hoothootreiber

[hoothootreiber]

君の手が / 「このままでいい」と / 触れるたび

your hands whisper, "you’re enough," with every touch—

꒷꒦︶๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

He looks good. Too good. Unfairly good.

And it’s driving you insane.

Katsuki’s standing in your kitchen, quietly making you tea like the sweetest, grumpiest domestic man in the world. His back is turned, but you can still see the way his sweatpants hang off his hips in that dangerously perfect way—low, effortless, like he doesn’t even realize how sexy he looks. His compression shirt is clinging to every inch of him, outlining the hard curve of his back, the tension in his shoulders, the sharp taper of his waist, and—Gods—those biceps. They flex just slightly as he lifts the kettle, like he’s not even trying, and it makes your mouth water.

Maybe it’s the hormones. Maybe it’s the three days of missing him like oxygen while he was overseas on that joint mission. Maybe it’s just the primal fact that your man is fine as hell, and you want him more than anything right now.

But whatever it is, it’s bad. Like, pacing-in-place, clenching-your-thighs, bite-his-arm bad.

The thing is, he’s not even trying. He’s just being himself. Barefoot in your kitchen, hair still damp from the long shower he took earlier, a soft hint of stubble along his jaw because he hasn’t bothered to shave yet. There’s this quiet, worn ease to him today—the good kind. Like he finally got some rest. Like his body knows it’s home again.

And you want to climb him.

He looks up as the kettle whistles and clicks it off, moving to grab the mugs. The tea’s still steeping and he’s focused, brow slightly furrowed as he checks the water level—and you’re already stepping forward, like some heat-seeking missile locked onto target.

“Did you do something new in your workout?” you ask casually, voice just a little too breathy as you near him.

He glances over his shoulder with that familiar frown, forehead crinkling. “Nah.” He turns off the burner and straightens up. “Why?”

You shrug as you close the distance between you. He smells like fresh laundry and warm citrus—probably from that shampoo you like in the guest bath—and it’s too much. “I don’t know. You just…” You reach out, hand grazing his arm as he sets a mug down. “You look broader. Bigger. Maybe it’s the mission? You’ve been lifting tanks again?”

His ears turn pink.

You don’t miss it.

Your hand moves up to squeeze his bicep—Gods, it’s firm and warm under your touch—then slides to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He stiffens under your touch, like he wasn’t expecting it, but doesn’t move away. If anything, he goes still. Like very still.

Then, lower. You trail your hand down over his abs, across the ridges of his obliques where the compression fabric hugs tightest. It’s soft and warm from his skin underneath, and you’re close enough now to feel the way his breath hitches.

He freezes.

Absolutely freezes.

Cheeks flushing, ears glowing, and hands awkwardly hovering near the counter like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

And then you say it.

“Should we have sex?” you murmur, tone airy like you’re just asking about the weather. “Like… we can be quick. Ten minutes.”

Boom. The effect is immediate.

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat—half a cough, half a choked sound of disbelief—and pulls back slightly, blinking hard like he’s buffering. “Wh��I just—uh, I just got back, a-and we—we just ate and I—”

His voice cracks a little, and your grin stretches slowly, dangerously, as you slide your hands to his hips and lean up, resting your chin on the curve of his bicep, looking at him with mock innocence.

“What?” you ask, soft and teasing. “Why are you blushing?”

“M’not—” He glares at the stove like it betrayed him. “You can’t just say shit like that—”

“Like what?” you blink, still all fake-innocence, even as you press a little closer to feel the heat radiating off of him. “Like I want you to fuck me?”

His jaw flexes. Hard. That stubborn little muscle ticking near the hinge.

Your words hang heavy in the air—sticky and intimate and real in a way that scrapes at the edges of Katsuki’s guarded heart. He’s still standing there, tense and blushing and stubbornly glaring at the stove like it might rescue him, but his body tells you more than his silence ever could.

His jaw ticks again, that muscle fluttering like he’s clenching down on something hard—like he doesn’t trust what’ll come out if he speaks too easily.

And then, finally, he mutters low, almost sheepish, “Don’t say it like that.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that. You tilt your head against his arm. “Like what?”

He shifts his weight a little, stiff in the way he gets when he’s feeling vulnerable and hates that he is. “Fuckin’,” he says, jaw tight, eyes still not meeting yours. “Like we just… fuck. Nah. That—” He shakes his head, almost like he’s brushing something off. “That ain’t what we do.”

That makes you pause.

Because he says it so softly, even if he’s trying to sound annoyed. There’s a thread in his voice; something frayed and raw and incredibly honest. And it cuts right into your chest.

