@JURI HAN

his jaw tightens, and he exhales real slow through his nose like he's doing breathing exercises or something. the rings on his fingers are cold where they press into the plush of your hip through your shirt. "m' f-fine."

you roll your hips back. not even fully on purpose, just adjusting your weight, finding a better spot to sit, totally innocent. and he makes this sound, this embarrassing punched-out exhale that he tries to swallow halfway through, and you feel him twitch hard against you, the whole length of him, and okay. okay so he's genuinely not fine.

you don't say anything yet. you're generous like that.

except then he shifts beneath you, trying to create some distance between his cock and your ass, which, noble effort, completely useless, because all it does is grind him up against you at a different angle, and he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek so hard you hear it.

"choso." different tone this time. he knows because his grip goes tighter.

"i know," he grits out, voice dropped low, "i'm sorry. jus' don't move."

that's the funniest thing anyone has ever said to you. so naturally. "don't move?" you repeat.

"please...~" and god the please does something to you, the way it comes out rough and a little desperate, like he's been holding it for a while. his forehead drops to your shoulder, and his dark hair fans out against your neck, and he smells like that stupid sandalwood soap he uses, the one that's been in your bathroom for so long you've stopped noticing it except for right now, pressed this close.

you should be nice. you could be nice.

you rock back slow. one long drag, deliberate, your hips rolling back into his until you feel every ridge of him through the fabric and he makes a sound in your hair that isn't words, isn't anything, just this wrecked little exhale that he buries against your skin and refuses to let you hear properly.

his hips press up to meet you, just barely— involuntary, you think, because he immediately goes still after like he's pretending it didn't happen.

"you're literally poking me," you say.

"i-i know." he sounds pained.

"like— significantly."

"i k-know." he hiccups out.

you tilt your head to look at the side of his face, and he's flushed all the way up to his ears, lashes pressed to his cheek, jaw set like he's fighting himself. there's something almost unbearably pretty about it, choso coming undone this quietly, this earnestly, over nothing. over you sitting in his lap on a random tuesday. kinda pathetic. adorable, but pathetic.

"you could just ask," you offer, generously.

"i'm not gonna ask you to," he starts, then stops, then his hips roll up again, helpless, chasing the friction you're withholding, "...please just keep moving."

so you do.

you find a slow rhythm, rocking back against him, and he finds it with you almost immediately, hands guiding your hips like he's been thinking about the angle, like he already knew exactly how he wanted this. the fabric between you is thin enough that you feel everything. the pulse of him. the way he gets harder the longer it goes. his rings leave little cold indents in your skin where he grabs you tighter every time you grind down.

"f-fuck me," he breathes, mouth against your neck now, lips barely touching, "jus' like that, don't stop."

"so needy," you murmur, and you mean it fondly, but it comes out mean, and he shivers anyway. "embarrassing, baby."

"yeah," he agrees, completely without shame, hips pushing up into yours, "d-don't care."

and that's the thing about choso. he's big, stupidly big, the kind of size that makes you embarrassingly aware of yourself every time you settle into his lap, all that weight and warmth, the stretch of his thighs under yours. he has rings on every finger and a tongue piercing and dark hair that gets in his face, and he once threatened to fight gojo over something you can't even remember, and yet here he is, rutting up against you through two layers of clothing, hunting his orgasm like he's got nothing to prove and nowhere to be.

you rock back harder, and he groans for real this time, low and open, doesn't try to muffle it.

"look at you," you say softly, reaching back to press your palm to his jaw, tipping his face up so he looks at you. his eyes are blown, lips parted, the flush on his cheeks gone past pink into something closer to red. you smooth your thumb over his cheekbone and feel him exhale shaky against your wrist. "making a mess of yourself."

"m' yours," he says, simple, like that explains everything. "s' okay if i'm a mess."

and that wrecks you a little, more than it should — more than you're prepared to show him.

you turn back around and press down into him, and he chokes on his next breath, fingers scrambling for purchase on your hips, the rhythm stuttering and going sloppy. he's close, you can feel it in how erratic his hips get, how he keeps pressing up and then pulling back like he's trying to make it last and can't.

"cho—" you grind down, slow and deliberate, one long roll.

"don't stop," he breathes, "p-please, s' right there, please."

you keep moving. he shakes against your back.

when he cums, his whole body goes tense and then loose — all at once, a muffled moan pressed into your shoulder, hips stuttering through it, cock pulsing through the fabric in these long, slow waves while he grips you like you're the only solid thing in the room. it goes on longer than you expect. little aftershocks, little twitches, his breath uneven and hot against your neck.

then he goes very still.

you give him a moment.

"so," you start.

"don't."

"i wasn't gonna say anything."

"yes you were." he sounds wrecked, embarrassed and fond all at once, nose buried in your hair, arms looping loose around your waist now, pulling you back into him fully, the evidence of what just happened warm and sticky and entirely his problem.

"i mean— a little." you pause. "you good?"

choso exhales long and slow. his rings tap absently against your stomach. on the tv, something explodes, totally unwatched. "yeah," he mumbles finally, pressing his lips to the back of your neck, soft and deliberate. "m' good."

you settle back into him.

the movie keeps playing.

you open your mouth. nothing comes out.

his hips start moving — or really, stop moving, because he’d already been buried so still inside you that you forgot what stillness felt like before him. now he’s dragging back. slow. unbearably, insultingly slow. every ridge, every vein, every horrible inch of him pulling back through you like he’s got nowhere to be and no one to answer to. your own slick rating you out in real time.

“yeah, see—” he’s talking again, still not to you, his thumb tracing a small circle over the spot on your tummy where he’d felt himself. “she doesn’t want me goin’ anywhere either. look at that.”

“g-gumi—”

“i’m not talking to you right now.”

your mouth closes. almost immediately, you shut yourself up. kinda embarrassing in retrospect.

he sinks back in. same pace. same horrible, measured, meticulous pace that has your toes curling and your hips chasing before you even clock that you’re doing it. the fabric of the sheets is damp under your palms. his colonge is everywhere — something cedar and clean that you’d notice from three rooms away at this point, stale and warm where his chest hovers over you. one of his rings is cool against your hip. you keep noticing the rings.

"she's greedy," he tells your pussy. conversationally. like he's passing along gossip. "always has been."

"i'm r-right here."

"you said you didn't want this," he reminds you, and his voice doesn't change pitch at all, still that low flat thing that does something genuinely evil to your nervous system, "so i'm not talking to you."

that was — okay yes, you'd said that, but you'd said it before, and at this point, the distinction felt unfair. you'd said it before his hand was on your stomach. before this pace. before the way he keeps pressing at that spot like he's checking in. like he's proud of it.

squelch. him pulling back again.

"mgh~" you clamp down without meaning to, and his breath stutters. just once. barely. but you catch it, and your whole chest does something stupid.

"don't do that," he grumbles to you this time.

"you literally just—"

"i know what i did."

the arrogance of that. the sheer nerve. you'd be angrier if his cock wasn't currently reseating itself inside you with this slow, devastating pressure that makes your vision blur soft at the edges. the heel of your ankle hooks against the back of his thigh like a reflex, and he lets you — doesn't move it, doesn't comment, just feels it happen and keeps going.

his palm presses down again. checking. still there. still that deep.

"see?" low. almost gentle. thumb stroking the skin over where he can feel himself. "told you she'd be good for me."

your face is hot. "she doesn't have opinions—"

"she's been clenching every thirty seconds since i started going slow," megumi says, "that's an opinion."

your mouth opens. closes. god. fine. fine, that's fair.

the next drag out is longer. more deliberate. he watches your face this time — you can feel him watching, that dark level gaze that sits on you like a weight — and when you bite your lip, he makes a small sound. interest, maybe. or satisfaction. with him, they're the same thing.

"s' she doing okay?" you hear yourself ask. it slips out. small, embarrassing, and immediately something you want back.

megumi blinks. the closest thing to surprised you've ever seen on his face.

then, quietly — almost private — he presses his palm flat to your tummy again, feeling himself push back through, and says, "yeah. she's perfect."

your hips roll up to meet him.

he lets them.

you bite your lip, blush spreading all over your face because man his cock is so thick it’s practically splitting you open—but, you push anyway, rolling your hips nasty and slow just to watch that cocky smirk twitch.

he tries to thrust up to set the pace, but you slam down instead—squelch! loud and filthy—and his breath catches sharp. “shit— just like that— don’t you dare— hah— slow down now—”

your cunt flutters around him, velvet walls squeezing meaner, and his jaw goes slack for half a second. you lean in close, soft tits brushing his burnt skin, and spit right onto his tongue like payback. he swallows with a groan, hips stuttering up despite himself.

“little brat— you think this makes you in charge?” he growls, fisting your hair rough, but the tug’s weak, desperate. you grind down deep, swivelling your hips in these filthy circles that make his fat tip kiss your cervix over and over, and his voice cracks right in the middle.

“mghh— fuuck— your pussy’s— s’ fuckin’ greedy— hnngh—”

you pout down at him, all soft and validation-hungry, body betraying every denial as your slick drips down his balls—plp plp plp—hips chasing the stretch even while you huff. “shut up, touya— i’m the one riding you stupid tonight.”

he scoffs, trying so hard to stay mean, but then you bounce faster and his head tips back, black hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, staples pulling taut against the sheets. “keep— keep fuckin’ me like that— yeah— good girl— wait— shit— m’ gonna— fuuuck—”

his cock twitches hard inside you, leaking hot and messy, and the whimper slips out— high and broken and so unlike the villain everyone fears. you melt a little, pussy clenching tighter at the sound, but you don’t stop. you tug his hair back meaner and he moans— actually moans— legs shaking under you.

“please— fuck— don’t stop— m’ sorry— can’t— c-can’t hold it— hnngh— cum f’ me— n-no— wait— take it f’ me—”

he’s babbling now, voice cracking like those secret va audios you replay when no one’s around, scarred hands sliding up to grip your ass but only pulling you down harder, chasing that wet heat like he can’t help it.

you’re dripping everywhere, nerves sparking like live wires under your skin, that stupid hideout lamp flickering over his wrecked face while he tries one last growl.

