I usually only write when inspiration strikes or if a scenario gets stuck in my head. Now that i have a small handful, I figured I would put them all together.
They are NOT proofread and most of them were word vomit. Enjoy?
Haikyuu
Lazy Day In - Kozume Kenma
I Always Care When it Comes to You - Oikawa Tooru
Anything - Hanamaki Takahiro
Crossed Lines - Seijoh 4
Fuck, it's the cops - Sawamura Daichi (dbf!daichi)
Notes: | Haikyuu | This was born out of the posts from @mattsundaes and her dbf!daichi beautiful chaos. Not something I ever would have really thought about otherwise. THANK YOUUUUU DEE! <3. Not really proofed. MDNI.
Perched on his lap, desperately rocking against each other. Mouths open and panting, breath mingling and lips brushing ever so lightly. A low groan escapes his chest and his fingers grip harder on your hips, dragging you across his hard, clothed cock.
Your lips brush again and it almost makes you forget and break the one rule that he set when this began; no kissing. As if dry humping and fucking in the backseat of his car wasn’t considered intimate enough. Kissing was saved for a relationship, not a whatever-the-hell-this-thing-is.
You tilt your head back as a particularly explicit moan falls from your lips. You’re so close, needing just that little extra push to get you there.
Movement outside the fogged windows catches your eye but you’re too close to care. Your knees dig into the leather of the seats and you begin to feel yourself tumble over the edge as you make eye contact with what was moving.
It’s him.
Your mouth parts in ecstasy as pleasure courses through you, just seeing him sends shivers across your skin.
Daichi stands frozen at the sight before him, his flashlight raised and eyes wide as he watches you come unraveled on top of some loser.
As the high begins to fade, your situationship curses, “Fuck, it’s the cops.”
You huff a laugh at that. Right… the cops. You keep eye contact with your dad’s best friend, lips still parted, tits still out.
You see Daichi’s jaw clench and fingers tighten on the flashlight, “Get out of the car.”
MATSUKAWA ISSEI x f!reader
♡ 18+, spit kink, spitting in mouth, public...foreplay — requested
“I would pay her to spit in my mouth,” Makki groans, dragging a hand through his hair as he looks down at his phone screen in distress.
Oikawa snatches the device out of his hands, peers at it, and shrugs before taking a sip of his beer. “Yeah, that’s valid.”
Iwaizumi leans over, brows furrowed. “She looks like she’d step on your balls.”
Makki tips back his chair onto two legs and wistfully replies, “That would be nice.”
All the background bar noise in the world couldn’t hope to help remove you from witnessing this conversation against your will. Hanamaki’s recent foray into dating apps has been A Time.
You twirl the stick of the lollipop currently lodged in your mouth before tapping it against your lips. “Please don’t tell me that’s your conversation starter.”
Makki sticks his tongue out at you. “At least I’m getting laid.”
Sighing, you point the lollipop at him. “You can’t just ask a girl to spit in your mouth out of nowhere.”
He throws his hands in the air, looks to Oikawa and then Iwaizumi, but both of them are distracted on their phones.
“Mattsun, back me up.”
The man sitting beside you glances up from his own phone, fingers loosely grasping the tip of his beer bottle as he slowly rotates it along its bottom edge. He blinks. “What?”
“Can you ask a girl to spit in your mouth for no reason?”
Mattsun leans back in his chair, rolling his shoulders. You try to ignore the heat that flares in your abdomen as the outline of his biceps briefly strains against the sleeves of his black sweater.
(It’s bad enough—the way he’s already got those very sleeves pushed up just below his elbows. The fact that you’ve been doing everything in your power to avoid staring at the veins that trail down his forearms all goddamn night.)
“For everyone’s sake, please tell him no.”
The corner of Mattsun’s mouth quirks upward as he glances over at you. Your toes curl in your sneakers at the weight of his attention.
“Sure you can,” he says, lifting up his beer and taking a long swig from the bottle.
“HA—”
“Oh come on—”
Glass hits the table with a resounding thud as Mattsun puts down the bottle and leans into your space, two fingers closing over the stick of your lollipop before he slowly pulls it out of your mouth with a ‘pop’.
“Spit in my mouth.”
Someone chokes; you’re pretty sure it’s Iwaizumi.
A garbled noise leaves Makki’s mouth.
Oikawa is suspiciously silent.
Now it’s your turn to blink. “Excuse me?”
You wonder if Matsukawa can hear it—just how hard your heart is racing.
He shrugs, putting the lollipop in his own mouth, and something shivers inside of you at the way he briefly rolls it on his tongue. “Show Makki what he’s asking for?”
Nobody asks why Mattsun doesn’t suggest that you spit in Makki’s mouth.
Because the thing is—this is inevitable. It’s always been inevitable. This moment. Every fucking goddamn moment between you and Matsukawa Issei. Every little morsel of maddening sexual tension that’s reached an unstable boiling point over the past seven or so odd years since you were enveloped into this friend group.
As of a month ago, you’re both single at the very same time since the first time that you met.
And it’s incredibly, painfully obvious—how badly you want to fuck each other.
The fact that you’ve yet to.
That you’re still subjecting your friends to whatever this eye fucking thing is that you’re doing right now in public in the middle of a bar.
“Right in front of my salad?” Iwaizumi deadpans.
Oikawa looks over at him. “Iwa-chan, I thought you said you were ordering the fries—”
You lose track of their conversation, lose track of everything but the challenge that’s flashing in Mattsun’s hazel eyes. Which is how you find yourself in the throes of an out-of-body experience as you drop yourself into his lap, straddling him.
“Oh you guys are really gonna—”
“Hey Makki?” Mattsun says coolly.
“Mmm?”
He drags the lollipop out of his mouth, tilts his head to hold your gaze. “Shut the fuck up.”
Matsukawa’s hands are warm as they come up to grasp your hips, and it’s impossible to ignore the fact that you can already feel the outline of his dick through his pants. The golden glow of the light that hangs above your table reflects in his eyes, and a rogue black curl sits across his forehead.
“How should I do this?” you ask him quietly, your heartbeat that of a nervous rabbit.
His thumb briefly strokes your waist. Once, twice.
“Well,” he muses, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m going to do this.”
He parts his lips briefly, as if for emphasis, tongue sliding along his bottom lip.
“And then you’re going to spit in my mouth.”
“And then…”
Mattsun’s laugh is low, quiet. Something only for you. The arousal stirring inside of you coalesces in your veins.
