rage

“it’s not even our fault, technically,” denki defends, weakly, like he can hear fists balling at your sides. “who would’ve known that the closet locks from the outside?”

eijirō, katsuki, and mina are on the way to save you three now. they can’t come faster.

it was stupid. it was so, so dumb. denki wanted to see if, he didn’t move the lock, would the closet still open and close? apparently, yes. apparently, he wanted everyone to find out with him. from inside the closet.

“who knew that stuffing all of us in a closet was a shitty excuse for a ‘prank’” you hiss, words dripping with sarcasm, and wish to resort to violence so, so bad. “oh wait! i did.”

“’kay, i don’t like your sass,” denki huffs. You growl.

“i don’t like your face!”

“well, good thing you can’t see it!”

“ladies, ladies,” hanta coos, awkwardly setting an arm around your shoulders to hold you in place, and prevent denki from getting another a black eye. “break it up.”

“hanta, shut the fuck up—you’re next.”

“ooh, hot,” and you can hear the smile in his words, as he leans closer—not that he wasn’t already fucking close—to purr in your ear. you push his face away, and into many coats.

you know denki is also about to say some fucked shit, if the deep inhale in preparation to deal a critical blow is any clue.

“y’know what we could do to pass the—”

“absolutely not, that was one time—”

“oh hell yeah, let’s fuck.”

you feel hanta nodding along, the stray hairs of his mullet brushing against the top of your head. so, you pull it. “Ow, what the—”

“if we have sex in here, we’ll run out of air.”

“a little asphyxiation kink never hurt nobody,” hanta says, so you yank again.

“i’m not dying with my pussy out.”

“ooh, i miss it,” denki says, and you can’t see him making grabby hands, but you know he is. “i miss her, show me, show me—”

you don’t even waste breath explaining how no one can even see, slowly loosing energy for this conversation. honestly, you’ve been moving around all day—you never had the energy in the first place.

“c’mon pretty, he’s practically begging for it,” hanta reasons, much too close to your ear, and if your blood goes hot, it’s because the closet is stuffy. obviously.

“i am begging for it,” denki nods, and his hands find your hips. you roll your eyes.

“god, both of you are pathetic.”

“mm, tell me more,” denki purrs, rotating your body until your facing him, and hanta’s chest is flush against your back. “please? just a little heavy petting until they get here.”

you sigh. then you groan, loud and annoyed, and—

“fuck! fine.”

“yay!”

denki takes the hands off your waist to clap softly, before they return where they belong. they blindly search for the tie in your sweats, fiddling and struggling, and you’re not about to fucking help him. he doesn’t even weasel them off—just sticks his hand in your pants like an animal, feeling around with absolutely no finesse at all.

“awh,” he pouts, running a finger through your folds. you shiver from the friction. “you’re dry.”

“and you’re embarrassing,” you huff through grit teeth. “just get on with it.”

so, he does.

hanta’s hand comes to cover the opposite side of your hip, much like denki’s once was, but doesn’t stay there—it drifts over and under your shirt, squeezing and groping as he sees fit. denki takes two fingers to your clit, circling softly and just like you taught him the first time. you lean your weight against hanta’s chest with a sigh.

“feeling good?” hanta checks in, dropping his chin to your crown. his hand slides to grip your breast through the bra, big hand encompassing half of your chest and then some.

“i’m feeling fine,” you huff. even if you were feeling good, you wouldn’t tell them. they don’t get the satisfaction of knowing.

“oh, i think she’s feeling plenty,” denki almost groans, running a finger through you again, only for it to come back soaking. and honestly? fuck him for that. “definitely wet now—that didn’t take much.”

“shut up and make me cum,” you hiss. hanta huffs a laugh and denki giggles.

“look who’s begging now,” hanta says, bending down to litter kisses along your pulse point. denki rubs you faster than before—impatient bastard.

