Work Text:
Katsuki wakes to the feeling of being full.
His mind surfaces slowly, dragging through the last layers of sleep before sensation catches up, and when it does it arrives all at once: the heaviness pressed against his back, the arm draped across his ribs, the particular ache radiating from his hips down through his thighs. The soreness is deep-seated and total, the kind that lives in muscle and not just skin, and underneath it is the unmistakable stretch of Shouto still inside him, cock thick and seated and not something Katsuki can breathe around yet.
He lies still for a moment and stares at the pale strip of light coming through the curtains.
Then he shifts, and the soreness sharpens immediately into something with edges.
He lifts Shouto’s arm from his ribs and sets it down behind him. Shouto’s breathing doesn’t change, slow and even against the back of Katsuki’s neck, his face slack with sleep in the way it never is when he’s awake. Katsuki turns his attention forward and takes stock of the problem.
It’s worse than he expects. Everything has dried overnight, slick gone tacky and stiff where they’re still joined, and as he eases his hips forward the friction catches at his rim with a dry, grinding pull that makes his thighs clench hard. He goes slow, one hand braced flat against the mattress, breath measured through his nose, inching forward while the drag pulls at nerves already rubbed past tender.
He can feel every millimeter of the slide, the stretch thinning incrementally as he works himself forward, his rim clinging around the girth of Shouto in a way that makes the withdrawal feel like it’s happening from the inside out.
He gets halfway there. Then three quarters, the stretch tapering as he nears the head, his rim beginning to draw tight around the last thick inch of it.
Shouto’s arm hooks around his waist and pulls him back in one smooth motion.
The noise Katsuki makes punches out of him before he can catch it, a short wrecked sound, and then Shouto rolls his hips and drives home and the fullness hits all at once, dense and deep, pressing through the raw soreness of his rim with a friction that makes his vision blur for a second. His hand shoots back to Shouto’s thigh. His palm meets solid muscle and accomplishes nothing.
Shouto’s arm settles across his waist, his breathing unchanged, his grip loose in the way of someone who reached for something in their sleep and found it exactly where they left it.
“Shouto.” Katsuki’s voice comes out rougher than he intends.
Shouto’s mouth finds the back of his neck.
It starts soft, just lips pressing warm against his nape, but then Shouto’s teeth catch the skin and drag, and the sting of it travels straight down Katsuki’s spine and lands low. He mouths up the side of Katsuki’s neck in no hurry at all, sucking the skin under his ear until Katsuki feels the heat of it bloom and pulse, then biting down on the cord of muscle where his neck meets his shoulder with enough pressure that Katsuki’s hand tightens on his thigh involuntarily.
Shouto’s hand slides from his waist to his chest.
His palm spreads flat against Katsuki’s sternum first, broad and sleep-warm, before his fingers drag down and find his nipple. He rolls it between his fingertips in a lazy rhythmic grind, and they’re still swollen from last night, oversensitive, every pass of Shouto’s fingers catching with more friction than it should and sending a jolt through Katsuki’s chest that goes straight down through his gut.
His hips jerk back before he decides to let them, pressing him flush against Shouto’s pelvis, and he feels every inch shift with the motion, the fullness deepening, the dull throb at his rim flaring all at once.
He stopped pushing against Shouto’s thigh at some point. He notices this distantly.
“I’m sore,” Katsuki says, because it’s true and someone should be acknowledging it.
Shouto hums against his throat and pinches his nipple, a slow firm roll between his thumb and forefinger that makes Katsuki’s breath audibly catch. Then his other hand comes up and he works both at once, pulling and rolling in a steady alternating rhythm, and Katsuki’s cock thickens against the sheets while he grits his teeth against the sounds trying to climb his throat.
Shouto seals his mouth over Katsuki’s pulse point and sucks hard enough to sting, and Katsuki can feel the blood rushing to the surface, feel Shouto’s tongue pressing flat against the mark he’s making.
He’s still not moving his hips. He’s seated completely inside Katsuki, keeping him stretched open and full while his mouth works up his throat and his fingers pull at his nipples, and the heat of it radiates inward from every point of contact at once. Katsuki can feel himself getting wet around Shouto where they’re joined, his body deciding things without his input, the dried slick softening again with the slow seep of new slick, the tacky friction easing into something slicker and more accommodating than he wants it to be.
This is what the free weekends mean with Shouto. One a month, and Katsuki had understood it in the abstract before last night. Now he understands it the way you understand something that is currently happening to you, that will apparently continue happening to you until Shouto decides otherwise.
Shouto’s palm slides down and presses flat against Katsuki’s stomach, just below his navel, applying a slow firm pressure, and Katsuki feels it meet the fullness from the inside, feels the weight of that hand pressing against exactly where Shouto is buried deepest.
His breath goes out of him all at once.
“We’re not doing this all day,” Katsuki says.
Shouto begins to move.
It’s shallow, barely a thrust, just a slow grind of his hips that drags back an inch before pressing forward again, but the slide of it through Katsuki’s softening rim makes his toes curl against the sheets. The soreness is still there, deep and total, but underneath it the drag catches at something else entirely, something that sends heat pooling through Katsuki’s gut with every slow pass.
