guilt. [matsukawa issei x reader]
»Issei has a secret that he can't ever tell you.«
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TAGS: pervert best friend!mattsun, massive horse cock mattsun, yandere undertones (honestly it's not that subtle LMAO), panty stealing, voyeurism, masturbation, panty fucking, penetrative sex, issei is a pathetic fucking loser, issei and yn are both freakkkkkkkkkkkssssss
a/n: i.. have nothing polite to say. this is @nectardaddy's fault. i caught a fade over this fic so i hope you all say thank you to dodger for the commission <3333
[commission honee here!]
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"I think I'm going insane."
Issei looks up from his phone, eyeing you as you flop down on the couch beside him. You look exhausted and confused, like there's something you've forgotten but you can't find it.
"Why?" he mumbles, shoving his hand into your family-size bag of chips, which he's long since claimed as his own.
"I can't find, like, most of my underwear."
He chokes, spewing chip crumbs all over his lap and your coffee table. His ears start to burn and ring, so he focuses on brushing his clothes off and clearing his throat.
You just laugh, watching him. "Sorry. Kinda TMI."
"'s fine," he mutters. "Have you checked your laundry basket?"
"'Course I did. I can't find them anywhere." You sigh. "Every time I fold my laundry, the pile gets smaller."
"Maybe your washing machine ate them."
"So many of them? And only the nice ones?"
He shakes his head, plastering a smirk to his face. "Maybe it's the universe telling you to go commando all the time."
You only smack him with a throw pillow, turning the movie back on.
—
He doesn't know when it started.
Probably sometime in college. Years ago. Far too many years ago.
Maybe it started when he found a pair on your bathroom floor one day, clearly forgotten after your shower.
Maybe it started when you'd been in a rush to change between work and a party you were going to together, your door accidently left cracked open.
Maybe it started when he dropped by your apartment unannounced one day, planning to make you dinner after a long day — only to find you cheering yourself up in your own way, a low buzz heard from your bedroom and the door cracked open, just wide enough.
Sometimes he thinks you leave it open on purpose. Sometimes he wonders how you could possibly be so forgetful.
Most times he doesn't care, because it all leads to the same result.
Him with his hands down his jeans, guilty of witnessing your private moments. Guilty of seeking them out.
Guilty of the pile of dirty underwear, shoved deep in his drawers for him to reach into late at night.
He should probably have given them back, slowly over time. But now you've noticed and mentioned it to him, so it would be too suspicious for your panties to start reappearing.
And besides… he doesn't want to give them back. They're his now. They belong to him, the same way you do.
Still, sometimes he worries that he should at least let you know. Some might argue that he should just stop, but that's not going to happen. He already knows that. So, his dilemma is whether or not he should tell you.
You are his best friend. Have been this whole time, since meeting at that boring college orientation where you'd muttered snarky comments under your breath and he'd struggled not to break into laughter.
You deserve to know. You deserve to be aware of the things he's done. You deserve to understand that your privacy hasn't been that at all, not for a long time.
But fuck, the chances of losing you are high. The chances that you'll kick and scream and freak out at him are too high, and he doesn't know how to live his life without you. You're too central to everything in his world. Losing you would ruin him.
So here he is, stuck in the torture of lying to your face about the location of your underwear. About the location about the pretty cotton pair that you'd worn yesterday, that he'd found in your laundry basket when he'd gone to the bathroom. That he'd taken from your apartment on the same night that you'd griped about missing so many of them. Even then, he couldn't help himself — it's an addiction.
That pretty cotton pair is currently wrapped around his cock, stretched tight and barely wrapping all the way around.
He moans low, his t-shirt caught between his teeth as he stares down at himself in the dark of his bedroom. There's something about the way the panties barely fit around him — without fail, he feels something deep in his gut, something primal that wonders if you would barely fit around him, too.
His cock twitches in his hand, and he's deliberate about the slow drag of his fist over the mess of fabric and pre-cum.
