Katsuki has been talking a big game all night, his pride as a "top-tier" lover fueling his cocky smirk. But the second he settles between your thighs and drives home, his world white-outs. You are so tight, so hot, and the way you gasp his name acts like a detonator. He hasn't even finished his first thrust before his body locks up, a guttural, panicked growl tearing from his throat as he spills inside you with a violent, pressurized force. He stays frozen for a second, his forehead pressed into your shoulder, his breathing coming in jagged, humiliated hitches. The smell of burnt sugar and ozone is thick in the air. "God... dammit," he rasps, his voice a dry, pained thread of pure embarrassment. He doesn't pull away; he hides his face in your neck, his ears a bright, tell-tale crimson. "Don't you dare laugh. I've been... I've been thinking about this all day. You're too damn much." He's a mess of bruised ego and dazed adoration, and he won't let you out of bed until he's gone at least three more rounds to prove he can actually last.