Shouto keeps his hand pressed firm against Katsuki’s stomach while he moves, and Katsuki can feel both things at once: the grind of his hips from behind and the pressure of his palm from the front, Shouto’s cock moving inside the space bracketed by his own hand.
Katsuki stares at the strip of morning light on the wall.
Shouto’s chest presses flat against his back, his weight coming down fully, and his hands slide under Katsuki’s body and find his chest. His palms spread wide and squeeze, firm and encompassing, before his fingers seek out his nipples and pinch them hard. The shock of it punches through Katsuki’s chest at the same moment Shouto drives forward, and the sound that tears out of him is loud and unguarded and he shoves his face into the pillow to smother the rest of it.
Shouto doesn’t slow down.
He keeps his hands where they are, palms pressed flat against Katsuki’s chest with his fingers working his nipples in that steady rolling grip, and his hips find the rhythm again, hard and even, each thrust driving the breath out of Katsuki in a short punched sound he can’t fully suppress. The pillow is damp against his cheek. He turns his face further into it and grips the headboard tighter and tries to remember how to breathe around the fullness of each drive forward.
He’s so wet inside that he can feel it on every withdrawal, slick and warm, his rim soft and yielding around each pass in a way that makes the stretch land differently than it did this morning. Less friction. More depth. Shouto slides into him on every thrust like Katsuki’s body was made to take it, like there’s no resistance left to offer, and the ease of it is its own kind of overwhelming.
His cock is hard against the mattress, untouched, dragging against the sheets with every thrust that rocks him forward.
“Shouto,” he grits out, not sure what he’s asking for.
Shouto rolls his nipples between his fingers and drives in to the hilt and holds there, hips grinding in a tight circle that presses the head of his cock against something deep inside that makes Katsuki’s vision go briefly white. His thighs try to close. There’s nowhere for them to go with Shouto’s weight pinning him open, his hips bracketing Katsuki’s, and the grind of it keeps working at that spot until Katsuki is shaking against the mattress with the effort of not making any more noise than he already has.
Then Shouto pulls back and slams forward and the grind becomes a pace again, harder than before.
Katsuki presses his forehead into the pillow and holds on. Each thrust rocks him up the mattress, the headboard rattling under his grip, and the slap of Shouto’s hips against his ass fills the room along with the obscene wet sound of how easily he’s taking it now, slick enough that every drive forward makes a sound he can’t pretend isn’t happening. He’s leaking around Shouto on every withdrawal, slick tracking warm down the inside of his thigh, his rim swollen and soft and stretched wide around the thickness of him, and the fullness of each return presses so deep into his gut that he can feel it sitting heavy behind his navel.
Shouto squeezes his chest hard, both hands, and the pressure of it radiates outward from his nipples through his whole ribcage.
“Too much,” Katsuki says into the pillow, and means it, and doesn’t mean it.
Shouto’s mouth finds the back of his neck again, lips dragging through the sweat gathered at his nape, and he bites down on the knob of his spine with enough pressure to make Katsuki jerk beneath him. He doesn’t slow. His hips keep driving forward in that relentless even rhythm, and Katsuki can feel the pace of it building in his own body, heat pooling thick and heavy through his gut and down through his thighs, his cock dragging wet against the sheets with every thrust that rocks him forward.
He stops trying to muffle himself.
The sounds that come out of him are low and broken and punched out by each drive of Shouto’s hips, and Shouto groans against the back of his neck when he stops swallowing them, a sound that Katsuki feels vibrate through the skin there. His hands tighten on Katsuki’s chest, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that doesn’t match his hips, two separate tempos of sensation layering over each other until Katsuki can’t track either one.
He can only feel the fullness. The wet slide of each withdrawal and the dense pressure of each return, Shouto’s cock driving through slick heat and seating itself completely on every thrust, the impact of his hips landing hard against Katsuki’s ass and pressing him into the mattress. His rim is swollen around the stretch of it, tender and oversensitive, and the drag of Shouto through it on every pass sends a jolt up his spine that lands at the base of his skull.
Shouto shifts his weight, rising slightly off his back, and gets a better angle.
The next thrust hits somewhere different and Katsuki’s hands slip off the headboard entirely.
He gets them back. Barely. His cheek is flat against the damp pillow, turned to the side, his mouth open, and he can hear himself making sounds on every exhale that he has no control over anymore, short and breathless and wrung out of him by each hard drive of Shouto’s hips. Shouto pinches both his nipples and twists lightly, and the sharp jolt of it meets the deep pressure of the next thrust and Katsuki clenches around him involuntarily, his whole body pulling tight.
Shouto groans above him, low and ragged, and his pace stutters once before driving harder.
Katsuki is full. Completely, densely full on every thrust, Shouto’s cock pressing into him deeper than his body feels like it should accommodate, the head of it driving against his walls with a pressure that sits heavy and insistent somewhere behind his navel. He’s wet enough that he can feel slick cooling on the backs of his thighs, can feel it gathering where they’re joined and spilling with every snap of Shouto’s hips, and his rim is so soft around the stretch of him that each withdrawal feels like being turned inside out before the next thrust fills him back up again.
“Inside,” Shouto says against his neck, barely a word, voice wrecked.
Katsuki grips the headboard and tips his hips back.
