dare i say, you looked as though a tear fallen from heaven to earth. and when you spoke of my name, your first word of the day, i nearly melted into the egyptian cotton.
you make me worry for my sanity, my love—i wouldn’t have it any other way, though.
synopsis : A miscarriage seems to break your marriage apart with Katsuki. From recommendation and pressure from friends, the two of you take a small vacation to try and rekindle what was once there.
TW: angst, fluff, smut, oral sex(f! receving), petnames: baby, blood, descriptions of trauma, unprotected sex, make up sex.
wc: 10k (wow...)
an: This has been on the back burner for a while. I just wanted to write something angsty... anyways, please ignore any misspellings or errors, I just write the stories, not edit them...
You’ve fallen out of rhythm with yourself and others. While the scars stay and remind you of the life you currently live, the reality of it through long nights of phantom pains and tears, you can’t help but feel like you’ve taken the backseat; handed the wheel to someone else.
The second bedroom of the apartment remains pink with glow stars on the popcorn ceiling that gave way to scars on your husbands already beaten hands, a sacrifice for comfort of the child you failed to give a home to inside yourself.
It felt like the biggest failure as a woman, unable to house the love you and your husband created with it, a small baby girl not yet done growing delivered too early in a pool of her own blood, or yours, you couldn't differentiate the two when it happened. Neither could Katsuki, a man unfamiliar with his own emotions tending to a broken mother having the title snatched right from her core.
Since that night you hadn’t shared a single word with your husband, Katsuki. He’d surrounded himself with work, missions, anything to carry the burden of failing his wife away from the forefront of his brain because forgetting didn’t hurt as bad as remembering. Battling his own demons alongside it, he closed himself off, almost completely as if the ring on his finger was nothing but a fabricated lie.
Four days after that night he heard a knock against the white heavy door to his office at his agency, nearly an hour away from the apartment, not far enough if you asked him. He didn’t recognize the heavy knock, yours were quieter, hesitant, and his assistants were louder, having caught him with his wife too many times to ignore his need for privacy. He looked up from his stack of files, watching two familiar men walk into the room like they’d done it every friday after patrols.
“Hey,” the blonde one said, hands shoved into his jeans with a look to his face that battled something inside his mind. It almost resembled pity, which pissed Katsuki off because he didn’t need that shit. Especially now that he’d failed his wife and child.
“Still working?” the other started with his wild red hair, someone from his past that he’d counted on more times than he could count, and was never disappointed. His best friend, Kirishima. “It’s a bit late for more paperwork?”
Katsuki cleared his throat, realizing now that he hadn’t spoken a word since this morning to his assistant after she read him his schedule. “Was on patrol all day.”
“You’ve been doing patrols by yourself for a few days now,” Denki, the blonde one, started, “making budget cuts or something?”
“Fuck off,” Katsuki growled, “I don’t need to because my heroes know exactly what the fuck to do.”
“So why are you working late?” Kirishima prodded, eyes glimmering with something too familiar to him. This had happened once before, right before he proposed to the love of his life. Kirishima came as usual on a friday with Denki, poking and prodding at him all day until Katsuki eventually told them why he’d buried himself in work. Feelings are hard for the pro hero, harder than life itself when it comes to his wife, but hers were something precious to him. But that didn’t mean he didn’t take them for granted sometimes– It happens.
“Because,” Katsuki answered, quite vaguely as he shuffled a stack of papers to file later. “Why does it even matter to you two?”
Silence fills the space as Kirishima takes a seat at the lonely chair across his wooden desk, the same seat you'd occupy whenever you felt like annoying your head strong husband. Denki stands rooted to the floor, like whatever was about to happen wasn’t something he was fully on board with.
“I called your wife yesterday,” Kirishima starts, ripping the bandaid off quickly before his best friend can react, “I’m really sorry for your loss…shes worried about you.”
“You think I don't know that?!” Katsuki snaps, like a wire behind his eyes has snapped its connection to reasonability and gone straight to fight or flight. He slams the stack of papers on the desk and only Denki flinches, “You think I don't know that my wife is probably suffering in silence without me because I can't even bring myself to look at her?! FUCK!”
He wasn’t physically aggressive with his anger like he used to be in his teens. But there were moments when it seems that is his only vice, the only way to release whatever is melting his bones to his flesh, leaving him unsupported and helpless in his own body. His fist clashes with the wooden desk, leaving two knuckle sized dents and blood gushing from his skin.
This wasn’t the life he chose when he was younger and wanted a life of lavish, using his quirk, making a name for himself. If he had to guess then that had to be why his wife, you, was the most sensitive topic of conversation for him. You came into his life by chance and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid that chance would also be the thing that takes you away from him.
Chance, his biggest fucking problem, the reason he found you on the bathroom floor, broken, a husk of the woman you once were. A miscarige is a chance, that's what the doctor said, and now he was paying the price for thinking he could ever escape those odds.
“That doesn’t mean you ignore your wife though.” Denki’s words cut through the tension like a knife, taking a logical approach. “Women feel more than men, it's like science or something. So imagine, if this is really getting you down like this, how must she be feeling?”
“Thank you Denki,” Kirishima nods, thankful his hesitant friend is finally realizing how important this conversation really is to Katsuki. “Its always been the two of you Katsuki, you told me yourself. What’s stopping you, or making you hesitant, to speak with her about it?”
He’d never admit it, but shittyhair had a point. A very big one that he was finally starting to realize, cooling the molten rage and grief into something cold and hard inside his chest.
With defeat, or grief, Katsuki slumps back in his chair, elbow on the arm of the chair, face in his hand. He’d grown a stubble there, unable to look at himself in the mirror since that night when he’d truly thought he’d failed you as a husband. As a father.
Both men in front of him share a look before metal scratches against wood. Denki slides a key towards the exhausted blonde, hesitancy from before gone, leaving concern for his friend. “Here. I own a beach house on the southern tip of Haiti, bought it years ago and haven’t been for awhile-”
“Get to the point.”
“-its yours. Well, you can use it. I won’t be going anytime soon, not until I find myself the kind of love you have with her.” Denki stands to his full height, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I'd go. It's super chill, the locals make the best coconut cocktail you’ll ever taste.”
Katsuki stares at the key like it personally wronged him. He didn’t need a shitty vacation house to make him feel better, he did just fine at work. He liked going on patrols to clear his mind, when he sat on top of buildings and just sat with himself with nothing but the world below him. Isolation, the very thing he craved when he was a teen. Control, the demon he was starting to adopt when he met you.
But why not both? Didn’t he have both with you?
He closed a fist around the metal key, shoving it into his pocket. He’d forgotten how much he loves having both.
-
You knew something was going to come when Katsuki unlocked the front door three hours before usual on a Friday night, and you hoped it was change.
