Ayana

a mha college au FEAT. DENKI K.

“and she's on top of me, and it is hot, hot, hot.”

disclaimer; i dont fw mcafferty, at all. but the song is so him.

the fruits of mine and @kamislop ‘s freaksations

mdni. cw: mutual masturbation, they’re practically edating, gooner x gooner, fingering, premature ejaculation, ummm, what else, unprotected sex, does that count as grown folk sex or not, riding for like five minutes, mommy kink (sorry i had to sneak it in there), whiney pathetic denki, so nothing new, bad language, recreational drug use, virgin denki, virgin reader. reader is thick fem coded. this is so meta

wc: 3.9k

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starting track….

you've never actually met denki kaminari.

which is weird.

because, at this point, he's basically integrated himself into your daily routine.

he's the first person you speak to when you wake up, the last person you message before you go to sleep. the first person you go to text when something happens, small things, big things, bullshit that no one else is going to understand, movie reviews, song recommendations.

you've followed each other for... god, maybe two years now? one of those internet mutual situations. it was either a tiktok comment, or an instagram comment he posted that had you snorting at your screen so hard, you had to follow the guy with the pikachu profile picture, immediately.

always the first person to like your stories, to slide up with stupid reaction gifs, or drooling emojis. and then following it with 5 minute rants about how "this jjk arc is actually about the burden of adolescence", completely serious.

sometimes you’ll post something and before you’ve even locked your phone again—

LMAOOOOO

who pissed you off this time

or

okay but hear me out

followed by the worst take you’ve ever read in your life.

but you reply every time. because his exact ratio of funny to horny is just so perfectly calibrated to your freakquency.

you’ll post a selfie and get:

good lord.

then thirty seconds later:

WAIT WAIT WAIT

i need to rant

and suddenly he’s voice-noting you for four straight minutes about drama inside his friend group.

people you technically know. well. not know know. but know in the way internet mutuals know people. through usernames, blurry instagram stories, occasional re-posts, overheard names.

sero said this, jirou blocked someone, mina got too drunk at a house party, bakugou pushed him down the stairs, again.

and denki relays all of it to you like a disgraced court jester bringing gossip to the queen.

you’ll be brushing your teeth at midnight listening to him say some shit like, “NO because tell me why this grown man started shadowboxing in the function because somebody drank his monster.”

and you’re laughing so hard toothpaste nearly goes down your shirt.

it’s easy with him. so easy. easy to reply, easy to keep talking, easy to accidentally spend three hours discussing whether eren yeager was doomed by narrative structure or just mentally ill.

and then you’ll realise it’s four in the morning and your phone’s on 2%.

and he’s still typing, still there. that little green dot beside his name.

because he's always online. chronically.

you don't think there has been a single moment recorded in history where denki hasn't been within five feet of his phone. he'll snap you back when he's on the toilet, mid shit, phone still clutched in his hands. he'll text when you when he's on the train, replies with typos so bad you can physically hear how fast he was typing. snaps while he's walking home.

so eventually, eventually, obviously, inevitably, the natural progression of things.

he starts sending you voice messages while he's jerking off.

your own personal whimper audio plug.

you can't really remember when that started. actually, no, you can…

he’d just finished the third arc of this anime you recommended and absolutely had to call you at two in the morning to tell you exactly what he thought about it. and you were online anyways, active two minutes ago right there beside your profile picture.

only problem is, someone just happened to be mid goon sesh. vibrator pressed to your clit, toes clenched, sweating under your blankets, thighs drenched in your own slick, room dark except for the glow of your phone screen.

you're still not really sure what possessed you to press accept on his call, and you're even less sure why you continued to pleasure yourself with him rambling down the phone.

maybe it was the confidence that comes with anonymity, the fact that he doesn't know you in real life. maybe it was curiosity. maybe it was the fact he actually listened to you, watched the things you recommended, came back wanting your opinions like they matter, like you matter.

or maybe he's just… easy to listen to? warm, animated, endearing. the soothing tone of his voice, of him snickering at his own jokes.