“And then, if I’m lucky, you’ll do it again.”
It feels appropriate—to cup Matsukawa’s jaw. The hand that ends up grasping the dip between his shoulder and neck is a byproduct of you steadying yourself at the feeling of one of his hands slipping beneath your sweater to hold you squarely at the small of your back.
His eyes are half-lidded as his lips come apart, head tipping back just a little further.
But for all that you’ve thought of him, all that you’ve fantasized. All that you’ve touched yourself and moaned his name and imagined his hands and his tongue and his co—
You still couldn’t have anticipated it, this.
The thrill that zips down your spine as you drop your spit into his waiting mouth.
The way he immediately pulls you further into the cradle of his lap. How his hips twitch the moment your saliva hits his tongue. The feeling of his hard cock pressing into the heat between your thighs. The way his eyes fall shut. The quiet groan you’re not even sure he meant to let slip out.
The way his lips fall open again after he swallows—
You don’t even hesitate. You spit in his mouth again. And this time, Mattsun’s hand slides up your back, cups the back of your head just as his lips come crashing into yours in a rough, wet, messy kiss.
“Is this gross?” Oikawa asks.
He yelps as someone—presumably Iwaizumi—smacks him.
Mattsun tastes like beer and cherry candy.
“It’s kind of hot,” Makki says.
Matsukawa’s mouth engulfs yours, tongue stroking the seam of your lips before slipping into your mouth, deepening the kiss in a way that has you gasping into his mouth and unconsciously seeking friction in his lap. Middle finger hooked in the belt loop above the center of your ass, he tugs you against him, lets you feel the thickness of his cock pressing right up against your sensitive cunt.
It’s only once Iwaizumi clears his throat that you remember you’re making out and dry humping Matsukawa in the middle of a bar, and you clumsily spring backward into your own seat, pussy throbbing through your jeans.
(Mattsun makes it up to you later, when he tugs off your pants and eats you out till you see stars on his couch.
And when you do finally fuck later that night, you’re on top the first round. If only so you can feel the way his cock throbs inside of you when you bury your fingers in his hair, tip his head back, and spit in his mouth again. And again.)
oikawa tooru x f!reader — 18+, 4k, friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, seijoh 4 cameos, fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v, multiple orgasms
a/n: dedicated to my beloved @mojogojocasahouse<3
“Heard you needed a ride.”
Iwaizumi’s voice is gruff when he comes up to stand beside the barstool you’re currently perched atop, your fingers idly stirring the dregs of your glass with a tiny red straw. His shoulder brushes yours, and you can feel a lick of the outdoor chill seep from his jacket onto your bare shoulder.
Somewhere nearby, you hear the distinct sound of Makki and Mattsun’s laughter.
“Is he with you?”
Turning your head to the side, you meet Iwaizumi’s gaze as he replies evenly, “You know he is.”
Sighing, you toss a few bills onto the bartop before sliding from your seat, the feeling of the tacky vinyl tugging at your skirt wholly unpleasant on the way down. Your boots and ankles disagree when you land, meeting the floor at an odd angle, and you inhale sharply as you prepare for pain—only to feel an arm catch you at your waist instead.
Logically, it should belong to Iwaiumi, since he’s still standing beside you.
But the familiar smell that invades your senses is all him.
All Tooru.
“Careful—”
His light, concerned tone is ice in your veins.
“Thanks,” you cut Oikawa off, barely sparing him a glance before shrugging out of his steadying grip and heading for the door, where Mattsun and Makki absorb you between them, arms criss-crossing over your shoulders.
“We were told that we’re rescuing you from a bad date,” Mattsun says conspiratorially.
Rubbing a hand over your face, you groan, following his lead as he tugs you and Makki through the doorway to the street outside at an odd angle so as not to break their joint hold on you. You immediately feel yourself start to shiver at the sudden drop in temperature.
“Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
Makki snorts, “See, this is what happens when you bail on hanging with us.”
You don’t bother mentioning the real reason you bailed, because he’s back.
“You’re all brutes,” the last voice you want to hear interrupts as the three of you come to a stop in front of Iwaizumi’s car, tone laced annoyance not directed at you.
Oikawa steps into your line of sight, holding out his jacket and gesturing to the amount of skin you’ve currently got exposed to the elements (to be fair, it was somewhat warmer out when you left your apartment earlier.)
“We were keeping her warm,” Makki says defensively, but Oikawa just rolls his eyes, hand remaining outstretched.
You take the jacket, if only because you’re well aware Iwaizumi’s not above manhandling each and every one of you into the car if you’re going to have a standoff on the sidewalk. You’re loath to admit that the heavy outer layer, laced with Oikawa’s lingering body heat, feels far better than the cold breeze that’s rustling his soft, brown hair.
And because Matsukawa’s a fucking traitor, you find yourself squished between Oikawa and Makki in the backseat. You hope he can feel you glaring at the back of his head.
Iwaizumi’s eyes find yours in the rearview when you look away from Matsukawa, his expression inscrutable, and the engine rumbles to life.
The ride back to your apartment is quiet, save for the occasional sound of a video playing on Makki’s phone and Mattsun toying with the radio dial. That, and the dull roar of blood rushing in your ears as you willingly (though that’s debatable) sit beside Oikawa Tooru for the first time in over a year.
Oikawa’s thigh sits flush with your own, and despite the fact that you’re in virtually the same position on the other side with Hanamaki, it’s wholly different.
Different in a way that leaves your throat dry each time his knee jostles yours when the car passes over a pothole.
Different in a way that has your stupid heart rattling insistently against the trellis of your ribcage with every second that passes.
You try to focus on the sharp spearmint of the gum that Iwaizumi’s chewing, or the sweet, artificial strawberry scent of the lollipop Makki’s clicking against his teeth. But all you can smell are the familiar notes of Oikawa’s cologne.
It used to be your favorite smell, once upon a foolish time.
Now it just makes you feel sick.
When Iwaizumi pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building, Oikawa’s quick to pop open his door to let you out before Hanamaki can. Except when the door thuds closed, he’s still standing on the other side of it.
Iwaizumi’s window rolls down, and he frowns. “What’re you doing, Shittykawa?”
“You live a block away. I’ll walk,” Oikawa waves them off.
You know that if you really wanted him to, Iwaizumi would get out of the car and shove Oikawa into the backseat. When your eyes meet his, the expression on his face asks just that. But you shake your head—because you’ll have to get this over with eventually, after all.