Four days spent in hospital after hospital, bloodwork, vitals, medication, pills, drugs. It became a part of you, the big fat failure sign burned into your womb. Emotions weren’t there, buried in the ground beneath your feet and you can't cradle them. That morning you’d started to notice the once built in condo belly your husband once teased was starting to deflate. Your body was finally accepting the fact you lost your baby, something your brain can’t even start to do.
The door closes from the front entrance, sounding through the kitchen into the living room where you sit on the couch, fighting medical tape and a piece of cotton from a previous needle from rounds of bloodwork. You glance once footsteps get heavier, closer. He appears into view, hands busy with his tie, stance wide and you realize he’s looking directly at you.
“Hey.”
You lift your eyes, meeting the same ones owned by a man that held you four days ago like he was afraid you’d disappear. Yesterday, you spoke with his best friend and knew he’d put in a good word for you. “Didn’t think that actually worked.”
“Shut up..” he murmurs, moving closer and taking his usual seat on the coffee table in front of you. You watch him tug the tie free, tossing it on the seat beside you. It’s the first glimpse of normalcy you’ve seen in what feels like decades.
His eyes tract the bandage on your arm, instinctively pulling closer to inspect why it’s there. “Hospital?”
“A few,” you supply softly, “bloodwork, monitoring, questioning— the whole nine yards.”
He lifts his eyes, the closeness sparking a familiar warmth you hadn’t felt in awhile. “You healthy?”
“Mhm.” You shrug small but his expression has you feeling bad for the attempt at distance. “I’m okay. It’s an oddly natural process, anatomy freaks me out.”
He lets out a small snort, “that would be physiology, dumbass.”
“Both,” you can’t help but offer a small smile, “I hate both.”
“Need help with this?” He asks, changing focus back to the horrificly sticky medical tape on your arm. “They didn’t need to use such a big fucking piece either, damn near cutting off circulation-“
“Go get the supplies,” you offer, hoping to stop a sour mood from forming by protecting his good mood. “Downstairs bathroom.”
It takes him less than two minutes before he’s back to nursing the morbidly painful tape on your arm with oil and a cloth. A comfortable silence fills the space, one that you aren’t sure you want to pop. But no matter what you try to focus on you can’t get the elephant out of the room without addressing it.
He beats you to it. “I’m sorry I haven’t really been around lately. I’m a dick, I abandoned you when you needed me most-“
“What the fuck?”
He pauses, you do too but just a bit, and the room gets too crowded.
“Huh?”
“You sound like a written script,” the words punch out of you like they came from your stomach. “Is that how you’re able to face your wife after what happened?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Look at me!” You point to the countless needle wounds on your arms from the blood work, the shots, the meds. You’re a walking pharmacy and he’s acting like the miscarriage is the only pain here. “I’m full of holes from doctor's visits you didn't want to be a part of.”
His hands pause on your arm, “I wanted to be apart of them-“
“But you weren’t.” Your words have a finality to them that makes his shoulders slump. Keeping his eyes low, he works quietly on the medical tape stuck to your skin, leaving the words hanging in the air like a weight heavier than the loss of a premature baby.
You didn’t know how he was handling it, didn’t know if he felt just as empty and useless as you. Since school where your relationship first bloomed, he had a hard time communicating his emotions. You thought you’d worked on it enough through adulthood until marriage, but now you’re starting to see a set back. He wasn’t talking, not sharing his feelings like usual.
It only made you feel worse. If you couldn’t be a good mother did that also mean you were a bad wife? The answer should be obvious, but right now it seems too complicated to make sense of.
It didn’t take long before he massaged the tape off your arm, trashing it in the nearby bin. He cleaned up his mess, quietly without a word to you. Just when you think he’s gone back to his cold, distance, he comes back and settles back on the coffee table in front of you, hands clasped between his legs.
Thinking. That’s all he was doing, you could see it in the slight furrow of his brow and the soft twitch at the corner of his lip. For a moment you start to wonder if this may be the start of a long, dreadful life full of waiting and eggshells.
You watch him reach into his pocket and settle a metal key on the cushion beside you where his discarded tie still lays boneless. You look between him and the key, only solidifying your suspicions.
“It's for a beach house. In Haiti.” His eyes meet yours and you can’t make sense of the expression there, a mix of regret and guilt. “I’ll take time off work. How long you want to stay, we’ll stay.”
“Why?” You ask although the answer seems a bit obvious, however, you want to hear him say it.
“Because I won’t let this be the end of us. I want to heal us.”
-
After another round of bloodwork and nearly two weeks after you got the key to a beach house in another country, the doctor cleared you for travel, even insisting on it with a sad little smile. Honestly it was a miracle she didn’t prescribe a vacation herself on special treatment.
Two days after you were cleared, Katsuki bought plane tickets and you flew out the next night. The flight was long and excruciating, spending nearly thirty hours in the air before arriving on the southern left arm of the island. You arrived in Les Cayes by bus, passing banana trees with a large mountain range behind you as you touched down on La Tourterelle, a popular beach for tourists during tourist seasons.
The heat carried the weight of a thousand suns, making the hole in your womb seem minuscule to the hot climate that only offers bursts of relief from the ocean breeze.
You felt bad when Katsuki hauled your two suitcases down an old paved road, muttering something under his breath about a rental. You chose to ignore it, setting your eyes on the beach through thick banana trees. The water seemed to glisten with white glitter, every wave sounding as if you were right by the sea with your toes in the sand instead of sneakers on pavement.
The walk wasn’t long along the island’s coastline, meeting a hint of brown within the trees that turn less of bananas and more thick with full leaves and shade. A small cabin rests in the center of it, just at the edge of the old road. It’s small, a good sized porch on thick stumps for potential flooding since the island did see earthquakes almost as often as Japan.
“This place is beautiful,” you hum, following behind him up the stairs. Entering the cabin, the air felt colder and stale, like it’s been years since the structure last saw a familiar face.
You took the time to explore the cabin while Katsuki found the master and put luggage away. Downstairs was the living room and kitchen, the master room on one side with the bathroom on the other. Upstairs in the loft was a makeshift lounge with a private bar and a pool table. It was obvious this beach house was borrowed, most likely from Denki judging on the WiFi that connected to your phone the second you walked through the door.
You brushed your hand along the length of the pool table. You didn’t know much about it, just that there used to be one back at UA high in the dorms that Katsuki liked to play.
You wonder if he still did, with Kirishima and Denki at the bar every Friday. He never did talk about his Friday nights, always too drunk or horny to finish the conversation every time the topic did arrive.
Like a moth to a flame, you hear footsteps until Katsuki steps on the hardwood planks of the loft. “Everything’s in the closet downstairs, your sandals are by the main entrance and I put the food in the fridge but we should stop somewhere either today or tomorrow.”
