includes: bakugou, shouto, hawks, dabi, shigaraki x gn reader
small moments of intimacies; a glimpse into holding their hearts.
notes aka what it’s like dating these touch-starved boys, my dearest darlings ♡
minors, ageless & blank blogs don’t follow me, you will be blocked.
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BAKUGOU KATSUKI ;
♡ him gently guiding you with a hand on your elbow or lower back, always keeping you in his line of sight when you’re out together
♡ helping each other dress: you fixing his tie, him zipping up your jacket; you wrapping a scarf around his neck, him kneeling in front of you to redo your laces
♡ him burying his face in the crook of your neck, soft breaths warming your skin as he closes his eyes and lays there with his arms wound around your body
♡ learning how to give a massage just so you can treat his arms, his hands, his shoulders, when he overworks his muscles
♡ kissing the tip of his nose and watching his cheeks flush right after as he looks away
TODOROKI SHOUTO ;
♡ sitting beside him, your head on his shoulder, his head on yours, sharing earbuds as you rest for the moment
♡ soft kisses to his wrist and the palms of his hands, drawing over the faint scars there with a feather-light touch
♡ peeling oranges and feeding them to him; placing the sticker that’s on the fruit on the back of his hand
♡ holding his face in your hands before kissing his forehead and down the slope of his nose; nudging his nose with yours before pecking his lips
♡ him having a list of things you enjoy on his phone; him gifting you random items purely because they remind him of you, like a handmade ring or a pretty shell
HAWKS | TAKAMI KEIGO ;
♡ looking at him only to find him already gazing at you fondly; him smiling at you when you make eye contact
♡ him laying down with his ear to your chest, falling asleep to the sound of your breathing with his arms wrapped tightly around you
♡ tracing over the scars that litter his body, tenderly kissing along each one
♡ sitting behind him in the bathroom to tend to his wings, delicately treating the plume of feathers before blow drying them to keep him warm
♡ drawing over the markings on his face before kissing his eyelids
DABI | TODOROKI TOUYA ;
♡ standing behind him as you dye his hair together, listening intently as he guides you through the process; him peering up at you with a soft, grateful look in his eyes whenever you’re too focused on his hair
♡ him laying down with his head on your lap, dragging your hand to his head so you play with his hair
♡ feeding him strawberries and wiping away the juice when it trickles down his lips
♡ his hand searching for yours whenever you share a bed, his ankle knocking against yours when he twines his legs with yours
♡ teaching him how to cook, and doing simple tasks together — cutting the vegetables with your hand on his over the knife, stirring a pot of sauce with your hand wrapped in his around the spoon
SHIGARAKI TOMURA ;
♡ sitting behind him and brushing his hair, combing out the tangles and weaving your fingers through the strands to gently scratch his head
♡ him looking down at your hands, comparing their sizes, running a finger along the lines of your palms in wonder
♡ interlocking pinkies when you sit besides one another
♡ making eye contact whenever he speaks; turning to face him whenever he talks passionately about something
♡ holding his hands in yours as you massage cream into them; asking him to lay down so you can circle the areas around his eyes, gently rubbing lotion into his skin
synopsis tomura wants to hold you until you're curved to the shape of his fingers.
tags fluff.
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I love the thought of Shigaraki finding more and more outlandish objects to cover himself with just so he can touch you. Sure, he has his gloves, but he always gets a little too sweaty in them and they don't really feel that nice. They let him hold you, but they don't let him feel you — and that's all he really wants: to feel your body under his. So he finds a crumpled up plaster and sticks that on his thumb before he cups your jaw and brings you closer to him. He coils a bit of medical tape around the tip of his pinky and he calls it life-saving because he can actually feel the warmth of you under his fingertips now. He keeps cling film in his pocket so he can wrap it around his finger whenever he's overcome with the urge to kiss you, and it's easily become his favourite material now because it lets him enjoy the give of your cheek beneath his fingers, lets him poke and prod and squeeze until the cling film is full of creases and your body aches from all his touches.
WARNINGS just cum lmao. so much of it. only kaminari’s is gn reader. each one has their own specific warnings.
MINORS, AGELESS & BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+ ONLY.
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facial (cum on face), cum swallowing, oral (m rec), recording
✩ KAMINARI DENKI
He loves coming on your face. You look so sexy on your knees for him, pretty tongue out and waiting for a drop of his cum, eyes crying for him to cover you in his cum. You look so hot, so undeniably his, when you're dripping with his cum, when you're rubbing your thighs together in want as he cums all over your face. You've never looked sexier to him than when you're opening your mouth so he can cum down your throat, painting your insides white with his seed. And when you look up at him, wide, teary doe eyes staring at him in awe as his cum runs in rivulets all across your cheeks, shining over your lips, dripping from your chin, he drags a finger through the mess, collecting his essence from your face and prodding your glossy lips with his digits. You don't bat an eye, mouth opening and closing around his fingers as you lick at his fingertips like it's his cock, tongue wrapping around and between his digits so you don't waste a drop of his cum, hollowing your cheeks around his hand as you swallow his tangy cum. He always makes sure to record this, forever capturing the way you whine impatiently when he taps his cock against your outstretched tongue, begging him to cum all over you. To mark you with his seed so you're ruined for other men. He loves watching the first few spurts decorate your tongue with his goodness, but more than that, he enjoys the way your lips purse and wrap around his tip as you slurp up more of his cum, taking matters into your own hand as you stroke his length to draw out more of his essence.
"Oh, fuck, baby, ah— ah, can't— can't hold back anymore, baby, I'm gonna cum. Fuck, ngh— fuck, ah—! B-Baby, so good, that's it, that's— fuck, open your mouth— wider, baby, yeah, like that. Fuck, I'm shooting blanks, baby, it’s too much, I can't—"
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unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, bakugou calls himself daddy, praise, degradation, reader called girl
✩ BAKUGOU KATSUKI
Normally, he's a pretty clean and tidy guy, but the day you let him hit it raw, he's throwing all his morals to the wind; it's round after round of brutal pounding, relishing the way your cunt clenches around his cock without the layer of rubber in the way. He'd rather die than ever wear a condom again, and you share the sentiment, your cunt more than revelling in the way his cockhead batters your g-spot. There's no way he's not finishing inside you to memorialise the occasion, burying himself to the hilt before he cums with a deep growl of your name. When he pulls out, he eyes the cum dripping out of your cunt and pushes it back in, fingering the juices into your sensitive cunt, enjoying the way his cum fills your insides, marking you as his, his, his. The thought gets him going immediately, and his cock jumps at the idea of fucking you so full of his cum you're leaking for days. He imagines what would happen if he stuffs you so well you get pregnant, and that's enough to have him pushing his cock back into you, determined to pump you so well, you're dripping white.