You’ve been finding reasons to avoid Oikawa ever since he got back to Japan three weeks ago.
“Thanks for the ride, Iwa.”
Mattsun gives you a salute from the front seat while Makki yelps as Iwaizumi smacks the hand currently snaking its way toward the radio knob. You stand there for a moment watching the red glow of his tail lights disappear down the street.
When you finally turn on your heel to head inside, Oikawa silently falls into step beside you. And if it were a year ago, the foot of space that lingers between your shoulder and his would feel strangely cavernous.
Right now, it just feels suffocating.
He stands on the opposite side of the elevator when you step inside, looking soft and rumpled in an old Aoba Johsai hoodie with uncharacteristically mussed hair—as if he’s spent the better part of the night running a hand through it. There’s a furrow between his brow, one that reminds you of his look of deep concentration on the court.
But there are no sleek hardwood floors here, no bright fluorescent lights. No crowd. No ball clutched in his hand.
No winners or losers.
It’s just you and Tooru and the hum of the elevator shaft.
(You and Tooru and all of the ghosts that still linger between.)
It’s only once your front door slips shut with a resounding click that you finally address him, your eyes trained firmly on the wall as you remain standing in your entryway with your back to him, his jacket tossed on the hook.
“What do you want, Oikawa?”
It’s funny—how you’re not even looking at him, but you can still feel him flinch from your use of his surname.
He inhales slowly, like he’s still not quite sure of the answer himself just yet.
And in that moment, it’s just past dawn on a late August morning, and you’re reaching out to smooth the wrinkle in your best friend’s brow while he sleeps beside you in your bed, the warmth of his breath curling against your palm.
His eyes open, dark brown distilled into golden honey in the gentle morning light that seeps through the gauzy curtains fluttering in a light breeze.
Tooru laces your fingers with his, kisses the inside of your wrist. Your stomach flips.
In that moment, you’re beneath him again. A bird sings. Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki are fast asleep in the living room. And Oikawa would still be there, too, if whatever it is that the two of you have been skirting around for years didn’t find you pressed up against your fridge in the middle of the night, his palms at your waist, your fingers in his hair. A glass of water forgotten on the countertop.
(Tooru’s still cupping your face, kissing you breathless, easing a knee between your legs. Still slipping a hand beneath your shirt, his tongue past the seam of your lips. Still tugging your panties aside and easing into you deep and slow—)
It’s rare to find Oikawa Tooru without words, so you continue, fueled by over a year’s worth of anger and hurt rising to the surface inside of you like a cresting wave.
“You’re so fucking selfish, you know that?”
“I know.”
His voice sounds rough, lacking its usual charm. You refuse to turn around and look at him, to give him the satisfaction of seeing the way your face screws up when you say the next part.
“If you regretted it that much, you could have just talked to me. I would have gotten over it, and we could have still been friends. Instead, you fucked off halfway across the world to some training camp that I had to find out about from Iwaizumi.” Your voice breaks on the last few words.
You don’t bother adding how he decided to continue traveling after that, how he hasn’t been home in over a year. He’s well aware.
“I didn’t—I never regretted it.”
Your eyes sting with unshed tears. “You never even called—”
The warmth of his body finds yours as he steps closer and leans a palm against the wall in front of your face. His voice wavers when he replies, “Because I didn’t know what to say.”
You stare at his long, thin fingers. “I don’t know, how about, ‘Hey, sorry that I acted like a jealous asshole the entire time you dated your ex boyfriend, fucked you two weeks after he broke up with you, and then ghosted you like we haven’t been friends for half of our lives.’”
“I—”
“Or ‘Sorry I forgot you don’t do one-night-stands like I do.’”
“That’s not—”
“Or ‘Sorry for the pity fuck, let’s pretend it never—’”
Oikawa’s forehead falls against your shoulder, and his hair tickles your bare skin as he inhales sharply. “It wasn’t a pity fuck.”
“Then what was it, Tooru?” you ask, none of your usual softness curving around the vowels. It’s sharp, venomous.
His fingers curl against the wall’s dark green paint.
“Everything,” he gasps, quiet and strained.
Your teeth sink into your cheek, and confusion blooms hot and heavy in your gut. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve spent my entire life feeling like I can figure everything and everyone out. I’ve always known what I need to do in every situation.” His voice quiets, like loose, shifting gravel. “And I’ve never felt less in control than I did that night.”
His hand slips down an inch, and he continues, “You—I’ve never known how to be good enough for you.”
You feel dizzy, unmoored. “What?”
“Being with you feels like—” his voice cracks, and he laughs weakly, “It feels like freefalling. It’s always felt like that. And when we finally…I just wanted you so bad…but after…I was fucking terrified when I realized that for the first time in my life, I had no clue what to do. How to be what you deserved.”
You press your own palm to the wall, if only to steady yourself. “I didn’t think…that you meant for any of it to happen.”
Oikawa looks at you like you’ve been missing the point all along. “It was all I could think about.”
You’re torn somewhere between the knowledge that it all meant something—and the reality that he still left anyway.
“But why didn’t I get to be the one to decide what I deserved?”
He’s quiet for several beats before he replies, “Because Iwa-chan caught me coming out of your room that morning. And I’ve never seen him look so genuinely angry at me before. He reamed me out later, said I was taking advantage of you after your breakup, called me a selfish piece of shit.”
“Are you trying to blame this on him?”
You finally turn around, and you’ve never seen Oikawa Tooru look so stricken. He avoids your gaze, drags a hand through his air, looks up at the ceiling. “No. I just…that conversation made me realize that I was the last thing you needed after getting out of a two-year relationship. I felt like I had some…claim on you. It was wrong.”
He lets his hand fall back to his side. His words leave you feeling hot all over. You think you feel a shiver wrack down your spine.
“So you thought leaving without a single goddamn word was what I needed?”
Oikawa looks at you then, defeated. “I wasn’t even planning on going to that training camp, that’s why you never knew about it in the first place. But then I panicked. I knew that if we talked about what happened, you’d find some way to make me out to be anything but the bad guy. You’d change my mind. And then I would have probably ended up hurting you. I thought a few months away would clear my head.”
You quietly scoff, “You hurt me anyway. And you were gone for over a year.”
“I know. But you seemed happy after a while.” He wraps one of his hoodie strings around his finger; the coil falls limp as soon as he lets go of it.