“Do you still play?” You ask, changing topics from meaningless chat. “Pool, you used to all the time.”
It takes him a second to register the question, eyes flickering to the green felt and oak trim. “Sometimes. Winning every time killed the passion.”
“Humble,” you tease.
“Have to be,” he shrugs, flicking the leaf of a nearby houseplant. This place must be managed by someone if there’s thriving houseplants. “I have everything I want.”
“Dream job,” you hum, gently pushing the white ball to a steady roll before it clacks with the triangle of balls in the middle, “dream car…dream house.”
“Dream wife.” You barely catch it, his eyes elsewhere before they sense your gaze and meet yours. “Don’t forget that part.”
Your heart flutters anxiously and it’s the first thing you’ve felt in what feels like forever. The first emotion felt since you buried a piece of your heart and its nerves. Nothing but teenage jitters for a love that seems eternal.
“Smooth.” You offer a small glimpse of a smile before turning on your heels, heading past him. He stops you before you even get the chance, hand to your waist, pulling you close. Without words, he hugs you tightly to his chest, resting his chin on top of your head.
You want to push him away, voice the anger you know that’s hidden inside the marrow of your bones. Your body betrays you, melting into his touch like it’s the first and last time you’ll ever get the chance for intimacy this innocent.
“Can we talk…about it?”
His chest rumbles against your side at his words and you shake your head before you can even process the words, pulling away from him.
“No. No, I’m not ready.”
You can feel the tension rise, the pressure of his eyes against your skin like he’s tearing right through your flesh with words held back by his tongue. If you had to guess, it was taking every ounce of his self control not to just tie you to a chair and demand answers about how you’re feeling.
It’s hard to talk about emotions you don’t have, so you stay persistent and head back down the stairs.
A few hours go by and Katsuki goes off on his own for the entirety of it before coming back with a rental jeep and groceries for a week or two. It’s refreshing, knowing he wants to stay as long as you want.
You set up camp on the beach, cradled to a water bottle on the beach with a black wool blanket to protect the sand from the ocean on your body. You can’t gauge how long you’d been cooking under the sun with the occasional dip in the water, only the warmth of a premature tan on your skin.
You were enjoying the island, the privacy of the beach without a single soul between you and the sea. It was comforting, the most comfort you’d found worth relishing in since the miscarriage and full schedule of needles and medicine.
You close the cap on your water bottle, glancing up at the sun that starts to paint the sky pink in a beautiful farewell on the day. It brings peace, the kind of peace you’d been looking for between appointments and wondering what your husband was doing at work.
Despite being alone, it wasn’t until now that you felt lonely. With your husband just a few steps inside, you couldn’t help but miss him more than you did for those four days where you two didn’t share a word with each other.
What was he doing? Did he also feel this coldness despite the heat?
You didn’t know if you were ready to know, you couldn’t exactly process your own thoughts so thinking you could make sense of his right now looked foolish. You’d only upset him, furthermore proving your point that you failed at everything you thought you were good at being: a woman.
With a heavy heart, a heated headache, and half the ocean in your lungs, you pack up your things once the sun finally sets over the horizon. The lights inside the cabin guide you back, every step slow and calculated, like you were counting every single step back towards the topic you’d been avoiding for nearly two weeks.
You drape the wool blanket over the porch railing, kicking off your sandy sandals outside before walking inside with your water bottle and a black lace pull over Katsuki bought you on your honeymoon almost two years ago.
The smell of something spicy and sweet lingers the air like thick heat, coating your chilly skin as you venture further into the wooded building. The lights are dimmed, Katsuki over a hot stove with a few pots and pans on burners.
This was and will always be your favorite sight of your husband, cooking a meal as if he were putting his soul into it, leaving nothing behind.
You only realize you’ve been staring until he lifts his head and nods his head your way. “Cmere, try the sauce.”
Such simple demands for a man who carries the weight of a world on his back and makes it look effortless. Your feet carry you closer until you can smell the hint of coconut. “What are you making?” You ask, stopping just a few moments beside him, leaving room for distance— distance he didn’t like, moving just half an inch closer to you with a wooden spoon held out.
“Coconut shrimp. I think. This old hag gave me a recipe in town when she caught me buying shrimp. Tried to haggle me for it too.” He holds the spoon closer to your lips, “try it.”
You accept the spoon, letting him feed you a small taste. The flavors burst on your palette, coconut, sweet, tangy, everything you didn’t know you needed. Your reaction must show on your face because he cracks a smirk, playing you with those eyes that are too naturally suggestive.
“You like it.” It’s not a question, but a statement.
You challenge, “it’s not bad.”
“You like it,” he restates, “admit it.”
You shake your head simply for the fun of it, feeling that easy banter fall back into place like the missing puzzle piece of many. The earthquake of your miscarriage had disrupted a few and now it was a matter of when you’d find every piece again.
“Never.”
“You little shit,” he murmurs, taking a small taste for himself. “It’s fucking phenomenal.”
“It really is,” you finally admit, albeit under your breath as you steal a fried shrimp from a basket, dipping it into the sauce and popping it straight into your mouth. He chuckles at the action, not surprised by your quickness, only this time he’s letting you get away with it.
With a clearer head, you move towards the small kitchen island with enough space for three, sitting down in the middle of the two metal chairs. You’re starting to realize that this puzzle can’t be fixed if you don’t at least put a bit of effort into it.
“How’s work?” You start with a conversation. Ease a bit of the tension around steady conversation.
“Like normal bullshit that I don’t have the patience for.” He stirs the pan of sauce and shrimp, occasionally checking on the rice. “Nobody knows how to do shit right and I’m left to clean up messes that were easily preventable.”
“That sounds challenging,” you murmur, chin in your hand. “You’re pretty specific though, in a good way. So it makes sense.”
“I’m specific?” He asks, tossing a glance over his shoulder.
You offer a small nod. “Very. In a good way.”
“How am I specific?”
“Hmm,” you search your memories for a quick example. “Well, for starters you like to do the cooking-“
“You’re a shitty cook.” Plates clink with utensils. You throw out a small gasp.
“Okay…but you also critique my work when I fold the towels-“
“You’re a shitty folder.”
And a shitty excuse for a woman. But you don’t say that.
“Katsuki.”
A plate of coconut shrimp and rice slides your way along with a spoon. Your eyes lift, meeting his parallel to you as he leans his elbows on the other side of the counter, his own plate in front of him.
“Go on.”
Once out of your momentary pause, a sigh leaves your lungs. “You always sit on my left.”
It’s his turn to pause, jaw going still before he swallows. “It’s your blind spot.”
“I’m not a car.”
“Snore like one-“
“Katsuki!”
For the first time in a while, you and Katsuki share your first laugh again. It’s light, full of years of pointless arguments back when they still seemed so big and real, now nothing but playful banter between the two of you. And it’s so fucking refreshing.