“i’m— i’m still the one— fuuuck— ruining this cunt—”

except his eyes roll back and another whimper spills out, cock pulsing fat and desperate as he starts to lose it completely under your pretty, relentless bounce.

the mattress creaks loud under you two, springs groaning like they’re about to give out, that stale smoke-and-ash smell clinging to his skin mixing with your honeyed slick.

“still think you’re runnin’ shit, huh?” you huff, all pouty and soft-featured, cheeks burning hot because his eyes are glazing over bad now—but your hips keep rolling nasty, chasing that fat head bullying your sweet spot over and over. slap! slap! slap! wet skin on skin echoes off the cracked walls.

dabi’s scarred chest heaves, glinting with fresh sweat. he tries one last mean growl— “watch that fuckin’ mouth, doll— m’ still the one— hahh— shit—” but it cracks right in half when you clench down hard, gummy walls milking him greedily. his hips jerk up sloppy, chasing your heat like he can’t help it, big hands sliding from your hips to grip your ass but the hold’s weak, trembling.

“mghh— fuuuck— your pussy’s suckin’ me in s’ tight— c-can’t— can’t think straight—” his voice drops into that raspy whimper you’ve only heard once in a blue moon, the one that makes your tummy flip. he’s leaking hot inside you, pre-mixing with your mess, every bounce pulling filthy squelch sounds that make your ears burn.

you lean down, soft tits pressing against him, and tug a fistful of his black hair hard—forcing those pretty lidded eyes to meet yours. “then stop pretending, touya,” you whisper all sweet and bratty, blush spreading down your neck because saying his real name always gets him. his cock throbs violently at that.

“s-shit— don’t— don’t call me that right now— hnngh—” but his head tips back anyway, mouth falling open stupidly as you start bouncing faster, tits jiggling with each drop. his thighs shake under you, scarred muscles jumping every time your ass slaps down heavy on his lap.

he’s breaking so pretty— voice cracking into needy little sounds, “please— fuck— m’ sorry— can’t stop squeezin’— your cunt’s too good— too fuckin’ wet— m’ gonna lose it— hahh— hahh—”. his hands paw at your waist desperately now, not controlling, just holding on while you ride him stupid.

you’re getting flustered too, melting fast despite trying to stay mean—body betraying you as your pussy flutters and drips more at every whimper he lets slip. “good boy— making such pretty noises f’ me,” you coo, hips stuttering for a second because he feels so thick, so hot, veins pulsing against your walls.

dabi’s eyes roll back again, a broken “fuuuuck— baby— m’ close— don’t stop— please don’t fuckin’ stop—” tumbling out before he can swallow it. his cock swells fatter inside you, head dragging nasty against that spongy spot until your legs start shaking too.

you grind down deep in messy circles, feeling him throb and leak and twitch. “gonna cum inside me? fill your pretty girl up like a good little toy?” your voice is all breathy and pouty, pushing him harder even as your own climax builds hot and fast.

he nods frantically, black hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, staples pulling tight. “yes— fuck yes— cummin’— m’ gonna cum so hard— take it— take all of it f’ me— shit— shitshit— hnngh—”.

his whole body locks up under you—hips bucking erratic, cock pulsing thick ropes deep inside your clenching heat. the wet heat of it pushes you over too, pussy spasming hard around him while you whine his name all broken and needy.

he keeps twitching even after, whimpering low through the aftershocks, hands weakly pulling you down so you stay stuffed full, not letting a single drop spill.

“still mine— even like this— fuck— you’re still mine,” he mumbles against your neck, voice all wrecked and soft now, breath hot and shaky. but his arms are trembling, body melted under your soft weight, completely pussydrunk and overstimulated as you keep grinding lazy little circles just to hear him stutter more whimpers.

the hideout feels too quiet now except for both of you panting, his cum leaking slow and messy around where you’re still connected, your fucked-out face buried in his scarred shoulder while he tries (and fails) to act like he didn’t just fall apart so beautifully for you.

"m' not," you insist, muffled, such a lie that your body punishes you for it immediately — clenching down harder around him, and he makes this low sound that isn't quite a laugh but has no business being that smug.

his thumb circles slowly, just outside your rim, and your hips stutter back without consulting you. he notices that too. two-second pause. then a third finger, no warning, and the squelch of it is so fucking loud and embarrassing — you shove your face into the mattress like that'll help.

"yeah— you are," he says, working you open with that same unhurried patience that somehow feels meaner than roughness would. "every fuckin' time. same thing." his eyes are on where his fingers disappear into you, you can feel the weight of it, and when he speaks again, his voice has dropped just slightly, "look at you takin' it though." not quite praise. not quite anything. just an observation, delivered like a verdict, and your untouched pussy throbs from the nothing of it because you're hopeless. his free hand presses your lower back flat when you try to chase friction, "said still."

you don't stay still. he knows you won't stay still. that's not the point.

the point is the noise you make when he pulls his fingers free and lines his cock up against your ass, and that first slow push in that makes your brain go temporarily, humiliatingly blank.

he doesn't rush it, sinks in inch by inch while your toes curl and your hands fist the sheets — nothing coherent makes it past your lips except for a long, helpless exhale that trails into something that's almost his name. almost.

his hips finally press flush against you and he stops there, thumbs spreading you wider, just looking, just taking stock, and the indignity of those few seconds would bother you more if you could think clearly.

"tight every time," katsuki mutters, "every fuckin' time like i haven't done this almost every. single. day." his cock throbs inside you and you feel it everywhere, the stretch of him sitting right at the edge of too much, and he still hasn't moved. you make a noise. embarrassingly needy. he tilts his head, "yeah?" another throb, intentional this time, and the way your walls squeeze around him in response pulls a short breath out of his chest. "thought so."

"mm, katsuki—" you start.

"what," he asks, sounding bothered.

"please move, please, i need you to move—" and your hips are already doing it for you, already rolling back trying to get something, anything, and he lets out a slow breath and grips your hip to stop you.

"needy," he mumbles, and rolls his hips forward once. the drag of him pulls a sound out of you that bounces off the walls. "always s' needy." he does it again and his hands settle on your ass, thumbs still spreading you apart so he can watch, and he starts talking the way he does when he's paying very close attention to every reaction, that low even voice that shouldn't work on you as well as it does, "she's already soaking f' me and i haven't even touched her yet," directed down at your cunt — slick and completely ignored, dripping onto the sheets from nothing but the stretch of his cock in your ass — "look at that."

"d-don't—" you moan, which is not a real sentence.

"don't what." he rolls his hips again, a slow grind that seats him fully and holds, and you feel the crown of him bully its way so deep your eyes roll back. "she misses gettin' touched, huh." you whimper and your ass pushes back helplessly and katsuki makes a sound low in his chest, "yeah. yeah i know. s' okay." which is the most obscene thing about this whole situation, the way he talks to your pussy like it's a sad thing that deserves comfort while he is actively, methodically taking you apart from behind.

his pace picks up. not fast, not yet — just steady and mean and deep enough that every thrust knocks a small sound out of you, plap plap plap filling the room and your face burning with it. his hand finds your hair, gathering it at the root, not yanking yet, just holding, and he leans forward enough that his chest is warm against your back and his mouth is close to your ear. "you gonna keep bein' a brat about it," he asks, calmly. "or you done."

"done, 'm done, i was never— katsuki, right there, right there, please~" and your voice breaks on the last word in a way that would embarrass you if you had any capacity left for embarrassment, which you don't, because he's found an angle and he knows it and the way he adjusts to hit it again with that same deliberate calm is cruel, it's so cruel, "please please please—"

"there she is," he breathes, and now his voice has something in it, something rougher that he hasn't entirely gotten a handle on, hips snapping forward sharply, "f' me, yeah, jus' like that." his free hand slides around to your front and finds your clit, two fingers pressing down against your soaked folds, rubbing fast and mean, and you dissolve. practically babbling his name. "katsu— katsuki, i can't, i'm gonna— m' gonna~"

"you're gonna," he agrees, strained, movement getting sloppy at the edges, jaw tight when you twist to see his face, "she's squeezin' me— shit— stop that, you can't—" directed down again, at the way your cunt is clenching around his fingers in response, fluttering around nothing while his cock stays buried in your ass, and he sounds wrecked by it, actually wrecked, "greedy— f-fuuck... both of you. both so greedy f' me—"

you cum with your face in the mattress and both his hands on you and his cock still moving through it and the sound you make is borderline embarrassing and he catalogues every second of it, slowing just enough to feel it, jaw dropping slightly. "good girl," he says, rough, and then he's pressing his face into the back of your neck and his hips go erratic and sloppy.

three thrusts later, and he's groaning into your hair, cumming with his teeth grazing your skin and his hand pressed flat against your stomach like he can feel himself from the outside, like he's checking, like he's making absolutely sure.

he stays there for a long moment after. breathing. the chain on his neck is cold against your spine. you can feel his heartbeat through his chest.

"you good, baby?" he finally says, gruff, pulling back to look at you properly.

you are face-down and approximately seventy percent conscious. "yeah," you manage.

"good— good girl." he presses one brief, unbothered kiss to the back of your shoulder, like this is a thing he does casually, like it means nothing. "drink some water."

you are most likely going to think about the way he said both so greedy f' me for the next six to seven business days.

you moan out softly; just a roll your hips slower this time, deliberate, feeling every thick inch stretch you open again. his head tips back against the pillows, throat bobbing, pretty lashes fluttering like he’s about to cry or come or both.

“shit— yeah, just like that,” he hisses. one hand slides up your spine, tangles in your hair, yanks your mouth down to his so he can lick into you messy and desperate. “thought you were really gone this time… left me here achin’ f’ you.”

his other palm cracks against your ass— not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you clench around him. you gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down, tongue curling, whining low in his throat when your walls flutter.

“fuck, baby— tight— s’ like you’re tryna milk me dry,” he pants against your lips. hips jerk up to meet your next grind, sloppy wet sounds filling the dark room. “missed this pussy so bad… missed you ridin me stupid.”

you drag your nails down his chest, catch on the pale pink scratches you left earlier when you first shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top. he shudders under you, cock twitching deep inside.