Still, because you are who you are, you press gently at the edges of his discomfort with a little teasing, hoping to coax him out of that tightly wound shell. “Alright,” you hum, playing innocent again, leaning back slightly but keeping your hands on him. “No ‘fucking,’ then.”

You feel the way his abs tense under your touch, the way his breath stutters. And you smile, dangerous and soft. “But… it doesn’t have to be ten minutes, by the way. It can be longer.” Your tone lilts up at the end, knowing exactly what you’re doing. “We can go a couple rounds. Three or four—”

Before you can even finish the sentence, he groans—deep, frustrated, and entirely done with you. His hand comes up immediately, shoving his palm into your face with a muttered, “Sh’ddup,” like he’s trying to smother both your words and his rising panic.

You laugh—a warm, playful thing—and bite gently at his fingers, just to make him curse.

“Damn it,” he mutters, yanking his hand back like you shocked him. His ears are scarlet now. Full body flush, like he’s overheating from the inside out.

You take pity. A little.

“Katsuki,” you say, softer now, voice still tinged with amusement, but genuine beneath it. You step down, just slightly, letting your chin drop from his bicep as you gaze up at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Still frowning. Still looking like you’ve cornered him and he’s not sure what to do with the feeling.

“Why are you being so weird about it?” you ask gently, brushing your fingertips along the hem of his shirt. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just stands there, shoulders stiff, fingers flexing like he’s working through it physically—like the words are stuck in his chest and need to be wrestled out.

And then, finally, he breathes. “Just… still can’t believe y’want me like that.”

The confession is so low, so bare, that you almost don’t catch it.

But you do.

And your heart breaks a little.

Because now it makes sense—the flushed cheeks, the awkward stumbling, the hesitation and heat and quiet. It’s not embarrassment. It’s disbelief. That after everything—his temper, his history, the image people project onto him—you still look at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Like you’re hungry for him. Like you love him enough to want to devour him, over and over, and never get full.

He finally looks at you then. Really looks. And the ache in his eyes guts you.

He swallows hard, brow furrowed. “S’just—everything’s always been so heavy with me. People either expect too much, or they don’t want anything at all. But you…” His voice tapers. “You see me. And you still want me.” His mouth quirks, barely. “That’s fuckin’ insane.”

And it hits you again—how serious everything is to him. Every look, every brush of your hand, every shared bed and soft kiss. Nothing with Katsuki is casual. Nothing is careless. When he loves, he does it with everything. With a kind of unflinching, terrified devotion that makes your chest feel like it’s caving in under the weight of it.

And sex?

It’s not just a release to him. Not a checkbox. Not even just intimacy.

It’s you. It’s him. It’s all the silent promises he doesn’t know how to say out loud; the need to make you feel seen and touched and worshipped. Not dominated. Not conquered. Not fucked.

Loved.

Completely. Helplessly. Permanently.

So when he says he can’t believe you want him—it’s not just about attraction. It’s about worthiness. It’s about not knowing what the hell he did to deserve someone who looks at him the way you do when you’re begging him to come to bed.

You step into him again. Wrap your arms around his waist. Press your cheek to his chest and breathe in the warm, clean scent of him.

“I do want you,” you whisper. “Not because I expect anything more than what you already give me. Not because I want you to be someone you’re not. I want you, Katsuki. Just you. I love how serious you are. I love how much you care. I love the way you touch me like I’m precious.”

Your hands slip under his shirt, palms warm against his skin. “You’re everything I want.”

His breath shudders.

And then he’s wrapping his arms around you, too. Tight. So tight it almost hurts—but it doesn’t, not really. Not when it’s him. Not when you know that grip is the only way he knows how to say thank you for choosing me without falling apart.

You hear his voice, low and gruff in your hair. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smile, closing your eyes. “You’ll never have to find out.”

And it’s in that silence that he kisses you—no teasing, no heat, just a long, slow press of his lips to your temple. The kind of kiss that says you’re mine, and I’m yours, and I don’t want anyone else in this world but you.

And later, when he finally leads you to the bedroom—hands still shaking a little, but more confident now, more sure—you let him take his time. Let him kiss you like it matters. Let him love you the way only Katsuki can.

Like it's serious. Like it's sacred. Like it’s the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense.

溶けていく / 神への祈りのように / 肌と汗と / 「もう一度」

—until we melt, like a prayer to gods, skin and sweat and, "again."

[hoothootreiber]

i love him so much (i actually sleep with a katsuki asmr on yt)

You hadn’t expected the call.