“…right? like i’m not saying he was justified, but if that happened to me i probably would’ve done worse.... what d’you think?”

“i—” your voice catches, badly. you bite down hard on your lip, trying to stifle your moans, “umm—ngh—sorry, what?”

there’s immediate shuffling on his end.

“oh shit,” denki backtracks quickly. “sorry, were you asleep? fuck, my bad dude, just call me back in the morning—”

"no!" you reply, too fast, too desperate, you fucking— what the fuck is wrong with you, “no... s’fine. just… keep talking.”

there's a beat, a pause, and then, "oh, uhhh, okay...?" he continues on, rambling, but his voice is lower, slower, calmer, like he’s suddenly hyper-aware of every sound coming through the phone.

finally, he throws in the towel, bites the bullet.

“…sorry— you can literally kill me if i’m wrong but… are you—”

he coughs, awkwardly.

“are you touching yourself?”

god.

you really should've lied.

should've hung up the phone, messaged him back in the morning, or something, literally anything else.

but, ohhh, you didn't even care at that point. your orgasm already building hot under your skin and there was something strangely intoxicating about the fact he could tell, that he was even listening close enough to notice.

“yeah,” you breathe out before you can stop yourself. “yeah… i’m playing with myself.”

your voice wrecked in a way denki had never heard before.

he’s quiet now, fuck, fuck, fuck, you blew it.

he’s probably cut the call, gonna tell all his friends what a weirdo you are, maybe post a story-time on his close friends about the pervy girl rubbing herself while on the phone to him.

but… the humiliation of him finding out doesn’t derail you from the path of pleasure you’re already walking down, and although you’d never admit it, it probably makes it hotter. you might as well finish, you can wallow in your self-pity tomorrow.

the vibrations sound louder now that you’re not being a self conscious freak. you’re whimpering softly while the buzzing echoes against the slick running down your thighs, wet and muffled beneath the blankets.

you can hear it.

so can denki.

“is that—” he swallows, and you flinch in surprise at his voice suddenly coming through the receiver again, but you don’t bother slowing down. “is that…is that your pussy? that—that noise?”

what noise, the bzzz-bzzz-squelch-squelch? is he serious, “what else would it be?”

“i don’t— i dunno, it just…” he stumbles over the words. “it just sounds so… so wet.”

“mhmmm,” yeah, yeah it really does sound so wet, doesn’t it.

“does it always get like that?”

“mhmmm.”

a shaky breath crackles through the phone.

and then,

“w-wish i could see.”

what?

what?

oh.

you almost sigh in real time, what did you even have to worry about? did you forget this is denki, denki kaminari, the same freak who once said he would 'fuck your armpit' as a 'joke.'

the thought barely settles before you finally notice another sound leaking through the phone.

rhythmic. wet.

fap-fap-fap.

you still immediately, fingers curling around your little bullet vibe to switch it off. were you seriously so distracted you didn’t notice? didn’t hear this, didn’t hear him?

the wet schilcks of his hand working his cock, "wish i could see—no- wish i c-could-could touch it—nngggh-oh fu-uck—wish i could-hck!- wish i could fuckin’ taste you."

worse than you, oh, he's waaaay worse than you.

“w-wish you were here,” his voice crackles through the receiver alongside another ruined, greedy, sound. “wish you could see how messy i got—”

“denki—”

“fuuuck,” he whines softly. “say my name again, please. please, i’m—”

“denki, you’re so gross.”

“hah— shiiit, yeah,” he sounds obscene, like he can barely get the words out, “that’s the stuff.”

and seriously? already? because you've barely been on the phone for five minutes, there's no way he got this bad, that quickly. but you can’t deny how much it makes your pussy throb.