Shouto drives forward and stays there, hips flush and grinding, and Katsuki can feel him pulse once, deep, before the first rush of heat floods into him.
It’s too much and it keeps coming. Shouto rolls his hips forward with each pulse, grinding himself deeper on every throb, and Katsuki can feel the wet heat of it filling him in waves, thick and insistent, pressing against walls already stretched past their limit. His hands slip on the headboard and he grabs it again harder, knuckles white, cheek pressed flat against the damp pillow while Shouto empties himself into him in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips.
He’s so full he can feel it sitting heavy behind his navel, pooling deep in his gut, and every grind of Shouto’s hips presses it further in.
Shouto groans against the back of his neck, low and wrecked, his fingers still working Katsuki’s nipples through the last pulses of it. The sound of him coming apart is the least composed Katsuki has ever heard him, his breath ragged and uneven, his hips stuttering forward in short irregular drives as the last of it leaves him. His grip on Katsuki’s chest loosens by degrees, palms going flat, just resting there, warm and heavy, while his breathing slowly evens out.
Katsuki lies under him and doesn’t move.
He’s hyperaware of every point of contact. The weight of Shouto pinning him to the mattress. The heat of his chest against his back. The fullness inside him, dense and total, Shouto’s cock still thick and present, holding everything in. He can feel the wet warmth of what’s been put inside him every time he shifts even slightly, the pressure of it sitting full and undeniable deep in his gut.
He swallows and stares at the wall and doesn’t say anything.
Shouto presses his lips to the back of his neck, slow and unhurried, and his hips make a small movement, barely a rock, just enough to remind Katsuki that he’s still hard.
Katsuki closes his eyes.
“You came,” he says, his voice flat, slightly destroyed.
“Yes,” Shouto says against his nape.
A pause. Katsuki can feel Shouto’s cock twitch inside him, his rim stretched wide and soft around it, holding everything in. The wet heat of Shouto’s release shifts with the movement and Katsuki feels it move through him, too full, his gut heavy with it.
“You’re still hard,” Katsuki says.
“Yes,” Shouto says again, lips still at his neck, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to be.
Katsuki exhales hard through his nose. His cock is still pressed against the sheets, still wanting, and when Shouto rolls his hips forward again in that same slow deliberate grind the drag of it pulls through him and wrings a sound out of him that he doesn’t manage to catch in time. His rim is swollen and oversensitive and so slick now, Shouto’s release mixing with his own slick and spilling warm down the inside of his thigh with every small motion, and the ease with which Shouto moves through it makes everything feel more obscene than it already is.
He should tell him to stop. He’s already sore everywhere, already too full, and it’s not even eight in the morning.
Shouto pulls his hips back and drives forward, slow and total, and Katsuki’s hands tighten on the headboard and he tips his hips up to take it better and says nothing.
The pace builds again from nothing. Shouto starts slow, each thrust long and thorough, pulling back far enough that Katsuki feels the stretch of his rim around the head before he drives back in and seats himself completely. Katsuki can hear everything, the wet slide of each withdrawal, the soft impact of Shouto’s hips meeting his ass on every return, his own breathing going ragged against the pillow. His nipples are sore from Shouto’s hands and every brush of them against the sheets sends a jolt through his chest that goes straight down.
Shouto’s hands find his hips and grip them, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows above the bone, and he pulls Katsuki back onto each thrust to meet him.
The angle opens him up further and Katsuki gasps, face turning into the pillow, the sound swallowed by the fabric. He can feel every ridge and drag of Shouto inside him, can feel the wet heat of what’s already filling him shift and press with every drive forward, and the fullness of it is past anything he can frame as manageable. He’s too full and Shouto keeps filling him more and his body keeps taking it, soft and slick and open, his rim offering no resistance at all anymore.
Shouto leans over him, chest against his back, and slides his hands back under him to his chest.
He squeezes once, hard, palms pressing flat, and Katsuki’s back arches off the mattress before he can stop it. Shouto uses the space to get a hand fully under him, palm flat against his sternum, holding him up slightly off the sheets, and the change in angle drives his cock into Katsuki from a different direction entirely, deeper than before, pressing against his front wall in a way that makes stars bloom at the edges of his vision.
“Shouto—” His voice breaks in the middle of it.
Shouto drives forward again and holds there, grinding in tight, and his other hand finds Katsuki’s nipple and pinches hard. The twin pressure of it, deep inside and sharp outside, hits Katsuki all at once and he comes with his face shoved into the pillow and both hands white-knuckled on the headboard, cock untouched, shaking through it while Shouto keeps grinding into him through every pulse of it.
He’s still coming when Shouto starts moving again.
Katsuki makes a sound that doesn’t have a name. His rim is so sensitive it’s almost unbearable, every slide of Shouto through it pulling at nerves already wrung out and oversensitive, and he can feel himself leaking around Shouto onto the sheets, too full and too wet and getting more of both with every thrust. He claws at the headboard and tips his hips back anyway.
Outside the curtains the morning light is the same pale gold it was when he woke up.
They have the whole weekend.
The dining table catches him at the hips.
Katsuki finds out exactly where the edge digs in on the third thrust, when Shouto drives forward hard enough to slide him up the wood and the corner bites into the front of his thigh. He gets his forearms down flat and braces. Behind him Shouto doesn’t pause, doesn’t check, just grips his hips and pulls him back and does it again.