“gonna— gonna fill you up,” he starts babbling now, filter gone, voice cracking on every other word. “gonna stuff this little cunt full till it’s drippin down your thighs— till you can’t walk tomorrow without feelin me. you hear me?”

you sink down harder just to shut him up. his eyes roll back, mouth falling open in a silent moan, fingers flexing on your waist like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“m’ sorry— fuck— m’ sorry i yelled,” he chokes out suddenly, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “shouldn’t have— shouldn’t have let you storm out— never again, promise— fuck— baby please…”

he flips you so fast your back hits the mattress, knees shoved up to your chest in one smooth motion. the new angle has him slamming in deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every brutal thrust. you cry out, nails raking his shoulders, legs shaking.

“look at me,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his white hair onto your cheek. blue eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the irises. “look at me while i fuck my apology into you.”

and that’s all you did. can’t look away even if you wanted to. he’s wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, that cocky smirk long gone. just raw need staring back at you.

“g’nna— g’nna cum inside,” he whimpers, pace turning erratic, hips slamming so hard the bed creaks. “g’nna breed this pussy— make sure you feel me for days— fuck— c-can’t stop— can’t— baby—”

his whole body locks up. a broken moan tears out of him as he buries himself, his cock making-out with your cervix, pulsing hot and thick inside you. you feel every spurt, every twitch, walls fluttering around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper.

he keeps grinding through it, overstimming himself, babbling nonsense against your throat. “love you— fuck— love you s’ much— don’t leave again— please— m’ gonna be good— swear—”

he collapses on top of you after, still twitching, still leaking, arms caging you in like he’ll never let go. nose buried in your hair, shaky breaths fanning your ear. “stay,” he whispers, voice small now. cracked. “just… stay.”

you card fingers through damp white strands. feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. “of course, ‘toru.”

he exhales like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders. then a quiet, almost shy, “round two when you’re ready?”

you laugh. he grins against your skin.

possessive fucker.

★ TOJI FUSHIGURO

we all know toji would absolutely haaate you coming home late and try to play it off. he’d be looming over the counter, his facial expression showing all kinds of pissed-the-fawk off but as soon as he sees you he can’t even stay away for more than 5 minutes.

He’d be balls deep making you have your third orgasm scolding you like the naughty girl you are.

“thought you could just stroll in whenever the fuck you want, huh?” his voice is low, right against the shell of your ear while he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter. dishes still in the sink. your coat half-shucked onto the floor. keys somewhere under the table. doesn’t matter. none of it does.

one thick forearm banded across your stomach, pinning you flush so your ass can’t escape the brutal snap of his hips. the other hand’s fisted in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make your spine arch pretty for him.

“late again. no text. no call.” each word punched out with a mean thrust that makes your toes scrape the tile. “had me sittin’ here like some worried bitch waitin’ on his girl.”

“toji—“ you try to moan an apology but it comes out fumbled—muffled against the crook of your own arm.

he’s so deep the head of his cock’s bullying that gummy spot that turns your brain to static. your thighs are already trembling from the first two times he made you come—once on his fingers while he growled about how soaked you were just from hearing his voice on the phone earlier, once more when he shoved you face-down on the couch the second the door clicked shut.

now this. third round. no warmup. no mercy.

“look at you,” he mutters, breath hot on your neck. scarred lips brushing skin. “actin’ all innocent walkin’ in here smellin’ like that bitchy vanilla scent… but this pussy’s still grippin’ me like she missed daddy’s dick.”

he punctuates it with a slow grind—rolling his hips so the fat base drags over your swollen clit. your knees buckle. he catches you easily, hauling you higher onto your toes.

“stay up. you’re gonna take every inch while i remind you who the fuck you belong to.” his free hand cracks down on your ass—once, twice. sharp enough to sting, leaving blooming heat. you clench hard around him on instinct making him hiss through his teeth.

“fuck— there it is. greedy little thing. squeezin’ like you’re tryna apologize with your pussy.”

you’re dripping down your thighs. sticky trails cooling on your skin. the wet slap of his balls against your cunt making you cry out in the quiet kitchen. fridge humming. clock ticking. your pulse hammering in your ears louder than both.

“toji—‘m sorry—”

“sorry ain’t cuttin’ it, doll.” he yanks your head back farther, forces you to look at the dark window—reflection of you two like some filthy portrait. his broad frame swallowing yours. muscles flexing under scarred skin every time he bottoms out. your mouth slack, eyes glassy, mascara smudged from earlier tears of pleasure and pain. that same lewd expression he adores most.

“you see that?” he growls. “see how fuckin’ wrecked you look already? and you still got the nerve to come home late like i won’t do somethin’ about it.” he shifts—hooks one of your knees up onto the counter ledge, spreading you wider. new angle has him carving deeper, tip kissing your cervix on every punishing stroke. your nails scrape uselessly at the granite.

“gonna make this pussy remember,” he rasps. voice cracking just a little now—tell-tale sign he’s losing the cool he pretends to have. “gonna fuck you till you can’t walk straight tomorrow. till every step reminds you who waited up.”

his rhythm stutters when you flutter around him again—walls spasming, trying to pull him under. he curses low, filthy.

“shit— already? you’re comin’ again?” he chuckles.

you can’t answer. can only whimper high, broken—while the coil snaps for the third time. thighs shaking violently. gush of slick coating his cock, dripping onto the floor. he doesn’t slow down. fucks you through it meaner. harder.

“that’s it— give it to me— fuckin’ soak me— good girl— my nasty little slut.” his grip tightens. hips slamming erratic now. balls drawing up tight.

“gonna fill this cunt up,” he starts whining, filter now gone, voice wrecked. “gonna stuff you so full you’ll be leakin’ me all night— gonna make sure you smell like me tomorrow— fuck—”

you reach back, nails digging into his thigh. “inside— please— toji~”

that does it.

he slams home one last time deep inside, groaning long and low like it hurts. cock pulsing, swelling, flooding you with heat. thick ropes painting your walls. so much it spills out around his base, creamy white streaking down your thighs even while he’s still grinding through the aftershocks.

“fuck— take it— take every drop— mine— fuckin’ mine—”

he keeps rolling his hips—shallow, needy—milking himself empty while you tremble under him. overstimulated. his chest heaves against your back. scarred arms caging you in like he’ll never let go.

“don’t do that shit again,” he mutters. quieter now. almost soft. “hated waitin’. hated not knowin’ if you were okay.”

you reach back, thread fingers through dark strands. feel him shiver. “i really am sorry, toji.”

he huffs. kisses the nape of your neck—open-mouthed, lingering. “yeah. you will be.”

then—after another slow grind that makes you both hiss, “shower. now. ‘fore i decide round four happens right here.”

you laugh—breathless. he smirks against your skin. finally slips out with a wet sound that makes you clench around nothing. cum trickles down your thigh. he swipes two fingers through it, brings them to your lips.

“clean up your mess, baby.” you suck obediently. taste salt and him. his eyes darken again.

“good girl.” he scoops you up—effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the bathroom. your legs dangle. thighs sticky. heart still racing.

“next time you’re late,” he murmurs against your temple, “i’m tyin’ you to the bed before you even think about leavin’.”

you roll your eyes then nuzzle yourself on his chest.

★ KAMO CHOSO

choso would absolutely be the last person you'd expect to corner you against the front door the second you walked in.

we all know choso — sweet, a little awkward, the man who asks "is this okay?" before he even touches your hair, who goes pink behind the ears when you call him pretty, who avoids eye contact for ten full minutes after you catch him staring too long. that's your choso.

and then you stay out three hours past when you said you'd be back, phone halfway dead, still pissed from the argument you'd storm out of, and now you begrundgingly walk through the door to find him sitting very, very still on the couch.

he doesn't yell. that's the thing that gets you first. you were braced for it, shoulders up, already rehearsing your half of the fight, and instead there's just silence.

his hands are folded between his knees, dark hair loose and hanging around his face, and his looking at you with those heavy-lidded eyes drowned in violet like he's been doing nothing but looking at the door for three hours. which, you didn't think about that part.

you open your mouth; an apology, excuse, something, and he's already standing up, you forget what you were going to say because he's so much bigger than you. he's always been tall, but right now crossing the room toward you he fills up all the space in a way that makes your heartbeat do something stupid.

he stops close. too close, not touching, the air between you smelling like him and whatever he'd been drinking trying to wait you out, and he just — looks at you. searching your face, his jaw tight.

"why didn't you pick up?" he asks, and his voice is still quiet, still careful, but there's something unsteady threading through it. not anger, exactly. something worse than anger. "i called you four times, baby."

baby. he only does that when he's upset. your stomach does a full rotation.

"choso, i—" but he cuts you off by reaching up and touching your face. just cupping your jaw with one big hand, thumb tracing your cheekbone, and you can feel that his fingers aren't fully steady.

"you scared me," he says softly, like it costs him something. "you left mad and then you just— you didn't—" he stops. his adam apple bobs. "why would you do that."

it's not even a question, really. it comes out like something he's been turning over in his hands for hours, worn smooth, and the look on his face is so sincere and so quietly devastated that something in your chest caves a little.

you say his name again, softer this time, and you watch his jaw tighten. he only warning you get before he leans down and kisses you, sudden and slow, and it's not gentle exactly, it's— it has weight to it. the kind of kiss that means don't do that again.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are darker now, something shifting behind them that sends heat straight down to your tummy. "i'm still mad at you," he says quietly, and his hand is still at your jaw, tilting you up. "y'know that."

"yeah," you manage, "i know—"

"good." and then his other hand finds your waist and he walks you backward toward the bedroom with this unbearable, focused patience, like he has a plan and he's going to follow it all the way through, and every time your back bumps something — doorframe, wall — he catches you with that big warm grip and keeps you moving, keeps you steady, keeps his eyes on your face the entire time like he's cataloguing every flicker of expression. does he know he's doing that. probably not. probably just choso, just how he looks when he's paying attention, which is somehow more devastating than anything else he could do.

"choso, wait—" you try, half a laugh, half something else entirely, and he pauses in the dark of the hallway, head ducking slightly.