“Not that you’d know. You never texted, never called.”
He cringes. “I asked Iwa-chan.”
“I figured you were off dating models,” you huff.
He laughs, but the sound is more self-deprecating than anything else, and shakes his head, smiling at you sadly. “There was never…no. The coach at my first training camp referred me to some connections he had in other countries. You had just started seeing someone new, and I realized I still wasn’t over you when Iwa told me, so I thought it would be better if I kept travelling a little longer.”
Your nose scrunches up at the memory of that fling. “That guy was awful. It didn’t last long.”
He looks down at his shoes, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “I heard Mattsun almost punched him.”
“Tooru.”
There’s something earnest in his eyes when he looks up at you. “Yeah?”
“You’re an idiot. And an asshole.”
He inhales slowly, nodding. “I’m well aware.”
“Why did you want to talk to me tonight?”
“Because I wanted to tell you that I left because I was afraid of fucking up, not because I didn’t want you. Not because you did anything wrong. You deserve to hear that from me.”
“And what if I don’t want to forgive you?” You try to sound more confident than you feel.
He shrugs. “That’s my cross to bear, not yours. I don’t expect you to.”
“Are you over it now? Do you expect us to go back to being friends eventually?”
A laugh escapes his lips, one that’s full of disbelief. “What do you want me to say?”
Fight for this.
“The truth.”
He takes a step closer. “You want me to tell you having you once fucked me up, and I haven’t been able to look at anyone else without thinking of you? That I spent a year trying to dig up every part of myself thousands and thousands of miles away and all I could find were pieces of you scattered in every corner? That I did it all wrong? That I know I will never, ever deserve you—“
“Tooru…”
“That I loved you then, and I still love you now?”
His forehead leans against your own. His hands find your waist. He touches you like he’s waiting for you to shove him away, waiting to catch fire. Waiting for all of this to go up in flames once and for all. “Tell me to leave.”
You should.
“No.”
But you can’t.
“Tell me to leave, because all I wanted to do when I saw you when we got to the bar was kiss you. And that’s all I want to do right now. I’m still a selfish bastard.”
Because you know him. And you know he means it, every last word.
Your fingers catch in the fabric of his sweatshirt. You think of all the times you’ve stolen it from him and worn it yourself. “Maybe I like that you’re a selfish bastard. I’ve known you since we were teenagers, you know.”
“You’re supposed to kick me out and make me grovel. You should be more angry with me.”
The hand that’s been slowly trailing up his chest slides up to cup his cheek before your fingers thread their way into his hair. You watch the way he softens beneath your touch. “Being angry at you when you do dumb shit is Iwa’s job. I’m tired of being angry.”
He blinks. “I feel like this is a test, and I’m failing horribly.”
You shrug, and there are thousands and thousands of days and minutes and seconds that settle into the weight of your shared gaze. “Because I’ve never known you to be someone to give up, to walk away. I’ve never known you to lose a game that you were made to win, Tooru.”
Because it’s always been Tooru for you.
And you’re tired of pretending you don’t love him.
(Tired of pretending anyone else could ever hope to come close.)
In the heavy darkness of your kitchen on sticky, hot, late August night, it was Tooru who kissed you first.
But this time, it’s your mouth that finds his.
Tooru’s kiss tastes like the nostalgia of summer afternoons spent laughing on your backs on his living room carpet. Like the velvety petals of the flowers he always handed to you on the walk to school on the first day of spring.
Like the heat of his eyes meeting yours across the room at a crowded university party, even when you were leaning into someone else.
Like the way his voice curls around your name over the phone, where even the static seems to bend to the lilting warmth of his will.
Like brief moments of your fingers tangled together on boardwalks and beaches and rainy days and in the backseats of cars long past.
Like every golden-spun thread of love that you’ve known in your life.
Like a home for your heart, once he doesn’t realize he’s already built.
“I don’t want you to forgive me this easily,” he gasps into the kiss, even as he’s pulling you closer, arms wrapped around you tight.
You think his arms could swallow you whole, think his lips could devour you. (You think you’d let him.)
The two of you stumble past the living room, down the hallway toward your bedroom. He collapses backward on your bed, legs buckling at the knee, the mattress groaning in protest.
“I didn’t say I forgive you yet,” you tell him as you climb atop him.
Tooru’s hands find your hips, and the way his palms curve against them feels like a kiss in and of itself. He smiles at you, and between one breath and the next, gravity tilts as you suddenly find yourself on your back.
He stares down at you, eyes alight with determination as his lips slot over yours in a deep, slow kiss that leaves you arching upward into his touch. Your lips part as his tongue slips over the seam, and he deepens the kiss, one hand tracing the hinge of your jaw.
When Tooru pulls away, his mouth trails down your neck, along your collarbones, down your chest.
“I’m prepared to grovel,” he murmurs into your navel, fingers teasing the waistband of your skirt. He nips at your hipbone, strokes the inside of your thigh with his thumb.
Your toes curl.
“Show me.”
—
Tooru takes his time with you.
With your thighs spread wide and your skirt rucked up and your panties conveniently lost somewhere in the vicinity of one of his pockets, he works you open on his fingers first.
If it were anyone else, you might feel self-conscious about the slick arousal that’s already dripping onto the sheets between your legs, about how easily he works in the first finger to the last knuckle (about the desperate moan that shivers out of you).
But it’s Tooru.
Tooru, who inhales sharply as soon as the pads of his fingers make contact with your soaked panties, who groans when he gets them off and runs those same fingers through your glistening slit with something akin to reverence.
Who leans in and kisses you, hot and wet and messy as he adds a second finger, voice rough while he tells you how pretty you look like this.
He strokes your swollen, aching clit with this thumb and slowly fucks his fingers into you until you’re bucking into his touch, slick coating your inner thighs, his name a broken plea on your lips.
—and you’ve hardly come down from your climax when his mouth finds purchase against the heat of your cunt next, tongue slipping into your tight hole and stroking and licking and lapping and fucking.
Tooru grasps your thighs, ruts his own hips down into the mattress, groans into your pussy about how many times he’s thought about this, how many times he’s fucked his own fist to the thought of tasting you. The coil of pleasure in your gut is a maddeningly tight bowstring beneath his grasp as he rocks you back and forth over the ledge of another orgasm, huffing out a laugh when you whine in frustration, burying your fingers in his hair.
