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The blindfold was Katsuki’s idea.
He’d framed it as a focus thing, said something about sensory deprivation making the experience more intense, said it in the brisk voice he uses when he’s decided on something and has no interest in defending it. Shouto had looked at him for a long moment, the kind of look that goes slightly past the surface of things, then said okay and held his wrists up toward the headboard without being asked.
That was ten minutes ago. Now he’s lying there, wrists in capture tape, dark fabric tied across his eyes, chest rising in a slow rhythm that makes Katsuki irrationally annoyed. He looks comfortable. He shouldn’t look comfortable, no one looks comfortable in this situation, but this is Todoroki Shouto, whose resting state is unnerving patience, and so his hands rest loose around the tape and his jaw is soft and Katsuki is kneeling over him feeling like he’s the one who got restrained.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Shouto says.
“I’m thinking.”
“About what.”
“About how I’m going to do this, obviously. Hold on.”
Shouto holds on. The late afternoon light cuts long across the bed, catches the white of his hair and the line of his shoulder. Katsuki looks at his collarbone and then at the wall to the left of his collarbone, which is easier. Down the hall, two of their classmates argue about something, muffled through the door. The sound fades.
“Are you nervous,” Shouto asks.
“Why would I be nervous?”
A pause. “I don’t know. I am.”
Katsuki looks back at his face against his better judgment. The furrow between his brows is faint, there and not quite there, the only tell. “What do you have to be nervous about, you’re the one just lying there.”
“I’m worried about hurting you.”
Katsuki opens his mouth. Closes it. The directness of it, the way Shouto says that like he’s reading it off a chart rather than admitting something, lands somewhere Katsuki doesn’t have good vocabulary for. “You won’t.”
“I might.” Shouto’s jaw shifts. “I’m just saying we should go slowly,” Shouto says, in the patient tone he deploys when he thinks Katsuki is being unreasonable. “That’s all I was trying to say.”
“We’re not having this conversation.” Katsuki shifts his weight forward, gets his knees settled on either side of Shouto’s hips, and reaches back to line them up because if he doesn’t do it now he’s going to keep arguing and then neither of them will get anywhere. “We’re not talking about the bathhouse. The bathhouse doesn’t exist.”
Shouto seems to consider whether to push this. He decides not to, which Katsuki appreciates on a fundamental level. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” Katsuki says.
The tip of Shouto’s cock presses against his cunt and his whole train of thought disassembles.
He knew it would feel different from his fingers. He’d prepared for different. What he hadn’t prepared for is the density of it, the blunt, heavy pressure against his cunt, warm and solid in a way that his three fingers earlier were not, and his body reads the size of it before his brain catches up and clenches hard. He breathes out through his nose, deliberate, and makes himself unclench.
“Katsuki.”
“I know.” He shifts his hips, angles, tries to make the geometry work better. “I told you I know, I’m doing it.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I said I know.” He applies more of his weight and feels himself begin to give, the very first stretch, his cunt parting around the head of Shouto’s cock in increments his body wants to stop and pause and reconsider at each one. He doesn’t let it stop. He breathes and keeps the slow downward pressure and feels himself opening wider than three fingers got him and his thighs start to shake and he lets them shake because Shouto can’t see it. “I prepped. I know what I’m doing. I’ve been thinking about this for—” he cuts himself off.
“For how long,” Shouto says, with genuine interest.
“None of your business.” The stretch pulls hot in a way that isn’t pain yet, is the edge of pain, is the territory just before it, and his hips try to lift by reflex and he holds them down through concentrated effort. “Stop asking questions.”
“You brought it up.”
“I really didn’t.” He adjusts the angle of his hips by a fraction and his cunt gives another increment, another small cede of ground, and his hand finds Shouto’s stomach and braces there. His fingers dig in harder than he means them to. Underneath them Shouto’s abdomen tenses, the muscles pulling tight under his palm, and Katsuki feels his clit pulse at that and ignores it entirely.
Shouto’s breath stutters.
Katsuki registers it, that small crack in the steadiness, Shouto’s chest expanding on a breath that doesn’t come out quite even. He files it and keeps going, keeps the slow incremental pressure, and his cunt stretches another degree and then another, burning at the edges now in the clean way that means he’s at his limit and pushing just past it, and he tips his chin up and breathes through his nose and keeps his face blank because the blindfold exists for exactly this reason.
The head breaches.