Who calls someone at 3 in the morning to check in on them? Especially when they’re on the other side of the world with a 12 hour time difference.

Bakugou Katsuki. That’s who.

You stared at the caller ID for a solid couple of seconds before eventually answering the call. Not wanting to worry Bakugou you decided to fake being sleepy and put on your best groggy voice “hey suki.”

A hearty “HA!” came from the other line “you are not meant for voice acting baby, you’re shit at faking it.”

You can’t help the giggle that escapes your throat “I thought I could get away with it, why are you calling so late?”

“It’s storming there”

Of course you already knew that, since it’s what’s keeping you up. “Yeah, why do you care?”

“Tell me why you’re up this late,” his commanding tone seeping through the phone.

“You know why, you literally said it was-ohhh” the realization hit you; the man was worried about you. “Kats, I’m fine.”

“Don’t bullshit me. How bad is it?” His voice a gentler tone now, he’d known about your fear of storms since the beginning of your relationship.

“Could be worse,” you said sheepishly “it would be better if you were here.” He would always hold your hand, rub your back, play with your hair, anything to distract and relax you from the storm. Without him here you found it much harder to sleep, not that you were planning on telling him that.

“I know. I’ll be home soon baby. You need sleep tonight so here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to run yourself a bath, put on a movie, and listen to the voice memo I sent you.” His matter of fact tone left no room for argument.

“What voice memo?” Almost as of on cue your phone pinged with a text from Bakugou. Sure enough there was a voice memo attached, and what the fuck? It was SIX HOURS long????

“What the fuck did you just send me and why is so fucking long?” Your mouth hung open as you looked at the size of the file.

“Just put it on when you’re going to sleep ok?” His gentle tone returning to his voice.

“Fine.“ he was being weird but you trusted him, and you were really curious. “Goodnight my love”

“Night, love you.” He hung the phone up and immediately you started doing as he told you to. The bath was really relaxing, and it’s hard to hear the storm with the sound of Toy Story playing in the background. Finally once your head touches the pillow you have your phone in your hand, audio at the ready. You close your eyes and listen:

Look, I’m not always gonna be able to be right beside you when it’s storming, but I can sound like I’m close. I recorded myself sleeping a couple nights ago and that’s why this thing is so fucking long. I know you like the sound of me breathin’ even if it’s super fucking weird. Maybe this will help your strange ass sleep. Goodnight sweets.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the introduction, god he knew you so well. The audio continued and you could hear sheets shuffling followed by muffled breathing. A warmth spread in your chest as the gravity of his thoughtfulness finally hit.

Of course Bakugou was right and you were asleep in no time. You texted the blonde when you woke up.

Y/N: The audio actually helped…. I think you should send me more to be safe.

Bakugou: You wish.

Y/N: Seriously thank you I wouldn’t have gotten any sleep last night without your help. Your loud ass snoring blocked out all the thunder.

Bakugou: I don’t snore.

Y/N: you gotta listen to the audio.

Bakugou: Listen to myself sleep? Fucking weird. I’m not like you.

Y/N: Says the guy who checked the weather for the other side of the world.

Bakugou: Last time I try to be nice.

[hoothootreiber]

i know what you are, babe

HE CALLED HIMSELF KACCHAN??? GODDAMNIT😭

[hoothootreiber]

terms & conditions

chapter one ; terms of agreement

[ nsfw ] — smut (18+) ; todoroki shoto x reader

word count: 18,020 — read on ao3

tags: ceo/sugar daddy!todoroki, sugar baby!reader, hurt/comfort, modern!au, power dynamics, explicit language & sexual content, aged-up characters, porn with plot, mutual pining, angst, angst with a happy ending, character study, adult relationship, fluff, also slightly kinky & not beta read!

summary:

It was supposed to be a joke.

You were high, broke, burnt out, and bored enough to download a sugar baby app just to see what would happen.

You didn’t expect him.

Or, in which you accidentally become Todoroki Shoto’s sugar baby and end up unraveling everything you thought you knew about choice, love, and being seen.

notes:

so this fun idea came to me and i just couldn’t stop writing it. here’s the first chapter of two, lol. this is my first time writing for shoto, i hope it’s a bit accurate to canon! i also hope you enjoy the ride—it’s messy, soft, and maybe a little bit painful, but definitely worth it. enjoy!

If someone had told you five months ago that you’d have a sugar daddy—a real one, not just some inside joke between exhausted undergrad girls and overpriced oat milk lattes—you would’ve rolled your eyes so hard they’d orbit back into place, muttered something bitter under your breath about capitalism, and trudged off to your next minimum-wage shift like usual. 