You watch him shake his head, scooping another spoonful of shrimp and rice into his spoon. “I don’t think I’m specific. I think I just like shit done right.”
“Well your right could be someone else’s wrong,” you point out with your spoon, “you don’t know what kinds of morals people have and which ones they respect most.”
Your words seem to settle inside his mind because he’s silent for awhile, the kind of silence that leaves you wondering how he’ll respond.
“How do I know who will respect me and who won’t then,” he murmurs. He’s opening up to you, asking for advice like your words might actually matter.
“You can’t.” His furrowed eyebrows egg you on to elaborate. “If you could gauge or see what kind of person someone is then what would be the point in getting to know someone?”
“I’m not trying to make friends with those bastards working under me.”
You shrug, “maybe you should.”
He seems to have a hard time with your advice because he does that thing where can read the hesitation on his face. Like you’d been doing for years, your hand cups the underside of his jaw and silently take in the blonde stubble there. “Hey. I’m not trying to say what you’re doing isn’t productive, it’s worked this far, right? I’m just giving my own thoughts.”
“I value your thoughts.” His hand cups around your wrist but he doesn’t move your hand, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.
“You do?”
“Don’t be stupid. You know I do.”
You didn’t until just now, but telling him wouldn’t hold value. Nothing would, not when you’ve already shown you aren’t much of a wife than you are a mother.
You pull your hand away like his face burned to touch, feeling yourself retreat back into yourself. No matter what, you couldn’t shake the dread hanging over your head like a corpse. You wish he could see who you really were, it would make things a lot easier for him at least.
The clocks are ticking on your marriage and you’re starting to wonder if maybe it’s too late to salvage what it once was.
-
Katsuki slept alone on the couch the first night, feeling like he’d taken two steps back rather than forward. Like a stick in the mud, his marriage is still at a stand still and he has no idea how to begin to fix it.
Last night, your words and actions affected him deeper than he’d care to admit. You’d grown wiser, harder around the edges. He’d like to think you were finally starting to get your head on straight, but he knew this side of you was too new for him. Too different from the immature woman he fell in love with.
He couldn’t help but feel like he was fighting fate itself. The thought brushed the tip of his head, was this what destroys his marriage?
He didn’t want to think like that. His parents had issues and they worked through them, nothing was unfixable, his mothers motto when it comes to relationships like navigating choppy waters.
He sifted through memories of her relationship advice as he made coffee, the middle of his brain snagging one to replay as he listens to the brew of coffee.
He sat at the table for dinner, already fuming with another shitty emotion he didn’t know how to process in his fucked up brain. Love, the kind of thing his dad always talked about when he was a child.
It was a bunch of bullshit, love. He couldn’t make sense of it, how could something so filled with mindless arguments be anything close to the kind of love his father couldn’t shut the fuck up about?
“You look like you need to shit.” He lifts his eyes, meeting the face of his mother where he gets most of his complexion from. Her hands are in a cardboard box, tending to a broken plate that she’s trying to salvage instead of tossing.
“Shut up, hag.”
“Katsuki!” Her anger is only a facade because a soft laughs leaves her, shaking her head in mild affection for her son with the tongue of her father. “Just tell me what’s wrong. I am a mother, I could help.”
“Like you could ever help,” he mutters, but even the words don’t sound too convincing.
“Try me.”
With a reluctant groan, he rests his chin in his hand. “It’s her. It seems like all we ever do now is fight about stupid, little shit that doesn’t even make sense. Fuck, I don’t want this relationship if fighting is all we’re going to do.”
The last part is only half true, he just hopes his mother doesn’t catch on to it.
“Ahh,” a soft smile materializes on her face, “young love. I remember those days, hormonal and emotional all in one.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Take this plate for example—“ she points to the broken plate now put back together with white grout, “—while it might still be broken, I’ve changed it into a cute wall decoration.”
“I don’t think-“
“Shut up.” She fires a glare his way and he reluctantly goes quiet. “Think of your relationship with her like this plate. While you may always fight, shattering your relationship with every argument, you also have the power to transform it into something beautiful. Love is about balance, it’s going to get hard. You just have to know what to do when it does.”
“So then what do I do?”
“I just told you.”
“No you didn’t-“
“Do your homework, ungrateful little shit.”
His thoughts end with the sound of the coffee machine shutting off. He remembers being so lost after his mother told him that, it took weeks before he realized he could just talk to you about his annoyances and you’d listen.
That was the first time he learned how to resolve issues with you, only now, the issue isn’t as small as the others. He’s battling grief without any knowledge how to handle it. Should he be gentle? Harsh? He wish he knew.
Pouring a cup of coffee, he makes it just how you like and heads for the master. With a soft knock, he opens the door to find the sunrise already making a home on the walls and furniture in the room. You’re in the middle of the bed, laid on your side with a pillow clutched in your embrace.
The word cute fills his brain but he doesn’t pay attention to it or the blush heating his ears and neck.
As he approaches his eyes catch a plastic pill case on the bedside and he grabs it. He can’t even count how many pills there are, just that there are a lot and something shifts inside of him.
He sits on the edge, placing the mug on the table before putting his full attention on you. He hadn’t realized how little he knew about you, your body, how it’s doing after everything. He used to be so in tune with your health, but now he knew absolutely nothing.
He watches you stir awake, soft moans leaving your lips as your eyes flutter against the sun. Force of habit, he finds his hand moving your hair behind your ear. He nearly melts into the bed when you move into his touch, half asleep and still looking for him despite the choppy waters. All he wants is to curl up behind you and hold you like before, but he knows he has a long way before that.
“Wake up.” He says it softly with that usual rasp, giving him that hardness around his edges like rocks. You moan in response, slowly rolling on your back with your arms folded over your eyes.
He knew it was a little early, only an hour after you usually get up, but he wanted to know what the pills were for— learn his wife’s health again.
“Come on baby,” he murmurs, much softer this time with a small rub to your shoulder, “I even made you coffee.”
The mention of coffee has you sitting right up, messy hair and irritated eyes that still have sleep clinging around your irises. It’s the purest form of yourself, one he hadn’t realized he missed seeing.
“Coffee?”
He hands you the mug and you nearly melt into the cup, warmth seeping into your hands. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t respond, instead, he grabs the pill case and places it on the bedding on your lap. “What are these?”
You swallow a sip of coffee, feeling it warm you from the inside. “Pills.”
“No shit.” He grabs the case, opening the small capsule for the day. “But what kind?”
Another sigh leaves you, softer this time. He’s trying, wants to know about your health, it’s obvious in the way he nervously fiddles with the case, ignoring your gaze. You scotch closer, pointing to each pill as you speak. “These two are vitamins, they were more important when I was losing all the blood but I stopped bleeding two days ago. This tiny one is an antibiotic and this big one is a probiotic so I don’t get a yeast infection— that would be a nightmare.”