"i'm not yelling at you," he says, like that's clarification. "i'm not— i don't want to yell. i just—" and here he swallows, something flickering across his face, almost embarrassed but not quite. "i need you to let me. okay? let me—" his hands tighten the smallest amount at your waist. "please."

the please ruins you. because it's still him, it's still choso who asks for things softly, who would never just take, and somehow that makes it worse — makes the heat travel from your tummy to you pussy, making it hard to remember why you were mad in the first place or what you'd been so stubborn about three hours ago.

"okay," you say, barely sound, and he exhales like he'd been holding that in, too.

he takes his time. that's the thing you weren't prepared for — this slow, deliberate patience layered over something that keeps slipping through, this tremble in his hands when he pulls your shirt over your head that he tries to steady and can't quite, his breath gone a little uneven despite himself.

"you're so—" he starts, voice hushed, and then stops himself, frowning faintly, this small frustrated furrow between his brows like he resents that you exist and are right in front of him and he doesn't have words for whatever's stuck in his chest. he settles for touching instead. spreads one big palm flat over your ribs, fingers spanning so wide it knocks the air out of you.

"choso," you breathe, and he makes this low sound, involuntary, and his jaw tightens.

"you s-scared me," he says again, quieter, like it keeps escaping him. "i kept thinking— i didn't know if you were—" he doesn't finish it. instead he puts his mouth on your throat and stays there, just breathing for a second, warm and still, and the gesture is so tender and so completely at odds with the size of him that your eyes sting a little. oh no. "i hate when you're gone," he murmurs into your skin. "hate it. even when i'm mad. still hate it."

getting him inside you takes time too... because he goes careful, this trembling careful that he's clearly fighting against, hissing low through his teeth as you stretch and your walls flutter helplessly around him and his whole body goes rigid.

"wait—" he grits out, and you're not sure if he's talking to you or himself, hips stilled, forehead pressed somewhere between your shoulder and the pillow. "wait." you can feel how much that costs him. can feel the tension humming through every muscle where he's pressed against you, thick and filling you so full your thoughts are already liquefying at the edges.

"'m okay," you manage, arching slightly, and he makes a noise like you've broken something.

"i know you are," he breathes. "i just— need a second. you feel—" and then he stops talking, which might be a first for this whole gentle careful thing, and starts moving instead.

slow. devastatingly slow. rolling his hips in this deep, grinding drag that hits something inside you that makes your toes curl and your back bow up off the mattress and a sound come out of your mouth you hadn't planned.

his breathing goes immediately ragged, plp plp plp of his hips meeting yours filling up the quiet of the room, and his hands find your thighs and hitch you up, adjusting the angle, and— fuck. your hands scramble for something to grip, sheet, his arm, anything, and he watches you, watches your face with this expression that's raw in a way that makes it hard to look at directly.

"there you are," he breathes, low and shaky. "that— yeah, that's—" and then he does it again, same drag, same deep roll, and your head drops back.

he gets meaner about it slowly. not aggressive, not cruel — just focused, this quiet intensity that keeps building, the pace still unhurried but heavier, deeper, and his grip on your thighs tightening until you know he's leaving prints and you don't care, can't care, not with how full you are and how the drag of him hits that sweet spot every time like he's learning you, memorizing you the same way he'd been reading your face in the hallway.

"you were gone so long," he says, almost conversational except for the slight crack in it, and his hips roll and you gasp. "why'd you stay out so long." it's not really a question. or it is, it's still a question, still that same wondering hurt from earlier, but now his voice has this low fraying quality like a wire pulled too tight. "why?"

"i don't— i wasn't—" you're already losing the thread of it, hips rolling up to chase him without your permission, and he notices, eyes dropping down to where you're joined and going briefly, almost comically blank.

"you're doing that," he says. faintly accusatory. faintly wrecked.

"why?" he asks again, later, when he's got you folded up and he's properly losing his mind about it, forehead pressed to yours, hair escaped from its tie and hanging around both of you, and the controlled thing has fully slipped now — hips snapping into something erratic that makes the wet slap of it embarrassingly loud and your voice keep breaking on his name. "why'd y-you—" and he stops because his voice cracks too, right down the middle, and he squeezes his eyes shut and makes this low broken sound and you feel him pulse inside you and

"choso—"

"m' sorry," he breathes, "m' sorry, i—" but he doesn't stop, can't, hips still working even as his whole body shakes and his breath comes in ragged little pulls. "baby." and god he sounds— he sounds completely undone, you've never heard him like this, this is new, this is the version of choso that three hours of sitting on the couch waiting for you made, and something about that makes you clench around him and he makes a sound that's almost pained.

"please," you hear yourself say, "please~"

"yeah," he gets out, barely, "yeah— i've got you— you're—" and then the words slip away entirely and he fucks you through it properly, stuttering and shaking and whispering things into your hair that might be your name or might be please or might be both.

overstimulation is a thing that happens to you after, when you're limp and wrung out and certain that you couldn't possibly, and choso is still moving — slowed to something deep and lazy, still filling you and refusing to pull out with this look on his face like he hasn't fully come back to himself yet.

"choso," you try, thighs twitching, "h-hey— i can't, i'm—"

"just," he says. stops. swallows. "just a little more. please. please, baby." and there's the question again, the soft asking even now, even like this, even with you already a destroyed mess underneath him. "you feel so good. can i— just a little more, okay? jus'—"

"mmgfh, choso~"

his face twists. "s-sorry," he starts, "i'm sorry, i'll stop, you just—" and then you clench, involuntary, body giving him the answer that your mouth hadn't gotten around to yet, and his eyes flutter and he exhales, "oh," very small. and keeps going.

★ HIROMI HIGURAMA

hiromi higuruma would absolutely find you still hunched over his desk at eleven-forty-seven at night, lamp cutting a yellow circle across a stack of files you've been reorganizing since he hung up on you four hours ago; you had nowhere else to go with how angry you were, and his office was right there, and spite has its own kind of logic.

we all know higuruma. composed. methodical. the man who won arguments with prosecutors using a single eyebrow raise and twenty seconds of silence. you didn't think he'd come back tonight. you should have thought about it more.

the door opens quiet. he doesn't announce himself, doesn't say your name — you just feel the shift in the room, the way the air changes when someone large and very still enters it, and your shoulders go up before your brain catches up with why. the click of the lock behind him is the loudest thing that's happened in hours.

you don't turn around. pride, mostly. also you're not done being mad, and you need at least another thirty seconds to build the wall back up before you look at him. you hear him set something down; keys, probably, the small ceramic bowl by the door making its little sound and then nothing. just the awareness of him behind you, standing there in that way he has, the way that makes rooms feel smaller without being threatening about it. his suit jacket is still on. he's been somewhere, then. or he sat with it on in the car for a while deciding whether to come in.

"you're still here," he says. low, even. not a question exactly.

"i work here," you say, turning a page you're not reading.

a beat of quiet that has weight to it, the kind higuruma deploys the way other people use words. then you hear him move, unhurried, the soft drag of dress shoes across the floor, and he rounds the desk and you still don't look up and his hand comes down over yours on the file folder — not gripping, just covering, warm and very deliberate. stopping you. "look at me," he pleads.

you do. because you can't not, when he uses that voice. he's close, closer than you'd registered, and his face is doing the thing where it's not giving much away but his eyes are — tired, a little, and something underneath the tired that's been sitting there all day working itself into a knot.

his expression is still unreadable. his tie is loosened exactly one button's worth. "you've been here this whole time," he questions, and it's not what you expect him to lead with, the what and the how of you sitting in his office reorganizing case files out of spite at eleven pm, and something about that catches in your chest.

"i wasn't going to go home while i was still—" you start.

"i know," he states. not dismissive. like he actually does know, like he turned it over the whole drive here and arrived at the same place you did. his thumb moves across the back of your hand, small slow arc. "i shouldn't have hung up."

oh. you blink. you'd been ready for the second half of the argument, had it half-loaded, and now it's just — sitting there unspent and awkward. "higuruma, i—"

"i know," he says again, softer, and then he takes the folder out of your hand and sets it aside and the edge of a brief that took someone three hours to assemble crumples under it and neither of you mentions it. his hands find your face, thumbs at your jaw, tilting you up the way he does when he wants your full attention, which you were already giving him, but that's not really the point of it. the point is the holding. "i'm sorry," he says, looking straight at you, and higuruma doesn't say that lightly, you know that, you've known that for a while now.

you open your mouth and he kisses you before you can finish the thought.

it's not rushed. that's his whole thing, always has been measured, intentional, like he's building a case for something with every action and the verdict is going to land whether you're ready or not. his hands stay at your face while his mouth works yours slow and thorough, and you're already melting by the time he pulls back, lips a little swollen, eyes darker than they were, and he looks at you for a second like he's checking something off an internal list. then he drops to his knees.

oh— "higuruma, wait—"

"sit on the desk," he says, already pushing your chair back.

"the— the papers—"

"sit on the desk." same tone he uses to deliver a closing argument. you sit on the desk. several documents that probably mattered crinkle underneath you and you can't bring yourself to care because he's parting your knees with both hands, slow and very matter-of-fact about it, and looking up at you from the floor of his own office with his tie loose and his glasses catching the lamplight, and the sight of him like that does something genuinely unreasonable to your brain chemistry.

he takes his time working you open through the fabric first. thumb pressing, tracing, watching your face for every twitch while you try very hard to look like you're not immediately losing the thread of every thought you'd had tonight.

god. "higuruma—" his name comes out embarrassingly soft and something in his expression shifts, the composure still there but thinned, something hotter running underneath it. he pushes the fabric aside and puts his mouth on you without preamble and you grab the edge of the desk hard enough that the stapler rattles off onto the floor.

he eats you out the way he does everything — thorough, unhurried, with this awful focused precision that doesn't allow for shortcuts or mercy, his tongue working your folds open before settling flat and heavy over your clit and just staying there, slow pulsing pressure, and you're already slick and aching from nothing but the last twenty minutes of him and the sound that comes out of your mouth is not dignified.

a stack of briefs slides off the corner of the desk. neither of you looks at them. his hands grip your thighs and keep you spread and still while you squirm and he hums against you, low, disapproving, and the vibration of it makes your hips stutter up helplessly.