He wonders if you would cry and whine about the stretch, or if you would take it with no more than a grit of your teeth and some heavy breathing. If you would want to show him you could do it.
You'd always been that way with him. Determined to be independent, to brush off all his attempts to spoil and pamper you.
"I'm a big girl, Mattsun," you'd say, and he'd just bite his tongue, because he always an unspeakable opinion about that particular string of words on your lips.
Would you be that way in this situation, too? With his hands pushing your thighs apart until you hiss and your knees touching your ears and his name on your tongue? Would you still pretend he's not too big for you?
Or would you fall apart, just for him?
The thought pushes him right over the edge, with a choked moan and his cum coating your panties over and over again.
He breathes heavy, dropping his shirt from between his teeth and wiping his hand on your underwear. He wipes them off hastily with a tissue and tosses them into his laundry basket, relishing in the sight of your pretty cotton panties sitting on top of his all-black pile of clothes.
Yeah. He can't give these back. He's attached.
—
A week goes by. In that span of time, Issei goes through the hell of a lifetime.
On Monday, he arrives at your place with a pizza box and is immediately greeted by a pair of your underwear on the floor by the couch. He freezes, staring down at them and trying to locate the source of his heartbeat, because it's all over the place.
And then you come around the corner, jumping when you see him and saying something along the lines of 'using my house key without telling me is some pervert, creep shit'.
He just laughs it off, his voice tight, and sets the pizza box on the table before kicking your underwear — black lace with little flowers that make his mouth water — into your view with his toe.
"Think I found your missing garments."
He has the pleasure of witnessing the burning flush on your skin, but you don't move to grab them.
"They're new. I'm replacing what I lost."
Issei's just found his next target of robbery. "Ah, okay. And they're here instead of in your hamper because…?"
Your flush is darker. He knows what he's going to think about later.
"Can you toss them to me?"
His brain misfires, stalls. "What?"
You gesture to them. "Toss."
"You want me to touch these? Aren't they dirty?" God, he hopes you say yes.
"Not if you don't think about it for too long."
That makes no sense, and he knows you know it. But he's already halfway bent over, worried that any more prompting will have you doing the task yourself.
"Here, freak." He makes sure to sneakily grab them by the gusset, his cock twitching when he feels that they're damp. These aren't a day old like he'd thought — they're fresh.
The fabric flies across the room to you, and you snatch them out of the air, turning toward your bathroom. The moment you're gone, Issei's shoving his hand down his pants and touching himself, the moment brief but successful in making him rock hard.
By the time you're back — only seconds have passed — he's settling into the couch and grabbing a throw pillow for his lap.
The two of you eat straight from the box while you watch TV, Issei careful to only use his clean hand, and then he disappears to the bathroom. It only takes him five minutes to fuck his fist and come silently into a wad of toilet paper.
When he comes back, red in the face, he answers your questioning look with a gruff 'pizza did a number on me' and lets you give him a grossed-out look.
Better than letting you know what he was actually doing.
—
On Tuesday night, long after you'd texted him goodnight and long after he'd fallen asleep, he wakes to the buzz of a text message. When he squints at the notification, he realizes it's a photo you've sent him. He wonders why you're up — it's almost three in the morning.
Oh.
It's a nude.
Issei blinks, blinks again. Puts the phone down and settles back into sleep, wonders when he'll wake from this dream.
Opens his eyes, reaches for his phone again, just to check.
It's still there. Along with more messages from you.
[2:53 AM]
you: HOLY FUCK
you: SHIT
you: FUCK
you: HOW DO I DELETE A MESSAGE
you: DONT LOOK AT THAT
you: ILL KILL YOU MATTSUN
Issei stares down at the screen, eyes flicking between your incoming barrage of texts and the shot of your arched back, body clad in nothing but see-through underwear. Pastel pink, but it doesn't matter because the fabric is mesh and the photo's taken from the back, so he's just staring right at your cunt, completely visible.