“yeah i'm gross, but you're worse, you started it.”

and that was the start of it, and i wish i could say it ended there.

but it didn’t.

because even freaks get tired of e-sex at some point.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

it took a while for you guys to get to this point.

months of voice messages and facetimes, of teleparty and shared playlists, of beefing each other in comment sections and thirsting in dms.

and for denki, it all led to this moment.

your bedroom feels too warm.

his trainers are abandoned messily by your door beside your tote bag. one of your hoodies hangs off the back of your desk chair. fairy lights glow dim amber against the walls, mixing with the bluish light of your laptop screensaver bouncing around the dark room.

everything smells faintly like vanilla, fabric softener, and the weed the two of you smoked an hour ago with your bedroom window cracked open.

his hands shake.

so inexperienced and yet, so eager to please, they gently grope every inch of your body.

you never really enjoyed having your chest played with all that much, but there’s something about how denki’s heavy palm massages the underside of your tit, like he’s trying to unlock something, or explore.

and then his thumb brushes over your nipple, a shock to your system, you arch forward into his touch, body moving on auto pilot.

god, he wants to see you do it again.

he's dreamt about this, about this exact moment, for weeks. every stray thought, every dirty dream, you've plagued him.

mmmmm, and your body is so warm, and soft. inviting. his hands grip the flesh of your thighs, the fat bulging around his fingertips, the softness of your skin, right here, right here in front of him, not through a screen or part of a picture.

holy shit.

he really can’t take it.

because he's jerked off to the thought of you for so long, he's milked himself dry to the sound of your voice, he's wrung his cock to your smile, he's edged himself to the idea of what your hair would smell like, what your skin would feel like.

nutted all over his phone screen, humped his hand for hours.

he never thought he would even get the opportunity to meet you in real life, let alone be allowed into your bedroom, let alone have you underneath him, in nothing but panties and a fucking t-shirt.

he's literally trembling, his palms sweating as he grips you again, harder, firmer, like this is a dream, like if he blinks too much he might wake up, and he'll be back in his bed making a mess all over himself, another late-night fantasy while he’s half-delirious and horny, just like usual.

“denki, hey, dude, are you… good?”

but he's not at home, he's not in his bed, this isn't a wet dream, he's not gonna wake up to bakugou breaking his door down and telling him to take out the trash.

he shakes his head with a smile, “yeah, yeah, i'm good— sorry, i'm out of it.”

you’re definitely hiding it better, but you’re equally nervous.

so fucking nervous. you nearly cancelled last night because of how badly your stomach had twisted itself up. was he even gonna like you? would he still think you’re hot, even in real life? you barely slept, up all night thinking about what he was expecting, and whether you would meet those expectations.

if he knew how you were feeling, he probably would’ve slapped you or something. because this is better. this is so much better. so much better than dreaming or imagining, even now, the way you’re smiling up at him, glasses slipping down your nose, pretty eyes focused on him, and what he’s doing, and if he’s feeling okay.

you’re so perfect.

and he has to make you feel good, he needs to.

you spent the last two hours, half watching something on your laptop, and half making out.

and…

that was life changing.

it’s so indescribable, he still feels dizzy from it. how you felt in his lap, the warm heat of your body consuming his very being. the feeling of your tongue down his throat, his hands around your neck, your lips against his, he almost came, just like that, just from a little kissing.

can you really blame him.

it was so good.

but this is about to be better.

it's so easy for you to melt into him. maybe it's the nervous energy radiating off of him that calms your own nerves. you've always been that kind of person, quick to accommodate to other people’s needs, in tune with their feelings.

and denki wears his heart on his sleeve. he's easy to read, an open book. also his face is flushed a beautiful pink, he's panting, breathing heavily into your mouth, pupils blown wide every time you touch him.

so you kiss him again, just to relax him of course, certainly not because you're craving the feeling of him against you, his shirtless torso pressed flush against your chest.

it works though, he defrosts, relaxes, nearly crumples against you, against the soft swell of your chest, his hands snaking down the sides of your body, fingers dipping underneath the fabric and fuck, are you really—“this soft everywhere?”

you hum at his question, then quickly realise he's talking to himself, hypnotised by the feeling of your flesh, he has to be dreaming because there is actually no way you're really, “—so fuckin' soft, oh my god.”

