rage

katsuki's cock twitches inside you with every word as you stutter out a quiet "t-thank you."

he lets out a curse under his breath as he drags his cock out, eyes focused on your slick coating him before he slams back in—hips flush to yours.

"you're gonna make him cum," izuku says sweetly, sliding one hand down between your thighs, fingers gentle and warm as they dip past where katsuki's cock is still fucking into you, slow just for a moment so neither of them miss the way you jerk when izuku touches you there—firm pressure pressing into you, brushing past katsuki's cock where it's stretching you out, slick and messy and so tender it makes you cry out.

"that's it," izuku murmurs, thumb catching right over your clit, a teasing flick, "there you go. we've got you."

katsuki groans as he lifts your hips a little more to angle deeper. "shit—" he bites out, "she's squeezin' me so tight."

you sob into the sheets. izuku's hand doesn't let up, while katsuki's pace stutters hard, hips snapping into you.

"keep talkin' to her like that, she's gonna cum. can feel it... keeps clenching every time you talk." katsuki mutters, eyes fixated on his cock glistening every time he pulls back just to hear you beg for more.

izuku just hums, "she wants to," he says, his own fingers coated in your slick as they keep moving slow against your clit now. "she's being so good for you kacchan. letting you fuck her that deep, letting me touch— being so brave, don't you think?"

katsuki drags you back onto him, hard, and it knocks a broken little sob out of your chest. "you hear that, baby?" katsuki grits, leaning in, mouth hot against your spine. "you're our good fuckin' girl, yeah?"

"y-yeah," you gasp, voice trembling as izuku presses a little firmer against your clit. "wanna be good for you both..."

"we know, sweetheart," izuku coos, soft and breathless, curling a little closer to you, nose bumping into your cheek as he presses soft kisses there. "you're doing so good. we know it's a lot."

"is it too much for you?" katsuki mumbles, pressing his own lips against your skin, "or you just like whinin' for us?"

you shake your head fast, fingers fisting tighter into the sheets, "no! don't stop, please... i-i'm gonna—"

"yeah?" he growls, fucking you through it harder. "you gonna cum all over my cock, baby? gonna let me feel it?"

"she's right there," izuku whispers beside you. "let it happen. we've got you."

it hits hard—blinding heat sparking deep and low as your body goes rigid, pussy clenching around katsuki so hard he swears, stutters, and slams in once, choking on a groan as he cums with you.

"fuck— i'm cummin'—" katsuki gasps, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his hips twitch, cock pressing deep and grinding through it as he spills into you in warm thick pulses.

izuku hums beside you, his fingers wet with your release coming up to stroke your thigh, before pressing a kiss to your temple and muttering, "that's it... that's our girl."

katsuki's grip trembles against your hips when he exhales against your skin. chest rising and falling against your back, hands smoothing up and down your sides before he pulls out.

still braced as he drags his cock free—covered in your release, flushed, and still twitching a little. he watches the way your pussy flutters from the loss. watches how wet and ruined you are. how his cum spills out of you, dripping past your thighs and pooling where your legs are still spread.

"fuckin' hell..." katsuki mutters, fingers reaching down to drag through the mess, smiling when your body twitches from the sensitivity.

izuku's fingers are still brushing lightly over your skin. "she looks pretty, huh?"

you try to hide your face in the sheets, body still too shaky to move, still panting—and izuku leans in to press another gentle kiss to your cheek, "did so good for us," he whispers.

"too good," katsuki mutters, rubbing a hand over your ass and squeezing gently, watching another thick drip slide down and groaning under his breath. "fuck, look at this mess..."

your body twitches again at the roughness in his voice, involuntarily, over-sensitive, and izuku just watches it happen—eyes dragging slow between your thighs where katsuki's cum still glistens across your pussy and drips out of you in lazy trails.

he hums, thoughtfully. before shifting closer. lowering himself a little. hands gentle as they slide over your thighs to ease them apart again, despite the way they tremble in protest. despite the soft noise you make when the cool air hits.

katsuki catches the movement from the corner of his eyes and snorts, still breathless, "you're such a fuckin' perv."

izuku just smiles, pretty and flushed and way too focused on the mess. "mhmm," he hums, breath ghosting low, just before he leans in, "i'm just cleaning it up."

you barely have time to register the first warm press of his tongue—slow and gentle, licking a stripe through the slick mess between your thighs of both yours and his best friends' release, the tip of his tongue brushing your clit—before he hums low in his throat, hands tightening around your hips like he's settling in, like he's not stopping until there's nothing left.

You're calling Shouta "Daddy."

Not even calling, really—you're crying. Big, fat tears which roll down the apple of your cheeks and strike clean through the blush settled on their peaks. The sight is distracting. Hitoshi isn't sure there's enough blood left in his brain to do anything but leer at how Aizawa's form swamps your own—your pretty hands scrabbling at the bicep tucked around your neck, your throat working around strangled, shallow gasps.

He's never seen you from this angle before, so when Aizawa snaps his hips into you, Hitoshi watches both your toes curl and your hips rise from the bed like a wave cresting with some strange out-of-body feeling. As though he’s an incorporeal being merely floating by the scene.

With Aizawa's weight settled atop you, pressing you flat to the bed, there isn't far for you to go.

Hitoshi swallows.

You cry again—a sweet, high-pitched noise of alarm—and Hitoshi's fingers tighten in his pants, twisting the fabric beneath fingers like a child as he’s drawn to soothe the noise through pure Pavlovian response. He has to remind himself that, for once, he isn't in charge of the scene.

Not tonight.

"Daddy."

A brush of lips on your sweaty nape. "What is it, sweet girl?"

Your expression screws up as though it's a slice of paper put to flame. "Please, I— I—"

Heat crawls up Hitoshi's spine at the panic lacing your voice. The lilting vowels and consonants so familiar to Hitoshi suddenly sound foreign. He doesn't recognise your headspace, and if the way you buck under Aizawa's hold like a spooked animal is any indication, neither do you.

Aizawa squeezes your waist with a big hand. "Words."

"Dad-dy," you repeat, a sob fracturing the word in two. "I—" You suck in a quick breath, exactly the way you do when you're trying to suppress more tears.

Hitoshi bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. Are you okay? Aizawa doesn't appear worried, but he never does. While Hitoshi trusts his Sensei with his life, entrusting him with yours is a different ball game entirely. He finds his fingers itching to reach out and touch you.

"I can't." Shaking your head, you press your cheek into the comforter miserably, and Aizawa lays his cheek atop yours.

"Yes, you can."

"No—"

"You can," Aizawa repeats, nothing but confidence to be found in his tone. He slows his movements down, grinding deep and slow inside until you're able to gulp in a few big, shuddering breaths.

Hitoshi likes seeing you cry when you're feeling good.

This is… this is decidedly not that.

The pout twisting your lips is nothing short of overwhelmed. Wetness clumps your lashes. Splotches of red decorate your face. And yet, Hitoshi feels the arousal rush to meet him like a physical force, sweeping him under as though caught in a rip current and carried out to sea.

Why is he into this?

Why is he into his girlfriend crying because she's fighting subspace as another man fucks her? Not even another man—Aizawa. Sensei, pseudo-father figure, and friend all rolled into one mess of a relationship.

Surely this isn't right.

Then his gaze drifts up to Aizawa, and he realises… maybe it is. Because Aizawa is staring down at you with an expression nothing short of smug, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards into the most irritatingly attractive expression Hitoshi has seen in his life.

And isn't that another realisation…

Hitoshi trembles slightly as the ferocity of his arousal worsens.