"Shit— you're so fucking tight, can feel you clamping down on me real good, I'm gonna cum— gonna stuff you real nice and full of my cum. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Look at you, taking my cock like a fucking champ, you want my baby? Want me to fuck a brat into you? Huh? You gonna make me a daddy, and let me fill ya up real nice, so you get all big with my fucking brat? Fuck yeah, you'd like that, dirty slut, love my cum inside you that much? Here you fucking go then; spread your legs and take what your man fucking gives you, dirty girl."
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unprotected sex, creampie, mention of oral (f rec), stomach bulge, breeding kink, praise, reader called girl
✩ KIRISHIMA EIJIRO
Two words: breeder balls. When he cums, you can't miss it because there's just so much of it. He's there pumping into you for a good five minutes before he's finally emptied himself. Just copious amounts of his cum drooling out of you, completely flooding the sheets beneath you. As long as you let him, he'll finish inside of you every time, and your cunt always feels so fucking full with his thick cock stretching you and his cum stuffing you to the brim. It trickles out around the sides of his cock, creamy streams flowing down your body, painting the fat of your thighs in white. There's way too much, though, and he always has to pull out, finishing over your stomach and thighs until you're drowning in his musky cum. He loves watching his cum dribble out of your stretched hole, fingering it back in because you can't waste a single drop of his precious seed, and he's so fucking nasty he'll probably eat you out right after, tongue fucking the mixture of your and his cum, savouring the bitter taste like it's liquid gold. And then he's stuffing you full once more, until you're delirious on his cock and your stomach is bulging from all the cum he spurts into you. Keeps you plugged up nice and full in hopes of getting you pregnant, desperately wanting to see your tummy swell with his kid.
"You're so fucking gorgeous, baby, taking my load like the good girl you are. Wanna stuff you full, fuck a kid right into you, you like that? Ngh— yeah, you do. Don't you worry, pretty, gonna fill you right up, stuff you so good you’re definitely gonna be pregnant when I'm done with you. You’re gonna look so fucking sexy carrying my baby, aren't you, pretty girl? Hm? Can't wait to see you all round with my kid, all pretty and big with my baby; gonna breed you so well, gonna fuck you so full you’ve got no choice being a mama."
He's nasty. He's so dirty and filthy and messy when he cums all over you, not leaving an inch of your body dry; he adores seeing you covered in his essence, body shining with sweat and cum — his cum, all thick and creamy and abundant, completely drenching you in his musk. He'll cum wherever he can: if he's straddling your stomach, pushing your tits around his cock and humping your body, then he'll shoot his load all over your breasts, rub them into your nipples and squeeze the fat of your tits as his cum oozes between his fingers; if he's fucking your thighs, the length of his cock rubbing against your wet slit, then he'll cum with a groan of your name, spurting cum all over your cunt and thighs before he fucks it into you, lewd squelching invading the room as he pushes his cum into your cunt, pounding into you so hard until he's coming inside you as well, cramming you full of his cum until you're leaking all around him. He won't stop until you're drowning in his scent, until every hole is dripping with his seed, every bone in your body is soaked with his essence. He loves seeing his cum all over your hands, the way milky drops dribble down your digits and your tongue follows to lick them all up, eyes rolling back at the taste of him on your tongue. He can't handle when you stroke him off, drawing load after load from his spent cock, until his cum falls in stuttered, watery spurts; your chin is soaked with your saliva and his cum, and your hands are drenched from jerking him off, absolutely saturated with his seed as they bob up and down his dripping length, milking him for all he's worth.
“Oh, shit, baby, look at that. You’re so fucking wet, fucking— fucking soaking the sheets and I haven’t even put it in yet. Is that what you want, baby? You want my cock, yeah? Yeah? You gonna cry for it? Just like that, lemme hear ya. Beg me some more and maybe I’ll fuck you how you want; until then, I’m gonna play with your pussy how I want.”
notes this is part of my 100 followers celebration but that was so long ago it’s a little embarrassing :)
WARNINGS smut, oral (f rec), fingering, vag sex, hurt/comfort, soft sex, mentions of blood. no pronouns for reader.
MINORS, AGELESS & BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+ ONLY.
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By the time you arrive at the scene, the fight is over and done with. Villains are being detained in the standard restraints — bloody and limping and thoroughly defeated — and the heroes who fought them look worse for wear but are thankfully all in one piece. Your eyes are darting from the rubble of several destroyed houses to the office buildings lit up in a precarious orange, all for one man in particular.
There isn't time to dawdle, however, so you help where you can, rushing to the closest civilians and carrying them out and assisting with some heavy lifting to stabilise the carnage.
You're shouldering an elderly lady who had been knocked back by a blast, hobbling your way to the nearest ambulance together, when you finally catch a glimpse of Katsuki.
His quietude is unsettling.
There have been days when he's softer, warmer, his voice less raspy and demanding, and more lulling, calm and matured. You cherish those days for softening the edges around his eyes, for lifting a weight off of his back, for granting his tired soul another hour or two of rest.
There are also days when his arms shake and his body crumbles beneath the responsibilities piled atop them. It's difficult to love those days when they bring out a side to Katsuki he hates unravelling. It's hard to see his fists clench with barely-contained ire, to spot the tears he forces away as quickly as they had come, to watch his body vibrate and tremble and nearly give out when his mind repeats to himself that he's useless, that he does more harm than good, that he's too weak to be what he's aspired to be for so long: a hero.
It's a twisted, complicated path to recovery. Especially when Katsuki is buried beneath self-doubt, unwanting of any help lest he be an even bigger burden.
(Your voice always comes to him in those times when he's lost in his head, soothing and tender, untangling the vines that tear him apart, reminding him that he's not a burden — not to you, not to those that care for him — that he deserves goodness, that he is capable of doing everything he wants because of how determined and persistent he is. But the mind is a fickle thing. His head is a minefield just waiting for the day he missteps.)
And there are days when you lose the trail or he rushes down the wrong route impatiently. But loving someone — loving him — has never been a straightforward path. It's full of rocky roads and turning back, losing your footing and staying steady with the other's arm.
Each time you navigate the winding roads, you learn which corners to be wary of, where to stop and take a break and enjoy the scenery, where to let him rest on your shoulder, and where to hold him by the hand and push through the thickets and thorns until you come to revel in the sun that shines on you, triumphant.
The way his eyes are fixed on his hands — florid from overusing his quirk, greyed from wading through debris — and the way he doesn't push away the medics from tending to the wounds on his face tells you all you need to know about his state. He's disassociating, losing himself in his own mind, running down the wrong tracks in hopes of finding safety, finding comfort, finding you.