[2:54 AM]
you: FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
you: I CAN SEE YOU READING THESE
you: LOOK AWAY MATSUKAWA ISSEI
you: ILL KILL YOU AND STICK YOUR HEAD ON THE ANTENNA OF MY CAR
He shakes himself out of his stupor and types up a response, fingers trembling.
[2:54 AM]
Issei: i'd like the record to show
Issei: that i did nothing but be here
You: IM GONNA MURDER YOU AND THEN MARCH AROUND WITH YOUR HEAD ON A STICK
Issei: thats quite the artistic photo
Issei: have you considered a career in it
You: LOOK AWAY
You: PROMISE ME YOU WONT LOOK
Issei: i wont look
He doesn't say 'promise', because he already has his hand wrapped tight around his cock.
—
He doesn't bring up the photo, and you eventually figure out how to delete it. He doesn't tell you he'd long saved it to his phone by then, that he'd gotten cum all over his screen, that it had only taken him a few hard strokes to get there.
He just comes by on Wednesday, a box of chocolate in hand as an olive branch, because he knows that — even though it's not his fault — you would only let this go if he lets you blame it on him. And he admits, he does feel a little guilty, same as he always does, for jerking off to the thought of you. Well — the image of you, this time.
So he lets you blame it on him. Lets you smack him on the chest with about as much ire as a bunny, lets you snatch the chocolate from him and cradle it in your arms before letting him in the door.
Leaves it be, until you bring it up. Because if you're going to talk about it, he's not going to be accused of instigating.
"You really didn't look at it, right?"
His eyes flick up from his phone, where he's been settled into his usual spot for an hour already. You're watching him, picking at your nails in what he knows is an anxious habit.
He looks back at his phone, shaking his head. "Nope."
"Not once?"
He looks at you again, eyebrows raised. "I mean, obviously I saw it. But I didn't look again." Lie. "I wouldn't do that to you." Lie. "You know me."
Lie.
You don't know him. Not really. Not everything.
You don't know that it had only taken him a few strokes to come, because he knows now what you look like naked. He knows now, from just one glance, what it would look like to stretch you out. To make you cry when it hurts.
Issei shifts, hiding the tent that's straining against his jeans.
You sigh, nod. Pop another chocolate in your mouth and turn to the TV. He thinks it's finally over.
After another hour, you stretch and yawn, arms high over your head. Issei's trained himself to glance fast and easy, to catch a glimpse of your exposed skin and then look away before you ever notice.
"Did you still wanna go out to eat?" you ask, starting to stand.
He nods simply, knowing very well what comes next. "Yeah."
"'Kay. Gonna get ready."
"Hurry up. I'm hungry."
"Alright, alright," you complain, padding quickly down the hall.
He knows exactly how many seconds to wait before standing, knows how to move through your apartment, knows where to step so that you don't hear him coming.
Knows that he will feel bad about this, like he feels bad about everything, but that he won't ever stop.
You forgot to close the door again. He finds it ironic, that you were so worried about what he'd seen of you but weren't careful about the door.
Just like you weren't careful about the nude.
Just like you're never careful about anyting.
It should concern him, but he's mostly just grateful that it's him and not some other scumbag that gets this privilege.
He peeks through the gap, catching the familiar sight of you stripping, your hands tugging your shirt up and over your head. He lets his eyes linger on your chest, lets himself get hard at the sight, because no one looks like you. No one else meets his every fantasy, which he knows quite well is designed after you.
No one will ever be you.
He swallows, palming himself through his jeans, and leans forward, watching the way your back arches when you pull your pants down your legs.
He watches, hypnotized, when you tug your sports bra over your head so you can replace it with a real bra. Watches the way your tits bounce, watches the way your massage them with a grimace on your face. They must hurt. You must be ovulating.
His mouth waters. There's something seriously wrong with him.
He pulls away from the door quickly, knowing that your dresser is against the same wall and that you'll be turning toward him in half a second. He backs up slow but quiet, his steps to get away the same he takes to get here, every time.