he's still stuck on that? you click your tongue, as much as you would love to explore each other bodies in this PG-13 way, you've soaked yourself through your panties. maybe you're the real pervert, he's having a wonderful time just touching your skin, and all you're thinking about is how badly you want him inside you.

you do it yourself.

slip a hand in the gap between your bodies, your nervous, virgin, freaked out, bodies, and slide your fingers below the hem of your underwear. you barely graze your outer lips before he's snatching your hand, a little too rough, a little too hungry. he loosens his grip almost immediately but holds your gaze, “please, please let me do it, i promise it'll be good,” his thumb strokes nervously against the inside your wrist, “i— i'll be careful, i'll be gentle with you, i swear.”

who are you to say no? how could you, not when his hands slide down your thighs with gentle reverence, not when he clutches the hem of your panties like he's afraid he'll hurt them.

never mind, he can't do it.

he has to close his eyes, he can't look, can't watch the way your pussy juice clings to the fabric. he peeks open an eyelid, then closes it again. his heart is beating so fast he might throw up.

“denki, babe,” babe??? he nearly screeches, his eyes flutter open again, the faint smile that's painted on your face makes him spurt a tad, you really are perfect, “just breathe, okay, it's fine, you're doing great.”

you really have a way with words, because that kicks him into overdrive, he slips the fabric down so it pools around your knees, and, and, and he—

let’s out a strangled whimper when he sees your puffy pussy lips, drenched in your own slick.

“did i—” he swallows, panting, “did i do this t’you?” eyes transfixed on your trembling cunt. he drags a single finger through the mess, through your slick, until the digit is coated. hisses out a curse when he retracts the finger and there’s a string of your arousal that clings to it.

your arousal, your pussy, your fucking pussy, “g-god,” he slurs around the finger, licking up every last drop of you, and then inhaling deeply, the scent of your pussy making his eyes roll back into his head.

how has he come all this way, just to slurp your mess off of his finger and hump your mattress.

he has to pull it together.

but you’re making it so difficult.

“d'you know," a strangled groan cuts him off and he gulps, "d'you know, how often i’ve dreamt about this, it—”

he's using you like a fidget toy, two fingers dragging through your slick, drawing patterns, somewhat, mostly assessing the area. what makes you flinch, what makes you gasp, what makes you grip his shoulders with both your hands and beg him to keep going.

you dig your nails into him, while he traces your pulsing labia, the calluses of his fingertips trailing a path across your pussy, there's no way his cock can go in there, inside you, inside your mushy gummy walls, that are clenching around his fingers, there's no way he can go in there and come out alive. you'll strangle him to death and he'll never want to leave.

"she's so pretty," as he stares, absolutely mesmerised at the wetness coating his palm as his fingers scissor open your pussy. “so, fucking, pretty.”

and you’re really not making it any better for him, your thighs quivering uncontrollably, his hands feel so much better than your own. you let him know, verbally, but also with how your eyes glaze over, how your breathing stutters, how you lift your legs to wrap around him, to keep him there.

the pressure of your thighs pushes him further into your mattress, and there’s a spark of delicious, addicting, friction that catches him. causes him to twitch against you, crash his mouth into yours, sharing each other’s whimpers.

you can’t go on like this, you try to open your mouth, to speak, to tell him to hurry up and stick his fucking dick in you already. but he doesn’t let you, he’s already lost, of course he is.

the weakest, most pathetic humps, his crotch positioned perfectly in between your legs but also resting on the bed below. so when he grinds his hips down there’s a shock that travels up his spine, but your bodies are close enough that he if he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s actually fucking you.

denki’s such an idiot.

your pussy right there, he’s literally cupping your warmth with his palm, fingers prodding against your g-spot, and yet all he can do is imagine, slip off into a daydream where he’s fucking you for real.

and you have a feeling that if you don’t do something to snap him out of it right now, he’d spend the whole night doing just that. pretending to fuck you in his head, while you’re right there, right here, squirming underneath him.

he’s lucky you think he’s cute.