He could jerk off. He knows he could. But he's never been great at keeping quiet, and if either of you acknowledges Hitoshi's involvement in this scene, even as an uninvolved third party, he might spontaneously combust in the most humiliating death of all time.

"Words," Aizawa murmurs, when you seem only an inch more lucid than before. Though he punctuates it with a particularly deep roll of his hips, the hand on your waist lifting you slightly to meet him, and you keen like you've been shot.

Because he's mean.

Meaner than Hitoshi thought he would be, anyway.

Yet, you don't seem to hate it. The opposite, really. You raise your hips further—it must feel good, the way his thick cock is splitting you open—and Aizawa switches attitudes abruptly, forcing your hips back down in a blink. Somehow, this makes you moan the loudest.

Hitoshi manhandles you in bed. He throws you around, slaps you when you ask, ties you up and fucks you until you're babbling so good so good 'toshiii. So perhaps it's truly the fact that he's never seen seen you from this perspective that's skewing his own, but he's sure you've never sounded quite so pathetic about it—as helplessly turned on as you do now. As though you're powerless under Aizawa’s touch and enjoying every second of it. The thought sends a fission of arousal lancing straight through Hitoshi's sanity and heat curls into the cavernous reach like a cat. Hitoshi slouches further in his chair, thighs spreading wide and hisses when his hard cock brushes the seam of his pants before wincing at the fact he’s made any noise at all.

You appear to search your brain for a few seconds before moaning another guileless, "Daddy."

"Hm?"

Aizawa is plastered over you from head to toe. You sigh when he presses his knees against the outsides of yours, forcing your legs tighter together. Hitoshi knows from experience you love the drag of a cock inside you like this—how it stretches you perfectly, strokes your pussy just right, the pressure high enough to have your head swimming.

You love how you're forced to take it when you're trapped under Hitoshi.

When you're trapped under Aizawa, too.

"What are you whinin' for, huh?"

"I'm not," you exhale shakily. "I'm not whining."

"Oh yeah?"

You shake your head petulantly.

"Not whining on my cock?" Aizawa slows to a stop and both men watch the way you bite back a noise of complaint, desperate not to prove his point. "Not scarin' poor Shinsou here?"

Hitoshi lurches at the reminder that this is happening. That he's merely sat and watched as Aizawa has fucked you silly. Your bleary gaze falls to Hitoshi, and he tries his best to look normal.

If the small quirk of your lips is anything to go by, he failed.

Your voice is small when you ask, "Y'scared, 'tosh?"

Hitoshi shakes his head, mutely.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow.

Hitoshi straightens slightly. "No, I'm—" He clears his throat. "No, baby."

"Liar," Aizawa accuses blandly, eyes slitting in amusement.

You bristle, the palms you have pressed to the comforter suddenly trying to push you upright; as though the possibility of Hitoshi not being into this isn't funny to you, as though you're being dragged from the space you were so close to with an abruptness that brings only strident. Aizawa stops the motion easily, his chest barring you from getting any further than a scant few inches from the bed. You let out an uneasy noise from the back of your throat.

"Hey, hey."

Your eyes are fixed on Hitoshi. "Let me up."

Hitoshi can't find the words to soothe you.

"Sweetheart—"

"No. Let me up."

Aizawa sighs—quiet and long-suffering—before releasing his bicep from around your neck, grabbing your chin in the same big hand and forcefully turning your head downwards. You bristle at the manhandling this time and try to rip your chin away. He doesn't budge, though, shaking your jaw once sharply.

"Look."

"Shouta," you growl, lowly.

"Does Shinsou really look scared to you?"

For a second, Hitoshi thinks you're going to fight the older man again. Instead, you hesitate and do as he says.

You look.

Your gaze drifts up from Hitoshi's feet. He fights to keep still under the worried heat of it. Only moments before you reach his crotch, Hitoshi realises exactly what Aizawa is playing at and blood rushes to his cheeks. He sits up quickly, flexes his fists on his legs. He can't cover his dick because you're his fucking girlfriend and you've seen it before and more importantly, it would only make him look super guilty.

Like incriminatingly so.

Your eyes land on his crotch.

Hitoshi wants to sink into the floor as he watches your body lock into a kind of stillness he's only ever seen in nature documentaries, right as a predator spots its prey. It's not a dynamic Hitoshi is used to with you and his eyes blow wide in surprise, dick twitching in his boxers. You notice. He knows you do.

Does Aizawa notice, too?

Fuck, he hopes not. This is humiliating enough as is. He knows once the two of you get back to your flat, he's never living this down.

He has no idea what his expression is right now, but it can't be anything good.

"Y'see?" Aizawa asks quietly, right by your ear.

You nod, still staring at Hitoshi's straining cock.

"He's scared because he's never seen you like this."

You swallow. Blink slowly.

"Never seen you fucked into silence."

Some emotion caught between shame and arousal washes over Hitoshi.

Is that true? Has he not been treating you right?

Experiencing a similar awakening of your own, you wriggle under Aizawa. He only braces his palms on the comforter, either side of your tits, and starts up a harsh rhythm again, fucking into you without remorse. You let out a startled moan, collapsing bonelessly into the sheets.

"Guess you needed a real daddy, hm?"

At that, you really do cry. An awful sound, tangled high in pleasure and embarrassment, which snakes across the room to settle on Hitoshi's shoulders like a curse. Aizawa fucks into you as though you're rabbits in heat, muscled limbs weighing your own down to the bed and Hitoshi feels like he's losing his mind a bit, so he can't imagine how you're feeling. Sole subject to his mentor's fierceness. Limbs pinned like a butterfly's wings.

Your eyes flutter. "Fuck-nghhh— yesyesyes!"

"Y'call Shinsou daddy, too?" Aizawa asks conversationally. "Let him treat you like this?

Gasping, your palm hits the comforter once, as though you need some sense of control in the face of Aizawa's onslaught.

Aizawa grins, thick thighs tensing with each thrust. "You shouldn't, you know. It goes to people's heads."

"Ohmygod."

"Feel good?"

"Yeah— yes."

"Good."

A moan lights up the air. Even Hitoshi smiles at that noise—Aizawa wasn't calling you good, but you've reacted as though he was all the same. He loves how you respond so freely to praise, instinct overriding any overthinking. There's something so… sweet about it.

About you, really.

Naturally, Aizawa recognises you for what you are immediately.

"You want me to tell you how good you're bein' for me?"

Expression flashing, you arch deeper into the bed, presenting yourself to him.

"How gorgeous you look right now."

A broken whine. More tears.

"How well you're takin' me."

Your thighs tremble violently, legs bending at the knee and kicking up into Aizawa. You don't seem like you're trying to escape. Not with how you're also biting your lip raw to stifle your moans. Out of nowhere, Aizawa changes the angle, shifting higher up your body to drill down into you and the reaction is instantaneous—like a forest fire to bone dry tinder. Even Hitoshi inhales at the slick noise of Aizawa's cock fucking your dripping pussy, the sight of your brain quieting right in front of him.

Aizawa chuckles, though it's tense, lined by the pleasure he's clearly trying hard to ignore for your benefit.

"You always this sweet for Shinsou?"

It's a pointless question.

You're drooling into the comforter, small fingers tangled in the sheets like you're holding on for dear life. You try to suck in a breath, but Aizawa fucks the answer out of you within a second. You never stood a chance.

Instead, Aizawa turns his head to Hitoshi.

He jolts at being remembered.

Jolts again at the molten arousal in his Sensei's eyes.

"Uhhh, she's usually…"

You let out a high whine, animalistic in quality. Both men glance at you for a second, at the way you're slipping through your own fingers with every thrust.

"…more… lucid," Hitoshi finishes lamely.

"Is that right?"