“i’m literally not,” you defend, but it falls on deaf ears. maybe, it has something to do with the pick up of your breathing. oh lord, here we go—asphyxiating in a closet, with the two biggest idiots in the world. bye world, it was nice knowing you.

denki pinches your clit and you yelp. it earns him a slap to the shoulder, and he snickers, “sorry, she felt too cute. had to.”

hanta groans at that, and the hand on your chest drops down, knocking denki’s hand out the way as he hums, “lemme feel.”

he also groans at the feeling of you against his fingers. your body illustrates the biggest betrayal of the century as your hips buck against his palm, and don’t fucking stop.

“oh, bet you could cum just like this,” he purrs, nipping at your neck. you huff and choose to ignore his words, fisting your hands into denki’s top instead.

until he weasels his way out of your grip, only to disappear. it’s not until a hand finds your lower thigh and yanks your sweats down—some, not all the way—that you realize he’s gotten on his knees.

hanta sticks two thick fingers in you, and your head drops to his shoulder. honestly, at this point, fuck it.

you feel a cooling tongue tracing the bulging space around hanta’s fingers. denki grips your thighs and shakes them, groaning at the sense.

“god, you’re fucking perfect,” he whimpers, dropping his cheek to your thigh. you alternate between grinding back on hanta’s fingers, and grinding up into his palm, and try not to jostle denki in the process.

hanta agrees with a moan right in your ear, and denki starts delivering small kisses to the inside of your leg. heat pools behind your belly button, low in your stomach, and your breath hitches and releases, then hitches again.

“awh, you close, princess?” hanta pants, flattening his tongue and licking a hot line up your neck. you whimper.

“may-maybe.”

denki whines, and his grip on your thighs tighten. hanta’s fingers slip out of you to rub your clit properly, and denki’s fingers slide in right after him. you’re a goner, after that.

your hips stutter, and then you squeeze so tight you almost force denki out. the sound that you make is nothing short of embarrassing—a proper moan, which they don’t deserve—and your head tucks into hanta’s chest as the rest of your body curls. your legs give out, but hanta catches you by the waist before you can tumble. at some point, you found a hanger to hold onto, because once the feeling returns to your body, you find one in your hand, snapped in two.

it’s only when hanta’s fingers leave your clit that you open your eyes. there’s a small slit in the door, a strip of yellow light. it runs across denki’s nose and ends at his left eye, making it glow a canary yellow. hanta pokes his fingers at denki’s lips, wet with you, and he takes them happily, eyes fluttering shut as he handles two fingers like a blowjob. he pulls of with a ‘pop,’ a string of spit clinging to his lower lip and attaching him to hanta’s finger like the red string of fate.

“see? we burned like fifteen minutes,” denki says, and voice sounding heavier than it did last. or maybe your brain isn’t arousal-addled anymore. who even cares.

“whatever,” you huff, pulling your sweats back up once denki’s fingers fall out. he sucks those, too.

(and, when your saviors arrive, you realize, yes, the closet locks from the outside, but there’s also a lock inside. you turn to your roommates with a glare—they look guilty.)

© mamashima/pumaya. do not edit, translate or copy my work without my permission. do not use for ai. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

“Fuck you,” you sniffle, pushing past him irritably, as if you hadn’t come of your own free will. Shoto doesn’t love you, but he has things about you he loves. He thinks. This is one of the things that make you so fascinating to him: you are so stubbornly persistent in denying yourself what you crave. It’s almost admirable.

Shoto trails you to the kitchen, admiring the lines of your body. He’s not shy about the way he watches you when the two of you are alone. He likens it to an artist and their preferred medium, but you hate it when he “says it like that”, so he follows the sway of your hips silently. Besides, he wants you to do the talking tonight.

“Did you break up with him?” Shoto asks tepidly as you round the corner into his kitchen, already making a move to dig through his fridge. You emerge with a bottled water, and something with claws stirs behind his ribcage.

“Fuck you,” you say again, but it’s a little sadder this time. His cock twitches. You have a rather nasty habit of this, keeping around the little boyfriends that Shoto lets you entertain even if you’re coming to him to get your fix. He tilts his head, studying you.

“You’re very toxic,” Shoto says mildly, holding his hand out expectantly. Your jaw drops by a fraction, but you bite back whatever snarky comment you were about to make, handing him the bottle anyway. Shoto notes this– you don’t seem in the mood to antagonize him too much. You’re learning. It thrills him.