You were never that girl. Or maybe you were. Maybe all it took was being ground down enough.

Because it started stupidly. Pathetically, even. 

One of those nights that’s sticky with exhaustion, the kind that clings to your skin and your soul. You’d just pulled a double at the restaurant—your third that week—after sitting through three back-to-back classes, all while thinking about the essay you hadn’t touched, the internship paperwork you were behind on, and the rent payment looming like a death sentence. Your feet ached. Your eyes burned. You stared at your work shoes like they personally offended you. So you called in sick for the next shift, even though you desperately needed the money. You couldn't care. 

Your body was done. And frankly, so was your mind.

You ordered cheap takeout, stuffed yourself with greasy fries and a milkshake you couldn’t afford, rolled a joint, got high in your shitty little apartment with a busted heater, and did the dumbest thing you could’ve done while scrolling through TikTok in your oversized hoodie: you downloaded a sugar baby app. No expectations. Just pure, impulsive boredom.

You weren’t thinking about meeting anyone. You just wanted to see how it worked. The aesthetic of it felt unreal—like something out of another world. You uploaded a half-decent selfie, wrote something half-sarcastic in your bio, and promptly passed out on your bed, belly full and mind foggy. You forgot all about it.

Until the next morning, when you woke up groggy, bloated, and feeling like your brain had been dipped in static. You blinked blearily at your phone, half-expecting a reminder from your bank about your overdraft.

Instead, there was a message. From someone named todo.soba11. Sent at 7:03am sharp.

Your first instinct? Delete the app. What if he’s some 70-year-old oil tycoon with a foot fetish? What if he kidnaps you? What if it’s a scam? What if—worse—it’s real?

So you do what you always do when your frontal lobe is short-circuiting: you call Shinju. And Shinju, being Shinju, doesn’t even blink.

“Respond,” she says.

“What?”

“Just do it. Worst case, it’s a wrinkly creep. Best case, it’s a hot rich guy with abandonment issues who’ll drop a few grand to hear you breathe.”

You stare at her through the screen. She shrugs like she’s offering a granola bar. “Meet, flirt, ride some dick, get paid. Easy math. You’ll thank me later.”

You almost hang up. But then... you don’t. You respond. Slowly. Carefully. With cautious sarcasm and no expectations.

And somehow, that turns into a drink. One night only, you tell yourself. At some stupidly expensive hotel bar downtown. Somewhere shiny and polished and sharp around the edges. You’re ready to bolt the second it gets weird.

But it doesn’t get weird. It gets... confusingly normal.

Because when you walk in, all tentative and armored in lip gloss and fake confidence, the man waiting at the bar is not what you expected. At all. Not even close.

He stands when he sees you. Smoothly. Like he was taught manners by royalty. He’s tall; broad in the shoulders, lean in the waist with the kind of posture that only ever comes from discipline or suffering. His hair is split right down the middle: bone white on one side, deep crimson on the other, like something from a dream that should’ve stayed in your sleep. His eyes are mismatched, too—ice-grey and turquoise-blue—and they lock on you like they’re scanning for something hidden. There’s a scar running down the left side of his face, faded and puckered just slightly, and instead of looking cruel, it makes him look tragically human. Like someone who’s seen hell and lived to talk about it—but chose not to.

Todoroki Shoto. CEO of Todoroki Steel Group. Youngest son of a family empire. The press calls him ‘The Cold Flame’. It’s that Todoroki. The one you’ve seen in Forbes lists and on magazine covers next to words like power and precision and legacy. The one who rebuilt his father's company from a dusty industrial dynasty into a clean, ruthless global titan with green tech and tighter margins. And he’s here. Waiting for you. Like this is normal.

You expect arrogance. You expect smugness, bravado, some rich-boy smirk that makes you want to claw your skin off. Instead?

He’s quiet.

Measured.

There’s something disarming about him—not soft, exactly, but controlled. He speaks gently. Slowly. Like every word is weighed before it leaves his mouth. He doesn’t talk about your body. Doesn’t make a single comment that’s sexual or forward. Instead, he asks about your degree. Your plans. What you’re passionate about. When you answer, he listens—really listens. His eyes don’t wander. They study. Not in a leering way, but with something closer to curiosity. As if he’s trying to understand something deeper in you, something you haven’t even named yet.

He doesn't flirt. He doesn’t pressure. He doesn’t try to dazzle. He’s not cold to be cruel: he’s cold because that’s what happens when you spend your life being burned. And somehow, being around him makes you feel... calm. Steady. Like the panic in your chest has been put on pause. His voice is soft and unhurried. And when he says your name, it settles in your stomach like warm honey. Like the weight of being seen.