Hitoshi suppresses a shiver at his gravelly tone. He nods.

Aizawa's lips quirk up.

The new angle appears to be your undoing, because very quickly you're tumbling back into teary-territory—wet lines streaking down your face as you get flung towards your edge.

"Daddy," you sob.

"Daddy's here."

"Da—" you suck in a shuddering breath, "—ddyyy."

"I know, baby."

You must tighten around Aizawa because he releases a low, choked moan and you respond to the sound like a flower blooming in the sun—squeezing around him again, fingers twitching with the urge to touch when you can't do anything but take what Aizawa is giving you.

You hiccup. "I'm—"

"You close?"

"I'm close," you echo.

Aizawa fucks into you faster somehow, and you all but bow off the bed, trapped between sweaty sheets and his hulking body—your orgasm clearly biting at your heels.

Hitoshi would know.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah—"

Can read desperation in your climbing voice. Delirium in your glassy eyes. Mind-numbing pleasure in the severe quakes lining your entire body, as though you can't take much more, as though you'll meet your edge and be lost in its abyss.

"Please, daddy."

Aizawa doesn't say a word, dragging his palms up the bed until he's pressing his big hands over your forearms. You whine, the noise spun out endlessly with each wet schtick of Aizawa's cock slamming into your pussy until it's one continuous mewl, until it's barely anything more than mindless crying. Hitoshi's sanity is in tatters—his mind swimming in the knowledge that all it takes to get you like this is apparently Aizawa's low murmurs and his older cock. Your fingers spasm on the bed and Aizawa slides his hands up your arms, tangling his fingers over yours to press them into the bed harder.

You let out a choked sob. "Please, pleaseplease—"

Aizawa brushes his stubble over your shoulder, biting down lightly on your shoulder.

"Daddy's got you."

You gasp. "Don'tstopdon'tstop!"

Turning your head to the side, you search blearily for Aizawa's eyes. He tilts his own and meets your gaze. Hitoshi watches quietly as your own flick down to his Sensei's lips, as the idea of kissing him crawls into the forefront of your mind, exactly how it always does with him when you're close. When you want to cum with Hitoshi's mouth on yours.

Aizawa watches you carefully. You lean forward, a whine on your lips begging to be pressed against his. Hitoshi waits with bated breath for the moment you both connect. At the last second, you stop. Wide eyes flicker to Hitoshi's, a clear question in them and feeling for the first time tonight like he's back in control, even if for a brief blink, Hitoshi straightens and nods his chin.

"Go on."

You whimper in relief, wasting no time as you immediately turn to Aizawa and kiss him, wet lips parting to lick into his mouth, shame a long-forgotten concept with Aizawa bullying into you. Sensei's eyes don't close fully, but it's a near thing, and he returns your hungry kiss with just as much heat—tipping his head to deepen it with a groan from the back of his throat.

You sink into the kiss like someone coming home, all worries and anxieties and thoughts left at the door for tomorrow. All the matters is now, Aizawa on you, in you, coaxing you right where he wants.

Hitoshi's dick twitches again, and he slides his palms under his thighs.

You press a broken whine into Aizawa's mouth.

Aizawa swallows it easily before raising himself up slightly—cock still fucking your wet heat, fingers still tangled with yours—and breaking apart for a breath. Hitoshi watches a string of spit lengthen until it snaps, hitting your cheek to become indistinguishable from the tears spilling with each thrust. His Sensei pants an inch from your mouth. Then, he's lifting his head higher and waiting for yours to echo his movements.

Inevitably, you do. Your head tipping back to stare at him, cock-drunk.

Aizawa smiles, something small.

"Open your mouth," he murmurs.

There's no hesitation as your lips drop open obediently.

Hitoshi watches, shell-shocked for a reason he doesn't want to face, as Aizawa drops a glob of spit into your waiting mouth.

You light up, moaning louder than he's heard all night, and he finds out why a second later as you cum—body shaking through your orgasm. Face screwed up in surprise, thighs trembling fiercely. Aizawa fucks you through it in a way that can only be described as mean. Quick, fast thrusts that quickly have you gasping, choking air into your lungs, hands pushing up against where Aizawa has them pinned as you ride out the blinding pleasure.

Hitoshi's hips kick up into the air at your broken keens.

Maybe he can touch himself… it's not like either of you will notice right now. And he's so hard that if he doesn't do something soon, he'll have no blood left to drive you both home after this, and surely that can't be safe. Driving with a boner has got to be somewhat like driving while tired… right? Nodding to himself, he frees a hand from under his thigh to drop it down atop his cock. He hisses at the light pressure and grinds the heel of his palm along his hard length, biting his lip.

Your whines get louder as Aizawa fucks you right through your orgasm and into oversensitivity. Hitoshi can hear the wet squelch of your pussy sucking in Aizawa's cock despite your little pained whimpers.

"Shouta," you plead.

Aizawa snaps his hips into you cruelly.

You correct yourself without missing a beat. "Daddy."

"There you go."

Hitoshi shivers.

Then, abruptly, Aizawa slides out of you. Neither of you is expecting it, if yours and Hitoshi's twin inhales are anything to go by.

A whine gets punched out of your chest at the emptiness and when Aizawa lifts his weight from you, it seems the combined absence of everything him is enough to have a fresh bought of tears spilling down your face. You slump into the bed like a puppet with its strings cut and press your face into the comforter pitifully as your body trembles through the aftershocks. Hitoshi watches Aizawa crawl down your body and peer at your swollen cunt. He palms at the globes of your ass. You jolt, clearly not expecting the touch. It's this side of sweet—thumbs stroking at the crease where your ass meets your thighs, long fingers squeezing the flesh like a stressball.

Then, he tightens his grip.

Hitoshi has barely a moment to wonder what he's doing before Aizawa is using his hold to expose your cunt further and lift your hips from the bed slightly. You make a low noise of discontent at being manhandled so soon after cumming.

Even from where he's sat, Hitoshi can see the arousal slicking your folds and the creamy white dripping down to your clit. The longer Aizawa keeps you like this, the further it leaks over your swollen folds.

Luckily, his Sensei has never been a patient man.

The only warning you get is Aizawa gently blowing air on your clit before he's licking a lazy, wide stripe up your core as though mimicking a big cat preening their young.

You light up like a firework.

"No—" you gasp, "daddy, no!"

Aizawa swirls his tongue around your clit and sucks, humming airily. You jolt as though electrocuted. Hitoshi supposes it isn't that far off. Not with the way you immediately tense up, legs kicking out helplessly. Aizawa isn't even holding your down anymore, but you still can't move—boneless and held in place by your hips as easily as one would a child.

"Please, it's too much— I— ahhh-nghh—"

Aizawa fucks his tongue back into you and moans. His clear noise of pleasure only seems to make you panic further.

"No, nonono—"

Hitoshi finds himself leaning forward in his seat subconsciously, following your call like an ancient summons. Something so intrinsically written in his DNA, he can't ignore it.

He should say something, right?

Tell Sensei to stop.

For some reason, he opens his mouth and cannot find the words.

Hitoshi brushes an anxious hand back through his hair, sweeping it off his forehead, and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Aizawa's ruby eyes flicker over to him at the movement. Face still buried in your cunt, he leans back enough to bite out a sharp, "Sit."

The word lances through Hitoshi's dazed panic before he even registers it as a command. His spine locks immediately, and he presses it against the chair's back as though cornered by Aizawa’s voice. He hadn't been planning on getting up, despite his ruminations on interrupting, but he certainly isn't going to now. The command pools like liquid honey in his stomach as he silently wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

Aizawa licks at you, sliding his tongue inside again within a blink and forgetting about Hitoshi just as quickly. Meanwhile, he's still reeling from being chastised in this context.