You arch your hips into his face, humping the slippery friction of his wet, messy lips, and Tooru hums, stuffing two fingers back inside of you as he sucks on your clit until tears prick at the corners of your eyes as the pleasure building in your veins explodes.
And overstimulation be damned, the sight of Tooru’s erection tented at the front of his pants is too much when he rolls over onto his back, cheeks pink, chest heaving, chin shiny with your release. You bat away the heel of the palm currently pressed down over his shaft, revelling in the way he gasps as you tug down his pants and boxers and wrap your fingers around his bare cock.
The moan that leaves Tooru’s mouth when you ease down onto him leaves you breathless, heart a thrumming frequency in your chest as he easily stretches you right open to the hilt, cock slipping through your soaked, dripping walls.
Running a hand over his face, his hips cant upward as he breathes out, “I’m not going to last long.”
You smile down at him, grinding down into his abdomen, clenching down on his shaft just to see the way he gasps before you start moving up and down. “I thought athletes had stamina,” you tease.
Tooru pulls himself into a sitting position, arms wrapping around you as you find yourself nestled in the cradle of his hips. His mouth slots over yours as he begins to fuck up into you, hips rocking in a steady rhythm. “Stamina isn’t in the room with us right now, sweetheart. Not when the last time I had sex was right here in this bed.”
True to his word, it doesn’t take long for Tooru to spill between your bodies, ropes of cum painting your abdomen and inner things until his cock is left flushed and spent.
And later, when you’re curled up on the couch in his sweatshirt, head pillowed in his lap, his fingers in your hair, his own still damp from the shower, you both laugh when he lifts up his vibrating phone to see Iwaizumi’s name flash across the screen.
“You’re on speaker phone, Iwa-chan,” Tooru tells him, setting the phone down on the couch cushion.
“Do I need to come strangle him?” Iwaizumi asks.
“Not yet, but you can come bring us food!” you reply.
“Do I look like Uber Eats to you?” he grouses.
“I mean…” Tooru trails off.
Mattsun and Makki start chanting something about pizza in the background.
“YOU ALL HAVE YOUR OWN GODDAMN CARS!” Iwaizumi growls in exasperation, and the line goes dead as he hangs up.
Your phone lights up with a text from Matsukawa immediately after.
dw he’s already putting on his shoes
Tooru smirks when you show him the message, his fingers trailing beneath his sweatshirt, finding only bare skin beneath the fabric as he makes his way up your chest.
“How much more grovelling do you think I have time to do before they get here?”
love a man who gets the biggest boner as you’re sitting on his lap, rambling about your day or your interests or anything at all … and his smile is cocky as you stop mid sentence, eyes a little wide because how is he hard right now? and he thrusts his hips up a little to make it known — this is what you do to me
Fandom: My Hero Academia,
Warnings: Suggestive,
Word Count: 2.1k.
Summary: Sero's got an embarrassing problem.
A/N: This is a new flavour of Sero for me, but I love this one just as much.
'You can't laugh...' Sero's voice is thick in the back of his throat forcing him to attempt to cough out it's awkwardness.
It doesn't work.
There's still the tell tale pinkness of a deep blush around his cheek bones, one that streaks down his neck and vanishes beneath the high, black neck of his suit.
Holding open your front door, you raise your eyebrows already on the cusp of giggles. He's leaning on your door frame, his arm pinned above his head, elbow pressed into the wood in a way that was almost charming. 'Okay...'
'Can – Actually...' He leans back, glancing down the corridor. 'Can I come in?'
'Of course.' Stepping aside, you watch as he slips into your apartment keeping his back almost flush with the door. You watch as he goes, side-stepping his way into your living room before turning quick on the balls of his feet to face you – the same sheepish smile etched into his features. Pausing, you tilt your head. 'Are you okay?'
'Y – yeah, uh...' He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he fidgets.
You raise your eyebrows, tipping forward slightly on your tip-toes.
'I – ha... See it's funny really because -.'
'Hanta, spit it out.'
He sighs. 'I'm stuck in my suit.'
You can't help it, a chuckle bubbles up your throat and spills helplessly over your lips.
Rocking his head back on his shoulders, Hanta groans. 'I said not to laugh...'
Sucking in air through your teeth, you struggle with party balloon lungs until the wheezing subsides and you can stand a little straighter again. 'Yeah, yep, sorry...' A stray gasp leaks from your lips, forcing you to bite down on the seam to silence it. 'Go on.'
'It gets worse.' He sighs. Squeezing shut his eyes, he licks over his lips before admitting. 'I'm naked in here.'
'I'm sorry, what?' You cough, disguising the tension in your lungs. It's hard not to look then, to really look, given the new information you've just been presented with.
Black spandex, strengthened with some obnoxiously named polymer stretches over the expanse of his shoulders. He's wide there, wider than you'd expect given his slight frame, but there's no denying the muscle that lingers under the material. The black extends, covers the swells of his pecs and then tapers, cutting into odd triangles that frame the ripples of his stomach. He's not as well muscled here as he is in his shoulders. Instead of the rough blocks of abdominal muscles, his are streamlined, forming two long, thick stripes of muscle that are almost totally visible through the pale of his suit.
Letting your eyes sink lower still, your gaze lingers on the thin strips of malleable metal that serves to strengthen his suit, but also inadvertently seems to perfectly highlight the deep creases that mark out his torso. You swallow. Hidden under a black square of material, barely contained by what you have to assume is at least two layers of material is a thick bulge. The swell is obvious, casting darkened shadows onto the twitching muscles of his thighs.
'Naked, me, under here...' Gesturing his crotch, he widens his eyes.
'The fucking zip snapped and I can't ask anyone to fucking help peel me out because whoever does it is going to get an eyeful of, well... Me.'
Blinking repeatedly, you swallow the saliva collecting in your mouth and snap your eyes back up to his. His jaw is tight, his stare worried and wild as he looks at you for an answer to a question you're not sure he's got the balls to ask.
Although, new information could prove you wrong.
It's in that instant that the silliness of the situation hits you right back over the head again. You manage to hold your laughter for a solid three seconds before it's tumbling out of you again. This time, it catches you off guard, rolling through you and almost reducing you to a crouch as Sero winces in front of you. 'Why couldn't you get one of the boys to help? Surely they've seen everything before...'
'And have Denks take the piss forever? No thanks.'
'Oh...' You fold your arms across your chest. 'And you think I won't take the piss? Is that it?'
'No.' He answers too quickly, but manages to trap the rest of his half-baked confession behind his teeth before it drops into the palm of your hands. The truth is, he doesn't think he'd mind you taking the piss – he doesn't think he'd mind you doing anything to him, in all honesty. Maybe that's why instead of slinking back to the agency and hoping that Hatsume was in her workshop, he'd found himself here, almost twenty minutes out of his way. He shrugs. 'But, maybe you'll be nicer about it?'
Locking eyes with him for a moment, you pause to watch him sweat before rubbing your hands together. 'C'mon then...' You smirk. 'Let's see how big that dick is.'
'Can you not?' Sero snaps, shivering when your palm meets the muscle of his shoulder. You slide your touch across him, moving in one solid stroke from his deltoid to the thick muscle of his back. The touch, as innocent as it is, makes his stomach tighten, molten lava churning as he submits to your teasing. A soft giggle slips your lips, sliding into his ear like sweet sherbet, making him half regret his decision to ask you, but then, your fingers are playing at the dips just above his collarbone and stealing coherency from him once more.
The suit is cooler than you'd expected. You can feel it, the tips of your fingers growing colder as you search across his chest, fingertips pressing against him in a search that quickly becomes fruitless.
Scratching, you use your nails to rake down his chest and attempt to ignore the way you can feel him respond. His whole body bristles, muscles tightening as a ripple uses his spine like a fire pole. You lick over your lips and hope he can't hear the shake in your voice. 'Where the fuck is the zip on this thing?'
Stretching back his shoulders, Sero swallows. 'It's, uh, around the back...' Gathering the loose hair
Immediately, you lift your hands as if burnt. Now, your groping feels gratuitous – sexual in a way that it wasn't meant to be. Not really.
When you step behind him, twisting your hip to avoid bumping it against his, you don't let your fingers wonder.
It's not hard to find it, not now you're laser focused. There's a small bump. The slightest overlap between the two sides of his suit as it wraps around the base of his neck. A few hours ago there had been a zip, the thin strip of metal poking, just, from the material, but now, there's nothing there: Just the slight bump.
Laying one hand flat against the muscle of his back, you use your index finger to skate up the zip – parting the fabric as you go. At the top, you hook your finger under the suit and begin to work at opening it.
Each touch sends a series of short static shocks up through his body, forcing him to tense the plain of his stomach to keep him from folding over. He can feel it, the delicate slip of your fingers as you manage to shift the zip from the top of his spine to near between his shoulders. Inhaling, he starts to wonder if this was a bad idea after all.
'You want me to just keep going, yeah?' You move slowly now. It's almost obscene. A private strip show. One you're participating in, that wouldn't even be happening without you. The thought has you fighting your own composure, forcing you to lock your knees to keep them from shaking.
'Ye – yeah.' He forces a laugh into his voice, but it catches behind his Adam's apple and slips out of his mouth a rasp. 'It stops like, like,' he coughs. 'Like just above my ass.' The bridge of his nose crinkles, a cringe folding his features as he stops talking.
'Okay.' Your fingers feel like they're burning as your decent reveals more and more skin. The smooth plain of his back is revealed, the muscle underneath rippling as it's loosed from it's material confines.
It's intimate in a way you'd never expected as with the slick of his suit, so too are hidden secrets revealed. There's a mole just under the curve of his right shoulder blade. A scar that runs parallel to his spine, the skin still pink and fresh. The edges of black ink that wraps around the edge of his left hip.
When the zip finally draws to a stop, you can see the cleft of his ass. If you were to slip your hands inside, splaying your fingers across the warm breath of his lower back you'd be able to sink your thumbs into his back dimples. You imagine he'd sigh. Let his head roll back on his shoulders as you press close to him. Maybe you'd let your hands slink further, following along the grooves of his hips; lines that would lead to lower and lower, until...
'All done?' His voice is wound tight when he speaks, locked somewhere in the basin of his throat and released as if thrown out on a breath.
Your reluctant to step back, to recede from the heat of his body, but you manage it. 'Yep.' You pat his back, feeling the muscle relax under your touch. 'All done.'
He turns, already wriggling his shoulders free from the material of his suit. 'Thanks, thought I was going to be trapped forever in this thing. It's so...' Slipping his fingers under the latex clinging to his left shoulder, he stretches it from his skin. 'Difficult to fucking get out of.'
You chuckle and watch him struggle. He twists around himself, peeling the second skin of his suit away only for it to snap back and illicit a hiss from between his teeth. 'C'mere, before you do yourself some serious harm.'
Sero shivers as your hands skate underneath the suit and peel him from it. He'd close his eyes to hide from the intimacy of your slow undressing of him, but all that would do is conjure images of what he wishes would come afterwards. Images of him repaying the favour, slipping you from your oversized hoodie and sinking to his knees then repaying you again in a wholly different way. He can already imagine how easy it would be to have you, and yet... 'Thanks,' he mumbles.
'No worries.' You giggle, catching his eye before you step back: his shoulders and arms freed. 'Tell you what though...' Your eyebrow arcs, a coy smile playing at the edge of your lip. 'That really doesn't hide anything, does it?'
Eyes widening, he swallows hard. The knowledge of your staring, dare he even dream admiring, sends a shock wave of tension directly south. He cock kicks, his ass clenching as if to try and disguise the too obvious bulge against the front of his costume. In an instant, his hands sink, the top-half of his suit bunched in his fist as he plays the move for comfort and hopes you don't notice a thing. 'I...'
'I'm just joking around, Han.' You chuckle around the lump in your throat. There's a notable pulse in your stomach, one that sinks by the second and has your thoughts turning savoury.
'I'll...' Sero hedges. There's an energy in his muscles, one that makes him want to bounce on the balls of his feet and do something silly.
'Do you want a t-shirt?'
The more he looks at you, the more kissable you look. You always look kissable, but right now, with the sun coming in from your living room window and that small curious smile itching at your lip... You look phenomenal. He shakes his head. 'I'll just swing home. I'll be too high and too quick for anyone to notice that I'm semi-shirtless... My place isn't far.'
'Oh, okay.' You try not to let your disappointment show, but there's a notch that forms between his eyebrows that makes you wonder just how successful you'd been at disguising it.
Slinking to the door, Sero has one foot over the threshold before he turns.
Fuck it. He thinks.
'Can I tell you something?'
Your eyes shine, head tilting. 'Of course, anything.'
'I really, like, really wanna take you out to dinner.'