“denki, baby…”

he inhales like he’s just been dunked into a tub of ice water, his eyes snap up from where they’d spiralled over watching his fingers disappear inside you, the creamy slick coating the digits, the heat, the—

“denki?”

“hmm?” god he’s so hot, and still so fucking adorable, he’s pouting like you’ve pulled him away from something important.

“don’t you wanna… put it in?”

put it in? put it in? put what in— oh, oh right. of course, of course he does, but his eyebrows raise like he didn’t realise that was an option.

he fumbles one handed, nearly knocks himself over in his haste to undo his belt, fucking stupid belt, the clasp gets stuck and he, fuck it’s fine, it’s all good, he’s so normal about this.

you motion like you’re about to offer assistance, then his cock springs out, slaps against his stomach and…

oh, oh, the poor thing.

flushed, angry at being ignored, bright pink, and leaking. leaking all over his abs, all over his stomach, the inside of his jeans, the inside of his boxers.

fucking hell.

you nearly start laughing, not mocking, more like, when you’ve been sat at a restaurant for so long, hungry, waiting, for ages, and then they finally bring the food out, and it’s so:

yummy.

that’s it.

you pounce on him like he’s prey, practically manhandle him into laying flat on his back, and clamber over his thighs, your legs bracketing his hips.

and denki moans like a fucking whore.

“oh, holy shit,” his hands twitch like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to touch you, but he really can’t stop running his mouth like, “you’re gonna—gonna ride me- oh, pleasepleaseplease—”

his voice cracks right down the middle when you finally, finally, sink down.

shit, it is a stretch, despite how long he spent playing with your cunt, but it’s so fucking delicious, mhmmm, you both feel it, the drag of his weeping veiny cock sweeping along the walls of your pussy.

and for the first time all night, he’s quiet.

dead silent.

you think his nose might start bleeding.

his lips, bitten, chapped, parted, rushed puffs of air leaving his body, eyes rolled back into his head, then fluttering, like his soul is being exorcised.

the dam breaks.

“is it— is it supposed to feel like this?” he’s delirious, cloudy eyed and drunk, “holy shi-iiit—can't believe it feels this good.”

he grips your thighs, tight enough to leave bruises, and whimpers when you grind down against him and your tits bounce, right in his fucking face.

“edged myself for th-three days,” he confesses as he drools into your skin, he can't look you in the eye, he presses his mouth against your chest and murmurs, “saved up so much cum for you, all for you.”

“can you feel me, all the way inside.” he presses down on your lower stomach, the pressure makes your toes curl, “c-can’t believe i’m inside you, can’t believe you let me—oh, oh, fuck, wait, don’t—”

don’t what? don’t clench around his cock. don’t clamp down on him with your hot gummy walls. don’t pull him back in when he tries to move. how are you supposed to do that?

“gonna— gonna give you so much cum,” small, sloppy semi-upward thrusts, he can't even move properly, just humping up against you like a dog, “m'gonna make you feel so good, gonna fill you up— m-make you feel so fucking good—”

he's slurring, drunk off your pussy, drunk off you, “i hafta— hafta, m-m-make— good, gonna be good— gonna be a good boy."

suddenly he's spilling into you, ropes and ropes, of milky white nut, flooding your pussy, filling you to the brim.

but he doesn't stop moving.

in fact, you don’t know how he mustered up the strength after that pathetic display, but he flips you over, so you’re underneath him again, hisses when his cock slips out, still so fucking hard, still dribbling, one hand gripping your thigh, the other rubbing circles on your clit.

“i c-can keep going— can't stop, not 'till you cum too, i promise, i p-promise i'll keep going mommy.”

overstimulation tears through him, his nerves are fried, but still he doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, doesn't give himself a minute to catch his breath. just his cock, hammering into you, drilling into your pussy, “keep—ngh-keep going, gotta k-k-keep going…”

you're in for a long night.

… end of playback.

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@kamislop @dotalicious @lonelyfooryouonly @tsushimimi @tokkushin

this is a mixtape madness fic, drop a request and i’ll get back to you: