🜲 KING MARCELINE OF ALL WILD THINGS. once named pacifistsworstnightmare, olivebowl (!), circularstone, sealriousbusiness— if you know me from a past life you're a friend forever.
twentyone . they . dyke . evil eldritch beast trapped in the body of a seal .
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minors, ageless & blank blogs are banned too! if i catch you, you will be blocked.
sometimes a writer, oftentimes a chud— DEMAND NOTHING, EXPECT EVEN LESS.
LET THE WILD RUMPUS START!
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writing — #pen2paper
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not taking requests but welcome you into my inbox always!
OH, PLEASE DON'T GO— I’LL EAT YOU UP I LOVE YOU SO!
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It's hard not to notice how Iwaizumi gets flustered when Mattsun brings up cock warming. You have to know what he's thinking about.
HAJIME IWAIZUMI X FEM!READER | roommates to lovers, smut (mdni), cock warming, fingering, piv, light choking, creampie, praise, casual hookups, 3.8k words. | Read on A03.
"Have you ever tried it?"
Iwaizumi glances up. You're lounging on the couch, wearing your favourite sleep set. The one he secretly hates, because the straps have a tendency to slide off your shoulders when you're unaware.
"Tried what?"
Your lips curl into a grin. Mattsun and Makki left less than ten minutes ago, and you're already smiling like you're up to no good. Sometimes Iwaizumi secretly wishes you had a third roommate. Maybe that would create some needed space, maybe it could soothe some of the electric tension between you. He's not sure he understands the inexplicable change between you that's been growing these last couple of months, but he doesn't want to ruin your friendship.
And at the end of the day, he knows he doesn't actually want a third roommate. He likes that he's the one who gets to see you sleepy and slow in the morning, cranky in the evening. That he gets to cook you meals when you're too tired to do it yourself. He doesn't want to share any of it.
"You know," you say, grin turning wicked. Iwaizumi rakes his brain, trying to figure out what you're talking about. He runs through the things you talked about, Mattsun and the funeral home, Makki being unemployed and broke, Oikawa's game last week, something about your shitty ex-boyfriend—
Oh.
The new girl Mattsun has been hooking up with.
"Cock warming," you say, giggling. Like you're reading his mind, realising exactly what he's thinking right now. He knows you saw. Saw the way his cheeks grew flushed at the conversation. Saw the way he avoided eye contact, while Makki was too distracted with teasing Mattsun.
"There's no way it can be that good," he'd said. Mattsun had leaned back against the couch and smiled lazily, the way he always does, the way Iwaizumi knows makes girls fawn over him.
Iwaizumi hadn't added anything to the conversation, hoping to stay clear of any suspicion. Apparently, that wasn't enough, because when he'd looked at you, you were already looking back. Smiling, in that way that meant your mind was going a thousand miles per hour. Planning. Scheming.
Your tiny tank top slipping off your shoulder all the while.
"Hajiii," you sing-song. His eyes dart towards his bedroom, hoping to escape, and you notice, your eyes narrowing at him. "C'mere,"
You pat the spot next to you on the couch as you sit up. He obliges, because what else can he do? When you're sitting there, hair slightly dishevelled from when Makki ruffled it on his way out, looking so, so sweet.
"Wanna try it?"
Your voice is syrupy sweet, dripping honey and temptation. You're halfway crawling into his lap, one of your hands placed on his thigh. Iwaizumi swallows.
"We shouldn't," he says, and it makes you pout, pushing further. You lean in, and he can smell your perfume now, something sweet and flowery.
You're always flirting with him, but this. This is something different, something heavier. There's no deniable plausibility here, no light teasing.
Iwaizumi will admit that he's always secretly basked in the affection you'd reward him. He's used to girls fawning over Oikawa, or making out with Mattsun at parties, or going on dates with Makki. But you. You've always danced around him, making him feel special. Lightheaded.
"Hajime," you pout, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Why not?"
He swallows again, throat feeling dry. Why not?
You're fully straddling him now, sinking into his lap.
Why not?
Wrapping your arms around your neck, you're looking down at him, still smiling.
"Have you ever tried it?" you whisper, while you play with the hairs at the back of his neck. Poor Iwaizumi has to hold back a groan as he closes his eyes.
"No."
"Do you wanna?"
You know you're being bold. But you've been holding back for so long. Who can blame you for finally breaking when you've been watching him squirm around all night?
"It could be fun. We could put on a movie or something," you say, and you grind your hips into his experimentally. Your grin widens when you feel that he's already half hard. His hands fly to your hips, holding you still as he takes a deep breath.
You can see the turmoil in his brown eyes, feel the storm rising in him.
"Okay," he says, releasing your hips.
The look on your face is victorious, and you move your hands down, squeezing his shoulders in excitement.
"I pick the movie," he manages to bite out, and you nod eagerly, hands flying down to the waistband of his shorts.
"Sure, Haji, whatever you want," you murmur, focused on the new objective at hand. Iwaizumi grabs your hands, placing them behind your back. You look down at him, frowning. Finally gaining some footing, Iwaizumi tuts at you, shaking his head.
"Let me pick a movie first," he murmurs. He keeps your hands where they are, with one big hand on your wrists, while he leans over you, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table. He leans back on the couch again, casually opening Netflix. You stare, dumbly, waiting for the next instruction.
The thing you've always liked about Iwaizumi is that he doesn't let you get away with any of your antics. With Oikawa, it's a constant game of who'll back down first, of who can get away with the most. Mattsun is largely unaffected apart from the times when he'll tag along to help you torment the others. Makki is so easy to tease that it's not even funny.
When it comes to Iwaizumi, he's steady. It's always annoyed you a bit. When he's with Oikawa, it's like it's second nature for him to get riled up. But as soon as it comes to you, he's like a rock. He never lets your antics reach him. Not even the outrageous sleep sets you'll wear or the innocent cuddling when you're having sleepovers.
It's fun.
But now that he's finally given in, you don't know what to do.
"Go grab your blanket," Iwaizumi murmurs into your ear. It takes a few seconds before you spring into action, shuffling towards your bedroom. You quickly grab it, before checking yourself in your mirror before you head back to the living room.
Your face feels hot, and you fix your hair.
This is Hajime. Your Hajime. The guy you've known since you were fifteen, the guy who used to buy you sodas from the vending machine before class and save you from Oikawa's relentless teasing all the time. The guy you moved in with three years ago when you moved to Tokyo.
Because it's cheaper. And easier. And it's nice to have a friend in the apartment, to rant to and cook dinner with.
The guy you've been flirting with for as long as you can remember. Under the guise that it's friendly. And fun. And that there's definitely nothing more to it.
"Did you fall in there?"
"No!"
You pad back into the living room, blanket wrapped around you. Iwaizumi has already picked a movie. You think it's a comedy, judging by the look of it. He raises a brow at you, and you smile as you make your way back to the couch.
"Hi," you say, and he smiles back, patting his thigh.
"C'mere," he says, echoing your own words from earlier, and you oblige instantly, this time settling with your back against his chest. He lets you get comfortable, and you pull the blanket over you. The movie is already starting, but you're not paying attention.
Not when Iwaizumi smells so good.
"Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?" he asks, and one of his hands finds your hip underneath the blanket, making soothing circles with his thumb.
"I'm not nervous," you protest, and you feel him chuckle beneath you, clearly not believing you.
"Right."
A beat.
"We don't have to do this if you don't want to."
He's giving you an out. A last chance to take it back, to not change your friendship into whatever this is. But even then, you know this has been a long time coming. You'd be an idiot to try to stop it.
"No, I want to," you say.
"We can just watch the movie."
"Hajime."
There's a warning in your tone, telling him not to worry anymore. You feel him relaxing, finally, and he grunts, settling into the couch at last. His hand not on your hip roams your side, before he settles on your tit, squeezing your soft skin.
"Okay, baby."
He flicks your nipple through the fabric of your top, and you gasp, squirming. You feel the bulge beneath your ass, and it makes you a little dizzy to know you have this effect on him.
You try to focus on the movie. A girl is screaming at her roommate, throwing things at her. There's a weird-looking dog. Iwaizumi's hand on your hip dips underneath the waistband of your shorts.
"Proper stretching is important," he says, cupping your pussy over your panties. "To prevent injury."
It makes you giggle, the way he speaks like you're one of his athletes. He keeps playing with your nipple while he thumbs your clit with his other hand, applying dull stimulation. You gasp softly, spreading your legs to give him more access.
You don't need to look behind you to know he's smiling. Especially when he dips his fingers into your underwear, stroking your folds and finding you soaking already. He spreads your arousal over your folds, still not giving you any real relief.
The roommates are in their principal's office. She's telling some other story, something about a real nightmare roomie.
"Did you seriously pick a movie about bad roommates?" you ask, and Iwaizumi presses his lips to your throat, planting a wet kiss there.
"It seemed appropriate."
"Excuse me, I am not a bad room— Oh,"
You're interrupted when he presses a finger inside you, testing the waters. When you melt into his embrace, he adds another finger, slowly working you open. It's easy when you're already so aroused, feeling like you've been ready ever since you saw his reaction to your friends discussing cock warming hours ago.
"You sure?"
"Uh-huh," you answer, too distracted to form proper words. He curls his fingers, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan.
"Not even when you wear these shirts," He pulls your shirt down, as if making a point, exposing your tits to the cold air of your living room. "Constantly one bad move away from flashing me?"
"I'd say that's just philanthropy,"
He laughs, surprised. Moving your hair to the side, he kisses your throat again.
The main character in the movie is at a summer camp now. Desperately trying to make friends and failing.
Iwaizumi adds a third finger, and you squirm, getting used to the pressure. He palms your clit to help you, and you bite your lip. Even through your shorts and the blanket, you can hear the sounds of how wet you are, as he keeps a steady pace.
"Hajime," you gasp, feeling your orgasm already building. Iwaizumi seems to feel it too, with the way your warm walls flutter around his fingers. He removes his fingers from your pussy, bringing them to his mouth and tasting. He hums at the taste.
You watch over your shoulder, mouth agape. He grins, though his cheeks are flushed, betraying his otherwise calm demeanour. He plays with the waistband of your shorts.
"Take these off."
With his help, you shimmy off both your shorts and underwear, leaving you wearing nothing but a tank top and your fuzzy socks. Iwaizumi guides you forward with a hand on your back, so he can pull his cock out of his pants with the other.
You go to look over your shoulder, wanting to see, but he grabs your chin and points you towards the TV instead. The girl in the movie has made a friend now, and they're rooming together.
You hear the slick sounds of him stroking his cock, and then he taps your ass. With a pout, you straddle his legs properly and sit up so he can position himself at your entrance.
He slowly guides you back on his cock, and you whine at the stretch, still watching the movie, despite being unsure what the plot even is. The girl is angry because her roomie is messy, you're pretty sure. Your vision swims, and you find it hard to focus on anything at all.
"Ease up, baby," Iwaizumi bites out, and you try your best to relax as you sink down further.
Iwaizumi is big. Big and thick, and when your ass finally meets the back of his thighs again, it feels like he's in your throat. He makes you lean back, and you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut. He holds you tight by your hips, keeping your squirming to a minimum as you get used to the intrusion.
Finally, you feel like your pussy is getting used to the fullness, and you relax slightly, leaning entirely on his chest. He rubs soothing circles in your hips, resting his head on your shoulder.
"Good girl,"
He laughs when you clench, as he wraps his arms around you. You feel dizzy, warm all over. A light sweat is starting to form on your forehead, and you grip his arm.
The girls in the movie are at a party, all of them wearing a white top and a pair of jeans. Iwaizumi laughs into your ear, deep and warm.
"They look just like one of Mattsun's girlfriends," he states, and you slap his arm.
"Don't talk about Mattsun's girls when your dick is inside of me," you bite back, and he presses down on your stomach in response, making you moan out.
"You have Mattsun's girl to thank for this, don't you?" he teases, and you roll your eyes. When you don't say anything back, he hums, and you both settle into a comfortable silence.
It lasts about five minutes.
The main character is talking a guy, who you think might be her love interest, in a kitchen.
You can't focus.
It's too hard. It feels like all of your nerve endings are on fire, your pussy growing more and more sensitive with each agonising minute that passes.
You want him to move. To fuck you.
Iwaizumi has the patience of a saint. Maybe it's from the years of diligent volleyball practice every day after school, maybe it's from constantly keeping your three other best friends behaviour in check.
Whatever it is, it's certainly going to be your downfall.
He keeps you still in his lap, the only torturous friction you get being when he laughs at the movie. The movie that's really not that funny.
"Haji," you ask, with trembling lips.
When he doesn't reply, you squirm. That makes him take a deep breath, and he squeezes you in warning when you clench down on him.
"It's too much," you complain. Your mind is swimming, eyes going glassy. The only thing you can think about is getting fucked.
Preferably hard.
"You're being so good," he replies. He rocks into you slightly, making you whine. "You can keep being nice for me, right?"
"No," you say, shaking your head.
"This was your idea." Iwaizumi chuckles. His breath feels hot on your throat, only making your mind even fuzzier.
"I changed my mind."
"We can stop if you want to."
The hands on your hips start to push you away.
"No, please, no, no, no,—" you panic, digging your hands into his thighs as you lean back in his lap. The slight friction makes you moan, squeezing your eyes shut.
"But you changed your mind?" he asks. His voice is teasing, but there's a slight strain there.
Looking over your shoulder, you meet his gaze, batting your eyelashes the way that always works with Makki when you want to steal his snacks. Iwaizumi smiles, taking in the pout on your lips, the pretty way your brows furrow.
You look so cute.
So cute, he wants to squeeze you.
"Hajime,"
There's a lilt to your voice, a saccharine sweetness. The one Iwaizumi has always had a weakness for, even if you don't notice it yourself.
"Yeah?" he breathes. He nods, and you nod along, mirroring him.
"We could do something else instead," you say. He feels you clench down again. Your pussy is so hot and wet, it makes him groan. He thinks he'd do anything you asked of him right now.
The movie is long forgotten now. You're unsure if the roommates are still even friends at this point.
"What do you wanna do?" he asks, and when you lean down to kiss him, he moans, leaning into the kiss. He grabs your chin, angling you so he can kiss you better, moaning into your mouth.
The angle is slightly uncomfortable, and you pull away with a pout, like it's somehow Iwaizumi's fault. He groans, head falling back, when you sit up, his cock leaving your warmth with a slick sound.
You turn around so you're facing him, promptly sitting down in his lap again. It makes you both moan again when he reenters your slick heat. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging on the short locks.
"How are you gonna watch the movie now?" Iwaizumi smiles, taking you in. He must admit, it's better this way. When he can see your every expression, the way you're panting slightly. His gaze drops down to where you're connected. The sight makes his jaw slack, and he can't help but bring his thumb down to your clit, circling the bud slowly.
"I'm watching something more fun."
Your voice is whiny, but you're smiling. You grind your hips into his hand, and he feels you clench when the tip of his cock hits somewhere deep inside you.
"Is that so?"
"You're very handsome, Hajime,"
"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Iwaizumi says, breathless. You're gathering speed now, but you're still just grinding against him. It's a sweet kinda torture, the way he can feel your pussy pulsing around him, yet you're barely moving.
"That's not true," you object. You kiss him again, only a peck, letting him chase you. "I tell you nice things all the time."
"You question my patience all the time," he responds. He tangles his hand in your hair, holding you still as he ghosts his lips over yours. Your breaths mingle, and you moan into his mouth.
"Like right now, you mean?" you ask, and he nods, before he kisses you again. Firmly.
It's nice. It's nice to run your fingers through his hair and hear his little groans when you tuck hard enough. It's nice how warm and big his hand is on the back of your head. It's nice to feel the firm and steady pulse of his cock inside of you, lighting up all your sensitive nerve endings.
Iwaizumi is nice.
He's more than nice, but your head feels empty, unable to find another word, filled with nothing but the feeling of Iwaizumi's tongue against your own, as he kisses you silly.
"Fuck me, Haji," you whisper when he pulls away for air, and he chuckles, shaking his head.
"You're the one who wanted to change activities," he replies. "You do it,"
He leans back and pats your thighs. You glare.
"I'm the one who suggested movie night in the first place."
Iwaizumi raises a brow at you.
"Movie night?" he teases. You nod, attempting to be the picture perfect of innocence. "This is your version of movie night?"
He motions to where he's still buried inside of you. Where you're dripping, staining his joggers. Hopefully, you haven't stained the couch. Yet.
"Yes."
"Well, I picked the movie. So it's your turn to pick something now"
Something akin to determination washes over your expression. You put your hands on his chest, and slowly you start going up and down. You moan in unison, and your brow pinches as you start to ride him.
The slick sound fills your living room, and you pant, your thighs already beginning to burn. Iwaizumi notices. Because of course he does.
"Your form is—"
"Do not comment on my form," you cut him off, digging your nails into his chest.
"I was gonna tell you it's good." His eyes drop down to your tits, and the smug look on his face is worse than any comment. It only fuels your fire. You ignore the ache, doubling down as you start to ride him harder. You move your hands up, wrapping them around his neck. You don't press, just keep them there, and his jaw falls slack, eyes going lidded.
"Fuck," he says, nodding. He puts his hand over one of yours, and he moans when you press down lightly on his throat. You feel him twitch inside you, and it makes you smile.
"Haji, you gonna come, ah, just from me choking you?" you tease and, he laughs, voice soft, like he's out of breath.
"I'm gonna come from how good you look bouncing on my cock like that," he replies, without missing a beat, and the admission makes you falter. He whines when your knee slips, and before you can think, his hands are on your hips, guiding you up and down.
He does it like it's nothing, muscles tensing deliciously with each push and pull. You collapse onto his chest, moving your hands to his shoulders. He doesn't seem to take notice, too focused on the way you're clenching around his cock.
It doesn't take long for you to feel your orgasm start to build like that, not when he's hitting all the right spots, while telling you how pretty you look taking him. You barely get to warn him before it creeps up on you, making your toes curl as warm pleasure burns through you.
He moans, voice turning pitchy as he follows right after you, pulling you flush against him as he finishes inside, filling your cunt to the brim. It makes you whimper, and you rest your head on his chest. Your eyelids feel heavy as you both take a few minutes to collect yourselves. You listen to the way Iwaizumi's heartbeat slows as he comes down.
He runs his hands up and down your back, occasionally pressing into sore spots.
"You have a muscle knot here," he eventually says, pressing into a spot right between your shoulder blades. You yelp, twitching in his lap. Cum spills out from your sore pussy, dripping down his balls. "Are you doing the exercises I taught you?"
"Hajime!" you scold, getting off his lap. You grab your panties from somewhere on the floor, putting them on and stomping towards your room. Iwaizumi watches the way the insides of your thighs glisten with his cum.
"I was just asking," he says, putting his still half-hard cock back in his pants as he follows you. "Also, you should really go pee—"
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generally i do not gaf about people purposefully ignoring an "mdni" on writing cause like . i was just a teenager too like i get it it's like a fence in the middle of an open field. but i Do think it's weird to be so brazen about faking your age in the comments of a post talking about it being irritating for writers who don't want you in their space because it makes their online experience more comfortable.
i think if you deliberately go out of your way to disregard and disrespect someone's boundaries you're annoying as fuck. anyway
matsukawa likes an audience, you like being listened to, and iwaizumi really should have hung up. (or— matsukawa answers the phone mid-shift at the pussy eating factory. iwaizumi stays on the line.)
MATSUKAWA ISSEI X FEM!READER ft. IWAIZUMI HAJIME | timeskip, friends with benefits (mattsun and reader use each purely for their bodies), smut, exhibitionism/voyeurism, phone sex, dubious consent in the beginning, third party listening, oral sex f receiving, fingering, vaginal sex, dirty talk, size kink, multiple orgasms, creampie, implied masturbation
word count: 3.7k
hi from marcel: my demons. MY DEMONS. @swordsteel picked iwa so he is here...... title from an mcr lyric (can you guess which ill give you a kiss)
it starts stupidly, like most good things do.
because everything with matsukawa issei starts stupidly.
he is between your thighs, hair mussed from your hands, mouth warm and lazy against you like he’s got nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. which is a lie. he had somewhere to be. he had told the boys he might meet up later, maybe, if he “felt like being social.”
you had known exactly what that meant.
so did he.
so did makki, probably, given the string of texts sitting unread on his lock screen.
you’re already half-melted into the mattress, one knee hooked over his shoulder, fingers twisted in the sheets because issei is being unfair about it. not rushed. not even particularly mean yet. just focused in that loose, maddening way he has, like he’s barely trying and still knows exactly how to make your spine turn to warm water.
his phone starts buzzing on the bed.
you glance over.
iwaizumi.
your stomach flips before issei even lifts his head.
he feels it.
of course he feels it.
his eyes flick up to yours from between your thighs, dark and amused.
“no,” you whisper, already smiling because you are a liar and a freak.
his mouth curves.
the phone keeps buzzing.
issei wipes his thumb slowly over the inside of your thigh, watching your face like he’s waiting for the part where you tell him not to.
you don’t.
so he reaches for his phone.
“issei,” you hiss, but there’s no heat in it. no real warning.
he answers with his mouth still shiny.
“yo.”
you slap both hands over your face.
because unlike makki, iwaizumi doesn’t immediately start laughing.
there’s just... a pause.
then hajime’s voice, low and normal and totally unaware of the crime scene he has stepped into. “you busy?”
issei looks directly at you.
you shake your head at him in horror and delight.
he licks his lips.
“little bit.”
“then why’d you answer?”
“’cause you called. i’m polite, iwa.”
“you sound weird.”
issei hums, and his thumb slides back over you, slow enough to make your legs tense.
you bite down on your knuckle.
“do i?”
another pause.
oh, hajime knows now.
you can hear the exact second he knows. the silence changes shape. gets heavier. more aware.
“... matsukawa.”
“yeah?”
“are you fucking around right now?”
issei’s smile is lazy and lethal.
“technically, my mouth’s occupied.”
you make the worst sound into your hand.
hajime goes dead silent.
not scandalised loud like oikawa. not delighted loud like makki.
silent.
issei’s brows lift like he’s fascinated.
then, with the calm of a man setting down a drink, he taps speaker and lays the phone flat on your stomach.
the cool edge of it makes you twitch.
you choke on a laugh, which turns into a gasp when he slides two fingers back into you, slow and deliberate.
“oh my god,” you breathe.
the phone is right there. resting on your stomach, speaker up, close enough that every little broken sound you make has nowhere to hide.
issei looks too pleased with himself.
“iwa,” he says casually, as if he is not knuckle-deep and watching your hips start to lift. “you still there?”
no answer.
issei’s fingers curl.
your back arches.
“hajime,” issei sings, awful and soft. “don’t be rude.”
“i’m here,” iwaizumi says, voice tight.
there it is.
not hanging up. not telling him to stop. not even pretending hard enough to hate this.
issei’s grin goes slow.
“yeah?” he murmurs. “you wanna be?”
the silence after that is fucking insane.
you stare at issei, wide-eyed, breath catching in little pieces as he keeps touching you. he’s not even going down on you anymore. he’s just watching. sitting between your legs with his cheek against your thigh, fingers moving steadily, gaze flicking between your face and the phone on your stomach like this is some kind of casual group activity.
“i asked you something,” issei says.
hajime exhales through his nose.
“... if she’s okay with it.”
your whole body tenses.
issei’s fingers pause.
not stop, exactly. just slow.
his eyes come to yours, humour gone thin for half a second. the real question underneath it.
you nod.
he waits.
“yeah,” you whisper. “i’m okay with it.”
issei’s smile comes back, softer first.
then worse.
“you hear that?”
“i heard,” hajime says.
his voice sounds different now. lower. rougher around the edges.
god help you.
issei kisses the inside of your knee. “good. then stay quiet if you’re gonna be shy about it.”
“fuck off,” hajime says, but it has no bite.
“mm. that isn’t very nice, hajime.”
you laugh, breathless, and issei rewards it by dragging his fingers just right.
your laugh snaps into a moan.
hajime makes a sound.
tiny. barely there.
but it is a sound.
issei hears it.
of course he does.
“oh?” he says.
“don’t.”
“didn’t say anything.”
“you were about to.”
“i was just thinking.”
“do that privately.”
issei’s fingers slow, and you whine before you can stop yourself.
he looks down at you with mock pity.
“see what you did? distracted me.”
“issei,” you complain.
“yeah, baby?”
he says it so casually. so warm. like he isn’t turning you into a trembling mess with his best friend listening.
“don’t stop.”
iwaizumi’s breath catches audibly.
issei’s eyes darken.
“bossy.”
“you’re being annoying.”
“i’m being generous.” his gaze flicks to the phone. “aren’t i, iwa?”
hajime says nothing.
issei laughs quietly.
“still there?”
“yeah.”
“quiet.”
“yeah.”
“you jerking off, boy scout?”
the silence is immediate and catastrophic.
your eyes go huge.
“issei.”
“what?” he asks, innocent as a knife. “it’s a question.”
hajime’s voice comes back strangled. “you’re a fucking asshole.”
“that wasn’t a no.”
“jesus christ.”
“that wasn’t either.”
you are going to die.
you are actually going to die in this bed because matsukawa issei cannot behave for five consecutive minutes and iwaizumi hajime apparently has a closet pervert streak big enough to qualify as a second apartment.
issei leans down and kisses you, right above where his fingers are still moving.
soft. terrible.
then he speaks, not to you this time.
“she’s so wet,” he says, conversationally. “you should feel this.”
your face burns so hot you think you might pass out.
hajime swears under his breath.
issei watches your reaction like he loves it.
“she likes when i talk about her,” he continues, still lazy, still cruelly calm. “acts embarrassed, but she gets tighter every time.”
you shake your head.
his fingers curl again.
your hips jerk.
“liar,” he murmurs to you.
“i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
“i might.”
“you’d miss me.”
“i’d miss your dick.”
“same thing.”
hajime makes another sound then, partly a laugh, half a curse. like he can’t believe he is hearing this. like he cannot believe he is not hanging up.
issei’s smile sharpens.
“there you go,” he says. “knew you were alive.”
“shut up.”
“nah. iwa, she’s trying so hard not to make noise.”
“don’t drag me into it.”
“you’re on speaker on her stomach. you dragged yourself in.”
“that was you.”
“you could hang up.”
nothing.
issei hums.
“thought so.”
then he lowers his mouth back to you.
and if the fingering was bad, this is worse.
because now he is showing off.
not in a clumsy way. not obvious and exaggerated. issei is too smooth for that, too confident in the exact way that makes him irritating. he just settles back between your thighs and eats you out like he knows hajime is listening to every wet sound, every shaky breath, every broken little syllable of his name you fail to swallow.
your hand flies into his hair.
the phone shifts on your stomach as you arch.
“careful,” issei murmurs against you, and the vibration makes your legs tremble. “don’t drop him.”
“i’m going to kill you,” you gasp.
“after?”
“maybe.”
he laughs into you.
hajime says nothing.
but he is breathing.
that’s the thing that gets you. the quiet on the other end isn’t empty anymore. it’s full of him. tense and controlled and too present. you can imagine him sitting somewhere with his jaw clenched, phone in one hand, the other maybe—
you whimper.
issei’s eyes flick up.
“oh, what was that?”
“shut up.”
“you thinking about him?”
you try to close your thighs, which is a mistake because his shoulders are there and he just spreads you open again.
“don’t hide now.”
“issei.”
“answer.”
your pulse is in your throat. “maybe.”
hajime curses.
issei grins against you.
“cute.”
then he stops talking and gets serious.
which is how you know you’re fucked.
he knows exactly how to pull you apart when he wants to. knows when to tease and when to shut up, when to give you pressure, when to back off just enough that your body chases him. his hands lock around your thighs, his mouth gets precise, and everything narrows down to heat and breath and the weight of the phone rising and falling with your stomach.
you come with hajime listening.
it’s not graceful.
it never is with issei when he’s showing off.
your back arches, one hand in his hair, the other clutching at the sheets, and the sound that leaves you is loud enough that you hear hajime inhale sharply through the speaker. issei doesn’t let up until you’re squirming, thighs trembling against his cheeks, voice breaking around a too-much little sob.
then he lifts his head.
slowly.
mouth wet.
eyes dark.
“good?” he asks.
you nod weakly.
“words.”
“i’m good.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
he pats your thigh once.
“great.”
then he grabs your hips and yanks you down the bed.
you squeal.
actually squeal.
because you’re overstimulated and boneless and he moves you like you weigh nothing, dragging you to the edge so suddenly that the phone nearly slides off your stomach. you catch it with one clumsy hand, laughing breathlessly even while your whole body is still shaking.
on speaker, hajime makes the craziest fucking sound.
not a full moan.
not a word.
just this punched-out, involuntary thing that tells on him so badly the room goes still for half a second.
issei freezes.
then looks at the phone.
then at you.
his smile becomes a war crime.
“iwa.”
“don’t.”
“that was cute.”
“don’t.”
“you liked that?”
“fuck you.”
“i’ll pencil you in.”
you laugh again, helpless, and hajime sounds like he might be suffering psychic damage.
issei stands at the end of the bed.
and yeah.
yeah, you forget how to speak for a second.
because he is tall. tall in that loose, lanky way that hides the sheer size of him until he is standing over you with your hips in his hands and his hair falling into his eyes. he drags you to the very edge, lifts your ass like it’s nothing, adjusts you until your legs are hooked just right.
the angle alone makes your stomach flip.
then he lays his cock over your lower stomach.
just rests there.
heavy and hard and obscene against your skin.
you stare down.
he does too.
“issei,” you breathe.
“i know.”
he loves this.
loves seeing it. loves the visual of how deep he’ll reach, how far up your body he can mark the promise of it before he even gets inside. it makes him smug in the worst way, quiet and satisfied and absolutely aware of what it does to you.
his thumb strokes your hip.
“look at that,” he murmurs.
hajime is dead silent.
issei tilts his head toward the phone.
“wish you were looking, iwa?”
“don’t be mean,” you manage.
“shame. i’m so good at it.”
hajime’s voice is rough when he says, “you’re evil.”
“little bit.”
“more than a little.”
“you’re still here.”
another pause.
then hajime says, very low, “yeah.”
oh.
oh, that gets everyone.
even issei’s expression flickers for a second, amusement giving way to something hotter. he looks down at you, brows raised like, you hearing this?
you nod, dazed.
“yeah,” issei says softly. “he is.”
then he slides into you.
you lose your breath.
fully.
it’s so deep at that angle that your hands fly to his wrists, nails digging in as he holds you up to meet him. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. just a stunned little gasp that cracks at the edges when he bottoms out.
issei’s jaw tightens.
“fuck.”
hajime mutters something under his breath that you don’t catch.
issei catches it.
“what was that?”
“nothing.”
“liar.”
“keep going.”
the words are clipped. controlled. almost angry.
they make you clench so hard issei groans.
“oh, she liked that.”
“stop narrating everything,” hajime says.
“no.”
then he starts moving.
slow at first, because the angle is insane and because you are still sensitive from his mouth. deep, measured thrusts that push the air out of you every time, his hands firm under your ass, lifting you to meet him like he’s using your body exactly how he wants and making sure it ruins you properly.
the phone is still on you, slid down now to stick to the sweaty skin just below your tits.
you can feel the vibration of hajime’s breathing through the case.
it is obscene.
it is ridiculous.
it is so hot you almost can’t stand it.
issei talks through everything.
of course he does.
he tells you how good you feel, how tight, how pretty you look trying to take him like this. tells hajime how your face changes when he gets deep enough. how your thighs shake. how you get louder when you forget to be embarrassed.
and hajime just listens.
quiet.
too quiet.
until issei pushes.
“say something, iwa.”
“no.”
“why not?”
“because you’re already insufferable.”
“she wants to hear you.”
your eyes fly to his.
issei grins.
“you do.”
“i—”
he thrusts deep, and your words scatter.
“see?”
hajime’s voice is rough. “she okay?”
the question punches right through all the heat.
because it’s hajime, of course it is. repressed pervert or not, he still sounds like himself. grounded. careful. checking, even with his voice strained.
you swallow, breathless.
“yeah. i’m okay.”
“you sure?”
“yeah.”
issei’s expression softens for the smallest second.
then he ruins it by saying, “hear that? she’s okay. you can keep jerking off now, boy scout.”
“mattsun,” hajime snaps.
you make a sound that is half laugh, half moan.
issei’s grin comes back full force.
“there we go.”
“you’re going to hell.”
“probably. wanna come with?”
“not answering that.”
you are absolutely dissolving.
every thrust punches up into that deep, impossible place that makes your legs go useless. issei’s hands hold you steady, thumbs digging into the soft of your hips. your head tips back against the mattress, one hand fisted in the sheet, the other pressed weakly over the phone like you can somehow hide the sounds and keep hajime close at the same time.
issei notices.
“don’t cover him.”
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“you’re annoying.”
“you love it.”
“you’re too deep.”
his hips slow immediately.
“too deep bad?”
you shake your head fast.
“no. good. just— fuck!”
“more words.”
“good,” you gasp. “it’s good.”
“yeah?” his voice goes warm and filthy. “you want more?”
you nod.
“say it.”
“more.”
hajime exhales sharply.
issei’s eyes glitter.
“oh, he liked that one.”
“i hate both of you,” you breathe.
“liar.”
then he gives you more.
not faster. deeper. meaner in that careful way that has your body going loose and desperate beneath him. the whole bed shifts with it, rhythm steady, your ass lifted in his hands, his cock hitting so deep that your vision goes blurry.
and then he says it.because he knows exactly when to.
“wanna come for iwa?”
you whine.
“yeah?” he asks, voice low. “wanna come while he jerks off to the sound of you getting fucked like this?”
hajime makes a strangled noise.
“issei.”
“what?”
“you’re— fuck.”
issei laughs, breathless and dark. you nod before you can think better of it.
issei’s gaze snaps back to you.
“please,” you whisper.
his hands tighten.
“please what?”
“make me come.”
“who for?”
you are gone. truly gone. no dignity. no shame. just heat and pressure and hajime’s breathing through the speaker.
“for haji.”
the silence after that is violent.
then hajime groans. low. wrecked. utterly ruined.
issei’s composure almost cracks.
almost.
“fuck,” he mutters. “good girl.”
he shifts one hand, keeping you lifted with the other, and gets his thumb on your clit.
that’s it. that’s the end of you.
the angle, the pressure, the phone, hajime’s barely contained sounds, issei’s voice talking you through it like he has all the time in the world. it all collapses at once.
you come hard enough that your voice breaks. hard enough that your whole body shakes in his hands, hips jerking uselessly as he keeps you exactly where he wants you. issei talks you through the entire thing, filthy and soft, telling you there you go, that’s it, let him hear you, while hajime swears on the other end like he’s trying not to fall apart too loudly.
issei follows not long after.
he holds you tight, thrusts going uneven, head tipping back with a groan that would be embarrassing if he were capable of shame. he comes deep, still standing at the edge of the bed, hands locked around you like he’s anchoring himself through it.
for a few seconds, no one says anything.
you are wrecked.
hajime is silent.
issei is breathing hard, staring down at where he’s still inside you with a lazy, satisfied look that makes you want to kick him if your legs worked.
then hajime says, flat and disbelieving, “are you fucking serious?”
issei doesn’t miss a beat. “nah. her name isn’t serious.”
hajime hangs up. immediately. the room goes dead quiet.
then you burst into exhausted laughter.
issei looks down at the phone, then at you, completely calm.
“rude.”
“you are the worst person alive.”
“he asked.”
“you are insane.”
“yeah.” he finally eases you back onto the bed with surprising gentleness, one hand sliding under your thigh so you don’t jolt too hard. “you good?”
you blink up at him, sweaty and ruined and still trying to recover from the fact that iwaizumi hajime just got dragged into this ecosystem and absolutely did not leave.
“yeah,” you mumble. “i’m good.”
“yeah?”
“mhm.”
“nice.”
he pulls out carefully, and you make a tiny miserable sound because everything is too much now. he kisses your knee like he’s apologising, which is offensive because he is not sorry.
then he grabs his phone.
you squint at him. “what are you doing?”
“checking if he blocked me.”
“did he?”
a pause. “no.”
“coward.”
“right?”
the phone buzzes once in his hand.
issei reads it and smiles.
“what?”
“iwa says he hates me.”
“you deserve it.”
“he also says to never call him again.”
“you answered his call.”
“i’ll remind him later.”
“don’t.”
“i won’t.”
“you absolutely will.”
“probably.”
you groan and cover your face.
issei tosses the phone aside and pats your thigh.
“okay. shower.”
“don’t boss me around after ruining my life.”
“you’re gross.”
your eyes snap open. “it’s your fault.”
“yeah.” he shrugs, shameless. “still gross.”
“i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
“i hate your friends.”
“no, you don’t.”
you stare at him and he grins.
“especially not haji.”
you grab a pillow and throw it at him. he catches it against his chest, laughing, then leans down to kiss your forehead like he has any right to be sweet after all of that.
“come on,” he says. “shower before makki finds out and the group chat becomes unlivable ’cause we left him out.”
a cult classic back from the dead (or— love, dinner, and other things best served warm.)
MIYA OSAMU X GN!READER X SUNA RINTAROU | afab reader, timeskip, established relationship, polyamory, domestic smut, oral sex afab receiving, disinterested reader (bro just wants to play pokemon), exhibitionism/voyeurism (light), food as a love language
word count: 4.1k
hi from marcel: guess who’s baaaaaack :p happy day to those who knew her, happy day to those meeting her now. happy pride month @bowtiepasta i love you
osamu’s keys jingle in the door at a quarter past six.
it’s more signal than sound at this point. the low metallic clatter, the soft scrape of the lock, the door sticking for half a second because the frame swells when it rains. you know the rhythm of him coming home the same way you know the rhythm of his knife on a cutting board, the way he sighs before he complains, the way he always toes his shoes off just slightly crooked no matter how many times he swears he doesn’t.
rintarou doesn’t even pause.
his mouth stays between your thighs, lazy and persistent, tongue moving like he has nowhere else to be and no concept of urgency beyond the one he’s building under your skin. his hands are heavy where they press into your hips, thumbs hooked just beneath the waistband of your underwear where he’s moved them out of his way instead of taking them off properly. one of your knees is bent over the back of the couch. the other foot is planted on the cushion near his ribs, toes curling every time he does something particularly evil.
your switch is balanced on your stomach.
barely.
the pokémon battle music warbles tinny and bright over the slick, messy sounds rintarou keeps making, completely unbothered by the fact that he is, technically, making it impossible for you to win. the screen wobbles every time your stomach jumps. your thumb keeps missing the right button.
“’m home,” osamu calls, voice rough from the day.
his bag hits the counter with a dull thud.
you blink at the game, trying to remember what type match-up you’re in the middle of, and lift one hand in the vaguest possible greeting.
“hi, ‘samu.”
your voice comes out too even. too casual. you’re proud of that for about half a second, until rintarou shifts his mouth and your heel digs hard into the couch.
osamu rounds the corner into the living room still in his work clothes, dark shirt clinging at the shoulders, sleeves shoved up just enough to show the strong line of his forearms. he looks tired in the way he usually does after a day at the shop— shoulders a little low, hair slightly flattened from his cap, expression set into that resting bluntness that makes strangers think he’s annoyed even when he’s just thinking about rice.
then he sees you.
then he sees rin.
and his mouth curves.
not surprised. not scandalised. not even particularly slowed down by it.
just that warm, crooked grin that means he’s home, and the house is exactly as stupid as he left it.
“figures,” he says.
you barely glance away from your switch. “missed you too.”
“didn’t say i didn’t.”
he crosses the floor, stepping around rintarou’s long legs like this is an obstacle he expects to find in his living room. rin’s hair brushes your inner thigh when he turns his head a fraction, acknowledging osamu’s presence with nothing but a pleased hum into you.
your body jolts.
the switch nearly slips.
osamu catches it with one hand before it can slide off your stomach.
“careful,” he says, amused.
“he’s cheating.”
rin’s eyes flick up. slow. bored. shiny-mouthed.
he does not stop.
osamu leans over the back of the couch and kisses you.
it’s easy. familiar. one hand braced on the cushion beside your head, the other still holding your switch safely against your stomach like he’s saving both your dignity and your game. he kisses you like he just got home from work and you’re his favourite part of the apartment. no hesitation, no self-consciousness, no particular concern for the fact that rintarou’s face is still buried between your legs.
you smile into it, breath hitching when rin’s teeth catch just enough to make you twitch.
brat.
osamu pulls back an inch, brows lifting because he feels the gasp against his mouth.
“good day?” you ask, like nothing happened.
he looks down at rin.
rin looks up through his lashes and blinks once, slow as a cat.
osamu snorts. “same old. lunch rush was stupid. atsumu called twice t’complain about rice balls he didn’t even buy.”
“tragic.”
“devastatin’.” osamu’s gaze drags back to you, taking in the switch, your flushed face, the way your thighs keep trying to close around rintarou’s head and rin keeps holding them open. “rin been good t’ya?”
rin hums again, mouth full.
the vibration goes straight through you. you bite the inside of your cheek and whack the top of his head lightly with the edge of your switch.
“define good.”
osamu’s hand settles at the back of rin’s neck.
it’s casual, almost absent. his fingers slip beneath the hair at rintarou’s nape, thumb stroking once over the warm skin there. affectionate. possessive, but not sharp about it. the kind of touch that says he knows exactly where both of you belong.
rin’s shoulders loosen under it.
your stomach flips.
osamu notices that too, because osamu notices everything useful and pretends not to.
“ya eatin’,” he says, fingers tightening slightly at rin’s neck, “or just playin’ with yer food?”
rin lifts his mouth only enough to mutter, “both.”
his breath is hot against you.
you make an undignified sound and glare down at him.
osamu laughs under his breath. “yeah, sounds right.”
then he straightens like the matter is settled and heads toward the kitchen, already unbuttoning his cuffs.
“what d’you two want for dinner? i got chicken thawed. was thinkin’ karaage unless yer both gonna be useless and make me order somethin’.”
“karaage’s good,” you say immediately.
rin’s hand slides up to your stomach, palm pressing there to keep you still when he goes back in with more focus. your hips jump anyway.
“rice?” you add, voice thinning slightly.
osamu opens the fridge. “gotta make a fresh pot.”
“aren’t we out?”
“bought more yesterday.”
“because i reminded you.”
“because ya nagged me.”
“same thing.”
“not even close.”
you grin at the ceiling and try to choose a move in your battle. the screen is a blur of colours and tiny pixel violence. rintarou chooses that exact second to drag his tongue slow and flat, and your thumb hits the wrong command.
“fuck.”
“language,” osamu says automatically, reaching for the ginger.
“i’m losing!”
“to rin or the game?”
“both.”
rin’s laugh is muffled and unbearably smug.
osamu rinses his hands at the sink, then starts moving through the kitchen with the kind of competence that always makes you a little stupid to watch. cutting board dragged down. knife selected. rice measured and washed in a bowl with three quick, practised turns of his wrist. he does everything like his body remembers before his brain has to, like cooking is just another language he speaks when he’s too tired for words.
the apartment fills with small, domestic sounds.
water running.
rice shifting in the pot.
the clean knock of knife against board.
rin’s mouth.
your own breathing, becoming harder to keep level.
that’s the thing that always gets you about the three of you. not the fact that rin is eating you out on the couch while osamu starts dinner ten feet away. it’s the normalcy. the way these things sit beside each other without fighting for space. the way osamu can ask about dinner while rintarou’s tongue makes your thighs tremble. the way rin can be completely indecent and still lean into osamu’s hand like he’s being petted.
it should feel absurd.
it does feel absurd.
it also feels like home.
“spicy mayo or plain?” osamu asks, glancing up from where he’s slicing ginger.
you try to answer.
rintarou, because he is evil, sucks your clit into his mouth at exactly the wrong moment.
your voice catches hard.
“uh—” you swallow, fingers clenching around the switch. “plain. plain’s good.”
rin’s eyes flick up.
he looks pleased with himself.
osamu points the knife in his direction without even looking. “rinnie.”
rin pauses.
barely.
“don’t make ’em useless before i finish cookin’.”
rin lifts his mouth, chin shiny, expression flat. “you gave me twenty minutes.”
“i gave ya a warnin’.”
“sounds like a deadline.”
“sounds like yer gonna get dragged off the couch by yer shirt if ya don’t behave.”
rin’s mouth curves.
you groan. “don’t threaten him with something fun.”
osamu’s laugh is low and easy. “yer both impossible.”
“you love us.”
rin kisses your inner thigh with exaggerated sweetness.
you nudge his forehead with your knee. “don’t start acting cute now.”
“i’m always cute.”
“you’re a parasite.”
“favourite parasite.”
“most expensive parasite maybe,” osamu mutters from the kitchen.
rin looks smug enough that you would kick him if you trusted your legs.
osamu tosses the sliced ginger into a bowl, then starts working on the marinade. soy sauce, sake, a little grated garlic. he eyeballs every measurement because he’s good enough to get away with it. you watch him for a second over the top of your switch, his hair falling forward as he leans over the counter.
“cucumber?” he asks.
“yes.”
“salad or just sliced?”
“just cucumber and vinegar.”
“how d’ya want it?”
“thin,” you say immediately. “not your usual brick chunks.”
osamu pauses with the knife halfway to the board.
slowly, he looks at you.
“brick chunks?”
“you heard me.”
“they’re good chunky. more crunch.”
“they’re better thinner, soaks up the vinegar better than your stupid big chunks.”
rin snorts against your thigh.
you point down at him without looking. “don’t even.”
rin nips you.
you gasp and bap his forehead with two fingers.
“less teeth.”
“you like teeth.”
“i like appropriate teeth.”
“define appropriate.”
“not during menu planning.”
osamu is grinning now, knife moving through cucumber in neat, thin slices just to prove a point. “bossy thing.”
“thank you for listening.”
“didn’t say i was listenin’. just didn’t wanna hear ya complain through dinner.”
“because you love me.”
“because i love quiet.”
rin lifts his head. “wrong person to love, then.”
you kick him gently in the ribs.
he catches your ankle and kisses it before going back down.
it’s unfair how quickly the banter turns into heat again. one second you’re laughing about cucumbers, the next rin’s tongue is flat and unhurried, his lip ring catching just slightly, cool metal dragging over a nerve-bright place that makes your stomach jump under the switch.
your breath breaks.
the pokémon battle music keeps playing.
you lose.
badly.
“no,” you whisper, devastated and breathless.
osamu glances over. “game?”
“rin made me lose.”
rin, mouth still against you, makes a sound that is very clearly not an apology.
you drop the switch onto the cushion beside you before it can become collateral damage. your fingers slide into his hair instead, not sure if you’re pushing him away or pulling him closer. he looks up only long enough to catch his breath, lips slick, eyes half-lidded, expression lazily cocky in the exact way that makes you want to ruin his life.
“need something?” he asks.
his voice is rough.
you thumb his forehead.
“a new boyfriend.”
rin smiles. “which one?”
“you.”
“harsh.”
“less teeth.”
“heard you the first time.”
“then why are you still doing it?”
“because you sound cute when you complain.”
osamu’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “he’s right.”
betrayal.
you turn your head to glare toward the kitchen, but osamu isn’t looking at you. he’s coating chicken in potato starch, expression completely neutral except for the dimple trying to show near the corner of his mouth.
“i’m being bullied.”
“ya started it.”
“i am literally vulnerable.”
“yer playing pokémon while gettin’ head.”
rin laughs again, then shuts you up with his mouth.
the problem with rintarou is that he looks lazy until he decides not to be.
most people mistake the slow blink and slouched posture for a lack of intensity. they see him sprawled on couches, hood up, phone in hand, thumbs moving over a screen, and assume he is half-asleep through life. you know better. osamu knows better. rintarou is lazy only when he doesn’t care.
when he does care, he’s relentless.
and rintarou cares very deeply about getting his mouth on you.
he holds your hips down when you start squirming. he follows every little shift, every attempt to roll away from the pressure once it starts tipping from good into too much. his hands spread wide over your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you there, his tongue slow and precise and mean with knowledge.
“rin,” you breathe.
no response.
“rintarou.”
his eyes flick up.
that’s all.
osamu turns on the burner. oil starts warming in the pan with a low, patient shimmer.
“rin,” he calls, not looking away from the stove. “set the table when yer done.”
rin lifts his head, mouth shiny, hair a mess from your hands. “busy.”
“then stop bein’ busy.”
“no promises.”
“don’t tire ’em out before dinner, asshole.”
rin looks up at you.
you are flushed, thighs trembling, one hand braced on the couch, the other still tangled in his hair like you’re going to personally remove him from your body by force.
his smile goes soft around the edges in a way that somehow makes him look worse.
then he says, “they’re fine.”
you wheeze. “i’m not fine.”
“dramatic.”
you make a half-hearted attempt to shove at his forehead.
he does not move.
at all.
it’s actually offensive.
“rintarou,” you warn, but there’s not enough air in your lungs to make it land.
he hums and doubles down.
the oil pops softly in the kitchen.
osamu makes a thoughtful noise. “y’want lemon too?”
“yes,” you gasp immediately, then swear because rin looks pleased that you managed to answer while falling apart.
“both lemon and mayo?”
“both. please.”
“polite.”
“barely.”
rin’s fingers dig into your hips.
your back arches off the couch.
“rin, holy fuck, i’m gonna come—”
he ignores you.
of course he ignores you.
not because he doesn’t hear. because he hears perfectly and decides that your warning is useful only as encouragement. his mouth gets firmer, less lazy, tongue and lips working with the horrible confidence of someone who knows exactly where you are.
you try to pull him off by his hair.
he groans.
wrong choice.
“oh my god,” you gasp, and the sound comes out almost like a laugh because the whole situation is ridiculous. osamu is frying chicken. the rice cooker clicks into its low hum. you are coming apart on the couch because suna rintarou has decided dinner can wait.
“rin—”
your orgasm hits before you finish saying his name.
it rolls through you hot and heavy, legs locking around his shoulders, fingers tightening hard in his hair. rin holds you through it with both arms around your thighs, mouth still working, slower now but not stopping, not even close enough to stopping. your whole body jolts with oversensitivity.
“wait,” you gasp. “wait, wait—”
he does not wait.
you try again, palm landing on his forehead like you’re playing whack-a-mole with the world’s most stubborn man.
“rintarou, i swear—”
“rinnie.”
osamu’s voice cuts through the room.
not loud.
not harsh.
just firm enough that rintarou finally stops.
he lifts his head with the world’s most offended expression, mouth slick, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes narrowed like osamu has interrupted an important scientific process.
osamu stands in the archway between kitchen and living room, tea towel thrown over one shoulder, arms folded. the smell of frying chicken follows him into the room, rich and warm.
“off,” he says.
rin blinks.
“now.”
rin’s mouth opens.
osamu points at him. “don’t.”
rin closes it.
you laugh weakly, still twitching. “thank you.”
“want ya t’walk, not crawl, to the dinner table,” osamu says, stepping closer.
rin mutters, “crawling is fine.”
“for you, maybe.”
osamu grabs the scruff of rin’s shirt and hauls him back like a misbehaving cat.
rin goes, but not with dignity. never with dignity. his expression is pure petulance, mouth pouty, hair wrecked from your hands. he looks like he’s been dragged away from a meal he personally hunted.
“i wasn’t done.”
you lift one shaking leg and gently press your foot to his shoulder. “i was. i was so done.”
“you came.”
“and then i was done.”
“sounds fake.”
“you’re fake.”
“good one.”
“i’m recovering.”
osamu looks between you both, unimpressed and fond in equal measure. then he hooks a thumb toward the hallway while heading back into the kitchen.
“go wash yer face. and don’t touch anythin’.”
rin stands slowly.
so slowly.
then, instead of going to the bathroom, he wanders directly into the kitchen.
osamu sees him coming and sighs.
“rintarou.”
rin doesn’t answer.
he steps right into osamu’s space, catches him by the front of his shirt, and kisses him.
filthy.
open-mouthed.
absolutely flavoured by you.
osamu scowls into it, but he does not shove him away. his hand comes up automatically to rin’s jaw, fingers pressing there for half a second like he’s either going to push him back or keep him close. it ends up being both.
you watch from the couch, boneless and dazed, thighs still trembling.
your stomach flips all over again.
osamu breaks the kiss first, eyes narrowed, mouth wet.
“yer fuckin’ gross.”
rin’s smile is small and satisfied.
“you like it.”
osamu wipes at his mouth with the back of his wrist, still scowling. “bathroom. now.”
rin pecks him once more, quick and smug, then finally disappears down the hall.
osamu watches him go.
then looks at you.
“don’t encourage him.”
“i literally hit him.”
“he likes that.”
osamu disappears and returns a moment later with a glass of water. he sets it on the coffee table, then crouches in front of you, big hands warm on your knees.
“drink.”
you take it with both hands because you are not entirely sure your fingers work otherwise.
he watches you drink, then reaches down and carefully fixes your underwear back into place. it’s such a practical gesture that it should not make your chest warm, but it does. he smooths the fabric over your hip, then pats you there firmly when you twitch.
like a dad with a dog.
“gonna be okay for dinner?”
you laugh into your glass. “if i can walk.”
“good. yer settin’ the table.”
“i just almost died.”
“and i cooked.”
“rin almost killed me, make him set the table.”
“rin’s gonna wash the dishes if he keeps actin’ up.”
from the bathroom, rin calls, “heard that.”
osamu doesn’t look away from you. “good.”
you smile despite yourself.
his face softens in that small way he rarely announces. his thumb brushes over the outside of your knee, once, then again.
“y’good?” he asks, quieter.
you nod.
“yeah. good.”
his mouth tips into a crooked little smile. “yeah?”
you lean forward and kiss him.
it’s softer than the kiss he gave you when he came home. less casual. more thank you. his hand comes up to the back of your neck, holding you there for one slow breath before he pulls away.
“water,” he reminds you.
“bossy.”
rin comes back with his face clean and his hair damp around the temples, like he has done the bare minimum required of him and expects applause. he flops onto the couch beside you, heavy and boneless, immediately leaning into your side. his phone appears in his hand from nowhere.
you nudge his shoulder.
he nudges back.
you nudge harder.
he looks over, expression blank.
“what?”
“asshole.”
“i just made you come, be appreciative.”
“you were told to stop.”
“eventually.”
you narrow your eyes.
rin’s thumb moves over his phone screen, but his shoulder presses more firmly against yours. apology by weight. it’s one of his languages.
you accept it by putting your leg over his lap and letting him rest his cold hand on your ankle.
osamu returns to the kitchen before the chicken burns, muttering something about living with animals.
dinner is loud in the way your dinners usually are.
not volume, exactly. more texture. oil-crisped karaage piled on a plate in the middle of the table, steam rising from fresh rice, cucumber sliced thin because osamu listens even when he complains. the lemon wedges are arranged too neatly for someone who pretends he doesn’t care about presentation. spicy mayo sits in a small bowl near rin, plain mayo near you, because osamu remembers where both of you reach without having to ask.
rin presses his cold toes against your calf under the table.
you kick him.
he does it again.
osamu, without looking up from his bowl, says, “feet to yerself.”
rin says, “wasn’t me.”
“ya got the toes of a corpse. i know it was you.”
you nearly choke on your rice.
rin’s mouth twitches.
osamu slides you a piece of chicken from the plate, one of the crispier ones, without saying anything. then a second piece. your favourite kind. golden at the edges, still steaming. he does it automatically, like feeding you is part of his own meal.
you glance at him.
he doesn’t look up.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“eat.”
rin leans closer, stage-whispering, “he loves you.”
“i know.”
osamu points his chopsticks at rin. “i love quiet too. never get that.”
“you’d be bored.”
“wouldn’t know. never tried it.”
rin steals cucumber from your plate.
you steal chicken from his.
osamu steals both from the serving plate and pretends not to see any of it.
by the time dinner is done, your body has settled into that warm, loose ache of being fed after being wrecked. rin is slouched so low in his chair he might become liquid. osamu is stacking plates with the long-suffering air of a man who claims he does all the work and secretly prefers it that way.
“i’ll wash,” you say.
osamu looks at you. “ya sure yer legs work?”
“mostly.”
rin’s eyes flick to your thighs.
you point at him. “don’t.”
“didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
“face is innocent.”
“face is irritating me.”
osamu snorts.
you do the dishes because osamu cooked, and because the apartment feels best like this: rin sprawled in the living room with his phone, osamu moving around behind you putting leftovers away, your hands in warm soapy water, rice cooker still clicking as it cools.
halfway through rinsing a bowl, osamu comes up behind you.
not quietly. never that quietly. you know his steps, feel him before he touches you. still, your breath catches when his body presses along your back, broad and warm, his hands settling on either side of the sink to cage you in without trapping you.
his chin dips near your shoulder.
“ya not tired out yet?”
your eyes close for a second.
behind you, he smells like oil and ginger and clean sweat. like the shop. like home. his voice sits low against your ear, easy enough to pass as teasing if you want it to.
you don’t.
you shake your head, leaning back into him with a soft, contented sigh.
“not yet.”
from the living room, without missing a beat, rin calls, “will be.”
osamu laughs against your shoulder.
low.
promising.
your hands pause in the dishwater.
rin appears in the doorway, phone hanging loose from one hand, eyes half-lidded and bright with the kind of interest that means he has absolutely recovered his energy and learned nothing from being hauled away earlier.
osamu’s mouth brushes the side of your neck.
“finish the dishes,” he says.
“bossy,” you whisper.
“ya like bossy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.
rin leans against the doorframe.
“i’ll dry.”
you and osamu both look at him.
rin blinks.
“what?”
“you?” osamu says.
“dry?”
“suspicious.”
rin shrugs. “want them done faster.”
you laugh, warmth sliding low in your stomach all over again.
katsuki has spent months lying about bruises, broken windows, and web fluid in the laundry. unfortunately for him, the suit looks good enough that forgiveness might have to wait until morning. (or— spider-man is sleeping on the couch, but first you make him model the suit.)
SPIDER-MAN!BAKUGOU KATSUKI X FEM!READER | spider-man au, established relationship, kidfic (kind of), dad!bakugou, post secret identity reveal, domestic fluff, light angst, katsuki is a liar but he is trying, suggestive, sexual tension, objectification as a love language, implied breeding kink (they talk abt making another one).
word count: 3.2k
hi from marcel: hi um please accept this humble offering sorry for being a fucking deadbeat omg
you wait until aiya has been asleep for twenty-seven minutes.
not twenty. not fifteen. twenty-seven, because fifteen is still a gamble and twenty is when she likes to trick you into thinking she’s down properly before making one offended little noise through the baby monitor and dragging you both back into the nursery like tiny, gummy royalty.
the apartment is dim after that. not silent, because nowhere with a baby is ever silent anymore. there’s the low hum of the monitor on your nightstand, the occasional shift of the washing machine somewhere down the hall, the distant traffic sliding wet over the street outside. katsuki’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, hair flattened from the shower in a way that makes him look younger and grumpier than he has any right to.
you’re sitting on the bed, cross-legged, watching him through the open door.
he catches your eye in the mirror and immediately narrows his.
toothbrush still in his mouth, he says, “what.”
you smile.
his suspicion doubles. “don’t smile like that.”
“like what?”
“like you’re about to ask for some weird shit.”
“put the suit on.”
he stops brushing.
you can actually see the words register. they move across his face in stages: confusion, disbelief, offense, and then the horrible, dawning realization that you are dead serious.
he spits into the sink. “no.”
“you didn't even think about it.”
“you said put the suit on.”
“yeah.”
“so, no.”
“katsuki.”
“absolutely fuckin’ not.”
you tilt your head at him, still smiling sweetly, and it is cheap. it is shameless. it works anyway, because his shoulders tense like he’s bracing himself for impact.
“baby,” you say.
he points the toothbrush at you. “don’t.”
“i just want to see it.”
“you’ve seen it.”
“not on purpose.”
“you saw it yesterday.”
“you were bleeding yesterday.”
“yeah, and?”
“and i was busy being mad.”
“you’re always busy bein’ mad lately.”
“because you’re spider-man.”
“keep your voice down,” he hisses, glancing toward the hallway like aiya— in her six month old glory— is going to rise from her crib and report him to the authorities.
you grin wider. “put the suit on.”
“why?”
you blink at him.
he stares back.
a second passes.
another.
then his mouth drops open just slightly, like he has finally, belatedly, realised that the woman who had his child is, in fact, still capable of wanting him so badly it becomes everyone’s problem.
“no,” he says again, weaker this time.
“yes.”
“it’s not—” he drags a hand down his face. “it’s not for that.”
“i know.”
“it’s work gear.”
“i know.”
“it’s dirty.”
“is it dirty right now?”
“no.”
“then put it on.”
“you’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”
“please?”
he groans like you’ve asked him to jump into traffic. which is rich, honestly, considering his usual hobby.
but he goes.
because he is impossible and stubborn and a liar and currently still on thin ice with you, but he is also whipped down to the marrow. you hear him open the narrow cupboard in the hallway. the quiet scrape of the false back he thought you didn’t notice after you found out. a zipper. fabric. muttering.
“stupid,” he says from the hall.
“love you.”
you settle back against the pillows, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh too loudly and wake the baby. the monitor crackles once, just static, and both of you freeze out of habit.
nothing.
then katsuki appears in the doorway.
and you forget every single thing you were about to say.
because it is one thing to know.
it is another thing entirely to see him standing there in your bedroom, mask off, hair a mess from tugging it on, the suit sealed up to his throat and clinging to every brutal, familiar line of him.
it’s not shiny. not exactly. more matte, more practical, dark red and black with webbing worked into the fabric, reinforced at the shoulders and ribs. there are seams you never would’ve noticed on the news. small armored panels along his forearms. the faint outline of hidden web cartridges at his wrists. a tear near his thigh that’s been repaired messily by hand, probably his, because he never lets anyone touch his things unless they’re you or aiya, and even then he complains the whole time.
your eyes drop.
his hands immediately move in front of his crotch.
“nope.”
you blink back up at him. “what are you doing?”
“what’re you doin’?”
“looking.”
“yeah. stop.”
“no.”
“baby.”
“move your hands, boy.”
his face goes red so fast it’s actually beautiful.
“fuck off.”
“katsuki.”
“no.”
you sit up straighter, interest sharpening. “are you embarrassed?”
“i’m annoyed.”
“you’re covering yourself.”
“because you’re lookin’ at me like that!”
“like i love you?”
“like you wanna eat me.”
“also love.”
“not helpin’.”
you crawl to the edge of the bed on your knees, and his gaze dips before he can stop it. you’re only in one of his old shirts and underwear, hair still loose from your shower, skin warm from the lamp beside the bed. you know exactly what you look like. you know he knows. he swallows like he hates that you know.
“turn around,” you say.
“jesus christ.”
“turn.”
“no.”
“i had your baby.”
he glares. “you can’t use that for everythin’.”
“watch me.”
“that’s manipulation.”
“that’s motherhood.”
he shuts his eyes for a second, jaw working, then turns around with the stiff, humiliated dignity of a man being led to execution.
you make a sound.
you really don’t mean to.
it’s small. barely anything. just a little breath punched out of you because the suit is tight over his back and tighter over his thighs, and his ass is, frankly, a public safety hazard.
his head snaps around. “don’t.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you made a noise.”
“i have lungs.”
“you have problems.”
“yes. one of them is standing in my room dressed like japan’s sluttiest arachnid.”
he turns back so fast you almost laugh. “never say that again.”
“spider-suki.”
“no.”
“spider-man.”
“no.”
“daddy long legs.”
“fuck no.”
he’s trying so hard to be irritated that it wraps all the way around into adorable. his hands are back in front of himself, shoulders hunched, mouth in that pout he pretends is a scowl. and the worst part is, you know him too well. you can see the exact second embarrassment gives way to want. the way his breathing changes. the way his eyes keep catching on your mouth. the way he shifts his weight like he thinks it’ll hide what the suit is already starting to make painfully obvious.
you smile.
his eyes narrow. “don’t.”
“move your hands.”
“no.”
“let me see.”
“it looks stupid.”
“i’ll be the judge of that.”
“i don’t usually have a fuckin’ boner in the suit.”
“i’m not laughing.”
you press your lips together.
he points at you immediately. “don’t laugh.”
“you are. i should web your mouth shut.”
you light up. “can you?”
“wrong thing to say to you. forget i said it.”
“move your hands.”
“you’re evil.”
“yeah.”
he does.
not all at once. not confidently. he drags his hands away like he’s physically suffering for it, eyes cutting to the ceiling, cheeks red, mouth pulled into a miserable little line.
and you look.
because of course you do.
because that is your boyfriend. the father of your child. the man who washes bottles at two in the morning and warms your cold hands under his shirt and comes home bruised and lies badly and loves you so hard he almost ruins it trying to keep you safe.
and he is standing in front of you in a suit that leaves very little to the imagination.
your throat goes dry.
“oh,” you say softly.
he groans. “see? stupid.”
“not the word i was going to use.”
“don’t get poetic about my dick. i will leave.”
“no, you won’t.”
he doesn’t.
you reach for him, and he comes closer immediately, helpless as gravity. one step. then another. until he’s standing between your knees at the edge of the bed, still tense, still trying to hold on to the last scraps of dignity while you run your fingers over his waist.
the material is warm from his body.
that surprises you.
you thought it would feel colder. more removed from him somehow. like a costume. like a wall between what he does out there and what he is in here.
but it isn’t.
under your hands, it’s just katsuki.
your katsuki.
the hard plane of his stomach under your palm. the hitch in his breath when your fingers press into the seam at his hip. the little twitch in his jaw when you look up at him through your lashes.
“i should’ve known,” you murmur.
the teasing leaves his face. “what?”
you slide both hands around him, palms flattening against his back, feeling him stiffen at the tenderness of it. “i know your body too well.”
his gaze drops to you.
you trace one of the repaired seams near his ribs. “this one. you came home with a bruise here and told me you fell at the gym.”
“i did fall.”
“off a building?”
he says nothing. you touch his shoulder. “and here. you said you pulled something boxing.”
“kind of did.”
“fighting crime is not boxing.”
“close enough.”
“you’re so stupid.”
his mouth softens. “yeah.”
“and i’m still mad.”
“i know.”
“furious, actually.”
“i know.”
“but also...” your fingers hook into the suit at his waist. “you look really good.”
his eyes flick away like he can’t bear that.
which is absurd, because katsuki is not shy. he is loud in every room he enters. he argues with microwaves. he threatens furniture when he stubs his toe. he walks around shirtless in summer like he was built specifically to ruin your life and feels smug when he catches you looking.
but this is different.
this is the secret part of him.
this is the body you know wrapped in the life he hid.
so when your hands keep moving, slower now, reverent despite yourself, his mouth opens on a breath that doesn’t become words.
“baby,” he says eventually, very low.
“hm?”
“you gotta stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“why?”
“because i’m tryin’ to be good.”
the room seems to shrink around you.
the baby monitor hums on the nightstand. somewhere outside, a car passes over wet pavement. the whole city keeps moving, completely unaware that spider-man is standing in your bedroom, asking for mercy from the mother of his child.
you lean forward and press your mouth to his stomach through the suit.
his hand flies to the back of your head.
not pushing. not holding you there.
just touching. like he has to anchor himself to you by touch alone.
“fuck,” he whispers.
you look up. “take it off.”
his thumb drags once over your hair. “thought you wanted it on.”
“i wanted to look.”
“yeah?”
“now i’m done looking.”
that does it.
something in him changes. not loud. not sudden. just a shift, like a lock turning.
his hand slides from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up. his eyes are dark and soft and still a little scared around the edges, because this is new. not you wanting him. not him wanting you. that part is old as breathing.
this is you wanting all of him now that you know.
the liar. the hero. the idiot on the couch. the man in the suit. the father who catches aiya before she falls, sometimes before she even starts to tip.
“say it proper,” he murmurs.
you smile. “i want you.”
he kisses you.
it is not gentle for long. it starts that way, maybe. a brush, a question, his mouth warm and mint-clean from the bathroom. but then your fingers pull at the sealed edge of the suit and his control snaps with an almost audible thing, his hand bracing on the mattress beside your thigh, the other cupping your face as he bends over you.
you pull him closer until he has to climb onto the bed, one knee sinking into the sheets, the suit creaking softly with the movement.
“zipper’s in the back.”
then he stops.
you blink up at him. “what?”
you stare.
he stares back, already humiliated. then you burst into the quietest, most violent laugh of your life.
“don’t,” he hisses.
you clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking.
“it’s not funny.”
“spider-man can’t get naked.”
“i can get naked.”
“not alone, apparently.”
“it’s a security design.”
“you need mommy to unzip you?”
his eyes flash. “careful.”
your laugh cuts off into something else.
he notices. of course he notices. his head tilts, just a little, interest sharpening like a blade.
“oh?” he says.
“shut up.”
“that do somethin’ for you?”
“you’re literally stuck in your superhero onesie.”
“and you’re still wet about it.”
you kick at him. he catches your ankle easily, grinning now, finally getting some of his footing back.
“turn around.”
“bossy.”
“turn around before aiya wakes up and ruins your life.”
that gets him moving.
he sits on the edge of the bed with his back to you, and you kneel behind him. the suit is even better up close, which is unfair. there are tiny scratches in the black patterning, a place near the nape that’s been torn and resewn, the faint smell of clean fabric and him. you find the hidden zipper between his shoulder blades and drag it down slowly.
too slowly, apparently, because his head drops forward.
“baby.”
“what?”
“don’t tease.”
you press a kiss to the back of his neck.
he goes quiet.
for all his strength, he is so easy there. so vulnerable when you touch the places he cannot watch you touch. your mouth at his neck, your hands on his shoulders, peeling the suit down inch by inch until his skin is bare under your palms.
you stop at the edge of a bruise blooming yellow near his ribs.
your chest tightens.
“katsuki.”
“old one.”
“how old?”
“couple days.”
“you didn’t tell me.”
“didn’t tell you a lotta shit.”
“that is not charming honesty.”
“wasn’t tryin’ to be.”
you kiss the bruise anyway. soft. once.
his breath catches.
“you’re still on the couch after this,” you whisper against his skin.
he huffs. “figured.”
“for a week.”
“three days.”
“five.”
“four.”
“six for negotiating.”
he turns his head, glaring over his shoulder. “that’s not how that works.”
“it is in my house.”
“our house.”
“my house until i forgive you.”
his mouth twitches. “mean ass woman.”
“lying ass spider.”
he twists suddenly, pulling you forward with one arm, and you squeak before remembering to be quiet. the two of you freeze, eyes shooting to the baby monitor.
static. nothing else.
katsuki whispers, “you’re gonna wake her up.”
“you just manhandled me.”
“me?”
“yeah, you.”
“quietly.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“you love me.”
“maybe a little.”
he kisses you again, smiling into it this time, and the suit gets lost somewhere around his waist, then his thighs, then the floor. there’s a clumsy, stifled struggle with one ankle that nearly makes you laugh again until he bites your shoulder through his own shirt and mutters, “one sound and i’m puttin’ it back on.”
“threatening me with a good time.”
“you’re insane.”
“you knew that before.”
“knew it before i knocked you up, too.”
heat blooms low in your stomach. his eyes catch it.
your hand tightens around his bicep. “should do it again.”
for a second, the whole room goes still.
not because he doesn’t understand.
because he does.
because aiya is asleep down the hall, and your body remembers her. the ache, the weight, the long nights, the softness of her head under your chin, the impossible terror of loving something that small. it remembers katsuki kneeling beside the bed with a newborn tucked against his bare chest, whispering promises to both of you like he could scare the world into behaving if he growled hard enough.
his hand spreads over your stomach.
careful. reverent.
“yeah?” he says, voice rough.
you nod.
he bends until his forehead rests against yours. “you sure?”
“i’m sure.”
“not just because you’re freakin’ out over the suit?”
“that is a factor.”
he snorts.
you smile, sliding your arms around his neck. “but no. not just that.”
his thumb strokes once, slow, over your stomach.
“aiya’s gonna be pissed.”
“aiya’s six months old.”
“she’s possessive.”
“she gets that from you.”
“damn right.”
you kiss him before he can say anything else stupid, and he follows you down into the bed with an instinct that feels older than the secret, older than the suit, older than the hurt still waiting for both of you in the morning.
for now, he is warm and heavy over you, bare skin against bare skin, one hand braced carefully near your head like he still thinks he might crush you after all these years. you pull him closer anyway. you always do.
“couch tomorrow,” you whisper against his mouth.
“yeah, yeah.”
“and we’re still talking.”
“yeah.”
“and you’re teaching me how the web thingy works.”
“absolutely not.”
“katsuki.”
“fine.”
“and i’m putting the suit on once.”
his head lifts.
you blink innocently.
“no,” he says.
“yes.”
“no.”
“it’s only fair.”
“you wearin’ that suit is how we end up with an army of brats.”
you gasp. “so you agree.”
“i agree you’re awful.”
the baby monitor crackles.
both of you freeze again, half tangled, half laughing, entirely caught.
aiya sighs.
katsuki lowers his forehead to your shoulder in silent, desperate prayer.
you bite your lip so hard you almost hurt yourself.
after a long moment, he whispers, “still asleep.”
“spider-sense?”
“dad sense.”
you soften before you can stop yourself. he feels it. lifts his head. the grin is gone now, replaced with something quieter. something open and tired and so painfully full of love that you almost hate him for making you feel it while you’re still furious.
“i’m sorry,” he says.
no defence. no excuse.
just that.you touch his cheek.
“i know.”
“i’ll tell you everythin’.”
“you better.”
“everythin’.”
you hold him there, fingers sliding into his hair, the city outside wet and glowing and alive around you. somewhere in it, there are rooftops he knows better than streets. alleys where he has bled alone. people he has saved without you knowing. versions of him you are only just beginning to meet.
but this version is yours.
in your bed. in your arms. warm, embarrassed, breathing hard against your throat.
“katsuki?”
“hm?”
“make another baby with me.”
he goes still for one heartbeat.
then his mouth finds yours again, and this time there is nothing funny about it.
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katsuki has spent months lying about bruises, broken windows, and web fluid in the laundry. unfortunately for him, the suit looks good enough that forgiveness might have to wait until morning. (or— spider-man is sleeping on the couch, but first you make him model the suit.)
SPIDER-MAN!BAKUGOU KATSUKI X FEM!READER | spider-man au, established relationship, kidfic (kind of), dad!bakugou, post secret identity reveal, domestic fluff, light angst, katsuki is a liar but he is trying, suggestive, sexual tension, objectification as a love language, implied breeding kink (they talk abt making another one).
word count: 3.2k
hi from marcel: hi um please accept this humble offering sorry for being a fucking deadbeat omg
you wait until aiya has been asleep for twenty-seven minutes.
not twenty. not fifteen. twenty-seven, because fifteen is still a gamble and twenty is when she likes to trick you into thinking she’s down properly before making one offended little noise through the baby monitor and dragging you both back into the nursery like tiny, gummy royalty.
the apartment is dim after that. not silent, because nowhere with a baby is ever silent anymore. there’s the low hum of the monitor on your nightstand, the occasional shift of the washing machine somewhere down the hall, the distant traffic sliding wet over the street outside. katsuki’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, hair flattened from the shower in a way that makes him look younger and grumpier than he has any right to.
you’re sitting on the bed, cross-legged, watching him through the open door.
he catches your eye in the mirror and immediately narrows his.
toothbrush still in his mouth, he says, “what.”
you smile.
his suspicion doubles. “don’t smile like that.”
“like what?”
“like you’re about to ask for some weird shit.”
“put the suit on.”
he stops brushing.
you can actually see the words register. they move across his face in stages: confusion, disbelief, offense, and then the horrible, dawning realization that you are dead serious.
he spits into the sink. “no.”
“you didn't even think about it.”
“you said put the suit on.”
“yeah.”
“so, no.”
“katsuki.”
“absolutely fuckin’ not.”
you tilt your head at him, still smiling sweetly, and it is cheap. it is shameless. it works anyway, because his shoulders tense like he’s bracing himself for impact.
“baby,” you say.
he points the toothbrush at you. “don’t.”
“i just want to see it.”
“you’ve seen it.”
“not on purpose.”
“you saw it yesterday.”
“you were bleeding yesterday.”
“yeah, and?”
“and i was busy being mad.”
“you’re always busy bein’ mad lately.”
“because you’re spider-man.”
“keep your voice down,” he hisses, glancing toward the hallway like aiya— in her six month old glory— is going to rise from her crib and report him to the authorities.
you grin wider. “put the suit on.”
“why?”
you blink at him.
he stares back.
a second passes.
another.
then his mouth drops open just slightly, like he has finally, belatedly, realised that the woman who had his child is, in fact, still capable of wanting him so badly it becomes everyone’s problem.
“no,” he says again, weaker this time.
“yes.”
“it’s not—” he drags a hand down his face. “it’s not for that.”
“i know.”
“it’s work gear.”
“i know.”
“it’s dirty.”
“is it dirty right now?”
“no.”
“then put it on.”
“you’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”
“please?”
he groans like you’ve asked him to jump into traffic. which is rich, honestly, considering his usual hobby.
but he goes.
because he is impossible and stubborn and a liar and currently still on thin ice with you, but he is also whipped down to the marrow. you hear him open the narrow cupboard in the hallway. the quiet scrape of the false back he thought you didn’t notice after you found out. a zipper. fabric. muttering.
“stupid,” he says from the hall.
“love you.”
you settle back against the pillows, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh too loudly and wake the baby. the monitor crackles once, just static, and both of you freeze out of habit.
nothing.
then katsuki appears in the doorway.
and you forget every single thing you were about to say.
because it is one thing to know.
it is another thing entirely to see him standing there in your bedroom, mask off, hair a mess from tugging it on, the suit sealed up to his throat and clinging to every brutal, familiar line of him.
it’s not shiny. not exactly. more matte, more practical, dark red and black with webbing worked into the fabric, reinforced at the shoulders and ribs. there are seams you never would’ve noticed on the news. small armored panels along his forearms. the faint outline of hidden web cartridges at his wrists. a tear near his thigh that’s been repaired messily by hand, probably his, because he never lets anyone touch his things unless they’re you or aiya, and even then he complains the whole time.
your eyes drop.
his hands immediately move in front of his crotch.
“nope.”
you blink back up at him. “what are you doing?”
“what’re you doin’?”
“looking.”
“yeah. stop.”
“no.”
“baby.”
“move your hands, boy.”
his face goes red so fast it’s actually beautiful.
“fuck off.”
“katsuki.”
“no.”
you sit up straighter, interest sharpening. “are you embarrassed?”
“i’m annoyed.”
“you’re covering yourself.”
“because you’re lookin’ at me like that!”
“like i love you?”
“like you wanna eat me.”
“also love.”
“not helpin’.”
you crawl to the edge of the bed on your knees, and his gaze dips before he can stop it. you’re only in one of his old shirts and underwear, hair still loose from your shower, skin warm from the lamp beside the bed. you know exactly what you look like. you know he knows. he swallows like he hates that you know.
“turn around,” you say.
“jesus christ.”
“turn.”
“no.”
“i had your baby.”
he glares. “you can’t use that for everythin’.”
“watch me.”
“that’s manipulation.”
“that’s motherhood.”
he shuts his eyes for a second, jaw working, then turns around with the stiff, humiliated dignity of a man being led to execution.
you make a sound.
you really don’t mean to.
it’s small. barely anything. just a little breath punched out of you because the suit is tight over his back and tighter over his thighs, and his ass is, frankly, a public safety hazard.
his head snaps around. “don’t.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you made a noise.”
“i have lungs.”
“you have problems.”
“yes. one of them is standing in my room dressed like japan’s sluttiest arachnid.”
he turns back so fast you almost laugh. “never say that again.”
“spider-suki.”
“no.”
“spider-man.”
“no.”
“daddy long legs.”
“fuck no.”
he’s trying so hard to be irritated that it wraps all the way around into adorable. his hands are back in front of himself, shoulders hunched, mouth in that pout he pretends is a scowl. and the worst part is, you know him too well. you can see the exact second embarrassment gives way to want. the way his breathing changes. the way his eyes keep catching on your mouth. the way he shifts his weight like he thinks it’ll hide what the suit is already starting to make painfully obvious.
you smile.
his eyes narrow. “don’t.”
“move your hands.”
“no.”
“let me see.”
“it looks stupid.”
“i’ll be the judge of that.”
“i don’t usually have a fuckin’ boner in the suit.”
“i’m not laughing.”
you press your lips together.
he points at you immediately. “don’t laugh.”
“you are. i should web your mouth shut.”
you light up. “can you?”
“wrong thing to say to you. forget i said it.”
“move your hands.”
“you’re evil.”
“yeah.”
he does.
not all at once. not confidently. he drags his hands away like he’s physically suffering for it, eyes cutting to the ceiling, cheeks red, mouth pulled into a miserable little line.
and you look.
because of course you do.
because that is your boyfriend. the father of your child. the man who washes bottles at two in the morning and warms your cold hands under his shirt and comes home bruised and lies badly and loves you so hard he almost ruins it trying to keep you safe.
and he is standing in front of you in a suit that leaves very little to the imagination.
your throat goes dry.
“oh,” you say softly.
he groans. “see? stupid.”
“not the word i was going to use.”
“don’t get poetic about my dick. i will leave.”
“no, you won’t.”
he doesn’t.
you reach for him, and he comes closer immediately, helpless as gravity. one step. then another. until he’s standing between your knees at the edge of the bed, still tense, still trying to hold on to the last scraps of dignity while you run your fingers over his waist.
the material is warm from his body.
that surprises you.
you thought it would feel colder. more removed from him somehow. like a costume. like a wall between what he does out there and what he is in here.
but it isn’t.
under your hands, it’s just katsuki.
your katsuki.
the hard plane of his stomach under your palm. the hitch in his breath when your fingers press into the seam at his hip. the little twitch in his jaw when you look up at him through your lashes.
“i should’ve known,” you murmur.
the teasing leaves his face. “what?”
you slide both hands around him, palms flattening against his back, feeling him stiffen at the tenderness of it. “i know your body too well.”
his gaze drops to you.
you trace one of the repaired seams near his ribs. “this one. you came home with a bruise here and told me you fell at the gym.”
“i did fall.”
“off a building?”
he says nothing. you touch his shoulder. “and here. you said you pulled something boxing.”
“kind of did.”
“fighting crime is not boxing.”
“close enough.”
“you’re so stupid.”
his mouth softens. “yeah.”
“and i’m still mad.”
“i know.”
“furious, actually.”
“i know.”
“but also...” your fingers hook into the suit at his waist. “you look really good.”
his eyes flick away like he can’t bear that.
which is absurd, because katsuki is not shy. he is loud in every room he enters. he argues with microwaves. he threatens furniture when he stubs his toe. he walks around shirtless in summer like he was built specifically to ruin your life and feels smug when he catches you looking.
but this is different.
this is the secret part of him.
this is the body you know wrapped in the life he hid.
so when your hands keep moving, slower now, reverent despite yourself, his mouth opens on a breath that doesn’t become words.
“baby,” he says eventually, very low.
“hm?”
“you gotta stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“why?”
“because i’m tryin’ to be good.”
the room seems to shrink around you.
the baby monitor hums on the nightstand. somewhere outside, a car passes over wet pavement. the whole city keeps moving, completely unaware that spider-man is standing in your bedroom, asking for mercy from the mother of his child.
you lean forward and press your mouth to his stomach through the suit.
his hand flies to the back of your head.
not pushing. not holding you there.
just touching. like he has to anchor himself to you by touch alone.
“fuck,” he whispers.
you look up. “take it off.”
his thumb drags once over your hair. “thought you wanted it on.”
“i wanted to look.”
“yeah?”
“now i’m done looking.”
that does it.
something in him changes. not loud. not sudden. just a shift, like a lock turning.
his hand slides from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up. his eyes are dark and soft and still a little scared around the edges, because this is new. not you wanting him. not him wanting you. that part is old as breathing.
this is you wanting all of him now that you know.
the liar. the hero. the idiot on the couch. the man in the suit. the father who catches aiya before she falls, sometimes before she even starts to tip.
“say it proper,” he murmurs.
you smile. “i want you.”
he kisses you.
it is not gentle for long. it starts that way, maybe. a brush, a question, his mouth warm and mint-clean from the bathroom. but then your fingers pull at the sealed edge of the suit and his control snaps with an almost audible thing, his hand bracing on the mattress beside your thigh, the other cupping your face as he bends over you.
you pull him closer until he has to climb onto the bed, one knee sinking into the sheets, the suit creaking softly with the movement.
“zipper’s in the back.”
then he stops.
you blink up at him. “what?”
you stare.
he stares back, already humiliated. then you burst into the quietest, most violent laugh of your life.
“don’t,” he hisses.
you clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking.
“it’s not funny.”
“spider-man can’t get naked.”
“i can get naked.”
“not alone, apparently.”
“it’s a security design.”
“you need mommy to unzip you?”
his eyes flash. “careful.”
your laugh cuts off into something else.
he notices. of course he notices. his head tilts, just a little, interest sharpening like a blade.
“oh?” he says.
“shut up.”
“that do somethin’ for you?”
“you’re literally stuck in your superhero onesie.”
“and you’re still wet about it.”
you kick at him. he catches your ankle easily, grinning now, finally getting some of his footing back.
“turn around.”
“bossy.”
“turn around before aiya wakes up and ruins your life.”
that gets him moving.
he sits on the edge of the bed with his back to you, and you kneel behind him. the suit is even better up close, which is unfair. there are tiny scratches in the black patterning, a place near the nape that’s been torn and resewn, the faint smell of clean fabric and him. you find the hidden zipper between his shoulder blades and drag it down slowly.
too slowly, apparently, because his head drops forward.
“baby.”
“what?”
“don’t tease.”
you press a kiss to the back of his neck.
he goes quiet.
for all his strength, he is so easy there. so vulnerable when you touch the places he cannot watch you touch. your mouth at his neck, your hands on his shoulders, peeling the suit down inch by inch until his skin is bare under your palms.
you stop at the edge of a bruise blooming yellow near his ribs.
your chest tightens.
“katsuki.”
“old one.”
“how old?”
“couple days.”
“you didn’t tell me.”
“didn’t tell you a lotta shit.”
“that is not charming honesty.”
“wasn’t tryin’ to be.”
you kiss the bruise anyway. soft. once.
his breath catches.
“you’re still on the couch after this,” you whisper against his skin.
he huffs. “figured.”
“for a week.”
“three days.”
“five.”
“four.”
“six for negotiating.”
he turns his head, glaring over his shoulder. “that’s not how that works.”
“it is in my house.”
“our house.”
“my house until i forgive you.”
his mouth twitches. “mean ass woman.”
“lying ass spider.”
he twists suddenly, pulling you forward with one arm, and you squeak before remembering to be quiet. the two of you freeze, eyes shooting to the baby monitor.
static. nothing else.
katsuki whispers, “you’re gonna wake her up.”
“you just manhandled me.”
“me?”
“yeah, you.”
“quietly.”
“you’re so annoying.”
“you love me.”
“maybe a little.”
he kisses you again, smiling into it this time, and the suit gets lost somewhere around his waist, then his thighs, then the floor. there’s a clumsy, stifled struggle with one ankle that nearly makes you laugh again until he bites your shoulder through his own shirt and mutters, “one sound and i’m puttin’ it back on.”
“threatening me with a good time.”
“you’re insane.”
“you knew that before.”
“knew it before i knocked you up, too.”
heat blooms low in your stomach. his eyes catch it.
your hand tightens around his bicep. “should do it again.”
for a second, the whole room goes still.
not because he doesn’t understand.
because he does.
because aiya is asleep down the hall, and your body remembers her. the ache, the weight, the long nights, the softness of her head under your chin, the impossible terror of loving something that small. it remembers katsuki kneeling beside the bed with a newborn tucked against his bare chest, whispering promises to both of you like he could scare the world into behaving if he growled hard enough.
his hand spreads over your stomach.
careful. reverent.
“yeah?” he says, voice rough.
you nod.
he bends until his forehead rests against yours. “you sure?”
“i’m sure.”
“not just because you’re freakin’ out over the suit?”
“that is a factor.”
he snorts.
you smile, sliding your arms around his neck. “but no. not just that.”
his thumb strokes once, slow, over your stomach.
“aiya’s gonna be pissed.”
“aiya’s six months old.”
“she’s possessive.”
“she gets that from you.”
“damn right.”
you kiss him before he can say anything else stupid, and he follows you down into the bed with an instinct that feels older than the secret, older than the suit, older than the hurt still waiting for both of you in the morning.
for now, he is warm and heavy over you, bare skin against bare skin, one hand braced carefully near your head like he still thinks he might crush you after all these years. you pull him closer anyway. you always do.
“couch tomorrow,” you whisper against his mouth.
“yeah, yeah.”
“and we’re still talking.”
“yeah.”
“and you’re teaching me how the web thingy works.”
“absolutely not.”
“katsuki.”
“fine.”
“and i’m putting the suit on once.”
his head lifts.
you blink innocently.
“no,” he says.
“yes.”
“no.”
“it’s only fair.”
“you wearin’ that suit is how we end up with an army of brats.”
you gasp. “so you agree.”
“i agree you’re awful.”
the baby monitor crackles.
both of you freeze again, half tangled, half laughing, entirely caught.
aiya sighs.
katsuki lowers his forehead to your shoulder in silent, desperate prayer.
you bite your lip so hard you almost hurt yourself.
after a long moment, he whispers, “still asleep.”
“spider-sense?”
“dad sense.”
you soften before you can stop yourself. he feels it. lifts his head. the grin is gone now, replaced with something quieter. something open and tired and so painfully full of love that you almost hate him for making you feel it while you’re still furious.
“i’m sorry,” he says.
no defence. no excuse.
just that.you touch his cheek.
“i know.”
“i’ll tell you everythin’.”
“you better.”
“everythin’.”
you hold him there, fingers sliding into his hair, the city outside wet and glowing and alive around you. somewhere in it, there are rooftops he knows better than streets. alleys where he has bled alone. people he has saved without you knowing. versions of him you are only just beginning to meet.
but this version is yours.
in your bed. in your arms. warm, embarrassed, breathing hard against your throat.
“katsuki?”
“hm?”
“make another baby with me.”
he goes still for one heartbeat.
then his mouth finds yours again, and this time there is nothing funny about it.
BREAKING NEWS !
Pro Hero Shoto seen with unknown expecting individual... has Japan's most sought after bachelor finally settled? And a little too fast at that??
when in reality…
-> two months vs five. cute gf vs adam sandler creature
-> the announcement we posted online vs the one we sent to family and friends
notdabi: welcomed a little creature a little bit ago, turning off my phone for a bit. if you need me you know where ill be
-> natsu0t: was your phone ever on to begin with
-> notdabi: fuck off
-> deedee: no photo creds is actually insane like i didnt carry that for nine months
-> notdabi: im turning my fuckin phone off
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