His body closes around it, his cunt settling behind the ridge, and a sound gets out of him, short and bitten off, his jaw locking on the tail end of it. The head alone holds him open at a width his body hasn’t learned yet, thick enough that he feels his pulse beat against it, and his walls clench around the intrusion on reflex and the clench sends a spike of sensation up through his gut and he feels himself get wetter, his body answering before his brain signs off on it. He breathes out and lets himself adjust, lets his walls decide what they think about this, and waits.
Below him, Shouto’s hands have gone tight around the tape.
“You okay,” he says, very quietly.
“Fine.” He keeps his voice even. He’s proud of that. “I told you I’d be fine.”
He starts to sink.
Shouto’s cock presses into him in slow increments, each one measured, Katsuki controlling the pace from above and feeling every fraction of the advance. The stretch spreads from his cunt inward, his walls parting around the width of it, the fullness building heavier in his pelvis with each inch he takes, settling deep, pressing outward against his lower back and the insides of his thighs until he feels it in his hips, in his teeth. His fingers press harder into Shouto’s stomach. He gets halfway down and stops, his thighs burning with the effort of holding himself there, and breathes.
“Still with me,” Shouto asks. His voice is rough at the edges.
“Obviously I’m still with you.” He shifts his weight, testing, and the movement sends a drag through him that runs from his cunt to the base of his spine and heat floods behind his eyes and the room loses its edges for a second before he blinks it back. “How are you this—” he starts, and stops.
“This what.”
“Nothing.” He rolls his hips forward by a small degree and back and the motion drags Shouto’s cock against his walls in a slow pull that makes his stomach drop and his thighs clamp tight. “Stop fishing.”
“I wasn’t fishing.” A pause, and then: “You feel—”
“Don’t.” His face burns. “Don’t narrate.”
Shouto closes his mouth. His hands have gone so tight around the capture tape that the tendons in his forearms stand out, which Katsuki notices and then looks away from, and his chest moves faster than it was ten minutes ago, the slow steady rhythm entirely gone. Underneath Katsuki’s palm, Shouto’s heart hammers, fast and hard enough that Katsuki can feel it through the heel of his hand, and something about that, about the proof that Shouto is just as gone as he is under all that composure, makes his chest tight in a way he can’t account for.
Katsuki looks at his face again. The blindfold. The color in his cheeks that wasn’t there when this started. The jaw that has gone from soft to set.
He sinks the rest of the way down.
The depth hits him all at once, Shouto fully seated inside him, and his hand splays flat against Shouto’s chest and his hips tip forward on reflex and the sound comes out of him thin and punched-out, gone before he can catch it. He feels it in his stomach, the shape of Shouto’s cock a deep, settled pressure against his walls, his cunt stretched wide around the base, and his body pulls tight around all of it like it’s trying to keep it there and he can feel how wet he is now, slick and obvious where they’re joined, and he can’t bring himself to care. He sits with it and breathes and lets his body map what it’s holding.
Shouto makes a sound that starts low in his chest, not a word, rough and broken open, and his hips twitch up the smallest fraction and Katsuki feels the shift deep inside him and his fingers curl against Shouto’s skin. Shouto stills, his hands going white around the tape.
Katsuki watches his face.
The color has gone obvious now, the pale skin flushed high across his cheekbones, and his lips are parted, and he lies very still in a way that reads like concentration, like he’s doing the same work Katsuki is doing from the other direction. There’s something about the blindfold that makes the rest of his face louder. The set of his mouth. The tendon in his neck.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine, how are you?"
“Also fine.” A breath. “You’re very—”
“If you finish that sentence,” Katsuki says, “I will unmake you.”
Shouto closes his mouth. Then, after a moment: “Is it always going to feel like this?”
Katsuki’s stomach pulls. He shifts his weight forward and the drag of Shouto’s cock catches at his cunt, the ridge pulling on the way, and his jaw locks. “Like what.”
“Like.” Shouto seems to search for it. “A lot.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki says, quieter than he intends. He lifts his hips by a slow increment, rises along the length of Shouto’s cock until the stretch shifts and the drag of the ridge catches at his cunt before releasing, and then he sinks back down and the fullness returns all at once and his hand presses hard into Shouto’s chest and his spine curves forward and he grinds down against the base of Shouto’s cock and his clit catches the pressure and Shouto’s breath leaves him in a rush. “It’s going to feel like a lot.”