Your lips break into a smile, forcing apples into your cheeks as a chuckle slips through your teeth. 'Yeah?'
'Yeah.' His smile matches yours, reaching his eyes and making him glow. 'Next week? That new place down town?'
You nod, chewing at your lip as you try not to feel like an excited school girl. 'It's a date.'
Sero's heart stutters, thudding in his chest. 'It's a date.'
Notes: | My Hero Academia | Not even remotely proofread. No real flow, just a snip of my brain when I’m trying to sleep at night. Do I write for Bakugo? No I do not. Do I have any idea how to write for him? Nope. Enjoy?
I have this reoccurring scenario that goes through my head of Bakugo getting caught up in some meeting before a formal gala and can’t get away from the toad faced business men.
Kirishima, Kaminari, and Sero are all waiting for him on the ground level of the agency when you walk out of the elevator dressed to the nines. They didn’t know you were still here, but clearly you were taking your time getting ready.
There’s small talk and Kaminari mentions that if you were the one to go up and get Bakugo, they couldn’t say no or hold him there any longer.
Deciding to take one for the team you fix your hair and arrange your boobs, giving a sexier visage. You look to the men standing before you and spread your arms, “Well, how do I look?”
Sero gives a thumbs up and signature smile, “Like an absolute bombshell.”
You head back to the elevator, heels clicking and hair swaying. If there was one thing all three men watching you walk away could agree on was that Bakugo was in for a surprise.
As you make it to the conference room where Bakugo is being held, you can seen the scene through the glass walls. Bakugo looks bored out of his mind, fingers drumming on a sleek back folder on the table. The toad like men are sitting with their backs to you.
As you approach, you catch Bakugo’s eye. A single eyebrow raises as he takes in your look. His eyes dart back to the men who are still blabbering away.
You take a breath before pushing the large glass door open, causing the men to turn abruptly, “Excuse me, we’re in a meeting sweetheart.” One of them scolds.
You put on your best innocent look and place your hand over your breast, your fingertips dragging lightly over your cleavage, “Oh gosh, so sorry about that! But you see, I need Katsuki.” You bite your lip and make your way to where Bakugo sits, his chair having turned to be more accommodating of your presence.
He eyed your approach carefully only making a noncommittal noise to your statement. Now standing in front of him, you see his full look, and damn does he look delicious.
You bend at the waist, ensuring the lines of your body are tempting and suggestive, your face close to Bakugo’s. You turn slightly to address the toad men again, “You aren’t going to make me go to this Heroes gala alone are you?” You pout and your hand darts out to smooth Bakugo’s tie against his shirt, your hand lingering on his chest.
There’s a grumble from the toad men as they begin to sweat and look uncomfortable with your gaze and your body’s position. “Well, of course not, but we really must speak with Dynamight-“
“And you aren’t going to deprive me of a full night with my date are you?” Your hand grips Bakugo’s tie, pulling him up out of his seat, the both of you raising to your full heights.
“Again, no, of course not-“
“Then I think we’re done here.” Bakugo’s voice is gruff. He’s standing close to your body, a hand resting on the curve of your waist.
You go to step aside to exit the room, but Bakugo is glaringly at the toad men, forcing them to leave with his gaze alone instead.
Once they leave and you are both alone, a breath escapes you, “I swear, I thought they would never leave.”
“Mmhm.” Bakugo’s hand squeezes your side a little tighter, both hands now engulfing you and you feel yourself being backed up to the table.
“Bakugo-“ you begin, but your voice is lost as you bump up to the edge of the table.
“What happened to Katsuki?” He murmurs, nose dragging along your neck. His lips ever so lightly brushing your jaw.
“Katsuki.” You call breathlessly as his lips attach to your neck, sucking softly, a tongue lapping at you slowly.
You’re not exactly what has gotten in to him, but you’re not really complaining. It feels like the two of you have been dancing around each other for years, the tension building to something insurmountable.
His hands trail down your body, gripping your thighs and lifting you effortlessly onto the table. Your dress bunches higher on your legs, halfway up your thighs as Katsuki steps closer. “You come in here, looking like sex on legs, pouting and pushing your tits in my face. Flaunting your ass for those disgusting old men.” His eyes are piercing and molten with a heat that hasn’t been directed to you before.
You struggle to catch your breath at the suddenness of everything. At some point your fingers made their way to the nape of his neck, the pads caressing his scalp gently. “How could I resist when you look like that?” You eyes trail down him slowly, appreciating every inch.
He huffs a laugh, breath mingling with yours before surging into you, your lips pressing firmly together.
▹ synopsis: in which you and hanta are almost more than friends but teetering on the edge, not wanting to compromise the friendship you worked so hard for.
▹ content warnings: gn!reader, fluff, drabble
▹ pairing: sero x reader
▹ side note: hanta is so cute :(( kinda reminded me of I wanna be yours by the arctic monkeys
The two of you were lying on his bed, soaking in the comfortable silence the room offered. You scrolled through your phone, watching TikTok after TikTok while Hanta read a comic book he had recently bought.
After a long while of silence, he finally looks over at you. His eyes trace over your features, appreciating the beauty of the soft glow from your phone screen casting over your face and illuminating it perfectly.
"Hey, N/N?" he asked, softly fighting the urge to touch you in some sort of way.
"Yeah?" you ask, prying your eyes away from the screen, looking over at your boy best friend.
"What are we?" he finally spit out. He needed an answer. He needed to be able to hold you, to kiss you, to love you.
"...I don't know. What do you want to be?" you slowly asked, setting down your phone and turning to face him completely.
"I wanna be yours," he bluntly replied, eyes tracing your face.
"I want that too," you respond with a soft giggle. His eyes glossed over and he slowly leaned in, eventually pressing his lips to yours. He kissed you, soft and slow, hand finding its way to the small of your back.
oliver’s voice is deep and rich against the shell of your ear, those three letters strung through with a hoarse little laugh of disbelief.
you try, in vain, to ignore what it does to you as you nod. “unfortunately.”
four months into attending the same university as your older brother’s best friend, and oliver’s still managing to double fist his overprotective nature alongside his casual refusal to acknowledge just how badly you want him to fuck you.