You do what you can to help clear up the situation, keeping a mindful eye on Katsuki the whole time, before you can finally approach him.
(Duty first, though your gut wrenches with every look over your shoulder.)
A soft hand on his shoulder and he stands. He drags his feet as he walks, and every so often you stop to keep him by your side when he starts to fall behind.
You open the door for him when you reach your car and he's silent as he enters. He's idly holding onto the seat belt, gripping the metal buckle with enough force to bend it out of shape, so you ease it out of his clutch, locking it into its place.
"Katsuki," you murmur, tentatively resting your hand on his. "Do you want to talk about it?"
His throat bobs as he swallows. He looks down at your hands. A wordless understanding; you slot your fingers beside his, the car starts with a rumble, and he jumps through thorns to find his way back to you.
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Head in his hands, he sits where you left him on the sofa. Dust and dirt flicker off of him and you add wiping the sofas clean to your mental to-do list. When the seat dips with your weight, he sits up to listen to you.
You start with his mask. The ends are singed and tattered, orange threads barely holding it together until it falls apart in your hands. Next is the neck brace (and you thank the universe that the crack is in the costume and not your lover), then his gauntlets, scuffed and scratched, followed by his gloves and knee guards.
"Dinner or shower?"
He looks down at his hands, caked in blood and grime, calloused with the havoc he causes, and clenches his fists.
You reel him back down to you with a hand atop his, easing his fist open finger by nimble finger, until the dirt and destruction is hidden beneath your hand, nothing but a side thought to the way you so easily twine your hands with his. It's silent, but it speaks volumes of how his hands have done good.
These hands that blast through buildings like they're made of paper also get to hold yours.
He won't think about how he's dirtying your skin with his misery, with his faults; he doesn't get the chance to when you lace your hand with his and pull him to stand.
In the bathroom, you take his clothes off first. His belt is unwrapped with the utmost care, put to the side so the remaining grenades don't blow up, and next to go is his top. The cold air bites at his chest, stinging the small cuts with its vicious, wispy touch, like little pinpricks of agony scattered across the planes of his skin, ever present to ingrain into him how broken he is; a walking wound, good for nothing but tearing into flesh, bathing in the running red, drowning in the devastation.
His trousers fall, too, exposing the way his skin, tender and golden, is now bruised and ugly, purple and black blots telling tales of losses and woe. His knees tremble with the weight of him and his burdens, and you shouldn't be there, but you are — you always are — to catch him before he falls, to let him slump into your body, to hold him up when his legs grow numb and he feels nothing but misery.
He doesn't hate being so vulnerable when you look at him like that.
When you see not a monster, not someone that sets aflame everything he touches, but a man, a boy, just Katsuki, your Katsuki; a monster undone by the tip of your fingers, by the brush of your lips.
He is a nightmare, a novel of angst and hurt with no happy ending, but he is gentle as he undresses you. Treating you like his most treasured jewel as he peels apart your layers with those pernicious fingers of his, ever so meticulous — too mindful, too cautious when he doesn't need to be, not with you — so as to not taint you with his bloody horror.
But still, his hands linger on the curve of your waist, imprinting his dirty fingers into the unmarred skin of your body, bruising you till you mirror him. He's too selfish to pull away. Too monstrous.
He wants to see you scar under the barbed wire of his palms; he wants to sink his teeth into your flesh and lick away your blood, let it smear across his mouth, dark red on white pearls, as he devours you whole, as he feasts on your virtue, that sweet goodness you serve him when you shouldn't.
Sinking his filthy claws into you feels almost religious when he aches beyond belief for just a drop of your marrow, for your heart in him.
He's washed from your body under the rivulets of the showerhead. Murky grey fused with crumbs of torn buildings and tinges of red pool beneath your feet until that, too, disappears down the drain.
He grabs the loofah from where it hangs and lets it fall to the ground. You use your bare hands on him instead. Cedar wood soap slathered over his skin, fingertips tracing the divots and dips of his body, across the bulk of his muscles, through the fine blond hairs until he's forgotten what iron smells like, the smell of a cruel victory slowly replaced by the hints of squeezed mandarin that soak into his body.
The body wash is so very him. With that citrus freshness cutting through the burnt, woodsy musk, it’s a breath of renewed air that gives him hope. He's quick to douse your body in his smell, almost rubbing your skin raw with how determined he is to drown you in him. Up, up, up the length of your arms and then meandering down the expanse of your body, around your hips to the back of your knees. He's thorough, as always, only ceasing his ventures when he's certain not a centimeter of your skin has been left untouched.
Then he savours the way your hands weave through his hair, nails gently dragging across his scalp, clearing out the debris knotted in the tangles. He passes you your bottle of shampoo — a wondrous blend of lavender and stardust — that you massage into the strands before he copies you. Brushing foam away from your forehead. Getting suds on your waist when he pulls you closer.
You close your eyes and he follows, immersing the both of you in water, letting it cleanse your bodies, your souls, following the sounds of the stream running back to you. His forever destination.
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Dinner is serene. A memory-muscle routine of you moving left so he can reach the sink, him ducking his head so you can open a cupboard. There's no television playing when you eat, just the sounds of ice clinking in a glass, just the smell of paprika and chili in the air, just the feel of his pinky wrapped around yours.
And when you take him to bed, it's to the sound of a yawn muffled into his elbow, a sigh as he sinks into the mattress, the crinkle of bed sheets as he turns to face you. Half-lidded eyes and tired fingers travel over you until you place your hand on his cheek and he stills, waiting.
His lashes fan across the high-rise of his cheekbones. Your breath warms the sharp slope of his nose before your lips smooth the crease between his brows.
"I'm here for you," you remind him, and his grip on your waist tightens. A pact.
Another kiss, to the tip of his nose. "Always." A promise.
(He thinks of that line, 'When is a monster not a monster?'
When he's in your arms he isn't one — or, rather, he is still one, that feeling never leaves him, but you don't seem to care about that. You see his stained teeth and his deadly hands and you love him regardless; you curl your hands around his molten ones, and you kiss him until your mouth is bloody, too.
You see this broken man, this torn-apart beast, and you hold his face in the palm of your hands as if he's built the world from ashes all for you. As if he means something to you. He would burn it all down and do it again if you asked.)
A final kiss, lips feather-light against his, not hesitant, not wary, just gentle, delicate. Enjoying the feel of his skin on yours like the calm after a storm, like an artist's brush stroke on a canvas. "I love you." A vow.
(And the answer, 'Oh, when you love it.')