Your cries, somehow, aren't the loudest thing in the room.

Because sure, he's been scolded by Aizawa countless times. Cuffed over the head and yanked back by the collar and levelled with looks that could topple villains. Yet here he is—inarguably aroused by his Sensei directing a slice of that dominance on him.

"Hurts," you whimper lowly.

"I know it does." Aizawa presses a kiss to your clit. "Doing so good, sweetheart."

You settle at once, though not without a quiet sniffle.

Hitoshi feels much like he's drifting out at sea with no hope of finding land. No life raft. No meager drift wood to cling to until he's saved.

He watches you sink deeper while he's drowning himself.

Aizawa leans back and trails a glob of spit onto your pussy.

You moan.

"Daddy," you turn your head, "'s' t'much."

Hitoshi stares unseeingly at your foggy expression, hears through layers of cotton the slurring of your words.

Sensei doesn't stop.

"You're okay," he murmurs into your cunt.

You keen at the vibrations, arms splaying wide, feet kicking out. Pretty face smushed in Aizawa's comforter as though you belong there. If anything, the slack leash on your composure only seems to spur Aizawa on more, who squeezes your ass in two big hands, lifting you higher to eat up into you like a starving man with his final meal. The temperature in the room is rising; Hitoshi can feel sweat beading along his collar despite barely moving; you are covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.

Aizawa almost purrs against you, and your spine arches so deeply it looks as though it should hurt. A drawn-out whine tipping into the first vestiges of pleasure once more.

"Daddyyy—"

You don't sound like you're complaining anymore.

By Aizawa's rumbling laugh into your cunt, it's clear he's realised the same.

Pleasure licks up Hitoshi's spine as he grinds his hand down against his cock, and he exhales a shaky sigh—thighs spreading, spine relaxing from its rigid posture into his chair’s soft back. His eyes flicker between Aizawa's wet face, buried in your cunt as though he's trying to carve a home for himself there, and the way you're gasping and writhing and crying into the comforter, like it's a tennis match.

Hitoshi's dick twitches under his hand when you try to squirm away—clearly panicking as the pleasure creeps back up on you in the face of Aizawa's relentlessness—only for his Sensei to tug you backwards as easily as breathing, straight onto his waiting mouth, two large hands spanning your hips and digging into the meat painfully.

You cry out, hips spasming.

Hitoshi watches through some kind of fog as Aizawa stops fucking his tongue into the mess you've made and drags it down to your clit instead, mouth closing around the sensitive bundle of nerves much like an airlock on a spaceship.

You know you can't escape. Hitoshi does too.

He's not even sure he could escape his Sensei.

But you seem much more confident to try, chest heaving and fingers clutching the comforter like you're holding on for dear life as your hips jolt up and down. Hitoshi's not even sure it's a conscious movement, but Aizawa follows you easily, abusing your clit and your sensitive cunt with his tongue and his mouth and the attractive scruff on his face.

You get no reprieve.

A loud slurp rings in the air, right as Aizawa sucks your clit into his mouth, and you almost yell, a shrill, strangled noise caught in the back of your throat begging to be heard. You turn your head to the side and search for Hitoshi's gaze. Hitoshi takes in your blown-out eyes and the glassy way you stare at him in supplication. His heart stutters in his chest.

"Daddy," you stretch out a hand towards him along the bed, breath hiccuping, "help."

At that, Aizawa stills. Hitoshi tenses a moment later. You don't even seem to realise you've said anything wrong. Fingers lifting to grab at Hitoshi as though pure will could summon him to your side. Sensei lifts himself from your cunt a few inches to utter carefully.

"'Daddy,' huh?"

Aizawa's tone bites at his ankles. The urge to run far away from the older man and drag you with him rises, flash flood-fast.

"Shinsou can't help you, sweetheart. Not tonight."

Your whimper cracks the air like a whip.

"You think he's going to come save you?" Aizawa asks, hands kneading your ass.

You gasp when he slides a thumb between the two globes, only to drag it up and down your swollen folds. He circles your clit once, twice, enough to hear a hitch in your breath, before he presses his thumb inside your cunt and hooks it. Your hips drop down to the bed without both his hands holding you up. His Sensei doesn't seem bothered, though, content to let you flump under his touch.

"He's sat there getting himself off, sweet girl."

Hitoshi's hand flies from his cock and to the safety of the chair seat embarrassingly fast. He had almost forgotten—had been grinding against his palm like a teenager and so wrapped up in the fantasy before him, despite still scarcely believing it to be real.

"Little pervert loves this."

Aizawa nods his chin at Shinsou like he's showing you, despite your face still being buried in the sheets as you whimper lowly at every brush of Aizawa's fingers over your clit, every twitch of his thumb inside you.

"Seeing you crying on my cock," he continues through a small grin. "My face."

At the reminder, Hitoshi's eyes flicker to Aizawa's mouth—glistening with your slick in the low light of his bedroom. He trails upwards and almost exits his own body when he sees his Sensei's dark gaze locked onto him.

How long has he been staring?

Aizawa's next words are directed at you; Hitoshi knows they are, but the way his Sensei doesn't glance away has him twitching in his slacks. "You're stuck with me tonight."

Hitoshi feels a wave of fire consume his thoughts for a rational second.

"Jesus."

The first word Hitoshi has uttered tonight, and great… he sounds like a fucking idiot.

A bleary set of curious eyes flickers over to him. He can feel the blush staining his face and fights to keep a straight face despite the way he can feel precum leaking from his tip and wetting his boxers.

There's a suspended moment of quiet and then a gentle slap echoes in the room.

"Ohhh…" You bow from the bed immediately, back curling up like a cat's.

It takes Hitoshi a second to figure out what happened, but he catches on just in time to see Aizawa's fingers—his thumb still hooked inside you—lifting from your pussy and landing in another wet smack.

"Hh—nghh—"

His fingers smooth over your clit in apology. Three more slaps in quick succession—each wet plap further stuttering the gasp you try to inhale.

You hide your face back in the sheets and release a muffled whine. "Da—a-ddyyy."

Hitoshi swallows. You don't sound like you anymore, voice high and ready and plaintive in a way he so rarely hears—if ever. A part of him wants to panic. But he knows Aizawa has got you. Can read it in the confident tilt of his body, the assured look on his face. If Hitoshi had to guess, he had this scene planned down to the minutiae from the moment you brought it up.

You're only playing right into his hands.

"More?"

You shake your head into the bed and press a dull, pathetic whine there. Aizawa delivers another slick slap to your clit, and you shiver, hips jerking once instinctively.

"Can't think, huh?"

You shake your head again.

"That's alright," Aizawa murmurs kindly, pressing a small kiss to the back of your thigh—right on the crease where it meets your ass. "Daddy can think for you."

Hitoshi watches as those words fall over you like a weighted blanket, the only thing tethering you to this world, he's sure. For your expression loses all its indignant colour at once, smoothing out into a calm ocean. It's almost disquieting. Hitoshi knows you carry too much, knows you struggle to leave it at the door—knows what you really need is someone to force you to drop it. He didn't expect Aizawa to catch on this quickly. As though he's had years to learn you inside and out the way Hitoshi has, and not a matter of an hour, if that.

The corner of Aizawa's lips quirk up, though this time it's less mean and more pleased. Hitoshi swallows at the way you're spread out like a waiting sacrifice. Without hesitation, Aizawa dips back down and licks into you once more, tongue flicking inside you alongside his thumb. Your gasp is muted. All your subsequent sounds too. As though they're being forcefully filtered before they can be heard, and all that's meeting the air is you at your core, peeled back and bare and so raw, Hitoshi could cry.

