#kirishima is a huge closet sub. i’ll die on this hill

[gardenofnoah]

kirishima has always been looked at as strong and commanding—always larger than life and in control—so he has no idea what to do when he’s pined underneath you and at the mercy of the way you play his body like a well-tuned instrument.

he’s out of his depth and feels half out of his mind as the tip of your tongue drags over his hip bone. you’re touching him everywhere—fingers bruising against his waist, his thighs, his calves—he knows that you are taking from him in a way that no one has ever, and he’s giving all of it to you willingly.

“b-baby,” and it’s stuttered and breathless as he feels your teeth sink into the skin of his inner thigh—he fights the urge to harden his skin subconsciously over the pain because it’s so good and he wants to feel all of it—

“so good, Eij—“ you coo into his skin, dragging the plush of your lips over the trails of raised, reddened skin your nails leave behind as you move down his body, “you’re so good, letting me play with you like this.”

to his shock, his hips kick at your works, completely enthralled by the notion of being a play thing for you—of giving in, of going soft for the first time in his life—

he feels your fingers dig into the muscle of his calves and has to shut his eyes so you don’t see them roll back into his head. the foreignness of his own submission is wearing off now—replaced by the heavy, slippery feeling of needing you, of leaning into this space where he can just be worshipped by you and know that you will be there to hold him through it.

you climb back up his body and he savors the feeling of your weight on him—pressing him into the sheets, the tension in him bleeding out from where your skin meets his—and he lets out a pitiful whine when your nails scrape over the taut muscles of his belly. can’t help it when his hips buck into yours, but feels the need to apologize anyway, because what’s happening right now feels so far removed from his own base desire to be buried inside you. this feels too refined, like more luxury than he deserves, and he feels like a neanderthal.

“it’s okay Eij,” you reassure him, and something inside him goes molten at the way you forgive him, love him— “i know it feels good. you can take what you need to, my love.”

and he shakes his head at that, frantically, because he doesn’t want to take. he doesn’t want control of this—he wants you to hold his pride in your hands and turn it into something malleable and fluid. he can’t trust himself to speak—he presses his palms into the bed and tips his head back, baring his throat to you, just hoping, begging you to understand—

he feels you take one of his hands in yours, feels you bring it to your face and press your smile into the inside of his wrist, nipping at the sensitive skin, sucking it into your mouth gently and laving your tongue over it.

“i see,” you murmur, and it sends a shudder up his spine so violent he feels his toes curl. your eyes rake over his body as you drag your free hand up his chest. he has to remember how to breathe when your fingers circle around the base of his throat.

“you’re such a good boy, Eijiro.”