They didn’t make it far from the bedroom. Katsuki had been trying to get to the kitchen, had actually made it as far as the hallway before Shouto’s hand found the back of his neck and walked him the rest of the way to the table and bent him over it. The hand had covered his entire nape. He’d noticed that, in the split second before Shouto pushed inside and he stopped noticing much else.
“Shouto.” He’d meant it as a warning.
Shouto had driven home and the warning became something else entirely.
The angle is wrong from the start, or right, depending on how Katsuki decides to think about it. The table is the wrong height for him and exactly right for Shouto, which means Katsuki has to go up on his toes just to meet each thrust, his heels barely grazing the floor between drives, his weight pitched forward onto his forearms. The strain runs up through his calves and into the backs of his thighs and sits on top of the soreness already living there from the morning, and he can feel the difference in their heights in every muscle below his waist, the way each thrust comes down into him at an angle that drives deep because Shouto doesn’t have to angle up to find him.
Shouto doesn’t have to adjust at all. That’s the thing. He just stands there and fucks forward and the geometry of it does everything else.
Each thrust is hard and precise, driving Katsuki into the table’s edge and pulling him back in a rhythm that doesn’t waver, and the sound of it fills the apartment, skin hitting skin and the table legs scraping against the floor and Katsuki’s own breathing gone ragged against his forearms. He’s wet enough that every drive forward makes a slick sound he can hear clearly, Shouto sliding through him with no resistance at all, his rim soft and swollen and so sensitive that each withdrawal drags a sound out of him before he can catch it.
“You’re loud this morning,” Shouto says above him, not unkindly.
“Shut up,” Katsuki says into his forearm.
Shouto drives forward hard and Katsuki’s toes leave the floor entirely, the force of it pitching him up onto nothing for a second before Shouto’s grip on his hips drags him back down. He bites down on the sound, jaw clenching, forehead dropping to the wood. From up here, from this angle, each thrust lands deeper than it should, Shouto’s cock driving into him at a downward angle that presses against his front wall and sits heavy behind his navel on every return.
“Don’t tell me to shut up,” Shouto says, and his voice is the same calm it always is except for the rough edge underneath it, worked loose by exertion and want. His grip on Katsuki’s hips tightens, fingers spanning most of the width of them, and he pulls Katsuki back to meet the next thrust. “I want to hear you.”
“I don’t care what you want,” Katsuki says, which is not convincing given that his hips are pushing back into every drive.
Shouto leans forward over his back.
His chest presses warm and broad against Katsuki’s back and the difference in their size lands all at once: the width of Shouto’s shoulders blocking out the light, his chest spanning Katsuki’s entire back, his arms coming around either side of him with room to spare. When Shouto gets a hand under his body and finds his chest his palm covers it almost entirely, and he squeezes in a grip that encompasses his whole pec before his fingers seek out his nipple and press. They’re raw from the morning, oversensitive, and the pressure draws a sharp hiss out of Katsuki through his teeth.
“You do,” Shouto says against the back of his neck, quiet and certain.
“I really don’t—” The word cuts off when Shouto rolls his nipple and drives forward at the same time, and what comes out instead is not a word at all.
Shouto’s mouth curves against his nape. Katsuki can feel it.
“Say that again,” Shouto says.
“Go to hell.”
Shouto pinches hard and Katsuki’s arms buckle, chest dropping toward the table, a broken sound scraping out of his throat before he can swallow it. His cock hangs hard and untouched between his body and the edge of the table, and every thrust that rocks him forward drags it against the wood.
“You feel good,” Shouto says, like he’s noting something factual, his hips still driving forward in that relentless pace. His free hand settles on Katsuki’s hip and he can feel the span of it, thumb pressing into the hollow above his ass, fingers reaching around toward the front of his hip bone. One hand. Almost the whole width of his hip. “Especially now.” A thrust, harder, and Katsuki’s toes leave the floor again. “You’re so wet.”
“Don’t.” Katsuki’s voice comes out unsteady.
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t talk about it.”
“Why not.” Another drive forward, hard enough to slide him up the wood, and Shouto pulls him back by his hip and does it again before Katsuki can answer. “You’re wet because of this morning. Because I’ve been inside you for hours.” His palm slides from Katsuki’s hip around to his stomach and presses flat, low, fingers splaying wide. “You’re still full of me.”
Katsuki presses his forehead to the table and grips the far edge hard enough that the wood creaks. He can feel exactly what Shouto is describing, the wet heat of the morning shifting with every thrust forward, his gut heavy and full, and Shouto’s hand pressing against it from outside, encompassing and warm.
“I can feel it,” Shouto says, fingers pressing firmer. “Every time I push in. I can feel myself inside you.”
“Shouto—”
“Tell me you feel it.”
“I’m not—” A thrust drives the rest of it out of him and what replaces it is a sound he shoves against the wood of the table. His toes scrabble for the floor and find it briefly before the next drive forward takes it away again.
“Tell me,” Shouto says, and his voice has lost some of its evenness now, rougher at the edges, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that rattles the table legs against the floor. His chest presses heavier against Katsuki’s back with every thrust, his weight coming forward, and Katsuki can feel how much of him there is, how completely Shouto covers him from behind, how far his hands reach around him.