He does it again. And again. His thighs find the angle, adjust, and the rhythm comes in small increments, unsteady at first, his body still learning the shape of it. The sounds the movement makes are wet and specific and the room is very quiet around them, and Katsuki keeps his eyes on the wall above Shouto’s head and his face blank and his hips moving, meeting each downstroke with the small deliberate roll he figured out on the third try, the one that drags Shouto’s cock across the spot inside him that makes his vision white out at the edges.
On the fourth thrust Shouto’s hands pull hard against the tape and a low sound comes back, rough and undone, Katsuki’s name in it somewhere but not quite formed, and it lands at the base of Katsuki’s spine and stays there.
“Annoyingly big,” Katsuki says, to the wall. “For the record.”
“Noted,” Shouto says, and his voice is entirely gone.
He finds the rhythm.
It takes a few more tries, his thighs adjusting, his weight shifting until the angle stops being something he has to calculate and starts being something his body knows. The upstroke pulls the drag of Shouto’s cock along his walls in a slow, deliberate slide, the ridge catching at his cunt on the way, and the downstroke fills him in a single seated press that reaches the depth his body has already memorized. He keeps it slow. Controlled. His hand stays flat on Shouto’s chest and he watches his own knuckles and times each drop to the exhale that leaves his lungs and does not look at Shouto’s face.
“You’re good at this,” Shouto says, like he’s observing the weather.
“Obviously I’m good at this.” He rolls his hips on the downstroke and the angle shifts and Shouto’s cock drags across the spot inside him and his stomach clenches and he keeps his mouth shut and lets the sensation pass through him without changing his pace. “I’m good at everything.”
Shouto’s hips twitch. A small, involuntary lift, barely there, but Katsuki feels the extra depth press against his walls and his thighs clamp down and his clit throbs where it’s pressed against the base of Shouto’s cock.
“Don’t move,” Katsuki says.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Don’t do it again.”
“Okay.”
He lifts. Sinks. The wet sound of it fills the room and his face burns but he keeps going, keeps the rhythm slow and measured, and on the next downstroke he rolls his hips in the small circle he found earlier and Shouto’s cock presses hard against the spot inside him and his mouth opens and nothing comes out and he closes it and breathes and keeps moving.
The fifth thrust. The sixth. His thighs have stopped shaking and started burning, a low constant heat that grounds him, and the rhythm steadies into something he can hold. He lifts by a slow inch, feels the drag pull at his cunt, the ridge catching before it releases, and sinks back and the fullness hits the bottom of him and his hand curls against Shouto’s chest. Shouto’s heart still hammers under his palm. Fast. Constant. Katsuki uses it to count.
On the seventh thrust Shouto’s cock drags across the spot on the upstroke and then presses into it on the return and Katsuki’s rhythm stutters.
His hips drop the last inch too fast, seat Shouto deep enough that the pressure pushes against something that sends a line of heat from his pelvis up through his navel, and his clit grinds against the base of Shouto’s cock and a sound gets out of his throat before his jaw can close around it, low and open, nothing like the clipped sounds he’s been allowing.
His thighs hold him there, fully seated, Shouto’s cock pressing deep and heavy inside him, and he breathes and waits for the sensation to stop reverberating through his gut. It doesn’t. It sits there, a warm pulse that radiates from where Shouto is deepest, and his walls clench around it and the clench makes it worse.
“Katsuki,” Shouto says. His voice is wrecked in a way that Katsuki registers in his spine.
“I’m fine.” It comes out thin, and he hears it. He clears his throat. “I’m fine, I just—” He rolls his hips to prove he’s fine and the motion drags Shouto’s cock against the spot and his sentence drops.
Shouto waits.
Katsuki breathes. Lifts by a fraction, slow and careful, and the drag of withdrawal pulls at his cunt and his walls and the spot that won’t stop and his thighs tense and his jaw works and he sinks back down and his mouth opens on nothing and closes on nothing. His hand presses flat against Shouto’s chest hard enough to feel the ribs beneath and he drops his chin and breathes through it and his hips keep the small slow rhythm going because stopping is losing and he doesn’t lose.
The next upstroke drags the ridge of Shouto’s cock against his cunt, slow, and the next downstroke seats Shouto deep enough that the pressure finds the spot without Katsuki angling for it and a longer sound comes out of him, one he can hear in the quiet of the room and not recognize as his.
“You sound—” Shouto starts.