When he drifts off, it's with his head buried in the crook of your neck, drowning in a field of lavender.
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Morning light spills like liquid gold through the gap in the curtains. Dust floats in the air, the birds chirp a joyous melody and your lover wraps his arms more tightly around you.
Like gentle waves rocking a boat side-to-side, his head rises and falls with your breaths. Your fingers smooth his hair, wild from tossing and turning throughout the night, gradually trailing away to trace the curve of his ear, down the scar on his neck and then back up, again and again and again.
His quietude would be unsettling if you didn’t know any better.
You can feel the way his jaw moves beneath the pad of your finger, trying to form the words he can’t quite voice yet. He huffs, an angry little puff of air, and you almost laugh at the way his brows furrow at his own ineptitude.
“Sleep well?” you ask, easing his suffering if only by a little, and it irons out the little crease that had formed.
“Yeah, you?”
You hum and the silence returns. The motions continue.
Another huff, slightly more aggravated this time, but before you can speak he’s moving, leaning on both forearms above you before shuffling down the bed.
“Katsuki?”
His hands are at the edge of your trousers, playing with the fraying thread that spirals around your waist until you lift the blanket.
Brushing back the locks of hair that curtain across his forehead, you still when he burrows his head in the plush of your stomach.
He can feel your warmth everywhere, peaking at the tip of his nose and spreading like wildfire across his face when he buries himself in your body, wanting, needing, craving to be enveloped in your heat.
He wants to tunnel his way through your flesh. He wants to sculpt a home between your lungs with the bones of your rib. He wants to immerse himself within you so wholly, so deeply, that you can’t breathe without him there, that losing him is akin to losing a limb, that losing him is like a gunshot to the heart — you’re bleeding out and he’s the only person that can nurse you back to health.
No — anyone could heal you, but he wants you to want him, only him, only ever him.
(He never wants to see you hurt.
He wants to know what your blood tastes like in his mouth. He needs to know if it’s just as sweet as the rest of you.
He hopes you never realise how needy he truly is.)
His lips won’t stop — can’t stop — caressing every inch of your skin, speaking the words he fails to every time he tries. He scatters thank you’s all across your sternum, moulds your stomach to the slant of his I love you’s, travels back upwards to engrave his name on your left side, right where your heart shines through your skin. He can feel your heart race each time he plants another kiss on you. He can see the way you arch your body into his mouth and it sets his body alight with pride, with ecstasy, giving him a high like no other drug could ever hope to.
It’s easy nudging his fingers beneath the flimsy fabric of your trousers and pulling it down. It’s even easier dipping his head down the apex of your thighs, where you part for his hungry mouth soundlessly, like you know just what he’s aching for without him even having to ask.
When he closes his eyes and sinks into the crease between your sex and your leg, when he burrows his nose into your skin and inhales deeply, he can smell the faintest hint of mandarin still lingering in the cleft. There’s a sheen of sweat on your skin, but he’s all too quick to replace it with his saliva, all too happy to flick his tongue into the dips of your body and taste you.
Tracing the line of your pussy with the tip of his tongue, he grazes your clit with his nose and uses one hand to spread your folds apart. He can see the glint of your arousal calling out to him — a lighthouse in the dark and he’s an unfledged sailor, a frail moth to your kindling flame — and he’s swift in answering. He bathes in your ambrosia, delving into your warm pussy with his tongue, swilling every drop of your honey like he’s a starving bear just awakening from hibernation. He flicks from side-to-side, listening intently to the way the sheets rustle as you squirm, focusing on the keen in your voice as you moan his name, revelling in the way your fingers weave through his hair and tug, pulling him in even further.
(If he can’t find out just how sweet your blood is, he’ll drink himself to death buried between your thighs.)
“Oh, God— Katsu,” you sigh. Your hips raise off the bed, and he holds you down. He keeps you in place and feasts on your bare body. There you lie, served on a silver platter, pretty and pliant and perfect for him to gorge himself on. As long as you let him, he’ll take and take and take. He’ll slide his fingers beside his tongue and take handfuls of your meal until he’s sick from overeating and there’s nothing left of you but crumbs. “Right there— fuck, please.”
How can he stop indulging himself when you sound so rich, so saccharine, all for his ears only? He doesn’t want to stop crooking his fingers against your velveteen walls when you call his name so dulcetly right after. He doesn’t think he could stop even if he wanted to — not with the taut grip you have on his head, nor with the way you hold him against you and rock your sex into his drooling mouth.
He pulls back for mere seconds to breathe and then he dips his head to latch onto that precious bundle of nerves. He envelopes the bud as it pulses with a desire for his touch, laving over it with sloppy flicks of his tongue as you stutter his name, as you tremble in his hold and your legs squirm around his head.
There’s no stopping the way your thighs pillow his head. He’s much too busy curling his fingers and drawing out your essence, savouring the feel of your plush thighs against his ears. He won’t move them. He’ll let you use his body how you wish. If you want to suffocate him like this, then so be it. It’s a boost to his ego, too, he selfishly realises, the way he can still hear your cries, your honeyed little r-right there, Katsuki, and your exquisite oh, god, I‘m gonna— I‘m gonna cum.
He’s ceaseless in his ministrations, rolling your sweet, little pearl in his mouth, working over it with a graze of his teeth to make you shudder beneath him.
“Cum for me,” he murmurs. He parts for the briefest moment, licking a broad stripe along your slit before sucking your clit back into his mouth. His fingers prod at your silken walls restlessly, ghosting over those soft, spongy spots until your thighs tense around him, until your pelvis digs into the mattress as you careen up into the lust-heavy air.
He admires the way you jolt upwards, heels digging into the corded muscles in his back as he holds you firm against his face, letting you writhe under his mouth, under the constant tongue lashing, under the twists and curls of his fingers. He wishes he could see the way your eyes roll back or the way your mouth gapes to let out those chiming, bell-like cries of his name.
“That’s it— fuck, that’s it, baby,” he encourages, slowly bringing you down to settle into the bed, eyeing the arousal that trickles out of you in a slow stream, begging for his tongue to lap it all away.
He’s never been too good at controlling himself around you. He knows it, you know it; he knows you know it. It’s why neither of you are surprised when he dips his head back down to savour you some more, mouthing at your slick folds, working his tongue back into your fluttering sex to drink your essence right from the ever-giving source. He’s humming at the sweetness that suffuses every groove in his mouth, holding your hips down as you flounder beneath him.
“Katsu— Katsuki, I can’t,” you insist, a whiny, breathless little whimper that immerses itself into every single one of his veins, thrumming around the trenches in his body until it’s all he can hear, all he helplessly chases after. He’s lost in the bliss, rounding corners, stumbling over his own feet like a drunkard, until he reaches you, until you brush back his hair and guide him away to breathe.