Katsuki’s grip on the table edge is white-knuckled. His thighs are shaking. He’s up on his toes with every hard drive forward and barely getting his heels down between, calves burning with the sustained effort of trying to meet a height that isn’t built for him.
“I feel it,” he grits out. “Happy?”
“Yes,” Shouto says simply, and drives forward hard enough that both Katsuki’s feet leave the floor.
He swears, loud, and Shouto makes a low rough sound behind him and does it again, grip tightening on his hip, fingers pressing harder against his stomach like he can’t get close enough from any direction. His other hand finds Katsuki’s nipple again, rolling and pinching, and Katsuki hears himself making sounds that bounce off the kitchen walls and stops trying to do anything about it.
“Look,” Shouto says against the back of his neck.
Katsuki’s eyes had been shut. He opens them.
The window throws back a dim reflection, both of them flushed and sweat-slicked, and the size difference hits him like a separate thing from the fucking, Shouto’s frame broad and dark behind him, his hands spanning Katsuki’s chest and hip like they’re a size he was made to hold, Katsuki up on his toes and pitched forward onto his forearms, small under the weight of him in a way that makes his face go hot separate from everything else.
He looks away fast.
“Don’t,” he says.
“You’re beautiful,” Shouto says, like Katsuki told him something he disagrees with.
“I will actually kill you.”
Shouto presses a kiss to the back of his neck and slams forward and Katsuki’s toes leave the floor and the sound he makes is not a threat and they both know it.
Outside the window the morning light sits gold and unhurried across the floor.
Shouto pulls back and drives forward again, and Katsuki rises onto his toes to meet it, thighs burning, rim soft and slick and open, taking everything Shouto gives him from a height he’ll never quite reach.
He doesn’t go anywhere.
The film has been on for twenty minutes and Katsuki has retained almost none of it.
He’s got a reasonable excuse. He’s on his side with his back against Shouto’s chest, Shouto’s arm draped over him, and somewhere in the first ten minutes Shouto’s hand slipped under the waistband of his shorts and hasn’t moved since. Just resting there, warm and still, fingers curled loosely against him. Katsuki had decided to ignore it. He’d been successfully ignoring it, mostly, until Shouto’s middle finger pressed slow and deliberate against his entrance and stayed there, not pushing in, just pressing, and the low idle heat of it made it very difficult to follow the plot.
On screen someone is shooting at someone else. Katsuki watches it without seeing it.
Shouto’s finger circles once, slow, and Katsuki’s breath goes out of him through his nose in a controlled stream.
“Stop,” he says.
Shouto presses a little firmer and Katsuki feels himself give slightly around the pad of his finger, still soft from the morning, still easy, and he reaches down and puts his hand over Shouto’s wrist.
“I mean it. Stop being horny. We’re watching the movie.”
Shouto’s chin comes to rest on the top of his head. “I’m watching the movie,” he says.
“You’re fingering me.”
“I can do both.”
Katsuki opens his mouth and Shouto chooses that moment to push the tip of his finger inside, just the tip, just enough, and Katsuki’s hand tightens on his wrist and doesn’t pull it away. The stretch is nothing, barely anything, his body still loose and soft enough from the day that it gives without resistance, and that’s almost the problem. He can feel how easy it is. Shouto can too, probably.
“We’ve been at it all day,” Katsuki says, and is proud of how even his voice comes out.
“I know.” Shouto slides his finger in to the first knuckle and holds it there, not moving, just present. His thumb traces a slow idle arc against the inside of Katsuki’s thigh. “You feel good.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s a reason for me.”
Katsuki stares at the television. The action sequence is reaching some kind of climax, loud and bright, and he’s watching it with the focused attention of a man trying very hard to care about it. Shouto crooks his finger slightly and finds a spot that makes Katsuki’s toes curl against the couch cushion.
“Shouto.”
“Just sit on me,” Shouto says, conversational, like he’s suggesting they order food. “We can keep watching.”
Katsuki turns his head slightly. “What.”
“Cockwarming.” He says it the way he says most things, calm and direct, like it’s already decided. His finger slides deeper and Katsuki feels the familiar stretch of it, easy and warm. “You don’t have to do anything. Neither do I. We just watch.”
“That’s the same as having sex.”
“It isn’t.” A pause. “Not exactly.”
“It absolutely is.”
Shouto considers this. His finger moves in a slow shallow drag and back, once, and Katsuki’s breath stutters. “You’re already soft enough that it wouldn’t take long,” Shouto says. “You’d barely feel it.”
“I would absolutely feel it.”
“You’d get used to it.” Another slow drag, his finger pressing against Katsuki’s front wall on the way out, and Katsuki’s grip on his wrist tightens. “You’d probably forget it was happening.”
“I have never once forgotten when you’re inside me.”
Shouto makes a sound against the top of his head that might be satisfaction. His finger slides free and his hand moves to Katsuki’s hip instead, warm and still. “So you’ll notice it,” he says. “But it won’t hurt. You’re soft enough. I’ll stay still.” A beat. “I just want to be close to you.”
Katsuki stares at the television for a long moment.