"higuruma," you breathe, thighs trembling, "please, i need—"

he pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, and his eyes are very dark and very attentive behind the glasses. "come here," he says, rough at the edges now, and he maneuvers you. hands at your hips, repositioning, implacable until you're kneeling up on the desk above him, thighs on either side of his face, and you realize what he's doing half a second before he pulls you down onto his nose and mouth and —

the sound that comes out of you bounces off the walls. his nose presses against your clit and his mouth opens beneath you, tongue finding your entrance, and your whole body goes rigid with how good it is, too good, embarrassingly immediate, your hips rolling forward before you've even consciously decided to and he lets you, hands spread warm on your ass just guiding, keeping you steady, while you grind down onto his face in the lamplight of his own office with important legal documents crumpling under your knees.

oh my god. the wet sounds are filthy and specific and you can feel your face heating even as you can't stop chasing, hips rolling, riding the flat of his tongue and the pressure of his nose against that swollen knot of nerves until you're shaking and saying his name too many times and your thighs are clamping around his ears.

he doesn't stop when you cum. that's the thing. he slows, gentles, lets you ride it out — and then keeps going, tongue lapping patient and thorough while you twitch and gasp and try to pull back and his hands don't let you move far. "too much—" you manage, "higuru— i'm—"

"mm— i know," he groans into you, muffled, and then does something with his tongue that makes your vision go briefly static.

he gets you off twice on his face before he stands up. unhurried. glasses fogged at the edges, mouth and chin devastatingly wet, and he looks at you, completely fucked-out and wobbling on his desk amid the wreckage of the filing system with this expression that's almost quiet satisfaction except for how his chest is moving, how his hands go immediately to his belt with a precision that belies how controlled he's trying to look. there it is. "lie back," he says.

"the papers—"

"i'll reprint them." and he means it, the way he means everything, and something about the casual certainty of it makes you laugh, breathless, and you lie back in the papers.

the press of him in is slow, measured at first, and then your walls flutter around the thick stretch of him and his breath leaves him in a rush. "ah—" undignified, unplanned, and he stops for a second with his eyes shut and his jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk on either side of your hips, and you watch something in his face come loose. "you're—" he starts. stops. swallows. the glasses have slid down his nose and he doesn't fix them. "you feel—"

"hah," you moan, soft, and he opens his eyes and looks at you, and there it is; the thing under the composure, the thing that made him drive back here at midnight, the thing that'd been in his voice even when he was angry on the phone.

he starts moving and stops being careful about it within about thirty seconds.

the desk rocks. something else falls off it; a pen cup, the sound of pens scattering across the floor and you're scrambling to hold onto the edge while he fucks you into it, papers crumpling and tearing under your back, his thrusts rolling into something relentless and deep that punches the air out of you in little broken increments.

his glasses are properly crooked now and he doesn't spare a hand to fix them, both gripping your hips, and his voice when it comes out is low: "you stayed," he says, hips snapping, and it takes your brain a second to parse that he means tonight, means the office, means you sat in his space and reorganized his files instead of going somewhere he couldn't find you. "you stayed here—"

"w-what—" your voice breaks on it.

"don't do that again," he says, not a request, and his hips drive in and you keen, walls clenching, and he makes this rough sound in the back of his throat like it's punishing him too. "don't—" and then he's burying deep and staying there, trembling slightly, forehead dropping to your collarbone while his hips roll slow and grinding and he breathes through clenched teeth, "—god, you're so—" the sentence dies, unfinished, swallowed by the sound of his own breathing and the quiet ruin of every document on the desk.

you cum with your hand fisted in his rumpled shirt and his name said wrong, too many syllables, something that comes out closer to a sob than a word. he follows with his face in your neck, a low rough sound that he murmurs your name into, hips stuttering through it, and you feel the warm spill of him and his whole weight sinking into you and the desk groaning underneath and three case files sliding off onto the floor.

silence, for a bit. the lamp buzzes faintly. somewhere outside a car passes.

he lifts his head. looking at you. fixeing his glasses. "i'm reprinting all of this," he says, very quietly, surveying the destruction, and you start laughing and can't stop, and after a second his mouth curves too; not a smile exactly, but the shape of one, the thing that lives just next to composed, and he drops his head back onto your shoulder and stays there.

★ SUGURU GETO

we all know suguru geto doesn't chase. that's the thing about him — the thing you keep forgetting, keep testing the edges of anyway, like you enjoy finding out where the boundary sits.

he doesn't raise his voice. doesn't beg. and when you'd hung up on him three hours ago and stayed gone he'd sat with it, turned it over, and when you finally walked back through the door he was already standing in the hallway like he'd known exactly how long you'd need.

he didn't say anything. just looked at you.

that look. that specific one, dark eyes tracking your face, reading you in three seconds flat, mouth doing nothing. you'd opened yours to say i'm sorry or we need to talk or literally anything with words in it, and he'd crossed the distance and kissed you instead, one hand cupping your jaw and the other already finding your waist, and it wasn't gentle, wasn't rough either, it was decided. like the conversation was already over and this was just the next paragraph.

"sugu—" you tried, against his mouth.

"shhh," he hushes.

he takes his time undressing you, which is somehow worse than if he'd just ripped something. deliberate. like he's not in a hurry because he doesn't need to be, because you're not going anywhere and he's already decided how this ends. his earring catches the light when he ducks his head to mouth at your throat and your hands find his hair on instinct; loose tonight, the tie gone, black silk of it slipping between your fingers — and he hums against your pulse point, warm and approving, and your knees do something humiliating.

"you're so annoying," he murmurs, into your neck, without heat. just a fact. and then he bites down soft and you gasp and he soothes it with his tongue and keeps moving.

on the bed he gets his mouth between your thighs first, because that's suguru, because he'll take the thing apart slow before he's anywhere close to done. chin tilted up watching your face while his tongue works your folds open, flat and thorough, the wet sounds of it slp slp slp embarrassingly audible and he doesn't stop, not even when you're already shaking and grabbing at his hair and saying his name wrong, sugurusugurusugu— like it'll do something. his eyes stay on yours the whole time. that's the meanest part.

he edges you twice before he's even inside you, pulling back each time with this patient, infuriating composure, lips slick and dark eyes blown, watching you fall apart at the removal of his mouth like it's something he's particularly interested in studying.

"please," you manage, thighs trembling either side of his head.

"please what, pretty girl," he says, voice dropped to something that scrapes right down your spine.

when he finally pushes in the sound that leaves you is not attractive. not even a little. his cock stretches you open inch by slow inch and he watches your face the whole way, jaw tight, the composure held together by what looks like significant effort.

his breath heavier than he'd like, a muscle in his cheek pulling, and when he bottoms out he stops, hips flush against yours, and just. stays there. forehead dropped to yours. both of you breathing.

"you pissed me off," he mumbles, very quietly. "don't do that again."

your throat goes tight. "sugu—"

"i mean it." and then he pulls back and drives in and the words dissolve completely.

he fucks you with this horrible focused intensity — not punishing, not exactly, but not gentle either, hips rolling deep and grinding in a way that finds that spot every third stroke like he has it memorized, like he's been thinking about exactly this angle for three hours on the couch waiting for you.

plp plp plp of skin meeting skin fills up the room. his hair falls forward around both your faces and you reach up to grip it and he lets you, makes a low rough sound at the pull, hips stuttering into something harder before he catches himself and smooths back into that devastating rhythm.

"you gonna run off again?" he growls, above you, not quite a threat, not quite a question.

"no—" and your voice breaks on it because he angles up and hits something that makes your whole body jolt, "no, no, i'm sorry, i'm sorry—"

"i know you are," he says, low and raspy, like he was always going to get here, "i know, sweetheart, you always are—" and then his fingers find your nipple, pinching and caressing the sensitive bud.

he doesn't stop when you cum. the composure fully slips somewhere around the second time, hips losing the careful measured drag into something erratic and urgent, his breath coming apart in short rough increments against your temple.

"fuuuck—" quiet, almost surprised, like he resents how good you feel, voice cracking clean down the middle, "too tight, you're always so—" and he buries deep and grinds and his whole body shudders and the warmth of him spilling into you punches a moan out of you both. "fuckin' tight, my love."

he stays inside. grinds it slow. keeps going.

"sugu," you breathe, wrecked, "i can't—"

"you can," he says, into your hair, but it comes out rough-soft, the mean edge gone, and his arms pull you closer, hold you there, and it's not really an argument anymore.

★ NANAMI KENTO

nanami would be so fucking careful about it. that's the part that gets you. the part that's almost meaner than if he'd just been angry — because he is angry, you can feel it in the way his hands grip your hips with this controlled, deliberate pressure, can hear it in how measured his breathing is, how even, the specific even that means he's working very hard at it. he told you to be home by nine. it is past midnight.

and now he has you folded underneath him with his shirt half-untucked and his jaw set and his hips rolling into you in these long, thorough strokes that are technically gentle, paced, deep, no wasted movement, while your thighs shake on either side of him and you babble apologies into the dark of the bedroom that he doesn't acknowledge and doesn't stop.

"i-i'm sorry," you manage, wall flutter pulling a short exhale out of him that he smooths over immediately, "kento, m' sorry, i didn't mean to— i lost track of—"

he rolls his hips on the next thrust and the words collapse into a sound that isn't a word at all, just air, just the squelch of him working into you plp plp plp in the quiet room, unhurried, relentless in the way that only nanami can be relentless about something like it's a task, like the apology goes in one ear and out the other because you're saying it into his cock and not into his face and he knows the difference. "kento—"

"i heard you," he says. low. not unkind exactly. not kind either.

his thumb finds your clit and presses and you jolt, thighs snapping around his waist, and he looks down at you with this expression that is so carefully neutral that it circles back around to devastating, and keeps the pressure steady and keeps his hips moving and watches you come apart underneath him like he's noting every detail for the record.

fuck. you're already so wet it's embarrassing, has been since he'd pulled you in by the wrist the second you'd walked through the door — no yelling, no lecture, just his hand around your wrist and his eyes finding yours and something in his face going quiet in a way that was worse than any argument. you'd said his name. he'd said, very quietly, bedroom, and that had been the end of the conversation.