His exhales fall in short, stuttered huffs as he stares at you.
(Beautiful, he thinks.
Your hair is a mess from your squirming. Your lips are bitten raw from the times you held back your moans — stupid, stupid, don’t hurt yourself when he wants to hear you, when he wants to ingrain your voice until not even his brain rotting away could make him forget the sweet lilt of your sounds. Your eyes are on him, just him, just Katsuki, your Katsuki.
You’ve never looked more captivating.
His eyes sting with a burning need to blink, but he can’t tear his gaze away from you for a moment. For the split second it would take him, his world would be drenched in darkness, he would miss the way your chest rises and falls, he would give you a chance to look away from him.
He’ll never say it — he’ll try, but the words will cling to the sides of his throat, desperately trying to crawl their way back down to safety — but there’s little he craves besides your eyes on him, besides your hand in his unlovable hand, besides you staying by his side until the day he dies.
Not even death can tear you apart, he thinks. He wants to die first, so he doesn’t have to go a single day without you. He wants to be buried in your arms. Let the maggots feast on him to their heart’s content, he just wants you to be with him.
He wonders how you can make ruination look so divine.)
His movements are always fluid, always seamless in achieving their purpose. So when his hands traverse the length of your body, you settle back into the mattress, eyes falling closed to bask in the kisses he plants along the way. His mouth tickles as he trails up. A bite to the skin of your stomach, a tender kiss to the curve of your breast before his lips slant over yours.
Your body is hot beneath his — clammy, despite the early hour, and all he can do is add to the mess as he drags a hand along your arm. His hands, sandpaper against yours, wrought with callouses, thickened down to the bone, seek out your own. It’s natural how his fingers fit between yours; it’s unnatural how your fingers curl around his and squeeze.
“Katsuki—”
“I know,” he says, screwing his eyes shut. He focuses on you. On the way your lashes fan across his eyelids, on the soft exhales that he breathes in, on your legs tightening around him. “I know.”
(The nature of his quirk means he runs hotter than the average person. It’s a hassle when he sleeps, overheating beneath a blanket, waking in a pool of his own sweat.
When he moved out, he started sleeping in just his boxers.
But he only grew comfortable with sleeping so exposed when he could feel your skin on his. Your body a barrier between him and those dastardly sheets. He doesn’t feel so vulnerable when you’re sprawled out on top of him, when you’re tucking himself in your arms, in your ribcage, so he can fall asleep to your heartbeat drumming in his ears.
He hates seeing your body shine with his sweat in the morning. He wants to wash his grime off of your body. And you, sweaty, nasty, perfect you, just wrap his arms around you more tightly.)
He shifts his boxers down, just enough to slip his cock out. He’s impatient — always has been, he thinks he always will be, especially when it comes to having more of you, having you like this — but he's ever so careful.
“Are you—”
“Please.”
It’s a small, tinny whine that he drinks in, that he drains from you until your throat goes raw from pouring out sweeter, richer sounds just for him.
Just as his fingers had twined with yours, his hips now slot between your thighs. There’s a simmering burn at the stretch of him, one that makes your breath stutter, and he’s there, he’s always there, to soothe you, to act as — no, to be, to embody — your balm, as you are for him.
He pulls out slowly only to return back home; he finds his footing and makes his way through the forest to safety — to you. There’s a soft, wet pap that punctuates each of his thrusts. There’s a sigh that floats in the little space between your lips and his. There’s the feel of your softness flush against his, smoothing out his hard lines and sharper edges until he’s moulded to your liking.
Red lines run down the thick of his back, scratching through the surface of his body. He’s damaged, littered with more bumps and cuts than a pretty boy — your words, not his, never his — like him should have, but he doesn’t mind when you’re the reason he’s marked up. He’ll hide his battle wounds, he’ll deny he was ever susceptible to anyone but you; he’ll only be at your mercy, he’ll only wear your scars with pride.
“God, Katsuki,” you sigh, letting go of his hands and his heart aches until they come up to cup his face. He’s about to drag your hands back down, lace his fingers with yours so hard they go numb and you forget they were ever yours, but then you brush the tender area beneath his eyes. He can feel wetness smear across his skin. His brows furrow and he blinks his eyes open, wondering how long it will take for you to look less blurry to him. “Baby?”
“Yeah?” It’s more choked up than he’d like, but clearing his throat and repeating doesn’t smoothe the hoarse timbre of his voice.
“I love you,” you say, pulling him in for a gentle kiss, a soft brush of your lips against his.
“Yeah. Yeah, I love—” and this time he can feel the tear drip from his eye to yours, he can feel the gravel churn deep in his throat, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut again, dropping his forehead to yours “—love you too.”
You hold him there. One hand cradles the back of his head, the other flattens across his upper back. You hold him there as he’s overwrought with sobs, as his entire body trembles with the force of his cries, as tears and snot and all his filth seeps into your body, you hold him there, right against your body.
“Thank you,” he pushes out through the grit in his mouth, digging one hand into the plush of your waist until you’re close to bleeding beneath him. “Thank— fuck— thank you, thank you.”
He doesn’t know if you can understand him, he hopes you can decipher the garbled mess of words gushing out of him, the ‘thank you, fuck, I love you, fucking love you, need you so fucking bad’.
He’s never been a man of words, though, and he tells you what he can’t through his actions. His hand finds its way to your clit, circling it to the melody of your moans, and his hips hammer into you, not much quicker, but so much deeper. Even through the haze, his precision is immaculate.
(Nothing but the best for you. He’ll be whatever that entails. It’s the least you deserve.)
It isn’t much longer that your thighs tense around him, that your gut tightens and that coil in your stomach winds to the precipice of snapping.
“Please,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck.
(Only you can make him beg for something. He’d only drop to his knees to raise you higher; he’d only let you step on his back until it breaks — and then, he’d let you walk all over his broken spine until your footprints are carved into each disc, until the shards of him are embedded in your body.)
“Cum for me. Please.”
A strangled cry of his name escapes you. His teeth sink into your flesh. The coil in you fractures into two halves.
He empties inside you just as you moan his name, delighting in the flutter of your walls around his cock. Hot ropes of white spill into you as he keeps drawing those shapeless figures on your sensitive bud.
His breathing slows as he basks in your overwhelming scent. Yesterday’s lavender and pine are washed away and all he can smell on you is his own sweat.
(He doesn’t hate the saltiness when it’s seeping into your pores, when it’s shining across your skin, making you radiate beneath him.)