The movie plays on. Someone is delivering a speech about something. He’s not sure what.
“You’re manipulating me,” Katsuki says.
“I know what you feel like from the inside,” Shouto says, like this is relevant. “I want to feel that while we watch the film. I think that’s reasonable.”
“That’s not reasonable. That’s insane.”
Shouto’s thumb moves in a slow circle against his hip bone, patient, unhurried. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t say anything else. He just waits in that way of his that Katsuki has never once successfully outlasted.
Katsuki looks at the television for another ten seconds.
“You stay still,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And we finish the film.”
“Of course.”
“And you keep your hands to yourself.”
Shouto’s hand moves from his hip to his waist and pulls him gently back against him. “Whatever you want,” he says.
Katsuki pulls his shorts down and reaches back for Shouto, who is already hard, and lines him up, and sinks down slowly. His rim gives easily, soft and well-worked, and the slide of it is a long slow stretch that settles into fullness by degrees, Shouto’s cock seating itself deep and thorough, and Katsuki tips his head back against Shouto’s shoulder when he bottoms out and exhales through his nose.
The fullness sits warm and total, deep in his gut, and he can feel his own pulse around Shouto where they’re joined.
“Good?” Shouto asks, very quietly.
“Ask me that again and I’m getting up,” Katsuki says.
Shouto presses his lips to his temple and turns back to the screen.
The film plays on. Katsuki watches it, or tries to, Shouto’s cock buried completely inside him and Shouto’s arm draped over his waist and the warmth of him everywhere, his chest against Katsuki’s back, his breath slow and even at the side of his neck. He stays still, as promised. Katsuki shifts once to get comfortable and the movement drags a low exhale out of him before he can stop it, Shouto shifting slightly inside him with the motion.
Shouto’s hand finds his stomach and presses flat.
“You said hands to yourself,” Katsuki says.
“I’m not doing anything,” Shouto says.
His palm is warm and just heavy enough that Katsuki can feel it meeting the fullness from the outside, and he says nothing and watches the film and pretends that the low steady heat of Shouto inside him isn’t making it very difficult to follow any of it.
On screen someone wins. Katsuki doesn’t know who or why.
He doesn’t ask Shouto to move.
The film is ninety minutes long. Katsuki knows this because he looked it up specifically so he’d have a finish line to aim at.
He’s forty minutes in and losing ground.
Shouto has been technically keeping his word. His hand is flat against Katsuki’s stomach, not moving, just resting there with that deliberate weight that presses the fullness inward from the outside. He hasn’t moved his hips once. He’s been perfectly, infuriatingly still, his breathing slow and even against the side of Katsuki’s neck, his cock seated completely inside him, and the problem is that Katsuki’s body has had all day to learn the shape of him and keeps registering it whether he asks it to or not.
Every small shift sends a ripple of sensation through him. Every breath Shouto takes moves his chest, which moves Katsuki, which makes him aware of exactly where they’re joined and how full he is and how soft he is around it.
He shifts slightly to adjust his position and feels Shouto’s cock move inside him with the motion and stares very hard at the screen.
Then Shouto turns his head and presses his lips to the side of Katsuki’s neck, just below his ear.
“You said still,” Katsuki says.
“I am still,” Shouto says against his skin. His lips move to the hinge of his jaw and press there, warm and closed.
“That’s not still.”
“My hips are still.” He mouths down the side of Katsuki’s throat at the pace of someone who has nowhere to be, and his hand on Katsuki’s stomach shifts, just barely, fingers spreading wider. “You’re gripping me,” he says, quiet, like he’s sharing an observation.
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” Katsuki says through his teeth.
“I know.” Shouto’s lips find his pulse point and rest there without sucking, just the warm press of them, and Katsuki can feel his own heartbeat against Shouto’s mouth. “You’ve been doing it for twenty minutes. Every time something happens on screen.”
Katsuki looks at the television. On screen someone is being grabbed through a car window. He feels himself clench involuntarily and hates everything.
“Stop paying attention to that,” he says.
“I can’t help it. You feel like that.” Shouto’s thumb moves in one slow arc across his stomach and stops. “Come to bed.”
“We’re watching the film.”
“We can watch it tomorrow.”
“I want to watch it now.”
Shouto hums against his neck and goes still again, and Katsuki lasts approximately four minutes before he feels Shouto’s hand drift from his stomach to his hip, fingers curling around it, and then Shouto tilts his hips forward, the barest motion, barely a thrust, just a slow press deeper that shifts his cock against Katsuki’s front wall and holds there.
Katsuki’s breath punches out of him.
“You said you weren’t going to do that,” he says.
“You said hands to yourself. You didn’t say anything about my hips.”
“That was implied.”
“Was it.” Shouto pulls back a fraction and presses forward again, the same shallow grinding motion, and Katsuki’s hand comes down on his thigh and grips it hard in warning. Shouto goes still. “Come to bed,” he says again, lower this time, his mouth at Katsuki’s ear. “I’ll make it good.”
“It’s already—” Katsuki stops.
Shouto waits.
“Forget it,” Katsuki says.