He's on the couch when you emerge, right where you left him.
"Ready?"
He just grunts his agreement and rises, adjusting himself in his jeans as he follows you to the door.
—
It's on Thursday that he almost dies. Truly and genuinely almost dies.
He comes by, like he always does, without permission. Just makes his way to you, like he always does, without thinking about it. He unlocks your door like it's his, leaves his shoes by the door like he lives here. Plans to wait on your couch for you to get home, plans to relax in your place and fuck around on his phone until you get back, because, above all else and no matter what he's done, it's your company he craves most.
He's been sinking into your cushions for about ten minutes when he hears his name being called. Figures you must have heard him come in, must be finishing work in your room. He stands, still distracted by his phone, and pads down the hall to your room. Follows the path that's quiet without even realizing, because it's a habit — a terrible, horrible habit — by now.
Stops at your door, pushes it open slightly with his knuckle.
Looks up from his phone finally.
Freezes.
Watches, unseeing, as you slide two fingers in and out of your cunt, curling at the top and whining when they meet their mark.
His brain stutters, shuts down, flashes through the scene like photos.
Blindfold, tits out, legs spread wide, drool, squelch, squelch, squelch-
"Mattsun-"
Oh.
Your head is tilted back, the blindfold white and wrapped tight around your face. It's the only reason you haven't seen him yet, he realizes.
You have no idea he's here, and if he stands right here and doesn't move, you never will.
Oh.
He should leave.
He should leave.
He should-
"Nggh-Iss-ei-"
The syllables of his name fall out in time with the smack of your palm against your clit.
Everything's so wet. You're so wet. He can see the puddle you're leaving on the blanket. When you pull your fingers out and circle your clit a few times before shoving them back in, you hiss at the stretch.
Shivers run down his spine. Two fingers is enough to make you wince. Two of your fingers, not his.
It's all too easy to imagine the tears that would fall from your pretty eyes and the cry that would fall from your pretty little mouth as he bullies his cock into you.
Issei grips your doorframe, trembling, ears ringing. His jeans are wet.
He just came in his pants.
Oh, god.
He backs away from the door, needing to get away from this. Away from you.
It's as he's slipping your front door closed silently behind him that he hears you come, loud and echoing. His name, echoing.
—
He wants to avoid you. He desperately knows that he should, that he needs to get over this, because coming in his pants just from watching you means that something is seriously, seriously wrong with him. If he's that desperate — that easy — then he really has to stop. Even in a world where you want him (he's still partially convinced he hallucinated that part), you would never want him if you know what he's done.
And he knows he can't keep it from you. He can't keep it a secret until he dies. Even if he tries, it would become painfully clear there's something you're not telling him if you realize how easy it is to make him come. That just looking at you makes him ruin his jeans.
No, this needs to end.
But…
Maybe just one more.
—
He's gripping hard and stroking fast, teeth gnawing into the hem of his t-shirt. He's got your panties around his cock, like he always fucking does, and he's relishing in how tight they are. How tight you would be, and he knows that now. He knows that, and it kills him.
He needs to move fast, because you've just left to pick up the takeout order, and he needs to finish and clean up before you get back. He's already planning how to sneak them out of here. They're the new ones — how long would it take you to notice?
He should be doing this in the bathroom. Even in your bedroom, something with a closed door where he can have enough to time to come up with an excuse.
He shouldn't be jerking off to the thought of you jerking off, in your living room, with your underwear wrapped around his cock.
But he knows that you'd done it, too, not that long ago, and the image of you fucking yourself on your couch, his name on your tongue, makes his mouth dry and his dick hard, so he knows it needs to happen here. If he's going to be done before you get back, it needs to happen here.
"Having fun?"
Matsukawa Issei thinks he's died and gone straight to hell.
He chokes, sitting straight up and then bending in half to hide himself.
You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes trained evenly on his. He stares back, eyes wide and fear coursing through his blood — the life-or-death kind.