He doesn't.

But it's a near thing. Especially when you close your eyes and start to bask in the attention Aizawa is lavishing on you, hips drawing back and forth to meet his mouth.

His Sensei hums happily into you.

You whimper in response, as though there's nothing better to you than hearing your partner pleased, than the knowledge that you're doing something right, doing good.

Hitoshi bites his lip. Between one blink and the next, his hand finds its way back to his cock—grasping the shape of himself through his pants and stroking it firmly. His hips jump up from the chair at the first wholehearted touch.

He wants more.

Wants to get his cock out and stroke himself until he's cumming all over the smart shirt he put on earlier this evening when he was still a bundle of nerves at the prospect of Aizawa fucking his girlfriend. But he forces himself to be happy with the heavy petting, instead. Anymore, and it would mean admitting quite how much it's turning him on to see his beloved Sensei turn you into a sobbing mess.

In his eagerness to consume you, Aizawa is near unhinging his jaw—tongue licking wide stripes up your pussy, dipping inside you, curling around your clit. You tremble beneath it all, body melting into the sheets and hands twitching absently at each touch. You seem overwhelmed. Like your edge is approaching closer than you thought it would. Your hips rock back onto Aizawa's face more insistently, and he matches you easily, doubling down his efforts until you're releasing a litany of sweet, short whines consecutively—toes curling and shins kicking upwards at the knee.

Hitoshi can smell the sweat in the air—see the beads of perspiration catching the light along the dips and curves of your body. Aching to taste, his jaw unsticks itself from the iron grip it's been held in, and a small sound of arousal meets the air. Hitoshi winces immediately, but neither of you notices, not when you're a breath away from cumming, nor when Aizawa is clutching you like a meal—all big predator hands and tongue.

"Closecloseclose, 'm close, daddy-nghhh, daddy—"

Aizawa hums into your cunt, pulling out his thumb, petting one hand down your thigh and tightening his fingers there, using his hold to splay you open further. Your hands jerk out. One stretched wide and clutching the bedspread. Another flinging back in an effort to find Aizawa's.

"Daddy," you plead.

Sensei glances over the swell of your ass and sees the request for what it is—touch, connection. A rock in an open ocean threatening to swallow you whole. He reaches for you easily with his other hand, as though the action of grounding you is as familiar to him as breathing. As natural as the tides and the wind and the way a predator plays with its food.

Tangling your fingers together, Aizawa lowers them to the bed and squeezes. Hitoshi's breathing has long since surpassed shaky. He thinks he might actually be dying. Lungs expanding and contracting in short, heaving spurts that bring nothing but madness to poison his mind.

You sob, the sound lined with comfort—you know you're safe.

Daddy's got you.

Daddy's making you feel so good.

Daddy's in charge. You don't need to think.

Hitoshi swallows back a groan, head tipping back slightly as the pleasure surges—as you clutch Aizawa's hand so tightly the colour bleeds into white.

When you cum, there's a strangely silent air about it for someone usually so loud.

Your mouth opens around a moan that he never hears, another gasp cut off at its head. Your eyes open and then widen. Every muscle in your body locks tight—thighs tightening around Aizawa's head, toes and fingers curling. It's the hottest thing Hitoshi's ever seen.

But Aizawa doesn't let up.

Doesn't seem phased by the death grip, nor the way you're trying to strangle him.

He licks you through it, slurping on your clit and flicking his tongue cruelly. You shake and shake and shake. Trembling like a leaf barely clinging to its tree in the heart of a storm. Eventually, you find your voice again. A light, throaty keen tumbling from your lips.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Your keen turns into a whimper, blown-out like spun sugar.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

More tears fall down your face. Body tensing and relaxing rhythmically, as though you wish to escape, to crawl away from Aizawa, but that endless well of your energy is finally dried up.

A broken sob. Helpless.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Hitoshi's so close. Boxers soaked through, hard cock pulsing under his hand. Every noise you make has his dick twitching like a reflexive action—like you're both one and the same, one mind in two bodies.

"Da-ah-ddy," you sob, hiccuping over the word. "T'mucht'mucht'much."

You try to lift the hand tangled with his to push at his face, but Aizawa shuts that down quickly, chuckling into your cunt when you let out a panicked whine, too limp to do anything but take what he's giving you.

Aizawa doesn't say anything, keeps his mouth close to your pussy. Eats away at you like oxygen corroding metal—stripping back layer after layer until there's nothing left, until you're twitching like a dying animal, until you're crying out and cumming on his face again. Cunt fluttering on Aizawa's mouth, arousal dripping down the stubble on his chin—the insides of your thighs rubbed pink and raw.

You have nothing left to give after this one. Hitoshi can see it as clear as day.

You're gone.

The cries he hears aren't your own, nor is the way your body shakes through your third orgasm helplessly.

Aizawa doesn't stop.

Hitoshi feels his stomach swoop.

Your hips spasm madly and he uses his hold on your thigh to push you wider, to push you down into the bed and scrape his teeth gently over your clit just to hear you sob.

"Da-ah—"

You try. You really do.

"Da-ddy-ple-ah-seee-uhhh-nghhh—"

Your cries fall on deaf ears, though. And Hitoshi can do nothing about it. Can't help you. Can't soothe you. Can't do anything but watch you fall apart and hope that his Sensei knows how to pick up the pieces after the scene ends.

"Please-ah-ahh-ngh-plea—" you hiccup wetly. "—please."

Hitoshi doesn't even know what you're begging for. If you want Aizawa to stop or keep going until there are truly no thoughts left in your brain. If you're begging for the sake of begging or begging because you really will rupture at the seams, if all your insides will tumble onto the bed in a vulnerable, undignified heap of entrails that Hitoshi honestly doesn't think he's equipped to handle.

Aizawa slurps at your cunt. All it takes is him fucking his tongue inside you, chin brushing your clit roughly, and you're coming again with a sharp, startled cry.

"Daddy!"

Hitoshi's toes curl, thighs tense. He takes one look at the blissed out expression on your face and cums too, thick spurts of release wetting his already damp boxers. Warmth drips down to his balls. He kicks up into his touch with a hiss and notes the way Aizawa's gaze flickers over to him for just a moment before he's focusing back on you, sucking your clit into his mouth as you tumble within moments back into overstimulation. The pleasant wave of your orgasm is barely a wave at all—as though you dipped a toe in the water only to be submerged entirely a beat later, yanked so deep you can't breathe.

You honestly look like you're about to pass out.

"Haaa-ngh-ahhh, st-stop n'moren'morepleaseda-ah-ddy."

Now, you’re desperate enough to try to crawl up the bed, body heavy with delirium, and you try to get your knees under you to move. It doesn't work. As soon as your hips raise up a scant few inches, they drop back to the bed with another brush of Aizawa's tongue. As though that's all it takes to render you utterly useless.

You get an elbow under you—another suck on your clit—and collapse face-first into the sheets.

"Daddydaddyda-ah-ddy," you chant listlessly, as effective as words being carried away by the wind. "I c'n't— can't— nonono, n'moreplease— ple-hah-please. Please!"

Aizawa hums against you and your gasp melds with a low, wounded whine—more pain than pleasure, but Hitoshi can't help the way his spent dick twitches anyway. He's sick in the head like that. Enjoys seeing you writhe and cry. He's never seen you quite this fucked out before, though.

"St-sto-ah-stop," you whine. "Pleasedaddyplease, stop."