“These pills could make you worse?”
“No no,” you point to the tiny pill again. “Just the antibiotic. It gets rid of all the good bacteria, which is why I counter it with a probiotic to increase the production of the good bacteria. Your mom taught me that.”
“She did?”
“Mhm.” After your second year anniversary with Katsuki, spent in bed because of a viral infection, his mother taught you the importance of probiotics when taking antibiotics. It was the first time you’d ever heard his mother talk to you like you were her own, like she knew you two shared a deeper connection than what you knew at the time.
The memory, compared to now, leaves you with a newfound sense of hope. His mother was a wise woman, one of the wisest you’ve gotten to chance to know. If she saw it then, then maybe this miscarriage won’t ruin the life you’d built around her anxious son.
“I had no idea.”
You snort, “your moms very informative. I go to her about most health questions I have.”
“Not that..” he dumps the pills for the day into his hand, offering them to you gently. “This. I didn’t know you were taking pills for it…you said it was natural.”
“It is,” you reassure, accepting the pills and downing them with a sip of coffee.
“Then how was your miscarriage fucking natural?” You can hear his frustration and confusion in the rawness of every word that leaves his mouth and you wonder if telling the truth is the right thing to do right now. It must be, lying wouldn’t do any better to the truth.
“Because it was. Our blood types are different, negative and positive…” you swallow, placing the mug in your lap as his eyes finally meet yours. “My body killed our child because it saw it as a threat…so yeah, the miscarriage was pretty natural.”
The silence that hangs is deafening and it only solidifies the same fact you’d been turning over your head since it happened. You weren’t a good mother, no better than a wife, a sorry excuse for a woman if you can’t even protect your husband's child from your own body.
The reality of it makes you dizzy, eyes burning but you close them before your deep rooted pain shows in the form of tears.
You weren’t compatible, biologically, without the help of a medicated pregnancy. Those were the doctors words, the chances of bearing a child with your blood type nearly impossible in chances.
The coffee mug is taken from your hands and in a flash you’re being pulled my big arms, face pressed against a warm chest through a thin tee shirt. You can hear his heart, smell his musky sweetness and you lean into it.
The threshold snaps and the tears come pouring out from your failure to house a child in your defective body. He holds every ounce of it, cradling you close just like he did that night.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against your hair and you can hear the tears in his words as well, “I’m so fucking sorry, Y/N.”
-
A few days go by and it’s not stiff and anxious around him anymore. Conversation turned easy, but never too deep. Touches became a thing again, but never too heated. And you let him sleep in the same bed as you again, but never too close.
Things were starting to fall back into place, but not everything. You were still missing that deep rooted connection that was severed the minute he buried himself with work and you got too busy at the doctors.
Intimacy, the most simplest forms of love two people can share.
But now you stand along the beach, holding his hand like you used to, the sun hitting its peak on the day before the clouds take away its power. The waves sound clear, every kiss to shore a mocking one for the situation you find yourself in.
It wasn’t like you didn’t want to be intimate with your husband, you craved his skin every second you didn’t have it. But…you didn’t feel like you could fulfill him like before. You’d shown yourself you couldn’t be a good mother, what else were you bad at without knowing?
“Hey, come back to me.” He gently tugs your hand, pulling you from your inner turmoil. “You’re thinking. What are you thinking?”
Over the years you’d learned it’s better to be honest with Katsuki. While the honest truth might upset him more than lying would, he’d never have any reason to doubt a lie you’d tell. You couldn’t do that to him, knowing he takes your words as rule.
“Stupid stuff.”
“Your stuff isn’t stupid.”
“This stuff is.”
He pauses and pulls you closer which is easy in the sand. You face him, the sea behind you with a breeze that carries a sense of courage.
“It’s just..” he gently squeezes you hand at your hesitation, “we haven’t kissed in awhile.”He cracks a natural smile and you shove his chest playfully, “don’t laugh!”
“I’m sorry that was just really fuckin’ cute.”
Your face burns and you have to turn away before you burst into flames and do any more damage to his mental health with a dead wife.
“You want intimacy?” He pulls you close with his free arm around your waist, his lips close to your ear. “Because that’s my favorite skill.”
You don’t need to respond, your body language says it all. Your face is hot, your body is stiff, and your hand is shaking gently in his. It’s everything he needs to see before pulling you impossibly close, replacing your hand for your face.
It’s slow at first, the motions of his eyes taking in your face like he’d never done it before, and then his lips brush yours. It’s the softest thing ever, the heat of his breath mingling with yours with the coolness of his lips against yours. Without realizing, you’re pushing closer, deepening the kiss.
It’s warmer, thumb tracing the angle of your jaw while his fingers toy with the loose fabric of your sundress behind you. It’s something out of your wildest fantasies, the way his lips, his touch is enough to send off a multitude of fireworks inside your stomach.
It’s exactly the thing you’d been missing, the kind of connection you now knew you needed to nurture.
The thing you’d been missing without quite realizing it. Him. All of him. Every single inch of him.
He pulls away but you push closer, “hey-“ you pull him closer, “wait.” Your lips crash against his, pushing every unsaid word against his lips. It's almost instant that he kisses back, wrapping both arms around your waist like this was him finally coming home.
His tongue delves into your mouth, exposing everything all at once and you’re forced to take it. But you can’t stop yourself from moaning against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck.
It takes all but a mere minute of pure hunger between your tongues that he finds his self restraint and gives a tug. His hand in your hair tugs you back without enough force to hurt. “Fuck— Pause—“
He’s out of breath, panting like a mutt with a wild look in his eyes like he can’t believe he’s letting himself pull away from this and from you after mere eons away from you.
“You don’t want me?” It’s meant as a statement but comes out a question, unable to stop the slow gravitational pull to his lips that he’s trying so hard to pull away.
“Don’t put those words in my mouth—“
“That’s not denying it.”
He shakes you in his hold. “If you’re going to argue with me right now over something dumb then I’m telling you it’s not going to walk around the very thing we’ve both been avoiding.” He’s got a desperate look in his eyes and it instantly shakes your core, “we need to talk about how traumatic that must’ve been for you, baby. I can’t shake the feeling you won’t tell me because I couldn’t protect you from that, the only damn job I have.”
He releases your face, holding his arms around your waist like he can’t ever let go. But his eyes, they’re the purest they’d ever looked before, like his whole life depended on addressing the elephant in the room.
“You did the best you could,” you supply, unable to avoid the sting in your eyes and the tears that quickly follow. “I know it wasn’t easy for you either, I’d never seen you make such a face before when I showed you the small bump. Like you were ready for fatherhood, ready to take a new route in your life.”
“I fucking left you alone to deal with all of it alone,” another small shake, “I’m a goddamn hero yet i couldn’t save you from this— I should’ve taken better care of you— i should’ve taken off more time for you.”
“Stop that,” you whisper, “you did everything you could in the moment, that you shouldn’t apologize for. It should be me,” your voice cracks, “my only job was to grow a healthy baby and my body rejected it.”
“You did a perfect job,” he murmurs, pulling your head to his chest, holding you securely in his embrace under the sun's heat before the clouds take over the sky. “The miscarriage was a chance we hadn’t realized, but you are not the one to blame. If I could go back in time the only thing I’d change is my ignorance.”
This was it, sharing grief. The very thing your marriage needed for it to be fixed, being able to share it. He holds you tighter once the tears start, holding you as close as possible like the world was closing in around you two.
You could make sense of it and you didn’t need to, not anymore. The only thing you needed was him, all of him, to remind you that the miscarriage was traumatic but you don’t have to battle that demon alone. You don’t have to do anything alone, not with the rings that bind you to him.
-
It felt as if the gates were opening and you couldn’t find your grip to stop it, not when Katsuki carried you back to the cabin and hands, lips, and tongues took the lead. You weren’t sure if you were ready for sex yet after the miscarriage, but your doctor wouldn’t have insisted you go on this vacation with your husband if it was too big of a risk to take, that and you couldn’t care less about anything but him and the way he carries you to the master.
His lips devour yours, taking everything he’d been missing from you without remorse. You let him, tightening your thighs around his hips as he places you on the bed, hovering over you like he was about to take his time with you and refund every hour he spent away from you.
Pulling away, his large and calloused hands slide down to your thighs before slowly pushing up the thin fabric of your dress to your hips. “God damn,” he groans, eyes taking in every inch of you like he’s scared to look away, “still got those fucking pregnancy curves baby, making my dick hard.”
Scooping your thighs in his arms, he drags you closer to him on the bed until you feel himself right between your thighs, right against your core and it sends shivers down your curved spine. You’d never been this wet before, inner thighs nearly soaked as he slowly rubs his confined erection against your pussy clad in black silk panties.
“Jesus, Kats,” you whimper, staring up at him wildly as if you could deny the overwhelming need curling between your thighs like a horrible ache. “P-Pause…”
“You wanna pause?” He asks, like the idea itself sounds like sin. His hands nearly fist your hips like a small attempt to keep you below him, “when your pussy’s this wet?”
Shaking his head, he smacks the fat of your hips with a sinister smirk on his lips, straightening his back to get a better view of your vulnerability beneath him. The way he holds your eyes leaves you sure he can also feel it, how hard the lust is hitting like the distance away from one another was its own potent aphrodisiac.
But that smirk on his face, dripping with sin, suggested he was well aware just how hard his dick was starting to strain against his jeans.
“Tell me,” he drops a hand and slowly undoes the metal buckle of his belt, “you want me to stop?”
You can’t even bring yourself to lie, not when he’s doing the zipper like that. He knows the answer already, it’s written all over your face, your body.
“Speak up.” He growls, tugging himself out of his jeans. You nearly gasp at the weight of his dick against your cunt, unable to look away from his body and every vein or muscle that ripples with a threat to steal your self-restraint.
“No, I don’t want you to stop.” You shake your head against the pillows, “don’t stop.”
He doesn’t need to hear anything else, your breathless undertone is enough to drive him fucking insane. He gets down on his knees and elbows, lips brushing your cheek, your neck, your chest, every inch of you skin he’d missed until his face burries between your thighs.
“Oh,” you can’t control your voice as his thumb tugs your panties to the side, “oh, god.” He’s on you in seconds, tongue delving deeper inside of you as his fingers hold your thighs with a bruising force. He hasn’t eaten you out like this in months, missing how well he knows your body better than you know it yourself.
You fist the pillows behind you when he adds a finger, tonguing your clit like he’s clocked in. A moan rips from your throat, eyes rolling back with the curve of his finger inside of you, already adding in another.
His fingers are already drenched inside of you, slipping in and out with ease, accompanying every thrust with a lewd, syrupy noise. It lights your body on fire, shivering against the sheets, feeling his fingers hit that sweet spot inside of you that makes you wonder if there really is a cloud nine and if that’s where he’s taking you.
His cheek rests against your thigh, both of them on his shoulders as he makes out with your clit like a starved man, devoting everything to you. He kisses your clit with fever, moaning and mumbling nonsense like he’s confessing to sin and you’re the only god he wants forgiveness from.
Every touch, taste, it drives you frantic for release, shivering and moaning into the master room, the clouds finally taking dominion over the sky and making everything dark. But even despite the gloomy atmosphere that threatens the island with rain, the only thing you care about is the storm that’s brewing in your abdomen. It’s thickly hot and warm, mending your skin and bones until your frantically reaching for his hair, closing a fist around it.
Your orgasm rips right through before you can give warning, washing over you like a tsunami after an earth shattering quake. It steals your breath and your vision, head filled with fog and unyielding lust that overcomes you with white hot pleasure. It’s the sweetest revenge for a man with the purpose of making up what was once lost.
He devours you until there’s nothing left to feed, lifting his head with a dazed expression that drips with something too intense. You hold his stare through your shallow pants, blinking wildly as if to stay conscious through the aftershocks.
“Still alive?” He asks, voice still rough and wet from his earlier adventures. You nod with as much energy you can offer, letting your head fall back into the pillows, catching your breath. “Need a break?”
Your eyes shoot open because the very last thing you want is a break. “No,” you shake your head, “no breaks.”
But you feel him pull away and it scares you that this will stop here, will stop like this. In a haze, you flip your bodies until your positioned in a straddle of his hips, hands on his chest for stability as his eyes stare up at you with wicked amusement.
“Baby, was just going to get you water-“
You shut him up with your lips, crashing yours to his with a kiss to seal the fate of your future. It isn’t when you pull away for breath that you find your words. “I don’t want to stop. Please, I can’t- I need you inside of me.”
You don’t care how desperate you sound, if your voice teeters on the edge of cold desperation, you need him so bad that it’s starting to hurt. You hadn’t realized, but sex with Katsuki was the only thing that connected you with him, and right now all you wanted was that burning, golden thread.
His palms find your upper thighs, holding you but never forcing, his own way of tearing down his walls just for you. Your movements are slow, unable to stop the soft tremor in your thighs as you slip off your panties and throw your dress off. He does the same with his shirt before holding your hips, unable to keep his hand off of you even for a second.
You can feel the nerves from before, as if asking you if this was really worth the risk of potentially hurting yourself more…but that didn’t matter when you look down and see the same desperation in his eyes that’s eating you alive from the inside. He looks like he might die if he doesn’t feel you around him in the next minute, like his whole life depends on you, and only you.