“Shut up.” His voice cracks on it. He hears it crack and his face goes hot and he keeps his eyes on the wall and lifts again and sinks again and his rhythm is slower now, heavier, each downstroke a deliberate press that drives Shouto deep and his body takes it and asks for the next one before he decides to give it and he’s soaking wet, can feel it on the insides of his thighs, slick and warm every time he sinks, and his breathing has gone shallow and fast.
He can hear himself. The sounds coming from his throat are no longer clipped and controlled, they’re thin and involuntary, arriving on each downstroke and getting longer, getting louder, and he can’t find the mechanism that was keeping them short. He tries. His jaw tightens and the next sound comes out through his teeth instead, high and strained, which is worse.
“You don’t have to be quiet,” Shouto says. Gentle. Careful. The voice he uses on spooked things.
“I’m not being quiet, I’m—” He lifts his hips and sinks and the angle catches and the sentence falls apart in his mouth and his fingers drag across Shouto’s chest and he tips his head back and breathes and his hips keep going without his permission, rolling into each downstroke in the slow grind that keeps Shouto’s cock pressed against the spot, and the sounds keep coming and he can’t stop them and he stops trying.
Below him, Shouto’s breathing has gone ragged. His hands pull against the tape in a rhythm that matches Katsuki’s, pulling taut on the downstroke, easing on the lift, and his hips twitch in small involuntary pushes that Katsuki feels at the deepest point of each drop, tiny additions of depth that shouldn’t matter and do.
Katsuki’s thighs are shaking again. He has lost track of whether his face is blank. He suspects it isn’t.
He stops moving, sitting fully on Shouto’s cock, walls clenched tight around the base, and breathes. His chest heaves. The room is too warm and his skin is too slick and he can feel his heartbeat in his cunt and in his throat and in the backs of his knees. He sits there and breathes and puts his face back together.
“Why did you stop,” Shouto says. His voice is rough enough that the words barely hold their shape.
“Taking a break.”
“Are you—”
“I’m fine.” He says it fast and flat, which is a mistake because it sounds like exactly what it is. He straightens his spine. Rolls his shoulders back. Puts his hand flat on Shouto’s chest and presses down, an anchor, and takes a breath and holds it and lets it go. “I’m fine. I just need a second.”
Shouto says nothing. His thumb moves against the capture tape, back and forth, a small restless circuit that Katsuki watches without meaning to.
“You’re doing so well,” Shouto says, quietly, like it doesn’t occur to him that this is something a person could find devastating.
Katsuki’s whole chest seizes. His hand presses down hard against Shouto’s sternum and his jaw sets and he stares at the blindfold and the face under it and the color in his cheeks and does not speak for a long moment because his voice is not available to him.
“Don’t,” he says eventually, the word coming out scraped. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not.”
“Because I’ll—” He stops. He doesn’t finish. His hips shift by a restless increment and the movement sends Shouto’s cock dragging through him and his eyes close and he breathes and opens them.
“You’ll what,” Shouto says.
Katsuki lifts his hips and starts again.
Faster this time. He doesn’t ease into it, doesn’t let the rhythm build, just picks up the pace and drives his hips down and the first thrust at speed punches the air out of his lungs and he does it again. The drag is sharper now, the wet sound louder, and the angle catches on every downstroke and his thighs burn and his cunt aches, a dull heat that radiates outward each time he drops, and he keeps going. He braces both hands on Shouto’s chest and uses the leverage to lift higher, sink harder, and the depth at the bottom of each thrust presses Shouto’s cock against the spot with a force that makes his stomach clench and his vision swim and he doesn’t slow down.
Shouto’s breath catches. His hips jerk, a sharper movement than before, and his hands twist in the tape and a sound breaks out of his chest, low and rough. “Katsuki, wait—”
“Just finish,” Katsuki says. His voice is barely there, scraped thin, but the words hold their shape. He drops his hips and grinds down and Shouto’s cock presses deep and heavy inside him and his walls clench tight around it. “Come on. I can take it.”
“You’re going too fast.”
“I’m going the speed I want to go.” He lifts and drops and the impact jolts through his pelvis and up his spine and a sound gets loose before he can close his mouth around it, high and involuntary, and he talks over it. “Just — I said I can take it, so finish, I’m telling you it’s fine—”
His thighs are screaming. The pace is too fast for how tight he still is, the stretch pulling hot on every upstroke, his cunt catching on the ridge with a friction that burns, and his body is telling him to slow down and he is not listening. He drives his hips down and the angle hits the spot dead-on and his clit grinds hard against the base of Shouto’s cock and he feels the orgasm building low in his gut before he registers what it is.