Hitoshi wonders where the line is for his Sensei. What would it take to get him to actually stop? Is there a number of orgasms he's going for? Or is he reading your body and listening to your little whimpers the same way animals sense air pressure changes? Hitoshi would've hesitated when you were trying to crawl away from him at least. Aizawa didn't even seem phased. In fact, he's still eating you out like there's nowhere he'd rather be. Perfectly settled on his stomach, lapping at the wet mess of arousal dripping from your core, with one big hand keeping your pussy on his face and the other pressing your weak hand to the bed.

"N'moren'more I c'n't— daaaddyyyy!"

Aizawa laughs again, a soft puff of breath that only serves to make you arch your back, thighs tightening and spasming through a weird, panicked stretch as you relax them right after. You let out a choked sob and press your face into the blankets. You've been crying for so long that your entire face is wet, and Hitoshi stares at the sight in some kind of daze.

Aizawa is tongue-fucking you again. Your chest is still heaving—not even recovered from your last orgasm, or the one before that—and Hitoshi might actually die. He can feel his dick hardening again in his ruined boxers, and the feeling is simultaneously uncomfortable and so hot that he bites his bottom lip until he feels it split. Until there's an iron tang along his tongue. Until he wishes he were the one with his face buried between your legs instead. Until he wishes he were the one beneath—

"Daddydaddydaddy—" you jerk the hand under his again, desperate for something, anything, but Aizawa merely squeezes his own, "—nghhh stopstop, plea-uhhhhhhh—"

Between one breath and the next, you're tipping over into another orgasm, but this time it isn't pretty. You let out a loud, cracked cry—so pitiful that Hitoshi winces in sympathy immediately—and immediately dissolve into shuddering tears, riding out the orgasm through wet, gasping breaths. Hitoshi isn't even sure if it feels good this time. There's been no real break between orgasms, and Sensei has been torturing you nonstop.

Though Aizawa does lap at you more gently this time, tongue licking wide, flat stripes up your pussy. When your whine overflows into anguish, Aizawa finally slows to a stop. Apparently, stopping doesn’t mean not touching you at all. He gives you a brief reprieve, letting you suck in one stuttering breath, another, lets you open your eyes—Hitoshi didn't even realise they'd closed, gaze caught on Aizawa’s vigour—then, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss on your clit: a brush of lips, a quiet, wet smacking sound as he parts, like how Hitoshi kisses the forehead of his cat.

Hitoshi startles at the wall of heat that realisation brings.

You whimper, entire body twitching like a live wire.

A kiss.

Another.

Hitoshi inhales something shaky. More tears stream down your face.

You both know he's winding down the scene now—that you're okay, that you're good, that you got through it. But you're still reacting to every kiss like it's a brand. As though each one could be the promise of more trials and tribulations you won't survive.

Aizawa tilts his head up and kisses your entrance. Places a chaste kiss on either side of your pussy. One on your perineum. Another on the crease of your ass. He loosens his fingers around yours and brushes his thumb over the back of your hand kindly.

"Did so well," he murmurs into your thigh, pressing a kiss there. "So well, sweet girl."

Your sob of relief splinters in two as you recognise the words for what they are—you're done.

Aizawa sits up after placing one final kiss on the globe of your asscheek, and you immediately slump deadweight onto the bed without his hand propping your hip up. You're a mess. Flushed and sweaty and teary-eyed. Trembles wrack your body with every shaky breath you inhale as you try to get oxygen back in your lungs—as you try to slow down the borderline-hyperventilating you've been doing.

Unfortunately, Hitoshi is immediately distracted by Aizawa's cock. Red and weepy, slapping against his stomach when Aizawa shifts his legs under to sit between your spread ones. He rolls his shoulders before brushing big palms up and down your legs soothingly, content to quietly watch for now as you regulate your breathing. Hitoshi watches the exchange with a strange pain in his heart, as though someone has reached through his chest and squeezed it in their fist.

"There y'go," Aizawa says, a palm massaging the meat of your thigh.

You whine lowly, but it's more for the sake of making noise than anything else. This is particularly apparent when you make no move to do anything after—lying like a corpse as though Aizawa literally ate your soul out through your pussy. Leaning down to brush the hair matted to your nape, Aizawa's mouth tips up into a small, satisfied smile. It's fond, too—Hitoshi realises with a start. Undeniably sweet and soft and… affectionate, where he stares down at your spent, quivering form.

Hitoshi feels like he's going to throw up. His dick is also half-hard again.

Predictably, this moment of panic is precisely when Sensei decides to turn towards him.

Aizawa gives him a once-over before quirking a brow.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, as though preserving the peace of your afterglow.

Hitoshi nods. Swallows once against the sand in his throat. Brushes an antsy hand back through his hair to try to burn some of the weird energy simmering low in his gut. He isn't okay, not really, but he can't say as such to the older man.

Aizawa doesn't chastise, but Hitshi can tell he wants to.

"I'm okay," he corrects, putting his thoughts into words—stomach swooping when he registers the rough notes to his voice, coarse from disuse.

Narrowing his eyes, Aizawa gives him a short nod.

Then, "Go shower. I'll clean her up."

Hitoshi winces. Shouldn't he be the one looking after them both? After all, he wasn't even technically involved in the scene.

"No, it's— it's okay. I'll, uh," he moves to stand, "I'll get you both a wet flannel."

"Shinsou."

Hitoshi's spine locks again embarrassingly fast, despite being only halfway out of his seat. Jesus. He really hopes his Sensei doesn't notice how weird he's being. A bit of weird after his girlfriend just got fucked is fine, but if he realises why he's acting weird…

Hitoshi will die.

He tilts his head, trying to seem nonchalant. "Hm?"

Aizawa only trails his eyes down to Hitoshi's crotch. He's confused for all of a heartbeat before he follows his Sensei's gaze to where there's an absurdly obvious cum stain on his trousers. He tenses his jaw. That's humiliating, Hitoshi thinks to himself dryly. What am I, a teenager?

But then again, this is less humiliating than the alternative: jerking off and having his spent dick in his hand and cum all over his nice shirt, had he not thought better of it.

Thank god he did cum in his pants, all things considered.

Aizawa smirks, the corner of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Go shower," he repeats. "I've got her, don't worry."

Hitoshi glances down at you and—oh. You're asleep.

Upset expression smoothed out into peacefulness. Face still wet and flushed. Hands still half-clutching the sheets like you're not quite convinced you're safe just yet. He looks back up at Aizawa, but his gaze gets caught on the way.

"But you're still..." he gestures helplessly to Aizawa's hard cock, hanging between his legs.

How the hell do you tell your mentor they're still hard?

How the hell do you say it's okay if you need to go and deal with that?

"I'm okay," Aizawa chuckles. Hitoshi feels his skin break out into gooseflesh "Why don't you both stay the night? I'll get you some clean clothes. Cook you dinner.

Hitoshi bites his lip uncertainly.

"Saves you driving home…" Aizawa adds.

Hitoshi can't find his words. Aizawa seems to notice.

"That was heavier than I was anticipating," he offers lowly, eyes turning kind.

So his Sensei didn't have it all planned out then. Weirdly, Hitoshi feels some relief at that.

"It was," Hitoshi agrees a bit uselessly, still lost as to the turn tonight's taken—the realisations he's been forced to reckon with.

Aizawa nods. "So stay."

He says it like it's simple.

Maybe it is.

Hitoshi stares at his fucked out girlfriend strewn across Aizawa's bed. At his Sensei, hovering over her like a sentinel.

Yeah, Hitoshi thinks to himself quietly, tipping his chin up to meet Aizawa's wine-pool eyes. Maybe it is.

"Alright, we'll stay."

‹‹ MASTERLIST

“like what?”

“like you’re about to ask for some weird shit.”