You start slow, unable to form words, but he didn’t need them to understand this was going to be slow for start. Wrapping your palm around him, feeling him throb with heat, you align his tip to your entrance and he freezes.
“Wait, baby, no condom?” He gives you a concerned look, like maybe this wasn’t a good idea, “are you sure- oh fuckkkk!”
You slide down on him slowly until your clit brushes against his blonde hairs, hands tightening against his chest at the stretch. It’s almost like the first time, feeling him so deep that it hurts so good. Your head falls back, fighting a mix between a moan and a cry. He watches you just the same, biting down on his lip, fighting his primal urges to just flip you over and fuck weeks worth of celibacy into you.
You’re going fucking dumb from just the fullness of his dick so deep inside of you, like his dick has a motive to penetrate your soul. It steals everything from your lungs, body rolling forward by your hips like muscle memory, remembering exactly how good sex with Katsuki Bakugo is.
“Look at me.” Your eyes immediately follow his voice downward, meeting crimson eyes that penetrate you just like his cock. “Hanging in there?” It comes out rough, matching his intensity. “No pain?”
He’s checking in on you, making sure you’re not pushing your limits despite those primal urges bubbling beneath his tanned skin. You nod, slowly gliding your hands up and down his chest. “No pain,” you confirm. “Just..slow, it’s been awhile.”
He grunts with a small nod, sliding his hands to your waist, helping you move your hips back and forth until you both find the rhythm. It feels too good to be real, his gentle touches against his primal grunts, those eyes that watch every single movement you make like he just can’t get enough, it’s euphoric.
It’s not long before you find that equilibrium between the slow movements and the pressure between your thighs before you’re picking up speed. His grunts grow rougher and more clipped with every thrust, watching you sit up to get a better angle— using him like it’s what he’s built for.
“Hah- fu-fuck me- ngh, like that, just like thattt,” he groans, jaw hardening with every bounce like hes holding himself back. “Don’t stop dontstopdont- fuck~ you’re so tight-“
“Baby, oh s-shittt~” you don’t even recognize your voice, your desperate moans with every squelching thrust, and he’s damn near putty because of it. It’s almost pathetic, seeing a man so well respected among those around the world— a hero who saves all and turns to a moaning mess when his wife rides him. But he’s yours, for now, and it’s so good.
You ride him like you owe it to yourself and he moans like it’s sin. Taking a leap into the devils pit, your world tilts and you’re tossed on your back. He’s on you in seconds, hips thrusting like he needs it, lips devouring yours.
Your orgasm comes fast and he can feel it, thighs clenching around his hips, moans slipping past lips. He can’t pull away, can’t stop.
You moan against his lips like it hurts, fisting his hair as every thrust breaks you into a million pieces. It’s never been this intense, tears cooling the corners of your eyes.
You pull away from his lips, head lolling back as you try to catch a breath. But he’s not wasting a single moment, giving your ass a small smack as he rolls your body, leaving you perched on your stomach with your ass in the air. He slides himself back inside and you have to moan into the pillow, his chest pressed against your back, his lips right by your ear.
It’s so intimate, his grunts in your ear, his sharp thrusts of his hips against your ass, reminding you exactly who he is— your husband.
“I’ve missed this,” he whispers against your heated ear, “makin’ love to you.”
“Me too,” it’s soft, vulnerable. “We do it so good.”
He laughs softly, brushing his lips against your hair. “Good girl.”
He changes his pace, giving you slow grinds against your hips like he’s putting all of his attention on you. The heat from his body against your back eases all your tension, letting yourself drown in the feeling of him. It’s the most intimate way you’ve ever felt pleasure.
“I still want a baby.” He slides his hand up your side, thumb brushing your ribs. “That won’t ever change. But I don’t want to risk your health because of it.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, nearly forgetting to respond because he just feels so good. “We just need to be careful…”
He presses another kiss to your shoulder, “I’ll be there more often,” another to your jaw, “take better care of you.”
His words hit a spot deep inside you, melting your heart to your flesh. You want that, another try, a gamble with chance. You wanted to give him fatherhood, a tiny version of himself to love just as much as he loves you, but never more.
“Cum inside,” you manage to open your eyes, glancing over your shoulder, eyes holding his. “Another try. Please.”
Something snaps inside of him and you take the brunt of it. His hips quicken, his lips find yours with a hunger like no other.
Your moans get louder, his grow rougher. Fisting the pillows, your eyes roll back and you wonder if this is how the religious know there is a heaven.
He cums inside shortly after you do, kissing you over and over until his lips go numb.
You couldn’t explain it, the clarity that overcomes you like the first warm morning in spring when even the birds sing in joy.
You didn’t want to stop, you couldn’t stop. Without a time limit on your stay, you find yourself pulling him closer, ready for another round.
Because it’s now or never and neither of you can wait any longer.
he’s quiet in a way that leaves you wondering if he’s still home. with a pair of fluffy christmas socks, you’d pad down the stairs and search his two signature spots: the couch or the kitchen.
when he’s in neither, a wave of soft panic licks at your heart. fingers tangle in your hair while your eyes scan the house. bedroom; no. office that he never uses; no. upstairs bathroom; no.
the checklist of places grows slim as you make your way back downstairs.
but that’s when you hear it, the clink and clack of metals from the east of the house; the garage. your heart settles and in its place is a steady, safe, beat.
you slip on a pair of slippers and head inside through the door by the kitchen. there he is, dirty wifebeater hunched over an engineless car body frame. his hair hangs from his forehead, muscles flexing with each movement that moves the wrench in his hand.
his teeth knaw at the skin of his lips, thick brows perfectly furrowed for a man so handsomely wild.
he doesn’t look up as you approach—you know he knows you’re there, though.
your hand rests on a sweaty shoulder, “what’re ya fixin’?”
he smirks, that scar across his lips curving with the softest sign of affection.
“the AC.” his eyes meet yours and your breath pauses. “can’t call it a car if it ain’t got coolin’.”
“i thought you can’t call it a car if it doesn’t have an engine?” with a manicured finger, you point to the empty spot in the middle of the frame.
his lips curl higher, teeth barred. “smartass.”
“the smartest,” you tease, offering him a playful wink. in retaliation, his large hand slaps your ass clad in black leggings. he keeps it there, pulling your body against his sweaty one; although, you don’t complain.
“sexiest, too,” he purrs, bringing his forehead against yours. your eyes close naturally and his lips press against yours, ironically soft for a man who makes grown men shake with fear.
you kiss him just as soft, smacks of lips and tongue echoing in the concrete garage that somehow starts to rise in temperature.
his hands get bolder, squeezing and slapping at the plush skin of your ass and thighs like it’s his job. he presses you against his hips, deepening the kiss as if he needs it like air. around you, he was nothing short of needy.