"you worried me," he says now, into the space between you, not quite looking at your face and not quite not looking at it either, gaze somewhere at your collarbone, and his voice does something strange on the last word; a slight roughness that he smooths out immediately after. the thumb at your clit circles once. you keen, high and broken, hips chasing without your permission.

"don't do that," he says, flatter now, though the hand at your hip tightens the smallest fraction. whether he means don't do that, stop chasing or don't do that, don't worry me again, you cannot parse with his cock buried this deep in you. probably both. nanami is efficient.

"m' sorry," you slur, wet-eyed now, his next thrust knocking it out of you in a rush, "m' sorry, kento, i know, i know i should've—" and then he shifts the angle, just slightly, just a precise deliberate tilt of his hips that drags the head of him across something that makes your vision white at the edges, and you stop making words and start making sounds.

he keeps going. same pace. same depth. same controlled roll of his hips that is technically, technically, not punishing you — except that it absolutely is, except that he knows exactly what he's doing and how it lands, and the smallest thing is happening at the corners of his mouth that might be satisfaction and might be guilt about the satisfaction and is definitely both. "can't— kento— please—"

"please what," he says. quiet. curious, almost. like he genuinely wants to know.

your brain presents you with nothing. please more, please stop, please don't stop, please say you're not mad, please keep looking at me like that — all of it jamming up in your throat at once while your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes a low sound and his jaw tightens and his hips stutter, just once, the first crack in the composure, before he smooths it back out and keeps going.

"you don't know," he observes, and there's something in it; gentle, ruthless, both, the nanami special, and his thumb presses down on your clit and holds and you cry out and your whole body arches up into him.

"i hate when you go quiet on me," he says, above you, and it takes you a fuzzy second to realize he means the argument, means the part where you'd gone cold and hung up and disappeared for three hours — not the current situation where you are physically incapable of coherent speech because he's fucking you through the mattress with his shirt still half-buttoned and his glasses somewhere on the nightstand and his face doing a very poor job of being expressionless.

"i don't—" and here he stops. his hips keep moving, the pace finally slipping into something less controlled, a little harder, a little less technically gentle, and you feel it in your teeth. "i don't like not knowing where you are," he finishes, very quietly, and the admission costs him something you can see him paying. his forehead drops to your shoulder. the careful breathing is gone. "i don't like it."

"kento—" and your voice breaks clean in half on his name, hands scrambling to grip something, his arm, the sheets, landing on both.

"i know," he says, into your neck. "i know, just—" and his hips snap and you both make embarrassing sounds and he mouths something against your skin that might be your name or might be stay.

you can't tell, you're too far gone, thighs shaking and cunt clenching rhythmically around him while he loses the careful measured pace entirely and fucks you like he's been holding it back since you walked through the door, which he has, which you both know, slap slap slap of his hips meeting yours filling up the bedroom while you babble his name and sorry and please into the dark above his shoulder.

he cums with his face still pressed to your throat, a rough bitten-off sound that he muffles immediately, hips buried deep, grinding slow through it, big hand spread at your lower back holding you against him like you might drift away if he doesn't. you feel the warmth of it and your walls flutter and he makes another sound, smaller, helpless, and his grip tightens.

"don't," he says, strained, into your neck. "don't move. give me—" and he doesn't finish that either, just holds you there, both of you breathing too hard, your lashes wet and sticking, his dress shirt damp at the collar from where his neck has been sweating through the last forty minutes of technically gentle.

the silence stretches. his thumb moves, small idle arc at your hip. slowly the grip loosens into something that's just — holding. the kind that doesn't have an agenda.

"i'm sorry, my love" you say again, into his shoulder. meant more, this time.

a long beat. "i know," he says, finally, and you can feel some of the tension leave his back under your hands. "next time." just that. next time — and you know what he means, have learned enough nanami to translate: next time call. next time don't go quiet. next time let me know you're alright. you press your face into his shoulder and nod into the fabric and he exhales, long and slow, and his hand moves to the back of your head.

he stays inside you until you both stop shaking. doesn't pull out. just — stays; somewhere outside it starts to rain and nanami breathes, even, finally, actually even, and his fingers card through your hair once like he's not doing it on purpose.

★ SUKUNA RYOMEN

sukuna would find it genuinely hilarious. that's what gets you first, not the anger you'd braced for, not the cold shoulder you'd half-wanted so you could stay righteous about the whole thing.

no. you walk through the door still rehearsing the second half of the argument and he's sitting there with that look on his face, the one that means he's already decided something, already filed it under your fault, my problem, and the laugh that comes out of him is low and short and not actually funny at all.

"there she is," he mumbles, like you're late to something he arranged. like he wasn't the reason you left.

you open your mouth. wrong move. he's off the couch before you finish the first word, and sukuna in motion is something your body responds to before your brain weighs in — every nerve pulling toward him even when you're still pissed, even when you're already saying.

"don't—" and he's already got a fist in the back of your hair, not cruel, just absolute, tilting your head back so he can look at your face properly.

"you left," he says, like it's an observation about the weather.

"you were being—"

"you left." same tone. lower. and the hand in your hair tightens and you feel your pulse jump.

he walks you backward into the bedroom without ceremony, lips at your jaw, your throat, the hinge of it, not kissing exactly, just pressing, sampling, the way sukuna touches things he considers his. the black marks on his chest are warm against your palms when you grab at him and he hums, pleased, like you've done something correctly by accident.

"always gotta make it difficult," he mutters, into your neck, and there's something in it that's almost fond and almost annoyed and fully neither.

your back hits the mattress. his weight settles over you and blots out the ceiling and you. shit, you stop being mad about the argument for approximately one full second.

he's not gentle about getting you open. two fingers, then three, working you slick with this bored, efficient focus while he watches your face like he's looking for something specific. the exact moment your hips start chasing, the exact shape your mouth makes before the sound comes out. finds both. says nothing about it. just pulls his fingers free and wipes them on the sheets and lines himself up and — oh.

the stretch of him pulls a sound from your throat that you immediately hate yourself for.

"every time," he says, pushing in slow, watching your expression fall apart in real time, "act like you didn't miss it." another inch. your thighs are shaking already. "like you didn't come back for this."

"that's not— kuna~"

"finish a sentence," he suggests pleasantly, and drives the rest of the way home.

oh fuck. white at the edges. you grab at his forearms, thick, tattooed, not moving anywhere, and your walls clench helplessly around him and he makes this rough sound through his teeth, jaw set, eyes gone a little dark, which is the only tell he has and he'd be furious if you said it out loud.

he stays buried, lets you feel all of it, lets the stretch of him sit there in your nervous system like a fire alarm, and when your hips twitch up toward him his smirk sharpens.

"there it is," he says.

he fucks you mean and slow, which is worse than fast, the drag of him pulling out and pushing back in at this deliberate grinding pace that has you leaking slick down your thighs and babbling in under four minutes.

plp plp plp. the headboard knocks the wall. he doesn't care about the headboard. he's got a hand spread at your lower tummy, pressing down just enough to feel where he's hitting, and the filthy sound he makes when he feels it from both sides does something genuinely embarrassing to you.

"look at you," he murmurs, not unkind, "couldn't even wait to fight properly—" and he rolls his hips in and you arch up and he watches that happen with the expression of a man who feels very correct about something.

"wasn't— my fault—" you try, breathless, which is the wrong thing because—

"whose ring are you wearing," he says, flat, hips snapping once and your whole body jolts.

you stop arguing after that. he works you up to something that sits right behind your eyes, all squelch and wet heat and the low grunt of his breathing, and you're holding onto his shoulders with your nails probably leaving marks and he doesn't mention it or stop — if anything he fucks harder when you grip, because of course he does, because that's sukuna, because of course.

"gonna cum f' me?" he breathes, above you, and it's not quite a question, it's more like he's narrating what's about to happen because he already knows.

"yes—" and it comes out wrecked, barely a word, more just the shape of one.

"yeah," he says, very low, and his thumb finds your clit and presses and that's all it takes.

he cums with his face in your throat, biting down, not enough to break, enough to bruise, enough that you'll feel it tomorrow in the exact shape of his mouth, hips buried and grinding through the aftershocks of both of you, a rough sound that he muffles against your skin like he resents needing to make it.

you feel the heat of him spill and your walls clench again and he hisses, "don't—" and then does three more thrusts anyway, short and grinding and involuntary, because obviously.

silence. his weight settles. not off you, just — settled. which is sukuna's version of a blanket.

after a long moment: "you're not leaving again," he says. not a question. not really possessive even, just stated. the way he states everything that's already been decided.

your throat is dry. "that's not really how—"

"you're not," he says, into your hair, and the arm across your waist tightens by about ten percent.

you don't finish the sentence.

★ SHIU KONG

shui kong would let you walk through the door still hot with it. still jaw-set, still convinced you had the moral high ground, still replaying the argument in your head in the satisfying way where you win every time.

he'd be right there, jacket off, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, cigarette burning between two fingers like he's been sitting with it since you left, and he wouldn't say a word. just watches you come in. takes a drag. exhales slow.

that's it. that's the whole greeting.

the silence does something to you that you don't want to examine too closely, because it's infuriating and also your pulse has already picked up and you know he can tell, knows he always can, which is also infuriating. "don't start," you warn him, which is a stupid thing to say to someone who hasn't started anything.

the corner of his mouth moves. barely. "didn't say a word," he says, smoke still curling from the cigarette, voice doing that thing where it sounds perpetually bored and perpetually amused at the same time, pitched low and even, the kind of voice that gets under your skin precisely because it doesn't try to.

"you were thinking it," you say.

"yeah," he agrees, pleasantly. "i was."

he stubs the cigarette out. stands up. and there's a certain category of problem that shui kong moving toward you creates, because he's not fast about it, he's unhurried, which is different, which is worse and by the time he's close enough that you can smell the stale smoke and something sharper underneath it, the argument is already losing structural integrity in your head.

he looks down at you for a second. something in his half-lidded gaze tracking your face the way he tracks everything, cataloguing, unreadable.

"you done?" he asks.

you open your mouth. he tips your chin up with two fingers, not gripping, just placing, and kisses you, and the answer dies somewhere between your throat and the open air.

he gets your clothes off in a way that's efficient and sort of humiliating, like it's a task with obvious steps, like your indignation is a minor inconvenience he's accounting for. your skirt's gone before you've fully processed his hands at the zipper.

he backs you into the wall with one palm flat between your shoulders and mouths at your throat while his other hand slides between your thighs, and you're already embarrassingly wet and he finds it immediately and makes this low unimpressed sound directly against your pulse.

"how long you been like this," he murmurs. not a question.

"shut up—"

"since you left?" and there it is the meanness, the specific shui kong meanness that doesn't raise its voice, just turns the thing over in its hands and examines it while you want to dissolve through the floorboards.

his fingers move and you grab at his forearm and he keeps going, two fingers crooking inside you while his thumb finds your clit and applies exactly enough pressure to make your knees do something unreliable.

"shui—" and your voice comes out wrong, high and broken at the seam, and you feel him smile against your throat.

"there she is," he says, quiet, satisfied. "the version of you that's not full of shit."

you want to say something cutting. what comes out is a moan, squelch of his fingers working into you, plp plp plp embarrassing in the quiet of the room, and he brings you to the edge and keeps you there with this infuriating focused patience — just enough, never quite enough — until you're grabbing his shirt and making small desperate noises into his shoulder and your pride has fully evacuated the premises.

"please," you get out.

"please what," he says, mild.

"please just—"

"use your words," he says, "you were so good at them twenty minutes ago."

he fucks you up against the wall first, which you suspect is partially because he enjoys watching you scrabble for purchase, fingers dragging against the paint, heels slipping, entirely dependent on the arm hooked under your thigh to keep you from sliding.

the angle is something that rearranges your opinions on several subjects, his cock thick and pressing in deep where he holds you open and your mouth falls open on nothing, just air, just the squelch and slap of it slap slap slap and his breath rough at your temple, finally a little rough, finally something, the composed thing going uneven at the edges in a way that you'd feel smug about if you had any working brain cells left.

"still mad?" he asks, against your ear, hips driving up.

"—yes," you moan, which is technically a lie but also the only piece of self-respect you have left.

he makes a low amused sound and angles his hips and hits something that has you crying out, thighs locking around him, walls clenching so hard you feel him shudder, the first real crack — his jaw tensing, a rough "fuck—" that he doesn't quite swallow, muffled in your hair, hips stuttering before he pulls himself back into the rhythm.

"sure," he says, slightly strained.

he moves you to the bed at some point, not gentle about it; drops you onto the mattress, hooks your ankles up over his shoulders, and the new depth makes you sob a little which he watches with this expression like he's deeply privately satisfied by that.

the composure is mostly back. mostly. his hair's messed up and there's a flush along his neck he's definitely not acknowledging and his thrusts have that particular roughness that means he's closer than he wants to admit — slap slap slap and your whole body rocking up the mattress with each one, headboard kissing the wall, the sound of you soaked around him absolutely filthy in the quiet room.

"shui— shui, i'm—" and you're already shaking, thighs trembling either side of his head, clenching and fluttering and making his breath stutter again, "gonna cum, please—"

"i know," he says, and the certainty of it is so irritating and so hot that it tips you right over the edge.

he follows close behind, hips grinding in deep and staying, hand gripping your hip hard enough you'll see it tomorrow, a low rough sound that he breathes out through his teeth. the warmth of him fills you and your walls flutter uselessly and he hisses, grinds once more, twice, working it through with his eyes closed and jaw set like he's annoyed at himself for it.

silence. the ceiling. both of you breathing.

after a while he reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a new cigarette. doesn't light it. just holds it between his fingers and looks at the ceiling, chest still moving too fast for someone who'd like you to believe he's completely unbothered.

"we're not doing that again," he says finally, meaning the leaving part. the whole leaving part.

you turn your head to look at him. he's still staring at the ceiling. the unlit cigarette taps once against his knuckles. "which part," you say.

"all of it," he says, which means the leaving and nothing else, and doesn't elaborate, because that's all he was ever going to give you and somehow it's enough.

★ NAOYA ZENIN

naoya zenin would be insufferable about it. that's the whole thing — he'd be insufferable, leaned against the doorframe when you finally walked in, arms crossed, that particular smirk sitting on his face like it'd been waiting there specifically for you. hours. you'd been gone hours, long enough to cool down and heat back up again for entirely different reasons, and you walk through the door and the first thing out of his mouth is "took you long enough."

not i was worried. not where were you. not even a proper argument continuation. just that, delivered like a verdict, like you'd failed a test he'd designed.

you should not find it as hot as you do. you genuinely hate that about yourself.

"don't," you start, already bristling, dropping your bag.

"don't what," he says, tilting his head slightly, light eyes doing that thing where they track you with this lazy attention that isn't lazy at all, not really. "finish a thought, at least."

"don't be a dick about it—"

"i'm always dick," he smirks, like it's a point of pride, and it is, that's the problem, "that's not new information." he pushes off the doorframe. "you done sulking or d' you need another hour?"

"i wasn't sulking—" but he's already moved, already closed enough distance that you have to tilt your chin up to hold eye contact, and naoya at close range is a specific kind of problem because he's taller than you clock him for and meaner than you're ever fully braced for; his hand finds your jaw before you finish the sentence, not hard, just — there, thumb pressing the corner of your mouth, tilting your face exactly where he wants it.

"yeah you were," he says, eyes dropping to your mouth, "you always do that little thing where you go quiet and disappear and wait for someone to come find you." the smirk shifts into something with a sharper edge. "m' not doing that. you know where i am."

it's the closest naoya zenin gets to i was waiting for you to come back and you both know it and neither of you are going to say it.

he kisses you before you can respond, which is basically naoya's solution to any conversational situation where he's running out of winning moves — not that he'd frame it that way, not that he'd ever admit the conversation had gotten close to him at all.

his hands move fast. not frantic, nothing naoya does is frantic, but efficient in a way that has your shirt gone and your bra following it before your brain's fully caught up, and when you grab at his collar he makes this low approving sound like you've done something correctly.

"there she is," he murmurs, against the side of your face, "been waiting all night for the version of you that shuts up."

"naoya—"

"shhh," he says, which is incredibly rude, and his hand slides down your stomach.

he doesn't bother with the bed immediately. backs you into the wall, slap of your shoulders hitting it, and gets his fingers into you while you're still standing, two of them, crooking like he already knows exactly where to press which he does, he always does, which is its own humiliation.

you're already wet and he finds it and laughs, short and low, right next to your ear. "you went all the way out there," he says, fingers working a slow drag, "this pissed at me—" and you clench around him and his breath hitches, covered fast, "—and came back this worked up. what were you even doing out there, thinking about it?"

"i hate you—" and it comes out wrecked because his thumb grazes your clit.

"no you don't," he says, certain, almost bored about it, and crooks his fingers again and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound.

when he finally gets inside you it's with your legs around his waist and the wall doing half the structural work and his face buried somewhere between your jaw and your shoulder, the composed thing shredding at the seams almost immediately because you're tight and you clench the second he bottoms out and his whole body stutters.

"fuck—" not covered, and you feel his hips jerk forward on instinct like he can't help it. like he's been thinking about this since you walked out. he probably has. he'd rather die than say so.

"oh," you breathe, walls fluttering, and he makes a sound that is not remotely as composed as he'd like. "f-fuck"

"don't," he grits, jaw tight.

"don't what," you mumble, deliberately copying him, and feel him twitch inside you.

he fucks you mean after that, which was inevitable. slap slap slap of his hips against yours, rough and deep, one hand fisted in your hair yanking your head back so he can watch your face, which naoya always does — he wants to see it, wants to watch you come apart specifically for him, and he gets meaner about it the closer you get, running his mouth in this low relentless way that's half degradation and half the closest he gets to losing it.

"look at you," he breathes, eyes dark and fixed, "couldn't even stay mad properly— pussy' this desperate the whole time and you thought leaving was gonna—" and you clench hard around him on accident and his sentence dies, "shit—" hips snapping brutal once, twice, rhythm breaking into something rougher, less controlled.

"mmmgh— naoya~" your voice wet and high.

"yeah," he says, strained, "yeah, that's right—" and his free hand moves between you, thumb finding your clit without breaking pace, and your vision goes sideways.

you cum loud and messy and undignified, thighs locking around his waist, and the clench of it drags a genuine broken sound out of naoya zenin; not a grunt, not a controlled exhale, a sound, cracked right through the middle, his hips driving in and grinding, stuttering through it.

"f-fuck—" and then again, quieter, helpless, face pressing into your neck while he pulses inside you warm and deep and his whole body shakes with how hard he's trying not to make it obvious how gone he is.

he stays inside. breathing hard. the smirk is gone — just his face, flushed and wrecked and younger-looking somehow, eyes shut.

a long beat.

"you're not doing that again," he says, finally, into your shoulder. hoarse.

"what, leaving, or making you—"

"either," he says, fast, and the tips of his ears go pink and he absolutely does not acknowledge that you noticed.

★ MAHITO

mahito would think it was funny.

that's the first thing. you walk back through the door still pissed, still running the argument on a loop, still convinced you were right and he's right there, cross-legged on the floor like he'd been sitting exactly like that since you left, head tilted, those mismatched eyes tracking you from across the room with this expression like you're the most interesting thing he's seen all week. wide smile. the kind that doesn't mean what smiles usually mean.

"you came back," he says, and he sounds delighted.

not relieved. not apologetic. delighted, like you'd passed some test he'd set without telling you, like the whole three hours was a game with a conclusion he'd already predicted. you want to say something cutting and instead you say "don't make it weird—"

"i'm not making it weird," he murmurs, already unfolding from the floor, already moving, the way mahito moves was always so fluid and too-casual, like joints work slightly differently for him, like he's interested in the trajectory of a thing before it knows it's moving. "you left mad and you came back. that's just what happened." he's close now, head dipping slightly to look at your face, smile gone smaller and more specific. "you missed me."