“put the suit on.”

he stops brushing.

you can actually see the words register. they move across his face in stages: confusion, disbelief, offense, and then the horrible, dawning realization that you are dead serious.

he spits into the sink. “no.”

“you didn't even think about it.”

“you said put the suit on.”

“yeah.”

“so, no.”

“katsuki.”

“absolutely fuckin’ not.”

you tilt your head at him, still smiling sweetly, and it is cheap. it is shameless. it works anyway, because his shoulders tense like he’s bracing himself for impact.

“baby,” you say.

he points the toothbrush at you. “don’t.”

“i just want to see it.”

“you’ve seen it.”

“not on purpose.”

“you saw it yesterday.”

“you were bleeding yesterday.”

“yeah, and?”

“and i was busy being mad.”

“you’re always busy bein’ mad lately.”

“because you’re spider-man.”

“keep your voice down,” he hisses, glancing toward the hallway like aiya— in her six month old glory— is going to rise from her crib and report him to the authorities.

you grin wider. “put the suit on.”

“why?”

you blink at him.

he stares back.

a second passes.

another.

then his mouth drops open just slightly, like he has finally, belatedly, realised that the woman who had his child is, in fact, still capable of wanting him so badly it becomes everyone’s problem.

“no,” he says again, weaker this time.

“yes.”

“it’s not—” he drags a hand down his face. “it’s not for that.”

“i know.”

“it’s work gear.”

“i know.”

“it’s dirty.”

“is it dirty right now?”

“no.”

“then put it on.”

“you’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”

“please?”

he groans like you’ve asked him to jump into traffic. which is rich, honestly, considering his usual hobby.

but he goes.

because he is impossible and stubborn and a liar and currently still on thin ice with you, but he is also whipped down to the marrow. you hear him open the narrow cupboard in the hallway. the quiet scrape of the false back he thought you didn’t notice after you found out. a zipper. fabric. muttering.

“stupid,” he says from the hall.

“love you.”

you settle back against the pillows, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh too loudly and wake the baby. the monitor crackles once, just static, and both of you freeze out of habit.

nothing.

then katsuki appears in the doorway.

and you forget every single thing you were about to say.

because it is one thing to know.

it is another thing entirely to see him standing there in your bedroom, mask off, hair a mess from tugging it on, the suit sealed up to his throat and clinging to every brutal, familiar line of him.

it’s not shiny. not exactly. more matte, more practical, dark red and black with webbing worked into the fabric, reinforced at the shoulders and ribs. there are seams you never would’ve noticed on the news. small armored panels along his forearms. the faint outline of hidden web cartridges at his wrists. a tear near his thigh that’s been repaired messily by hand, probably his, because he never lets anyone touch his things unless they’re you or aiya, and even then he complains the whole time.

your eyes drop.

his hands immediately move in front of his crotch.

“nope.”

you blink back up at him. “what are you doing?”

“what’re you doin’?”

“looking.”

“yeah. stop.”

“no.”

“baby.”

“move your hands, boy.”

his face goes red so fast it’s actually beautiful.

“fuck off.”

“katsuki.”

“no.”

you sit up straighter, interest sharpening. “are you embarrassed?”

“i’m annoyed.”

“you’re covering yourself.”

“because you’re lookin’ at me like that!”

“like i love you?”

“like you wanna eat me.”

“also love.”

“not helpin’.”

you crawl to the edge of the bed on your knees, and his gaze dips before he can stop it. you’re only in one of his old shirts and underwear, hair still loose from your shower, skin warm from the lamp beside the bed. you know exactly what you look like. you know he knows. he swallows like he hates that you know.

“turn around,” you say.

“jesus christ.”

“turn.”

“no.”

“i had your baby.”

he glares. “you can’t use that for everythin’.”

“watch me.”

“that’s manipulation.”

“that’s motherhood.”

he shuts his eyes for a second, jaw working, then turns around with the stiff, humiliated dignity of a man being led to execution.

you make a sound.

you really don’t mean to.

it’s small. barely anything. just a little breath punched out of you because the suit is tight over his back and tighter over his thighs, and his ass is, frankly, a public safety hazard.

his head snaps around. “don’t.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you made a noise.”

“i have lungs.”

“you have problems.”

“yes. one of them is standing in my room dressed like japan’s sluttiest arachnid.”

he turns back so fast you almost laugh. “never say that again.”

“spider-suki.”

“no.”

“spider-man.”

“no.”

“daddy long legs.”

“fuck no.”

he’s trying so hard to be irritated that it wraps all the way around into adorable. his hands are back in front of himself, shoulders hunched, mouth in that pout he pretends is a scowl. and the worst part is, you know him too well. you can see the exact second embarrassment gives way to want. the way his breathing changes. the way his eyes keep catching on your mouth. the way he shifts his weight like he thinks it’ll hide what the suit is already starting to make painfully obvious.

you smile.

his eyes narrow. “don’t.”

“move your hands.”

“no.”

“let me see.”

“it looks stupid.”

“i’ll be the judge of that.”

“i don’t usually have a fuckin’ boner in the suit.”

“i’m not laughing.”

you press your lips together.

he points at you immediately. “don’t laugh.”

“you are. i should web your mouth shut.”

you light up. “can you?”

“wrong thing to say to you. forget i said it.”

“move your hands.”

“you’re evil.”

“yeah.”

he does.

not all at once. not confidently. he drags his hands away like he’s physically suffering for it, eyes cutting to the ceiling, cheeks red, mouth pulled into a miserable little line.

and you look.

because of course you do.

because that is your boyfriend. the father of your child. the man who washes bottles at two in the morning and warms your cold hands under his shirt and comes home bruised and lies badly and loves you so hard he almost ruins it trying to keep you safe.

and he is standing in front of you in a suit that leaves very little to the imagination.

your throat goes dry.

“oh,” you say softly.

he groans. “see? stupid.”

“not the word i was going to use.”

“don’t get poetic about my dick. i will leave.”

“no, you won’t.”

he doesn’t.

you reach for him, and he comes closer immediately, helpless as gravity. one step. then another. until he’s standing between your knees at the edge of the bed, still tense, still trying to hold on to the last scraps of dignity while you run your fingers over his waist.

the material is warm from his body.

that surprises you.

you thought it would feel colder. more removed from him somehow. like a costume. like a wall between what he does out there and what he is in here.

but it isn’t.

under your hands, it’s just katsuki.

your katsuki.

the hard plane of his stomach under your palm. the hitch in his breath when your fingers press into the seam at his hip. the little twitch in his jaw when you look up at him through your lashes.

“i should’ve known,” you murmur.

the teasing leaves his face. “what?”

you slide both hands around him, palms flattening against his back, feeling him stiffen at the tenderness of it. “i know your body too well.”

his gaze drops to you.

you trace one of the repaired seams near his ribs. “this one. you came home with a bruise here and told me you fell at the gym.”

“i did fall.”

“off a building?”

he says nothing. you touch his shoulder. “and here. you said you pulled something boxing.”

“kind of did.”

“fighting crime is not boxing.”

“close enough.”

“you’re so stupid.”

his mouth softens. “yeah.”

“and i’m still mad.”

“i know.”

“furious, actually.”

“i know.”

“but also...” your fingers hook into the suit at his waist. “you look really good.”

his eyes flick away like he can’t bear that.

which is absurd, because katsuki is not shy. he is loud in every room he enters. he argues with microwaves. he threatens furniture when he stubs his toe. he walks around shirtless in summer like he was built specifically to ruin your life and feels smug when he catches you looking.

but this is different.

this is the secret part of him.

this is the body you know wrapped in the life he hid.

so when your hands keep moving, slower now, reverent despite yourself, his mouth opens on a breath that doesn’t become words.