“mmm,” he purrs against your lips, hips moving against yours to reveal the thickness there—tucked down his thigh beneath his sweatpants. “i wanna devour you.”
a giggle escapes, head coming back with enough space to meet his eyes again. “what about your car?”
he doesn’t reply at first. instead, he lifts you onto the edge of the car, hands sliding up your thighs until his thumbs hook the tight band of your leggings.
the metal is cold under your thighs, but the heat of him between your thighs leaves your skin moist with sweaty desire. “tojiiii.”
“shhhh,” he slides down your leggings like it didn’t take all your strength to slip them on, “lunch break. mandatory.”
he doesn’t give you time to react, or register the comment, before he’s pulling them off—fluffy socks left on for comfort.
he throws a thigh over his shoulder, thumbs spreading you open like he’s dying for you. but even then, despite his growing desperation, his eyes glance up with enough softness to bloom a withered rose.
“eyes on me, ma,” his voice his coarse with rasp, half-lidded eyes still holding a hint of reason.
“i’m okay,” you whisper to the silent question beneath his lips, “promise.”
and then he’s on you like he’s been waiting decades. his tongue laps at your clit like a cat in milk, face smooshed between the fat of your thighs with a threat of suffocation.
he works you so good that it feels like ecstasy. a powerful drug only obtained by market, juxtaposition to his line of work.
one hand curls around the cool metal frame, the other fisting his black hair like your sanity depends on it. he groans beneath, the vibrations sending your body into overload.
a loud moan escapes, loud enough to bounce off the walls and threaten a letter in the mail from neighbors. but the way he slides a thick finger inside makes it worth the humiliation of knowing he wasn’t always the only person to hear you gasp and cry.
he slides in another rough finger and his tongue flicks your clit like he’s tasting his favorite meal. and maybe he is because the groans that leave his chest sound damn near animalistic.
your back curves like a rod, chest heaving like a racer after a marathon. however, the older muscled man doesn’t let up from his assault.
“t-toji,” it comes out like a weak attempt to hold composure. “m’gonna, oh! cum!”
and then you’re unraveling like a rope caught between two. it’s fast and overwhelming, eyes squeezing shut at wave after pleasurable wave washes over you and you have no way of knowing when it’s going to end.
even when he pulls away, tongue lapping at his soaked fingers that resemble prunes. even when he stands with one hand working the string on his sweatpants.
satoru hums from behind you, hot breath fanning the expanse of your neck in a way that is annoyingly attractive.
it doesn’t help that he’s buried so deep inside, hips fused to your ass in the back of the library because someone just couldn’t wait.
how could he be patient? how could he sit across from your pretty face and delicious cleavage? honestly, he thinks you should be thanking him for this. for fucking you in the back of the library—proving you’re his no matter when or where.
a large hand fists your skirt that’s been bunched to your waist like a belt. “so so pretty,” he continues, despite the glare you shoot over your shoulder. because he can feel how much you like it, that flutter around him that is enough to make him worship you like a damn staunch.
and he’ll do it—take you home, lay you down, and show you that you’re the only subject he’d rather spend hours nose-deep in.
what was supposed to be a quick fix in the library (but with satoru, nothing is ever “quick”), turned to hours and hours of switching positions until, finally, he lets you go.
laying limp and breathless on his bed, he dares to shoot you a goofy grin like the past four hours didn’t happen. it’s enough to piss you off.
“wipe the smirk off your face, ‘toru.”
“what smirk?”
he hovers by your face with a smile, nose brushing against yours. “you mean….my smile of happiness for having such a pretty girlfriend?”
tw: i don’t even know? :”), it’s pure filth in here. #satoruisafreak
the video starts with a clear view of satoru’s face, flushed from his ears to his swollen lips, a faint view of deep purple hickeys on his neck that resemble tiny bruises.
his pupils are dialed and hooded with an expression that makes the context of the video easily recognizable—he’s recording a sextape.
with cheeky confidence, the camera pans out to get a full view of his face and bare chest as he lays against a large white pillow. he lifts his arm, flexing his bicep with his free hand as his tongue wiggles out of his lips. the look on his face can only be described as giddy. too giddy for a man making a sextape.
the camera flips, revealing you straddling his bare hips, the only thing saving your innocence being his white shirt that seems like a dress on your body. your face is flushed, hand covering your mouth as your second holds down the fabric to cover where you connect with him.
his hand comes into view as the flash makes your skin appear like it’s glowing, grabbing onto your hip with fever while effortlessly rocking your hips against him.
his phone only picks up the sound of his heavy breaths and the moans and groans of the bed below, supporting your activities like a soldier at war.
the camera flips again, revealing that same stupid grin on his face that seems to threaten to split his face in half.
“gotta switch, the lady is getting tired,” he offers the camera a wink before setting it down somewhere, a plain white ceiling coming into view. “one second!”
the sheets rustle with movement that the camera cannot view. a couple seconds later, he picks up the phone with the same grin. he sticks out his tongue again, this time shaking it as his hand moves his hair out of his sweaty and flushed face.
“i’m fucking her soooo good,” he damn near moans, “wanna see?”
he flips the camera around, revealing you below him. this time the shirt is bunched up by the fat of your hips, his hand placed firmly on your thigh as if the pudge there is where it belongs. the flash does no good job of hiding the flush in your face as you do your best to cover it with your hand.
within frame, satoru grinds his hips forward and then back, revealing a creamy white ring around the base of him. from the new angle, his phone catches that soft moan from your lips. he damn near grunts at the sound of it, hand tightening on your thigh before the camera flips again.
he doesn’t say anything as he pauses, propping up the camera on what could only be the bedside table. it renders a full view of the missionary position, your thighs on either side of his hips while his hands hold down your hips.
with the new freedom, his hips start a brutal pace that mimics a piston broken from the crank case. it’s fast and loud, the phone picking up every thrust, moan, and heavy sigh.
it seems to last minutes before he slows, putting his attention back on the camera. he pulls back from your weak embrace, flexing the muscles in his chest and arms as if he wasn’t deep inside you.
the angle causes his body to pivot, and in response, you let out a yelp that was neither encouraging or discouraging. his surprise and concern immediately changes the cheeky expression he held since the beginning of the recording.
his head quickly whips to face you, “what was that? are you okay?”
you nod slowly, face hidden by your hair and the quite large white pillow. “w-weird spot…”
his eyes flicker over to the camera, that smirk making another appearance. “weird?”
he moves his hips again. you let out another yelp, nails digging into his back.
the grin on his face only describes that of a man who might have found the secret to his very happiness, it’s infectious. he grabs the phone, bringing the camera back on his flushed face while his hand pushes his hair back again.
his voice comes out as a whisper, “hateeeee to cut this video short for future me, heh, but i just found her sweet spot and i think i’d rather focus on cumming on it. byeeee.”