Shouto’s lips curve against his ear. His hand slides from Katsuki’s hip up his side and back down, slow, covering the distance of him with the breadth of one palm, and Katsuki can feel how far it reaches, how completely Shouto’s hand maps the distance from his hip to his ribs without stretching. He presses a kiss behind Katsuki’s ear and another to his temple and stays there, his breath warm, not saying anything.
On screen there’s a car chase. Katsuki watches it and tries to care about it.
Shouto reaches up and finds his nipple through his shirt.
“Shouto.”
“I’m not moving my hips,” Shouto says reasonably, and rolls it between his fingers through the fabric.
Katsuki pulls his hand away. Shouto lets him, and then brings his hand back and finds the hem of his shirt and slides underneath it, palm flat against his stomach first before drifting up to his chest, skin on skin this time, and Katsuki’s back straightens as the fingers find his nipple and press.
“I will get up,” Katsuki says.
“Then you’d have to take me with you,” Shouto says, “or take me out, and you don’t want to do either right now.”
The accurate part is the worst part. Katsuki can feel exactly how true it is, the fullness sitting warm and total inside him, his body soft and accommodating around it, and the idea of withdrawing feels worse than the alternative even as he refuses to say so.
Shouto rolls his nipple in a slow firm circle and grinds forward once.
“Stop,” Katsuki says, and his voice is losing.
“Come to bed,” Shouto says, and his voice has gone low and rough enough that it lands against the side of Katsuki’s neck like something physical. “I’ll make it slow. You can lie down.” His hips tilt forward again, another shallow grind, and Katsuki feels it catch at the spot inside that’s been making the film impossible for the last forty minutes. “You won’t have to do anything.”
“Last time you said that I ended up on the dining table.”
“You ended up on the dining table because you walked past it.” A beat. “I’ll take you directly to the bedroom.”
Katsuki stares at the television. The car chase is still happening. He has no idea who’s in the cars.
“You’re not sleeping inside me again,” he says.
Shouto goes still. “Okay,” he says.
“I mean it. Last night was—” He stops. “You’re not doing that again.”
“Okay,” Shouto says again, the same tone, easy and immediate, and his hand spreads flat against Katsuki’s chest and pulls him back more firmly against him. “I promise. Come to bed.”
Katsuki looks at the television for another long moment.
The car chase ends. He doesn’t know who won.
“Fine,” he says, and means it to sound like a concession and not like what it is, which is closer to relief. “But we’re finishing this tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Shouto agrees, and presses his lips to the side of Katsuki’s neck and doesn’t move, just waits, his cock still buried completely inside him and his hand spread warm across his chest.
Katsuki reaches for the remote and pauses the film on a freeze frame of someone mid-explosion.
He shifts to get his feet under him and the motion drags Shouto through him at an angle and he has to stop and breathe for a second with his palm flat on the couch cushion.
Shouto’s hand comes to his hip to steady him. He doesn’t say anything, which is almost worse than if he did.
“Bedroom,” Katsuki says, and his voice comes out lower than he intends. “Now. Before I change my mind.”
Shouto stands, which lifts Katsuki slightly off the couch, and Katsuki grabs his forearm for balance and feels the full width of it under his hand and decides not to think about any of this too hard.
They make it to the bedroom.
Shouto lays him down first.
That’s how it starts, gentle enough, Katsuki on his back with Shouto over him and the familiar weight of him settling between his thighs. Shouto takes his time getting there, his mouth dragging down Katsuki’s throat to his chest, lips closing over one nipple and sucking slowly until Katsuki’s hand finds the back of his head and grips. He works the other with his fingers at the same time, rolling and pressing, and by the time he lifts his head Katsuki’s chest is flushed and his nipples are swollen and he’s already breathing harder than he wants to admit.
“You’re still loose,” Shouto says, fingers pressing against his entrance, two of them sliding in with barely any resistance. He feels around slowly, thorough, like he’s checking the work of the day, and Katsuki’s thigh twitches against his side.
“Obviously I’m still loose, you’ve been inside me since this morning,” Katsuki says.
Shouto scissors his fingers and Katsuki feels the stretch of it, easy and immediate, his rim giving without complaint. “Good,” Shouto says, and withdraws and lines himself up.
He pushes in slowly. Even now, even after everything, the first press of him forces a breath out of Katsuki on the way in, the girth of him spreading Katsuki’s rim wide and seating itself in increments, each inch landing with its own distinct pressure. Katsuki stares at the ceiling and takes it, his hands finding Shouto’s shoulders, and by the time Shouto bottoms out the fullness is dense and total and sitting heavy behind his navel the way it has all day.
Shouto stays there for a moment. Then he begins to move.
It starts slow, long thorough strokes that drag the full length of him back through Katsuki’s rim before driving forward again, and Katsuki can feel every inch of each withdrawal and every inch of each return as distinct things. The slick sound of it fills the room. His rim is soft and oversensitive and the drag of Shouto through it pulls sounds out of him on every pass that he’s given up trying to swallow.
Shouto hooks his arms under Katsuki’s knees and pushes them toward his chest.
The angle opens him up further and the next thrust lands somewhere different, deeper, and Katsuki’s back arches hard off the mattress. From here Shouto’s cock drives into him at a downward press that hits his front wall on every return, a dense insistent pressure that builds with each stroke, and Katsuki can feel the difference immediately, the stretch sharpening, his rim pulled wider by the angle.