“We got in a fight.” You don’t meet his eye when you tell him this. Shoto cocks an eyebrow; you don’t often give him any details about the pests you waste your time with when you aren’t staining his sheets.

“Do you…” he thinks for a beat, “want to tell me what it was about?”

You look up at him, surprise plain on your face. “You care?”

No. Shoto doesn’t want you to think he doesn’t care about you– well, he does sometimes. He will admit that he wouldn’t want your feelings hurt by someone so beneath you. You’re too good for anyone to hurt. Anyone else, anyway.

You smile lightly at him, but it’s a mean thing. “Didn’t think so.”

“You usually don’t like to tell me these things,” Shoto says. He’s feeling generous today, elated that you’ve come to your senses at least partially, and he grabs you by the waist, pulls you up to sit on his counter. He thinks while he comes to stand between your spread legs. This is unfamiliar territory for the both of you– you, hurt…emotionally. Coming to him. The realization is unexpectedly pleasant, gluttonously so. Shoto rubs a thumb absentmindedly over the warm skin of your thigh. See? I can be kind.

You eye the slow drag of his finger over your thigh, suspicious, but you sigh.

“We got in a fight about you,” you tell him, the bite returning to your voice when you shoot him a mean little look.

“Me?” Shoto fights the smile that threatens the corner of his mouth. It won’t be a kind one. “Why is that?”

“Because you, you fucking– ugh.” You dig your hands into your eyes, fingers balled into fists. When you look up at him again, it’s accusatory. “You paid for our dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

You look like you want to slap him, and Shoto so hopes for your own good that you can control yourself.

“That’s fucked up, Sho.” You’re glaring at him. “You can’t do that. We were on a date, that’s like– like cucking him, or something.”

“You were taken care of like you like to be,” Shoto says, feeling dangerous annoyance rising in his chest. “I don’t see why you care who footed the bill.”

You furrow your brow. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a fucking lapdog.”

Oh, aren’t you though? What a picture you’ve painted in his head: you, coddled and complacent, locked away in his apartment just waiting for him to come home and play with you. Shoto smirks, and you scowl outright at him.

“You’re sick,” you tell him, and he can hear the very real malice behind it. You get so testy with him when the mask slips. Shoto just scoffs.

“Then leave,” he says, tilting his head toward the door that he made sure to lock. Something flashes in your eyes, like panic. His blood sings. “Or, you can thank me for dinner.”

Shoto knows your decision was made the second you left your apartment, but he’s feeling merciful, watching interestedly while you pretend to fight yourself on it. He doesn’t often have patience for you in this way, but he’s missed you. You’ve spent weeks apart now, letting that asshole you’re playing house with drape his arm over you like a cheap coat in front of all of your friends. It had taken every modicum of Shoto’s self-control not to drag you into the bathroom and remind you exactly who you really belong to. He was rather impressed with the restraint he’d displayed.

“What do you want?” He sees the shift in your eyes, probably before you even feel it. That gorgeous, submissive thing that you become for him when you finally stop pretending. The gratification Shoto feels at watching you crumble, bit by bit, makes him lightheaded.

“What do you want?” He lobbies the question back at you, not because you have any control here, but because he likes making you say it.

You waver, eyes flicking toward the door. Shoto’s throat grows thick with the sticky rush of dark arousal that floods him because he’s just remembered that you still don’t know about the new lock he’d installed. The key weighs heavy in his pocket, as his pretty bird eyes the door of her cage. You just don’t know that it doesn’t open anymore.

“I…” you trail off, a fresh wave of tears welling in your eyes. Shoto sighs, thumbs at the wetness and sucks it off his finger while he waits. He knows this part is difficult for you.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whimper, shoulders shaking with a small sob. Shoto almost rolls his eyes; you’re always so dramatic.

“And?” Your bottom lip wobbles, threatening more tears. Shoto tsks down at you disapprovingly. This is why he won’t let you go for so long next time; you forget so much of yourself when he loosens the leash. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“I want you to hurt me,” you say, watery and defeated but so hungry all the same. Shoto nearly hisses when the lovely admission reaches him. Your lips to god’s ears.