"I-" His throat dries up, and he starts to cough, scrambling to shove his dick in his pants, not daring to look down and be faced with the sight of your underwear in a place they should never be.
"Well? Are you?"
You don't sound mad. That almost scares him more.
"Y/n-"
"How long?"
He stands, backing far away from you in order to keep the distance, just in case you start swinging. "Y/n, just wait-"
"How long, Issei?"
He shivers. He can't help the memory of you moaning his name from crossing his mind. "I-I don't know."
"You don't know?" you say, stepping further into the room. Issei hopes it doesn't hurt too much when you bash his head in with a lamp. "Okay. Let's say you don't know."
"I don't-"
"Where's the rest of my underwear?"
He swallows, looks away. "My place."
"No, I know that part." His gaze flashes to yours, full of surprise. You keep going. "I'm asking where. I looked everywhere."
"You-"
It's in this precise moment that Issei remembers — crucially, importantly — that you have keys to his place, too.
He stares, processing, and then looks around, glances into the kitchen. There's nothing on the counter. "Where's the takeout?"
You smile. It promises that evil things will happen to him. "I didn't order it."
"Wha-Then," he starts, shaking. "Where did you-Did you go to my house?"
"Nope," you say casually. "Just sat in my car for ten minutes, waiting for you to do what you always do." You place a firm hand on his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.
When had you gotten so close? When had he let that happen?
"I was waiting," you say quietly. "Because you're just that easy, Issei. Just that predictable."
He doesn't know what's happening anymore. His feet are moving, and he registers in the back of his mind that you're pulling him back to the couch, but he's not comprehending.
You shove once, and the backs of his legs hit the couch, and suddenly you're towering over him.
"You're easy, Issei. All it takes is me leaving my door cracked, seriously?" You laugh. He feels mocked.
But he's realizing.
"Leaving your-"
"All it takes is a pair of panties on the floor, and suddenly you're jerking off on my couch?" You drop down over him, thighs on either side of his, and press your hands to his chest. "All it takes is a single photograph, Issei?"
Oh.
He's a fucking idiot.
"Or was it something else?" you whisper, mouth pressed to the shell of his ear. He's hard again, despite the fear that lingers. "Maybe the sound of me moaning your name while I fuck myself?"
He's so fucked.
"H-How long have you-"
"The whole time," you cut him off. He can feel your lips curl into a smile. "Do you think I'm that stupid? You think I don't know what you are?"
Then, you don't need him to say how long it's been since he started this terrible cycle. You already know. You just wanted him to say it.
"I'm not a-"
"You are," you laugh, leaning back to look straight into his eyes. "You're a fucking freak, Mattsun. You're a pervert."
He hates that his dick throbs.
"Admit it," you urge. When he shakes his head, you tut, a fake frown painting over your face. "Admit it, Mattsun."
"No."
The frown goes away. It's replaced by a cutting stare, and that fear — that life-or-death, hunted for sport fear — is back tenfold.
You roll your hips over his.
A moan falls past his lips, loud and desperate.
Your grin is evil, wicked.
Your hands drop to his jeans, still undone and messily hidden under his shirt. You yank them down, exposing the fabric of your underwear — black lace with little flowers that makes his mouth water, even now.
They're tangled around his cock, which is hard and angry and throbbing.
"Not a pervert, Mattsun?"
He can't deny it, but he can't bring himself to say it.
You pull his dick out of his pants, and his head falls back, mouth dropped open, because your hands are so cold and so small compared to his, and he really needs to stop thinking about that, or he's going to come right here, right now-
You lift off of his thighs and reach down between your legs. "If you're going to use me to get off, I'm gonna use you, too."
Issei's head flies up in alarm, and his hands grip your hips tight, stopping you. "Wait. Wait, wait. You're not prepped-"
You yank one of his hands off and pull it between your legs, guiding him to push your panties aside.
You're completely soaked.
Issei groans low and loud, hips thrusting up into the hand you still have on him. You beam down at him, using that hand to slowly — tortuously — roll your messed up, stretched out, brand new lace underwear down his shaft until they sit pretty around the base of his cock.