The glassiness in his eyes gives way and a smile tugs at the edges of his lips when he sees the circle of his teeth indented in the junction of your shoulder. He can feel your chest every other beat, skimming against his as you steady your heaving breaths. He almost purrs at the way your hands, with the gentlest pressure — like he’s made of glass, like he’s been marked fragile and you actually care — massage his nape, drifting to his upper shoulders before returning.
“Katsuki?” you call, murmuring a hasty sorry when you rub over a scratch and he winces. “You okay?”
Yeah, he wants to say. I’m more than okay. I’m fucking perfect.
He has a bad habit of ruining everything — with his hands, with his mouth, with his very presence — so he settles for silence, resorts to breathing in that saltiness and sinking into your body. Maybe if he stays still enough, you’ll accept him as a part of you. Maybe if he burrows his face further into those dents he made, he, too, could sink into your flesh. Maybe if you keep rubbing his back and he keeps holding your body against his, everything will be alright.
(Katsuki knows that it’ll take more than that for everything to be okay. Life is too tumultuous, too unpredictable, for him to truly believe that this moment of reprieve will stay like this for much longer. No matter how much he prays, he knows his sanctuary can be snatched from his grasp — no matter how deep he sinks his claws into you, he knows he’s too weak to keep you there, with him, forever.
When he lies in your arms, knitting himself into each strand of your dna, bleeding his everything into your open wounds, so full of your love he can’t take any more (though he wants and wants and wants until he bursts), he thinks that maybe, really and truly, everything will be okay.
If not for the world, then just for you. He can wither away with the rest of the universe, if it means you’ll be alright.
Maybe that isn’t very heroic of him, but he doesn’t want to be a saviour for anybody else. He just wants to be yours.)
your last breeding fic with hawks had me deeply thinking of hawks and a reader who is like a grade school teacher or teacher assistant!!! like can you imagine
museum.
pairing hawks | takami keigo x fem reader
word count 2,325
notes holy shit i completely misread this as my breeding fic reminded u of your grade teacher and i was so concerned💀 ANYWAY.. yes !!! this dynamic… absolute gold. teachers make birdman go brr 😈 this got way out of hand & is more a scenario than hcs but it was so fun to write! enjoy <3
WARNINGS dubcon (the sex is consensual, but the breeding kink aspect is iffy on the reader's behalf), hawks is a little dark/ creepy, smut, breeding kink, unprotected sex, vag sex, creampie. reader is called miss, ma and girl, but no pronouns are used.
MINORS, AGELESS & BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+ ONLY.
+
hawks is an in-and-out kind of guy. he'll stop villains as quickly as possible and move on before you can even blink, leaving his sidekicks and the police to deal with all the formalities and boring work. he doesn't stick around after a takedown, he'll brush off any injuries he gets, he's not a big fan of the cameras and questions, and most days he's too overworked and tired to deal with the crazed fans that want to snap a picture with him.
it's a different story that fateful day he meets you. a couple of villains have stormed into a museum, holding civilians hostage while they loot the artifacts there. it's a dangerous situation with so many people at risk, but it’s nothing the winged hero can't handle, orchestrating his feathers to capture the villains in anti-quirk cuffs from a safe distance. he does a quick look-over to ensure that everyone's safe, and he's just about to jet off to the next crime scene when he sees you, quivering in fear, crouching beside some children.
his heart stops in his chest when he sees the way you embrace as many as you can, the way they cling to you so desperately. oh, you poor thing. you look so shaky, so terrified, and what kind of hero would he be if he didn't ease your worries? he swoops down from his perch, greeting a few civilians and telling them they're all safe now, until he reaches you.
he can see the way the children wipe away their tears and put smiles on their faces for him, and aren't you just a darling, telling them that there's nothing to worry about now that a pro hero is here.
he plays his part as the triumphant hero well, cheering and praising the kids for being so strong, listening to the way they gush at how amazing his wings are. and, sure, he's facing the little tots, but his mind is focused on you — the way you flatten stray hairs, adjust the hem of your blouse, check your phone. he doesn't even realise that there’s another teacher here until some vile man puts his hands on your shoulders, asking if you're okay.
you're perfect, he thinks, when you stumble away from the hand on you, rubbing the nape of your neck as you reply. then, both of you are grouping with the kids and hawks takes the chance to speak to you.
"hey, you alright, dove?" he asks, flashing that award-winning smile of his, enjoying the way your eyes widen a little in shock.
"yes— yes, we're fine, thank you so much for saving us, hawks."
"just doing my job, miss…?"
you fill him in with your name, and it sounds so much more sultry — like something better whispered between lovers at night than in a public museum with children around — when it's rolling off his tongue as he repeats after you.
"got some brave kids with you, don't you?" he says, grinning at the way one boy shyly tucks himself beside your leg. "school trip, i'm guessing?"
"yeah, we're, um, learning the history of quirks."
just before hawks can reply, a few more kids join, and you crouch down to listen to them speak (and maybe, just maybe, hawks' eyes flit down to the curve of your ass, but you're none the wiser to his lusty gaze).
"maybe you should ask mr hawks," you say — and, god, don't you sound adorable speaking so softly to the children, calling him mr hawks and all, teaching them a little respect. he can already tell you’d make a fine parent, listening to your childrens’ woes (plural, definitely, he’s always wanted a big family), teaching them right from wrong and making sure they’re good kids — pretty like their ma, heroic like their dad.
"mr hawks, can we please, please, get a picture with you?" one of the girls says, and how can he resist the doe eyes and the nervous smile you have on your face.
"of course, kid." you take out your phone and call all the children back in so you can get a group shot, but hawks is quick to pull you back by the wrist when you start to walk away so you can take the photo. "none of that, dove, can't have the teacher missing from the pic, now can we, kids?"
and, whatever the hero says, goes. the kids immediately agree that you have to be in the photo.