"i didn't—"

"you did," he says, and the certainty of it is disgusting, and correct, and you hate everything.

he kisses you the way he does everything — like it's a new thing he's curious about, too much attention on it, one hand coming up to hold your face in place with his palms flat against your jaw so he can look at you while he does it, which shouldn't be as intense as it is.

his hands are always slightly cooler than they should be. you notice it every time. his thumbs press your cheeks and he pulls back just enough to study your expression at close range, eyes moving across your face like he's cataloguing something.

"still mad?" he asks, conversational.

"yes—"

"good," he says, and means it, and walks you backward toward the bed.

mahito likes you angry. that's the honest truth of it, the part you've stopped being surprised by — he likes the fight still in you, the flush of it, the way your eyes go bright when you're pissed off at him.

he says it makes you more interesting, which is terrifying on a fundamental level and also the most sincere compliment he has the architecture to give.

he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and uses the other to get your clothes off with this absorbed, intent focus, like unwrapping something he's genuinely curious about, and when he spreads you open with his fingers and finds you already wet his whole face does something that cracks the grin into something softer and much worse.

"heh," he breathes, delighted again, "you were thinking about it the whole time."

"mahito i swear—"

"you were," he says, fingers curling in, and your back arches off the mattress.

plp plp plp of his fingers working into you in the quiet room, the wet sounds of it embarrassingly loud, and he watches your face with this open fascination that would be uncomfortable in any other context and is uncomfortable in this one too.

his thumb finds your clit and circles and you stop caring about comfortable. "there," he says softly, more to himself than you, tracking the specific shape your face makes, the way your thighs want to close and his hand keeps them open. "there you are."

he edges you once. just to see what happens. pulls back when your hips are chasing and your voice has gone high and broken and watches you come down from it with his head tilted and his eyes bright. "mahito~" his name comes out lewd, "please—"

"please what," he says, genuinely curious, like he's collecting data.

getting him inside you makes him go briefly, wonderfully, undone — the composed curious thing cracking open at the stretch of you around him, a rough sound against your throat that he doesn't bother covering, just feels them and reports back.

"fuuuck—" drawn out, honest, his hips grinding the last inch in while his fingers dig into your thigh. you feel every ridge of him, the slight upward curve, and your walls clench helplessly and he makes another sound, this one shorter and more surprised, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"you always—" he starts, and stops. tries again. "every time you—" and stops again, which for mahito, who always has something to say, is saying something.

he starts moving before he finishes the sentence.

slap slap slap, his hips meeting yours, the pace building into something relentless and deep that knocks the air out of you in short punched increments.

his hair falls around both of you, long and bluish-grey and falling out of whatever loose hold it'd been in, and when you grab a fistful of it he groans loud, hips stuttering hard. his hand finds yours and keeps it there, keeps the grip, like he wants you pulling.

"yeah," he breathes, "yeah, mmm— harder—" and you're almost laughing except he snaps his hips and hits something deep that dissolves the laugh into a keen that bounces off the walls.

"mahito—" wrecked, too many syllables, your voice doing something it's not supposed to do.

"i know," he says, "i know i know, you're—" and he bites your shoulder, sharp, and you clench and he shudders and the rhythm breaks into something desperate and stuttering and completely out of the neat curiosity it'd started with.

he gets you off twice, which you were not prepared for, the second one rolling directly into the first before you've caught your breath, and he watches both of them happen up close with this half-lidded focus while his own breathing comes completely apart.

the second time your walls lock around him and your voice cracks on his name he tips over too — a low grunt sound, hips buried, grinding through it with his face in your neck and his hands gripping your hips hard enough you'll feel it tomorrow in the shape of his fingers.

warm spill of him, deep, and he keeps rolling his hips through the aftershocks because he can't quite stop, little involuntary rocks that drag sounds out of both of you.

silence. both of you breathing.

he lifts his head. looks at your face. the smile that comes back is smaller than usual, something genuine underneath it that mahito doesn't always let sit on the surface. "you're not doing that again," he says, meaning the leaving.

"that's not really your decision—"

"you're not doing that again," he repeats, patient, and his nose touches yours, and it's the closest he's getting to please don't leave and you both know it and he'd never say it with different words.

“yeah?” you breathed, shaky.

“yeah.”

two fingers slide in without much warning—meanly curling up against that sweet spot inside you while his thumb circles around your clit.  working you open deliberately and slowly while you try to keep it together. you didn’t. he looked so pleased about it—watching every flutter of your lashes like he was cataloguing it, filing it away.

by the time you were dripping around his fingers, slick leaking down to the cushion beneath you, your hips were chasing his hand all needy. he pulled out abruptly just to watch you whine.  “kiri—”

“i know,” he said simply. “i got you.”

he pushed his sweats down and got you repositioned—back flat against the cushions, your thighs pressed up toward your chest, your body lightly shaking. not scared. just overwhelmed with it, the weight of him hovering over you.

he pushed his sweats down and got you repositioned—back flat against the cushions, thighs pressed up toward your chest. his bulky frame blocked the lamp behind him so you were mostly looking up at the dark shape of him, his jaw, his shoulders, that subtle glint in his eyes catching the light.

“breathe,” he said softly.

he pushed in slow. every single inch dragging, the stretch going deeper until he finally bottomed out, and the sound that left you was so lewd, he felt himself tingle. his hands slid up to grip the tops of your thighs—god, his hands, so big they nearly spanned the entire width of your thighs, and pressed them back further—folding you open, locking you exactly where he wanted you.

you moaned, your voice much louder than you wanted. knees nearly at your shoulders. nowhere to go. completely at his mercy. “f-fuck—”

“there she is,” he breathed, looking down at you pinned beneath him like you were the best thing he’d ever seen.

he rolled his hips. once. slow, grinding drag outward that emptied your head completely. you felt that shift inside you, felt the thick drag of his cock against your walls, and your pussy clenched greedily around him.

“oh,” he said softly, like that answered something. “like that, huh.”

“there you go,” he murmured, starting to move. deep, rolling thrusts. perfect full thrusts, each one pushing the air out of you on the way in. you felt every vein, every inch, your slick making it obscenely loud in the quiet apartment. “taking me s’ well, aren’t yeah?”

not a question. “k-kiri~”

“mhm.” the smugness in it should’ve annoyed you. it didn’t, because he rolled his hips at a different angle, and your vision went white for a moment. he kept the same patient pace, watching your face go soft and desperate. “getting all needy already? i’ve barely done anything.”

“shut up—”

“make me,” he said pleasantly, smacking the flat of his palm directly on your clit.

you moaned out, hips jolting up into it even as you yelped, thighs trying to close around his hand and finding nowhere to go because he literally had you folded, completely pinned, thighs locked by his forearms. “s-shit... k-kiri—”

“too much?” he asked, already knowing the answer from the way you were dripping, slick smeared across his forearms.

“n-no—” you spat, glaring up at him.

“didn’t think so.” and then his thumb was there, pressing firm circles onto your swollen clit, slow and controlled, while he kept moving, kept that deep rolling grind that was making your toes curl. “you’re soaking. making a mess of my couch, pretty girl.”

your face went hot. "i hate you—"

"no you don't." his thumb pressed harder, making you gasp. "say it again... and i'll stop."

you whined at his words, tears brimming in your eyes as you continued to moan his name.

hips snapping deeper, the wet sounds between you getting worse—completely shameless, the couch creaking under you both. his free hand was gripping your thigh so hard you'd probably bruise, keeping you right there, open and helpless and taking everything he gave.

"you're so fucking tight—" rough, losing the composed thing entirely. "shit— been wanting this— been wanting inside you for so long—"

"oh my g-god~" you sob, eyes rolled back as he bullied your pussy with his thick cock.

"s' all f' me, yeah?" thumb working faster, hips snapping forward to match it. "this pretty pussy's all f' me. say it."

"yes— fuck— yes, it's yours—"

"good girl," he goraned. It was like a reward. like you'd earned it.

and then he smacked your clit again—once, then twice, quick sharp taps that had you wailing, hips bucking desperately into nothing, walls fluttering around his cock so hard he moaned through his teeth.

his thumb came back immediately after, rubbing fast, relentless circles right where you needed it while he buried himself deep, hips rolling in short, brutal strokes that hit your sweet spot over and over.

"close—" it came out broken. "s-so close don't stop~"

"i know." breathing ragged against your cheek, voice gone rough. "m' gonna fill you up— cum f' me, pretty. please—"

"please~ please don't stop—"

"never fucking stopping—" he growled, his thrusts becoming rougher, his cock completely engulfed by your dripping pussy.

the front door swung open.

"YO SHITTY HAIR, WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? WE'VE BEEN WAITING AT THE GYM FOR—" bakugou's voice echoed through the apartment.

sero and kaminari were piled behind him. both making small talk—kaminari mid-sentence about a playlist, and sero already toeing off his shoes—none of them looking up until bakugou did.

dead silence.

kaminari made a sound like he'd inhaled his own soul.

kirishima stopped moving—hips stuttering a beat too late. you shoved your face directly into his chest while he grabbed the blanket off the floor and threw it over you in one motion. he cleared his throat. "...hey, guys."

"WHAT THE ACTUAL—"

"we'll reschedule," kiri said. very calm. clearly out of breath yet stay composed. "the gym. we can reschedule."

a long, terrible silence.

"bro," kaminari whispered. respectfully.

sero had fully rotated to face the wall. shoulders shaking. laughing—that traitor.

bakugou looked like he was personally auditing every life decision that had led him to this couch, this moment, this apartment. he pointed at kiri. retracted it. pointed again.

"three seconds—"

"katsuki." patient. gentle. still buried inside you, thumb still resting against your clit. this was genuinely insane. "door."

it closed.

muffled from the hallway: "i saw nothing" (kaminari, way too loud), "oh my god" (sero, still obnoxiously laughing), and bakugou furious and somewhat personally offended—

"i'm going to actually kill him."

you slowly lifted your face from kiri's chest.

looked at each other.

he had the absolute nerve to grin. big, bright, completely unbothered, like he hadn't just let his three best friends walk in on him folding you in half on his own couch.

"...so," he said, thumb resuming its slow circles like nothing happened. "where were we?"