He speeds up. His hands press hard into Shouto’s chest and his hips work in short, sharp drops, each one punching Shouto’s cock against the spot, and the sounds coming out of him have stopped being something he can identify, they’re just continuous now, thin and open, and the heat in his gut pulls tight and tighter and his walls clench in a rhythm he isn’t controlling and his clit hasn’t been touched and it doesn’t matter because the pressure inside him is doing it on its own, each thrust driving the sensation higher, and his thighs shake and his hands curl against Shouto’s skin and his breathing goes ragged and short and then stops entirely for three seconds before his hips slam down and he comes, his body locking, his walls clenching hard around Shouto’s cock in deep, rhythmic pulses that start at his cunt and pull inward, and his clit throbs in time with each one, swollen and untouched, and the sound that comes out of him is a sound he will never acknowledge having made, wrenched and open and nothing like his voice. His spine arches and his hands press flat against Shouto’s chest and his thighs clamp tight and the orgasm moves through him in waves, each one tightening his cunt around Shouto, each one wetter than the last, and it goes on longer than he expects, longer than he thinks is reasonable, his body riding the aftershocks in small involuntary rolls of his hips that keep Shouto’s cock pressed deep against the spot until the last pulse fades and his muscles go slack all at once.
He folds forward, his chest dropping against Shouto’s, his forehead landing somewhere near Shouto’s collarbone, and his hands stop bracing and just rest there, limp against the sheets on either side of Shouto’s ribs. His breathing comes in shallow, uneven drafts against Shouto’s skin. He can feel the wet between them, the slick mess of it where they’re still joined, and Shouto’s cock still inside him, still hard, and his walls still twitching around it in small involuntary clenches that send sparks through his oversensitive body.
He doesn’t move. Can’t. His thighs have stopped working as a concept. His face is pressed against Shouto’s chest and he can hear Shouto’s heartbeat going fast and hard under his ear and his own heartbeat doing something similar and the room smells like sweat and sex and the late afternoon light is still there, still cutting long and gold across the bed, and it’s very quiet.
Shouto’s breathing is still ragged. His chest rises and falls under Katsuki’s weight, and his hands have gone still around the tape, and he lies there and lets Katsuki lie on him and says nothing for what might be a minute or might be five.
Then: “Katsuki.”
“Mm.”
“I haven’t finished.”
Katsuki’s brain, which had been approaching something resembling peace, stalls. He keeps his face pressed against Shouto’s chest. The words rearrange themselves in his head. He replays them. They don’t improve on the second pass.
“What,” he says, into Shouto’s skin.
“I haven’t finished yet.” Shouto says it in the same tone he’d use to inform someone he’s out of milk. Matter of fact. Reporting conditions on the ground.
Katsuki breathes against Shouto’s chest. His body weighs approximately four hundred pounds and every muscle below his navel is in active negotiation with the concept of continued existence. Shouto’s cock is still inside him, still hard, and he can feel it in detail because every nerve ending he has is awake and complaining about it.
“So,” Katsuki says. He lifts his head by an inch. Puts it back down. “If you wanna keep going so bad, move yourself.”
He says it knowing that Shouto’s wrists are in capture tape and his arms are above his head and Katsuki’s full weight is on top of him. He says it because it is, in every practical sense, an impossible ask, and because telling Shouto to do the impossible feels better than admitting that his legs don’t work. He presses his face back into Shouto’s chest and closes his eyes and waits for the resigned sigh and the admission that they’ll need a minute.
The tape snaps.
It makes a sound like a rubber band breaking, a clean sharp pop, and then Shouto’s hands are free and Katsuki’s brain hasn’t finished processing this information before Shouto’s palms land on his ass, both of them, wide and warm and deliberate, fingers spreading over the curve of him and gripping and Katsuki’s eyes go wide against Shouto’s chest.
“Okay,” Shouto says.
“Wait—”
Shouto lifts his hips.
The thrust comes from below, a slow, deep roll of Shouto’s hips that drives his cock up into Katsuki’s body, and the angle is different from this direction, deeper, reaching further, and Katsuki’s walls are still oversensitive and clenching from the aftershocks and the drag of it against his raw nerves lights up his entire lower body and a sound rips out of him before he can close his mouth around it.
“Wait, hold on—”
Shouto’s hands tighten on his ass and pull him down to meet the next thrust and Katsuki’s arms go tense against the bed and his spine arches and his body takes the full depth and his clit, still swollen and throbbing from the orgasm, grinds against Shouto’s pelvis and his whole body jerks.
“Shouto—”
“You said to move myself.” Shouto’s voice is rough and low and entirely too steady for what he’s doing. His hands hold Katsuki in place, grip firm on both sides, and his hips pull back and push up again in a slow, measured thrust that drives the head of his cock against the spot Katsuki’s body has been trying to recover from and Katsuki’s forehead drops against Shouto’s chest and his mouth opens against Shouto’s skin and his hands clench in the sheets.
“That is not what I—” The next thrust lands and the sentence leaves. His hands find Shouto’s wrists and try to push them away from his ass and Shouto’s grip doesn’t change, doesn’t even shift, his fingers staying exactly where they are like Katsuki’s effort to move them is something that’s happening at a great distance. Katsuki pushes harder. Shouto’s hands stay. The power differential registers somewhere deep and specific and his cunt clenches tight around Shouto’s cock and he hates that he notices and hates more that his body notices.
“I just finished,” Katsuki says, and his voice is doing something embarrassing. “You can’t just — I’m still—”
“I know.” Shouto’s grip adjusts, his fingers spreading wider, pulling Katsuki’s cheeks apart by a degree, and the next thrust sinks in easier at this angle, deeper, the stretch of his cunt renewed around the base as Shouto seats himself fully and Katsuki’s breath leaves him in a rush that he can’t shape into words.
“Get your hands off me.” He pushes at Shouto’s wrists again. His arms have all the authority of wet paper. Shouto’s hands remain where they are.
“You asked me to do the work,” Shouto says. His hips pull back, the drag slow and deliberate, the ridge of his cock catching at Katsuki’s cunt before he pushes back in and Katsuki’s jaw locks and his eyes screw shut. “I’m doing the work.”
“I was being — that was—” He grabs Shouto’s right hand and tries to peel it off his ass and manages to lift two fingers before Shouto’s grip resettles and tightens and his hand goes nowhere and his face burns. “I was being sarcastic, you—”
Shouto thrusts up into him, harder than the last three, a single sharp roll of his hips that drives deep and Katsuki’s protest falls apart in his mouth, the sound that replaces it nothing he would have signed off on, and his fingers go tight around Shouto’s wrist and stop trying to move it and just hold on.
“You broke the tape,” Katsuki says, to no one, to the pillow, to the side of Shouto’s neck.
“It wasn’t very strong tape.”
“It’s capture tape, it’s rated for—” Shouto’s hips snap up and his cock hits the spot and Katsuki’s voice leaves him entirely for two full seconds and his body clenches tight around Shouto and his clit throbs where it’s grinding against Shouto’s pelvis, swollen and oversensitive and building toward something that makes him furious. “I’m going to kill you.”
“After,” Shouto says, and his hands grip Katsuki’s ass and set the pace.
The pace is not Katsuki’s pace.
Katsuki’s pace had been controlled, deliberate, every rise and fall a decision. Shouto’s pace is slower than that and deeper, a long, rolling thrust that pulls almost all the way out and pushes back in to the base, and the drag of it takes up Katsuki’s entire body each time, his walls parting around the width of it on the way in and clinging on the way out, and Shouto’s hands hold his hips in place so the only thing he can do is take it.
“This isn’t — you can’t just—” He pushes at Shouto’s forearm. Shouto’s arm doesn’t move. His fingers stay spread wide across Katsuki’s ass, holding him open, and his hips roll up again and the thrust seats deep and Katsuki’s mouth opens against Shouto’s neck and his protest goes nowhere.
Shouto does it again. Slow. The same depth, the same angle, the head of his cock dragging across the spot on the way in and pressing against it at the bottom, and Katsuki’s walls clench around him on reflex and the clench pulls a sound out of his chest, low and involuntary, and his clit grinds against Shouto’s pelvis at the base of each thrust and the sensation is too sharp, too much, too soon after, and his thighs tense and his hands grab at Shouto’s wrists again and accomplish nothing.
“Slow down,” Katsuki says into Shouto’s neck.
“I am going slow.”
He is going slow. That’s the problem. Each thrust is its own complete event, the withdrawal pulling a long drag through Katsuki’s oversensitive walls, the pause at the top where just the head holds his cunt open and his body tries to close around it and can’t, and then the slow press back in, every inch of the advance registering in sequence, the width and the depth and the weight of it settling heavier each time. Katsuki can feel every detail because his body just came and his nerves are stripped raw and Shouto’s cock inside him is the loudest thing in the room.