"excuse me, sir, mind taking the photo for us?" hawks knows that that's another teacher, or your assistant, but no one ever says no to a hero, so it's easy to get the other man to distance himself as you all crowd together.
hawks makes sure you're right next to him, with the children scattered on either of your sides. he slips a hand around your hip, dismissing the way you look at him curiously with a quick, "smile for the camera, babe!"
the picture is perfect. the two of you are right in the middle, looking like a happy couple with his arm around you, and a lovely smile on your face. even better is the sight of the kids surrounding you both, like some massive, mix-matched family. it's so strange, this feeling festering in him, to want that with you; to see a kid — his kid — on your hip, to rest his chin on your shoulder when you're swaying a babe to sleep, to listen to you baby-talk to his child, little coos and quiet giggles filling the room. just give him a time and he'll be ready and willing to fill you up with a whole class of kids.
it doesn't take long for his sidekicks to enter the building, and, normally, by this time, hawks would have long since left the area, but he can't bring himself to part from you so soon. he asks for your number so you can send him the picture of you two, and then he says that it's protocol for him to meet up with witnesses later for reports of the event, and, well, what reason do you have to not believe him?
he texts you whenever he can after that. a message about how pretty you look in the picture, another checking up on you and the kids — god, doesn't that sound like a dream come true. you and his kids — and another asking if you're free on friday to go over what happened.
he invites you over to the agency, so it seems more believable, and you seem prepared to answer his questions about what you saw before he arrived. sure, you had gone over this with the police, but he needed to make sure the paperwork and whatnot were all in place — the boring side of hero work, he claims with a dramatic groan.
you look gorgeous in your knit sweater and blue jeans, trousers hugging your thighs so well, he wants to dig into your skin, squeeze the plump flesh until you're bruising with his love. it's easy to convince you to stay for lunch — "come on, let me treat you for coming all the way out here for me" — and he orders something expensive, something that has you sweetly gasping when it's delivered to his office ("oh, hawks, please you really shouldn't have." but how can he stop himself from showering you in all he's worth?).
you don't even realise how quickly time is flying by and you're still in his office, chattering about the work the kids have been up to, how you plan to kick back and relax this weekend. you don't notice his hand on your hip, soothingly rubbing circles, encouraging you to ramble on and on, and when you let slip that your shoulders have been aching lately, well, isn't this just a golden opportunity for him?
"come on, dove, i'm pretty talented with my hands."
you don't miss the innuendo, nor are you unaware of how the light in his eyes is lost to a flourishing darkness, but who wouldn't turn into a flushed fool beneath such a charming hero's gaze? you're so compliant for him, letting him turn you and knead at your shoulders, at the base of your neck as he whispers to you. "right here, babe? like this?"
"y-yeah, feels really good…"
he hums, quiet, gentle, but no less seductive than his wandering hands that slowly trail down your arm. his breath is warm on your neck from how close he is, and you can feel the heat from his chest on your back as he murmurs into your ear. "you're so tense, baby, gotta loosen you up and make you feel good."
you're so lost to the way his nose grazes along the side of your neck, his lips following in its wake with the most tender kisses, that you don't realise his hands have moved to massage your hips until they gradually migrate upwards, fondling your breasts through your clothes. you're too far gone now, arching into his caresses, sighing his name as he enjoys the weight of them in his palms.
you don't even know what he's saying, too busy moving your hand back to palm at his cock to focus on his muttering. "god, baby, can't wait to see these fucking grow, wanna see them leaking with your milk."
before you know it, you're completely bare before him, lying back and watching as he pushes his pants down and his rock-hard cock springs up, slapping against his abdomen.
a condom is the last thing on either of your minds — you're too lust drunk, begging for him to fuck you, and he's just giving you what you want, pretty girl, don't worry, he'll stuff you to the brim until you're dripping.
he's got the tightest grip on your body as he bottoms out, claws sinking into your plush hips as he revels in the tight feel of your cunt around him. he can't hold himself back for long, losing all self-control in favour of pounding into you with reckless abandon, carving your silky, pliant walls to the shape of his cock, so you can only ever get pleasure from his cock, so he's the only man you'll ever be creaming for.
"fuck, baby, been thinking about your pretty pussy since i met you. gonna fill you up real good till you're leaking for days," he rasps, mouthing around your nipples, latching onto the pert bud and sucking until faint marks bloom all around them.
his words are going in one ear and out the other, lost beneath your cries and pleas when his thumb moves to swipe at your pearl, circling it in steady motions.
you're trembling beneath him, little pants of his name escaping you, as he croons, "been aching thinking about stuffing you full of my load, seeing you swell all pretty with my kid — fucking hips are made for it, shit—! you want that, too, don't you, pretty bird? bet you want a little babe of your own, yeah? fuck, baby, don't worry, don't worry, i'll give you what you want, i'll give it to you, gonna, fuck— gonna fuck a kid right into you, baby, promise."
his pace is relentless, unyielding, as he pistons his hips into you, deeper and deeper until the blunt tip is kissing your womb with each thrust. his lewd words barely filter in your mind, but the animalistic growls that follow each sentence spark across your nerves, sending you into a burgeoning fire. you don't even know what you're agreeing to, mindlessly nodding your head, mewling a pathetic little "yeah, yeah, hawks, want it so bad, please," and what kind of hero would he be if he didn't give you what you wanted? what you were practically begging him for?
"fuck, yeah!" he groans, winding his arms beneath your back and curling them over your shoulders so he can sink into you even further. until not a breath of air can pass between your bodies. until you forget where you begin and he ends. "you want my seed, baby? gonna let me knock you up, yeah? fuck, baby, i'm coming, i’m coming—!"
his knees are digging into the cushions of the sofa as he puts his all into the last few thrusts. obscene squelches resonate throughout the room, the smell of sex stifling the air with its heady arouma as he buries himself in you. spurts of cum paint your insides white and the feeling of a warm stickiness filling your womb sends you over the edge, hurtling into your own orgasm. your cunt clenches around him, keeping his sensitive cock deep in your hole so he can't pull out even if he wanted to.
his body is folded over yours, breath coming out in puffs over your sore tits as you both calm your racing hearts. his cock is still shoved inside you, not letting a single drop of his cum escape.
"hawks," you murmur, nudging at his shoulder until he lifts his head. "you're still, um…"
your eyes flicker down to where the two of you are joined together, to where your cum trickles out and smears along his thighs, dirtying the sofa beneath you. he smirks at the shy way you avert your eyes when he locks his darkened gaze on yours.
he hums, tipping his head back down to nip at the lobe of your ear, to suck a sweet little love bite at the edge of your jaw. "you didn't think we were done, did you, birdie?" his arms encircle your body and you moan when he grinds his pubic bone against your clit to push his cum even deeper into your cunt. "made a promise to you, baby, and i'm not stopping till i'm sure you're knocked up with my kid."