(it’s impressive, really.)
but something’s different tonight; the air between you feels charged at a stifling frequency as oliver slings his arm around your shoulders and stares over at the guy you’ve been seeing for the past month or so.
the guy who currently has a pretty girl sitting and laughing in his lap—the same one he’d apparently been seeing the entire time he was with you.
honestly, you’re really not even that torn up over it. the sex was fine, and it got a certain egregiously handsome soccer captain off of your mind for the time being.
but oliver was somehow more than bothered enough for the two of you when you casually mentioned it over lunch the other day with a laugh—
(because oliver’s made a habit of finding not-so-subtle excuses to drag you out for real meals several times a week after one brief visit to your dorm exposed your towering stack of instant ramen packets).
—bothered enough to insist he’d be joining you at tonight’s frat party.
“you can do better than that,” oliver mutters as he finds an open seat, and you hardly have time to react to that statement before you’re letting out an undignified yelp as he tugs you into his lap.
“what are you doing?” you whisper, heart racing.
oliver pulls you into the warmth of his body, one hand clasping around the bare skin of your thigh to tug your legs closed, fingers resting against the short hem of your skirt.
something inside of you goes belly-up and pliant at the possessive implications of the gesture, no matter how misconstrued it may be.
“what do you think i’m doing?” he murmurs against your ear, running the back of his knuckles along the curve of your jaw.
you make the mistake of meeting oliver’s gaze, and the smoldering heat in your chest ignites. but when you try to avert your eyes, he smoothly catches your chin and steers your attention back to him.
only him.
(it’s ironic, really.)
“relax,” he mutters, nose and lips brushing your cheek, “he’s looking.”
best friend shinsou who uses his quirk on you as a last resort because your shitty boyfriend just dumped you and you’re both too drunk for this—
who has to drag himself away from your kiss-swollen lips, who tries in vain to extricate you from the cradle of his lap as he roughly gasps—“touch yourself, not me.”
because you’d forgive him for using it on you like this.
because he thinks it’ll sate your needy haze of desperation.
(because he thinks it’ll cool off his own desire burning acid hot down the back of his throat.)
because he’s not prepared for the fresh hell of watching you finger yourself right there on his couch, skirt pushed up and legs spread wide, whimpering and moaning his name like it means something.
(he blames it on the alcohol, the way he acquiesces like the world’s most flimsy deck of fucking cards when you beg him to touch himself, too. when he leans his head against the back of the couch and turns sideways, groaning as he watches you tremble in pleasure, hips sloppily fucking upward into his fist.)
i feel like kenma would be such a needy drunk just... hiccupping and toppling into you, frowning, all of his internal monologues bubbling up to the surface, he'd mumble against your cheek --
"why d'you always smell so nice -- girls always smell so nice -- is it the lotion you guys use? mm..."
it's all you can do to laugh and gently shove him off you, but he frowns, pouting as he pillows his chin on your shoulder.
"kenma --"
"you do this t'me all the time -- i can't... do it to you?" he huffs, his eyes half shut. you bite back an exasperated sigh before relenting and letting him lean on you. he makes a noise like a pleased cat.
you look up to find kuroo smirking; heat immediately flushes in your cheeks as you shoot him a half-hearted glare. he raises both his hands as if to say i didn't do anything, but you know for a fact that he'd been plying kenma with drinks since before the reunion even started.
"he's always liked you, y'know," kuroo had said, on that last day of high school, the spring evening adrift of the cloying scent of flowers. you gulp, scuffing your feet against the pavement.
"yeah. i know. i just... hoped he might've said something by now."
kuroo shrugs, casting his eyes up towards the sickled moon, "give him some time... and he just might."
it'd been years since then, but you can tell by the cat's cradle lilt of kuroo's smile that he remembers. and he knows you do too.
"c'mon kenma... let's get you home," you murmur, to which kenma makes some soft, mumbling reply.
it's not till you get him outside that he pushes away, his eyes a bit unfocused, but his gaze steady as he swallows, twisting his fingers in front of him as he takes a deep breath and says --
how is reader connected to OF mattsun? are we his roommate or friend from seijoh, do we subscribe unknowingly or cause he talk about it,, where does it take our relationship???
OF mattsun
18+
you’ve been close friends with all of seijoh 4 for years, and you’ve spent just as long staying tight-lipped about your crush on mattsun.
you stumble across a post with one of mattsun’s videos on twitter one day. well, you don’t know it belongs to him. the account, MK, is nameless and faceless—a feed full of brief teases of his onlyfans content and the occasional witty, sardonic text post.
and as hard as you try, you just can’t get MK out of your head for some reason. so you sheepishly search his OF page one night, eyes flicking back and forth between the payment options, stomach roiling at the prospect of all the blurred content that awaits you behind the tantalizing paywall.
you tell yourself you’re just curious. it’s temporary. it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that even if all this guy ever shows are his forearms and hands and the bulge of his dick through his boxers before he soaks them through with cum—
he reminds you of mattsun.
those large hands and long fingers and veiny, muscled forearms.
and maybe you like to pretend his deep, panting, obscene groans are what mattsun sounds like when he’s getting off.
you just can’t stop watching his videos, even if every one is virtually the same. the same unremarkable, plain background, just a different pair of boxer briefs each day as he rubs his long, thick cock, moaning and grunting, hips twitching until sticky, white globs of cum squirt and soak right though his boxers and spill all over his hands.
for as simple as the videos are, as far as pornography goes, you suddenly find yourself masturbating more often than you ever have in your life. thighs clenching together in anticipation as you glance at the time each evening, waiting for a notification for his latest post. (you edge yourself like that some nights, others you’re too impatient and already humping a pillow or fucking yourself on your slick vibrator to his older posts when the latest one eventually pops up.)
you probably would have gone on like that indefinitely, if not for the night that your favorite mystery content creator appeared sitting fully nude for once.
fully nude with a lacy, pink pair of panties clutched in one hand.
a very familiar pair of panties. right down to the silky little white bow along the waistband.
a pair that you remember you were wearing the week before when you and seijoh 4 snuck into the pool behind mattsun’s apartment complex for a late night swim.
a pair that never made it home with you. because you clearly forgot them on the floor in the corner of mattsun’s bathroom after he lent you a pair of shorts and a shirt in lieu of your wet clothes.
and now—
—now that’s MK—mattsun—jerking off with them. fucking his fist into the pretty, soft material of your underwear. groaning more desperately than you’ve ever heard in any of his videos. he reaches his orgasm almost alarmingly fast, pumping his cock hard as cum leaks all over your panties and his fist.
(and you swear you hear it—something that almost, almost sounds like your name between one gasp for breath and the next.)
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