“baby,” he says eventually, very low.

“hm?”

“you gotta stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“why?”

“because i’m tryin’ to be good.”

the room seems to shrink around you.

the baby monitor hums on the nightstand. somewhere outside, a car passes over wet pavement. the whole city keeps moving, completely unaware that spider-man is standing in your bedroom, asking for mercy from the mother of his child.

you lean forward and press your mouth to his stomach through the suit.

his hand flies to the back of your head.

not pushing. not holding you there.

just touching. like he has to anchor himself to you by touch alone.

“fuck,” he whispers.

you look up. “take it off.”

his thumb drags once over your hair. “thought you wanted it on.”

“i wanted to look.”

“yeah?”

“now i’m done looking.”

that does it.

something in him changes. not loud. not sudden. just a shift, like a lock turning.

his hand slides from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up. his eyes are dark and soft and still a little scared around the edges, because this is new. not you wanting him. not him wanting you. that part is old as breathing.

this is you wanting all of him now that you know.

the liar. the hero. the idiot on the couch. the man in the suit. the father who catches aiya before she falls, sometimes before she even starts to tip.

“say it proper,” he murmurs.

you smile. “i want you.”

he kisses you.

it is not gentle for long. it starts that way, maybe. a brush, a question, his mouth warm and mint-clean from the bathroom. but then your fingers pull at the sealed edge of the suit and his control snaps with an almost audible thing, his hand bracing on the mattress beside your thigh, the other cupping your face as he bends over you.

you pull him closer until he has to climb onto the bed, one knee sinking into the sheets, the suit creaking softly with the movement.

“zipper’s in the back.”

then he stops.

you blink up at him. “what?”

you stare.

he stares back, already humiliated. then you burst into the quietest, most violent laugh of your life.

“don’t,” he hisses.

you clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking.

“it’s not funny.”

“spider-man can’t get naked.”

“i can get naked.”

“not alone, apparently.”

“it’s a security design.”

“you need mommy to unzip you?”

his eyes flash. “careful.”

your laugh cuts off into something else.

he notices. of course he notices. his head tilts, just a little, interest sharpening like a blade.

“oh?” he says.

“shut up.”

“that do somethin’ for you?”

“you’re literally stuck in your superhero onesie.”

“and you’re still wet about it.”

you kick at him. he catches your ankle easily, grinning now, finally getting some of his footing back.

“turn around.”

“bossy.”

“turn around before aiya wakes up and ruins your life.”

that gets him moving.

he sits on the edge of the bed with his back to you, and you kneel behind him. the suit is even better up close, which is unfair. there are tiny scratches in the black patterning, a place near the nape that’s been torn and resewn, the faint smell of clean fabric and him. you find the hidden zipper between his shoulder blades and drag it down slowly.

too slowly, apparently, because his head drops forward.

“baby.”

“what?”

“don’t tease.”

you press a kiss to the back of his neck.

he goes quiet.

for all his strength, he is so easy there. so vulnerable when you touch the places he cannot watch you touch. your mouth at his neck, your hands on his shoulders, peeling the suit down inch by inch until his skin is bare under your palms.

you stop at the edge of a bruise blooming yellow near his ribs.

your chest tightens.

“katsuki.”

“old one.”

“how old?”

“couple days.”

“you didn’t tell me.”

“didn’t tell you a lotta shit.”

“that is not charming honesty.”

“wasn’t tryin’ to be.”

you kiss the bruise anyway. soft. once.

his breath catches.

“you’re still on the couch after this,” you whisper against his skin.

he huffs. “figured.”

“for a week.”

“three days.”

“five.”

“four.”

“six for negotiating.”

he turns his head, glaring over his shoulder. “that’s not how that works.”

“it is in my house.”

“our house.”

“my house until i forgive you.”

his mouth twitches. “mean ass woman.”

“lying ass spider.”

he twists suddenly, pulling you forward with one arm, and you squeak before remembering to be quiet. the two of you freeze, eyes shooting to the baby monitor.

static. nothing else.

katsuki whispers, “you’re gonna wake her up.”

“you just manhandled me.”

“me?”

“yeah, you.”

“quietly.”

“you’re so annoying.”

“you love me.”

“maybe a little.”

he kisses you again, smiling into it this time, and the suit gets lost somewhere around his waist, then his thighs, then the floor. there’s a clumsy, stifled struggle with one ankle that nearly makes you laugh again until he bites your shoulder through his own shirt and mutters, “one sound and i’m puttin’ it back on.”

“threatening me with a good time.”

“you’re insane.”

“you knew that before.”

“knew it before i knocked you up, too.”

heat blooms low in your stomach. his eyes catch it.

your hand tightens around his bicep. “should do it again.”

for a second, the whole room goes still.

not because he doesn’t understand.

because he does.

because aiya is asleep down the hall, and your body remembers her. the ache, the weight, the long nights, the softness of her head under your chin, the impossible terror of loving something that small. it remembers katsuki kneeling beside the bed with a newborn tucked against his bare chest, whispering promises to both of you like he could scare the world into behaving if he growled hard enough.

his hand spreads over your stomach.

careful. reverent.

“yeah?” he says, voice rough.

you nod.

he bends until his forehead rests against yours. “you sure?”

“i’m sure.”

“not just because you’re freakin’ out over the suit?”

“that is a factor.”

he snorts.

you smile, sliding your arms around his neck. “but no. not just that.”

his thumb strokes once, slow, over your stomach.

“aiya’s gonna be pissed.”

“aiya’s six months old.”

“she’s possessive.”

“she gets that from you.”

“damn right.”

you kiss him before he can say anything else stupid, and he follows you down into the bed with an instinct that feels older than the secret, older than the suit, older than the hurt still waiting for both of you in the morning.

for now, he is warm and heavy over you, bare skin against bare skin, one hand braced carefully near your head like he still thinks he might crush you after all these years. you pull him closer anyway. you always do.

“couch tomorrow,” you whisper against his mouth.

“yeah, yeah.”

“and we’re still talking.”

“yeah.”

“and you’re teaching me how the web thingy works.”

“absolutely not.”

“katsuki.”

“fine.”

“and i’m putting the suit on once.”

his head lifts.

you blink innocently.

“no,” he says.

“yes.”

“no.”

“it’s only fair.”

“you wearin’ that suit is how we end up with an army of brats.”

you gasp. “so you agree.”

“i agree you’re awful.”

the baby monitor crackles.

both of you freeze again, half tangled, half laughing, entirely caught.

aiya sighs.

katsuki lowers his forehead to your shoulder in silent, desperate prayer.

you bite your lip so hard you almost hurt yourself.

after a long moment, he whispers, “still asleep.”

“spider-sense?”

“dad sense.”

you soften before you can stop yourself. he feels it. lifts his head. the grin is gone now, replaced with something quieter. something open and tired and so painfully full of love that you almost hate him for making you feel it while you’re still furious.

“i’m sorry,” he says.

no defence. no excuse.

just that.you touch his cheek.

“i know.”

“i’ll tell you everythin’.”

“you better.”

“everythin’.”

you hold him there, fingers sliding into his hair, the city outside wet and glowing and alive around you. somewhere in it, there are rooftops he knows better than streets. alleys where he has bled alone. people he has saved without you knowing. versions of him you are only just beginning to meet.

but this version is yours.

in your bed. in your arms. warm, embarrassed, breathing hard against your throat.

“katsuki?”

“hm?”

“make another baby with me.”

he goes still for one heartbeat.

then his mouth finds yours again, and this time there is nothing funny about it.

“yeah,” he whispers.

his hand cups the back of your head like a vow.

“yeah, baby. i got you.”