When I say food as a language of love, I'm thinking about how Katsuki breaks bread in half and doesn't even stop to think before sliding over the plate with all the tiny crumbs and the bigger portion to you. I think about how Eijirou watches you peel oranges with gentle precision (he always ends up squeezing it a little and the juices squirt out on him), and once you're done he'll take the fruit from you, feeding you one slice and then himself the next. And how Keigo watches you take a bite out of a burger and, when you offer it to him too, instead of eating from the untouched side, he takes another bite out of where you just ate from. And Touya opens his mouth whenever you're eating sweets and come across a flavour you don't like, letting you drop the chewed-up treat right on his tongue (even if he hates the taste, too). Shouto will wipe away the smallest traces of sauce that stick to the corner of your mouth, and he'll lick it off his thumb without thinking twice. Tomura insists on feeding you first, no matter the occasion. Even if you've already eaten, he can't start his meal until you've taken a bite out of his food first. Izuku always carries your favourite snack on his person; even if he won't see you that day, making sure he's got something saved for you (just in case!) is part of his morning routine. Denki isn't a fan of vegetables, but when he sees you push them around and leave them until the end, he'll scoop them onto his plate and give you some of his other food instead.
minors, ageless & blank blogs do not follow me. you will be blocked.
WARNINGS smut, fingering, oral (f rec), blood (dabi’s body), reader has body hair. no pronouns for reader.
MINORS, AGELESS & BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+ ONLY.
+
"Gotta stop moving," he murmurs, low and heady into the crease where thigh meets pelvis. Scarred lips brush your sensitivity in soft kisses, staples marking the tenderness with small crescents as he sinks himself in a little further, pressing in close and nipping where he knows you're especially susceptible to his touch.
He tells you you need to stop moving — his left hand even meanders its way to push your hip back into the mattress — but he doesn't stop teasing your delicate skin between the ridges of his incisors. He doesn't stop that hot and heavy drag of his tongue along your swollen folds. He doesn't stop before wrapping those raw, mismatched lips of his around your clit and sucking it into his mouth.
He chuckles, instead, a breathy laugh that fans over the damp hair on your sex. His hands find their way back down to pull apart your slick lips, mouth hovering inches above where you’re pulsing for him.
A kiss to your aching clit has you whimpering, a fragmented sob that pulls his lips into a smirk. Another peck draws a whine out of you, has your hips rutting up for a firmer touch that he isn’t willing to give you just yet.
He clicks his teeth. “What’d I just say?”
“Stop teasing,” you grumble, eyes falling shut when he grazes his nose along the patch of curls to leave a lasting kiss there.
“I’m not teasing,” he echoes, flicking his tongue over your bud so quickly you would have missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him. “I’m taking my time with you. Is that a crime now?”
“Yeah, it is, so—” Your words falter when he sinks two fingers into you, right down to the third knuckle. “Fuck— please, Touya.”
He stops for a moment to exhale a quiet laugh.
“I regret telling you that, you know?”
(He only regrets not telling you the truth sooner.)
“Calling me it just to get your way.”
“It's not my fault you like it so much, Touya.”
He counters your remark by curling his fingers, revelling the way your body mimics the arch and your voice keens so sweetly just for him.
“What were you saying?” he murmurs, sliding a heated palm along the underside of your thigh. He pulls your leg onto his shoulder, groaning as you dig your heel into the mottled skin of his back. “Not so smart now, are we?”
It gnaws at him — that sharp tug of skin splintering, the agony of being pulled apart staple by rusted staple, each pinch more acute and searing than the last. Then comes the warmth: that slow, steady, subtle stream of sanguine that seeps into the divots and wounds and battle scars that litter his body.
If he’s destined to bleed out right here, right now, then he wants to go with you being the only thing in his mind. He looks up and scores the curves of your body on the back of his eyelids; he looks up and all he can focus on is the tilt of your head and the way your moans are tangible and heavy and honeyed in the air around you.
He pulls away only because he knows what you’ll do next. Your plea will taper off into a cry, your head will drop, and you’ll look down at him — you’ll look down at him with love and lust and more than he deserves, but all that he’s ever wanted. You’ll look down at him, and he’ll look up at you, and he’ll go with you being the only thing reflected in the light of his eyes.
“Touya—”
“I know,” he says, and he burrows his head into the supple swell of your pelvis. Lips graze wiry hair in fleeting kisses as he curls his fingers, as he peppers more along his way to your clit. “I know, I’ve got you, baby. You’ve got me.”
He hears the muted thud of your head falling back, listens eagerly to the dulcet cries of his name that follow as he hollows his lips around your little pearl, and fixates on rubbing that soft spot in you only he can reach.
(That only he will ever have the opportunity to reach if fate would let him have it. He’ll become an optimist just for you, just for tonight.)
“That’s it,” he murmurs around the bud, flicking his tongue in short strikes to keep you teetering on the edge for a little longer. “So fucking pretty for me, yeah?”
You nod, pillow ruffling with the shaky movement as your heels dig into his back some more. It hurts, but his eyes soften when he feels you squeeze around his fingers, when the tremors in your thighs have your legs knocking into the side of his head.
“You close?” You hum noisily, voice strained as you bite back screams in favour of panting his name between breaths. “Yeah? Yeah, I can feel you. You wanna cum for me? Gonna let me see it? Let me see you, baby.”
Your body winds tight like a bow, toes curling into torn-apart flesh, but the pain is feather-light compared to the way you careen into his mouth and fall apart on his tongue.
“There we go,” he rasps. “Just like that — let me see it all.” His fingers are restless, drawing out what he can from you. His mouth works overtime, drinking what you offer so graciously, groaning at the taste of sweat and sex that souses his mouth, and spilling praises that you soak up all too diligently. “Always so fucking good for me, aren’t you? Yeah, you are.”
You’re breathless when you call his name, fingers trembling along his scalp as they weave through his damp hair.
“You said—” he smirks at the deep breath you take then, and you tug on the strands until it drops to a scowl “—said you’d stop me next time that happens.”
“Next time what happens?” he asks, moving your leg off his shoulder to crawl up a little ways further. He settles on top of you, burying his face in your sternum, smiling at the quick rise and fall of it beneath his heated cheek.
“Your back,” you grumble. “Stop acting like it doesn’t hurt, we need to fix it.”
He presses you down when you try to move, a bloody, crumbling, mess of an anchor, dragging you down with his ruination.
“It’s fine” — it’s not, but maybe the blood loss is sending his head into a tizzy, maybe he’s just intoxicated by the feel of his body moulding to yours — “Don’t wanna move. Can’t even feel it—”
“Touya—”
“Can’t feel anything but you,” he mumbles, listening intently to your heartbeat as it slows to match his, closing his eyes when your hand brushes back his damp tresses.
“That was cheesy,” you whisper, ghosting your finger over the jagged skin beneath his eyes.
“Just for you.”
You smile, not that he can see it. He can feel it, though, in the way you brush your thumb over his cheek gently, in the way you tighten your embrace on him, holding him together when he’s broken and bleeding out all over you.
“Let me fix you,” you ask. “Please, Touya?”
He huffs, eyes burning brightly when he peers up at you, half-lidded and feigning annoyance.