“I can’t — it’s too—” He shifts his hips to change the angle and Shouto’s hands guide him back and the next thrust finds the spot again and his sentence dissolves and his forehead presses hard into Shouto’s collarbone and his fingers dig into Shouto’s forearms.
“Too what,” Shouto says. His breathing is heavier now, the steadiness fraying at the edges, and his grip on Katsuki’s ass has tightened by a degree he probably doesn’t notice.
Katsuki doesn’t answer. His body answers for him, his cunt clenching tight around Shouto’s cock on the next downstroke, his hips rolling into the thrust instead of away from it, and he registers the betrayal a half second late and can’t correct for it.
Shouto’s pace picks up. Not by much. The thrusts come a fraction closer together, the depth unchanged, but the drag is faster now and the wet sound of it gets louder and Katsuki’s walls are too sensitive to separate one sensation from the next, the stretch and the fullness and the friction blurring into a single continuous thing that builds in his pelvis with each stroke. His clit is swollen and aching where it grinds against Shouto’s body at the bottom of each thrust and the pressure there is building toward something he already recognizes and refuses to acknowledge.
“Shouto.” His voice comes out high and tight and he hears it and hates it.
“Mm.” Shouto’s hips roll up and his cock sinks deep and his hands pull Katsuki down to meet it and the sound Katsuki makes is not a word.
He tries one more time to pry Shouto’s hand off his ass. He gets his fingers under the heel of Shouto’s palm and pushes and Shouto’s hand lifts by a centimeter and then resettles like gravity, wide and immovable, and Katsuki’s hand drops to the mattress and stays there. His face is pressed into Shouto’s neck and he can feel Shouto’s pulse under his lips, fast and hard, and Shouto’s breathing is rough against the side of his head and the rhythm of the thrusts is getting less measured, less patient, the rolls of Shouto’s hips losing their deliberate spacing.
Shouto’s grip shifts. His fingers pull Katsuki tighter against him, closer, and the next thrust is shorter and harder and the one after that is shorter still, and his breathing comes in rough drafts against Katsuki’s hair and his hips lose the slow rhythm entirely and start moving in deep, uneven pushes that drive his cock against the spot each time, and Katsuki can feel the change in him, the composure finally cracking, the patience running out.
“Katsuki,” Shouto says, and his voice is gone, all of it, the steadiness and the patience and the calm, just his name in a voice that doesn’t sound like his.
“Yeah,” Katsuki says into his neck, and he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to and his cunt clenches around Shouto’s cock and his clit throbs and he doesn’t care.
Shouto’s hips stutter. His hands grip hard enough that Katsuki will feel the bruises later and his cock drives deep and holds there and his whole body goes taut underneath Katsuki’s, his chest locking, his thighs tensing, and Katsuki feels him come inside him.
The first pulse is a warmth that spreads deep, a wet heat where Shouto is pressed furthest in, and Katsuki’s walls clench around it on reflex and the clench pulls another pulse from Shouto and he feels that one too, the thick spill of it against his walls, and Shouto’s hips jerk in short, involuntary thrusts that push his cock deeper with each one, and a sound comes out of Shouto that Katsuki has never heard him make, low and rough and broken open, his mouth pressed against the top of Katsuki’s head. His hands hold Katsuki all the way down, flush to the base, and his cock pulses again and again inside him and Katsuki lies there and feels every second of it, the warmth filling him in a way that is entirely foreign and specific and more intimate than anything that came before.
Shouto stills, his grip loosening by degrees. His chest starts moving again, deep, uneven breaths that lift Katsuki’s body with each one. His hands stay on Katsuki’s ass but the grip has gone slack, his fingers resting where they were gripping, and his cock softens by a fraction inside Katsuki’s body and the fullness eases and the warmth stays.
Katsuki doesn’t move. His face is pressed into Shouto’s neck and his body is heavy and his walls still clench in small, reflexive pulses around Shouto’s cock and he can feel the come inside him, warm and deep, and his clit is still throbbing and the almost-orgasm that was building sits unfinished in his pelvis, which he files under things he will never bring up.
The room is very quiet. The late afternoon light has moved across the bed and the argument down the hall has stopped and the only sound is their breathing, both of them, slowing at different rates.
“You came inside me,” Katsuki says.
A pause. “Yes.”
“I didn’t say you could do that.”
A longer pause. “You said yeah.”