“Too much?” Shouto asks, watching his face.
“No,” Katsuki says, which is almost true.
Shouto drives forward and the headboard meets the wall and Katsuki grabs it.
The pace builds steadily, each thrust harder than the last, and Katsuki can feel the fullness compounding with every drive, Shouto’s cock pressing into him from an angle that makes the depth feel new even after a full day of this. His thighs ache where Shouto’s arms hold them back, his hips tilted fully open, and every thrust presses his ass into the mattress and drives through him hard enough that he can feel it in his stomach.
Shouto leans down and bites the inside of his knee, teeth grazing the soft skin there, and Katsuki’s heel digs into his back.
“Turn over,” Shouto says.
Katsuki turns over.
Shouto pulls out long enough for Katsuki to get onto his hands and knees and then pushes back in from behind without preamble, one hand gripping his hip and the other planted flat on the mattress beside him. The angle from here is different again, fuller somehow, Shouto’s cock pressing against a different wall, and Katsuki drops his head between his shoulders and breathes through the first few thrusts while his body adjusts to the new stretch.
Shouto reaches forward and gets a hand in his hair.
Not pulling, just gripping, fingers curling at the root, and the pressure of it tips Katsuki’s head back slightly and changes the line of his spine and somehow that changes everything below it, the angle shifting, the depth increasing, and Katsuki hears himself make a sound that’s embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
“There,” Shouto says, low, and drives forward again to the same spot.
“Don’t,” Katsuki says into the mattress.
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t do that again.” He means it as a warning and Shouto does it again immediately, his hips snapping forward with precision, cock pressing into that spot and grinding, and Katsuki’s arms buckle. He gets them back. His chest drops toward the mattress and Shouto follows him down, chest pressing against his back, hips still driving forward in a rhythm that doesn’t let up.
The weight of Shouto over him is total. He can feel the breadth of his chest spanning his entire back, the reach of his arms coming down around him, and his cock driving into him from behind with the full force of his hips behind each thrust. Every drive forward slides Katsuki up the mattress and Shouto pulls him back with one hand fisted in his hip and does it again.
Katsuki is leaking onto the sheets. His cock hangs hard and ignored and drags against the fabric with every thrust that rocks him forward.
“On your side,” Shouto says.
Katsuki’s arms are shaking. He goes to his side and Shouto pulls his top leg back, hooking it over his own hip, and slides back inside from behind. The angle is shallower here, the stretch different, and Katsuki exhales at the ceiling while Shouto finds his depth again. From this position Shouto’s chest presses flush against his back and his arm comes over him to his chest, palm spreading wide, and he pulls Katsuki back into each thrust while his hips drive forward.
It’s slower here. Deeper and slower, each thrust grinding to its full depth before withdrawing, and Katsuki can feel the difference in his whole pelvis, the particular fullness of this angle sitting differently in his gut than any of the others. His rim is sore and swollen and so slick that every slide of Shouto through it makes a sound he can hear clearly, wet and explicit, and Shouto’s hand on his chest squeezes once before finding his nipple.
“You’ve been stretched like this all day,” Shouto says against the back of his neck, low and rough. “Every position. You keep taking it.”
“Shut up,” Katsuki says, and his voice is wrecked.
Shouto drives forward and holds, grinding in a tight circle at full depth, and his fingers roll Katsuki’s nipple at the same time and Katsuki reaches back and grabs a fistful of his hip and holds on. The grind presses into a spot that makes his vision blur at the edges, that same deep insistent pressure he’s been feeling all day, and his cock twitches against the sheets and he’s so close it’s making his thighs shake.
“Come on,” Shouto says, quiet and close, his mouth at the back of Katsuki’s neck. “I want to feel you.”
Katsuki comes with Shouto’s hand on his chest and Shouto’s cock buried to the hilt, grinding through it, and the clench of it around Shouto is so tight after a full day of being stretched that Shouto groans rough and real against his nape and drives forward twice more before he follows.
The heat of it floods deep and Katsuki feels every pulse of it, thick and warm, filling him past full in a way that makes him close his eyes and exhale slowly through his nose.
They stay there, neither of them moving. Shouto’s hips go still. His hand spreads flat against Katsuki’s chest and holds him close, their breathing evening out together in the dark.
Katsuki can feel Shouto’s heartbeat through his back.
After a moment Shouto presses his lips to the back of his neck, soft and unhurried.
“I’m pulling out,” Katsuki says.
Shouto tightens his arm slightly. “Not yet.”
“You promised.”
A pause. Shouto’s thumb traces a slow arc across his chest. “Ten minutes,” he says.
“You’re not negotiating with me right now.”
“Five.”
Katsuki reaches down and finds Shouto’s wrist and holds it, not pulling it away, just holding it. The fullness sits warm and heavy inside him, Shouto still thick and present, and the room is quiet and dark and his body aches from the crown of his head to the backs of his knees in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.
“Five minutes,” he says. “Then you’re out and you stay out.”
Shouto presses another kiss to his nape. “Okay,” he says, and means it the way he always means things, which is completely.
Katsuki stares at the dark ceiling and counts down from three hundred and doesn’t make it past two hundred and forty before he’s asleep.