He twitches when they're a little too tight, and you laugh breathily. "I knew you were gonna be big, but I didn't know it would be like this, Mattsun."
He whines, unable to think about the implications of you wondering how big he'd be.
When you press the tip of his cock against your entrance, it fits snug and tight, unable to slip in. He has to grip the base of his cock — ignoring the underwear — just so he doesn't come like this.
You work against the pressure, and it eventually pushes past your hole with a slight pop that makes both of you jump and moan. You shiver, your hands gripping hard to his shoulders. He doesn't say anything about the sharp dig of your nails, unable to care about anything but the static in his brain that renders him useless while you slowly coax yourself down his cock.
When your hips finally settle on his, you're trembling and sweating and there's a deep frown lodged into your features. And he's suddenly reminded of that thought he'd had, wondering if you'd cry or take it like a champ.
He was wrong.
You do both.
A tear slips past your eyelashes, sliding down your cheek, and you're clinging to him with a very painful clawing of your nails into his skin, but you're also rolling your hips slowly, back and forth. Back and forth. Wincing and whining, but rolling back and forth. Determined to get used to him.
Issei is useless. He's fucking useless, his hands just laid limply on the couch and his chest rising and falling in fast and uneven breaths.
He'd only ever imagined being in control, taking you and watching you struggle, comforting you while you whine.
He has no control here. He's not even sure he's conscious anymore.
You grind forward one more time, and suddenly the sound that falls past your lips isn't a pained whine. It's a moan, low and breathy, and your nails are easing up on his shoulders, and you're very slowly shifting your weight and starting to bounce.
It's slow, subtle, and barely any movement on his cock, but he's still shivering and moaning and trying to get used to the squeeze of you around him. And then your mouth is on his and he's kissing you back open-mouthed, because he's trying so hard to get his body to respond but nothing's working.
His vision starts to go black when you finally get enough height on your bounce that there's a quiet plap, plap, plap that's echoing in his ears when your thighs hit his.
He feels pathetic.
"Admit it, Issei," you breathe, shaky and pleading. "Admit you're a pervert. Admit you like watching me and stealing my stuff and thinking about me."
He still wants to deny it. He knows it's true, but his pride is pressing down on him, trying to keep him from admitting just what a terrible person he is.
But then you whine low and let a single word pass through your lips.
"Please."
You need this.
You need him to admit the terrible things he's done to you.
You need him to say it, because then it makes it okay that you like it so much.
You and Issei are just the same.
He swallows hard, eyes still unseeing as he stares up at the ceiling but his hands finally finding purchase on your hips.
"Take your underwear," he grunts, suddenly painfully aware of the lacy, sticky mess that's still wrapped around his cock, trapped between you. "Take 'em and use 'em. Keep 'em at my place. Don't wanna give 'em back."
You moan pathetically, dropping your head to his shoulder. "Keep 'em," you whisper.
He shivers. "Watch you change. Watch you shower. So pretty."
You lift your shirt to show him your breasts as they bounce, and he shudders visibly, finally given permission to look.
"Saved that photo."
You throw your head back and moan, hands flying to his shoulders again. The gentle plaps have grown into a loud, lewd, echoing sound, and it's yanking him closer and closer to the edge.
And then he admits the truth, and it sends you hurdling right into your orgasm.
"Been creeping on you for years," he mutters. "Years, Y/n."
You still, your back arched and your mouth dropped open and your body shivering again and again and again against his.
You clench so hard around him that his body jerks and he can barely get out a choked groan before he's spilling into you.
He's trembling, long after he's done coming, and he can't find the breath in his lungs. But you're slumped against him, shaking like a leaf, and he thinks maybe it's okay that this moment changed his life.
You don't lift away to talk to him. He's not sure that you can. You just whisper into his chest, and he just wraps his arms around you, keeping you close.
"You can keep doing it. If you want."