“I said yeah to—” He stops. He doesn’t actually know what he said yeah to. He lifts his head enough to look at Shouto’s face, which is flushed and slack and still wearing the blindfold, and the expression underneath it is something Katsuki’s brain stutters on and moves past. “That wasn’t a yes.”
“It sounded like a yes.” Shouto’s thumb traces a slow circle on Katsuki’s hip. Absent. Gentle. The kind of touch that happens after, when the performance is gone and what’s left is just the two of them in a bed that smells like sex.
Katsuki puts his face back in Shouto’s neck. “It wasn’t.”
“Okay.” Shouto doesn’t sound sorry. “Should I—”
“Just.” Katsuki breathes. “Give me a second.”
Shouto gives him a second. Several, probably. His hand moves from Katsuki’s hip to the small of his back and rests there, wide and warm, and Katsuki doesn’t tell him to move it.
Then Shouto shifts underneath him, a slow careful adjustment of his hips, and starts to pull out.
The drag is different now. Katsuki’s body is swollen and oversensitive and slick with Shouto’s come and his own wetness, and the withdrawal pulls a long, slow ache through his walls, the ridge catching at his cunt on the way, and his body tries to hold on to it, clenching around the retreating width, and a sound leaves him that he buries in Shouto’s neck. The head of Shouto’s cock stretches him one last time and then pulls free and his cunt closes around nothing and the emptiness is sudden and specific and he feels it like a change in pressure.
Something warm spills out of him.
It happens immediately, the come following the absence, thick and warm, sliding from his cunt down toward the sheets, and Katsuki feels every degree of its progress and his face goes hot against Shouto’s neck and his thighs tense and his body clenches to try to stop it and more comes out and he can’t stop it.
“Oh,” Shouto says, very quietly. His hand stills on Katsuki’s back.
“Don’t.” Katsuki’s voice comes out strangled. “Don’t say a word.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“You were.” He can feel the wet pooling under him, warm and slick, and another wave of it slides out and he clenches again and it doesn’t help and his face burns so hot he thinks he might actually generate steam. “This is your fault.”
“Technically—”
“If you say technically anything I will end your bloodline.”
Shouto closes his mouth. His hand resumes the slow circuit on Katsuki’s back, which Katsuki interprets as a strategic retreat. Below him, the mess continues to make itself known, spreading warm against the inside of his thigh, and his cunt clenches around the emptiness in involuntary little pulses that push more of it out each time, and he stares at the wall past Shouto’s ear and wills his body to stop doing whatever it’s doing.
It doesn’t stop.
“There’s a lot,” Katsuki says, to the wall, because the injustice of it requires articulation.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
A beat. “I’m a little sorry.”
“You came a gallon inside me and now it’s—” His cunt clenches again and he feels more of it slide out and his jaw locks and he breathes through his nose. “It won’t stop coming out.”
“That’s.” Shouto pauses. “Normal, I think.”
“Normal.” Katsuki lifts his head. Shouto is lying there with the blindfold still on and the flush still in his cheeks and the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth that could be the beginning of something Katsuki will not tolerate. “Take that off your face.”
“Take what off.”
“Whatever that is. The thing you’re doing with your mouth.”
Shouto’s mouth flattens to neutral. It takes visible effort. “I’m not doing anything with my mouth.”
“You were about to smile.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You looked like you were going to smile about the fact that your come is currently running out of me onto your sheets.”
“I would never,” Shouto says, in a tone that means he absolutely was, and Katsuki grabs the edge of the blindfold and pulls it off his face because he needs Shouto to see the full scope of his fury and the blindfold is undermining the effect.
Shouto blinks. The light hits his eyes, one grey and one blue, and he looks up at Katsuki and his expression is flushed and undone in a way that has nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with something underneath it. His eyes track over Katsuki’s face and stay there.
Katsuki stares at him. His chest does something he refuses to name.
“You’re a mess,” Shouto says. Fond. Quiet. Looking at Katsuki like he’s something worth looking at, which is the worst thing he’s done all afternoon and the competition is steep.
“You made me a mess,” Katsuki says, and his voice does something that makes him look away, and Shouto’s hand comes up and touches the side of his jaw and turns his face back, gentle, and Katsuki lets it happen, which he examines later and not now.
Between his thighs, the mess continues. He decides it can be a problem for future Katsuki, who will also be responsible for the sheets and the shower and the conversation about what any of this means.
Present Katsuki puts his face back in Shouto’s neck and stays there.