You make a joke. Something dumb, self-deprecating. You don’t expect him to react. But he smiles. And it’s the kind of smile that feels unpracticed, like he doesn’t do it often but means it when he does. It warms his whole face, melts the steel edges of him, and in that moment—just for a second—you forget to breathe.

He doesn’t touch you. Not even once. He walks you to the car he arranged for you. Holds the door open. Tells you to text him when you get home. His last words before the car pulls away?

“I’d like to see you again. If that’s okay.”

You pause.

You say yes.

And so it begins. 

Not with champagne or lingerie or thousand-dollar bills slipped under pillows. But with quiet looks. Careful questions. 

A man who carries a whole empire in his name—and who somehow, gently, without trying—makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to study.

────────────────────────

It begins, quietly.

No whirlwind. No Instagrammable fantasy of yachts and Prada handbags landing on your doorstep. Just… a message the next morning.

Did you sleep well?

That’s it. No emojis. No pretense. No suggestion of when you’ll meet again. It should feel cold—boring, even. But it doesn’t. There’s something strange in the simplicity, the kind of softness you don’t expect from someone like him. Someone with an empire to his name. With power, with wealth, with that face—the one that doesn’t show much of anything at all, except maybe a distant storm on the horizon.

You stare at your screen for a full minute before responding. Something sarcastic. Half-asleep humor. It’s your usual defense mechanism. Humor as a shield, wit as a mask. You don’t expect it to land.

But then he replies: You’re funny.

That’s it. Two words. But it does something to your stomach. Twists it, knots it—not with anxiety, but with something warmer. A slow curl of surprise. Because he meant it. And when someone like Todoroki Shoto means something, it’s not flattery. It’s observation. It’s truth.

It builds from there.

You see him again the next week. Dinner this time. He doesn’t tell you where—just texts you a time, and a car arrives outside your apartment. You get dressed like you’re supposed to. Tight black dress. Heels borrowed from Shinju. A little lace bra that you couldn’t afford but bought anyway, telling yourself it was a business expense.

The restaurant is tucked into the rooftop of a downtown hotel, dimly lit, quiet. The kind of place you wouldn’t dare walk into without someone like him. The tables are spaced apart, voices hushed, everything made to feel like intimacy disguised as luxury. Like the city below doesn’t exist.

He’s already there when you arrive. Waiting for you.

Black turtleneck. Tailored charcoal coat. Slacks that are cut with precision, understated but expensive in the way only old money can be. His hair is styled back loosely, the red and white catching faint amber light like twin fires meeting in the dark. And his scent—subtle, warm, earthy. Sandalwood and firewood and something almost like incense, clinging to the air around him like a whisper.

He stands when you approach.

Doesn’t ogle. Doesn’t scan your body like you're something bought. Just looks at you and says, “That color looks good on you.”

And it’s not performative. It’s not a line. He says it the same way he says everything—like it’s fact. Unemotional, but true. You feel your face flush despite yourself. Stupid, stupid.

He asks again about school. About your internship. He remembers details. He remembers the name of the professor you complained about last time. The short paper you submitted that didn’t get graded. He doesn’t pry into anything personal—doesn’t ask why your shoulders are tight or why your laugh sounds brittle. He notices, but he doesn’t say. There’s respect in that silence. Like he’s leaving a door open without ever crossing it.

He’s slow. Deliberate. Everything he does feels deliberate.

You wonder if he’s like that in bed. Then you hate yourself for wondering.

The arrangement becomes real on the third meeting.

You’re in his penthouse.

It’s late, and you’re exhausted. Not performatively tired. Real tired. Dead-eyed, emotionally wrung out from your internship supervisor being a nightmare, from your essay being rejected for plagiarism by mistake, from your landlord banging on your door again.

But his place? It’s silent. Peaceful.

The apartment is just like him: coldly beautiful, almost sterile. Black marble floors that reflect the city lights, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over everything like a throne. Furniture that’s minimal, sculptural, elegant. Not a single personal object in sight. No clutter. No mess. Except for you—curled up in one of his leather chairs, wearing his hoodie because you shivered in the car and he gave it to you without a word.

He pours you wine. You sip it slowly. He sits beside you—not touching, not crowding. Just… near.

You don’t even realize you’re negotiating until he says, “I wired the tuition money this morning.”

You blink. “What?”

He lifts his glass, sips like it’s nothing. “You said midterms were overwhelming. I thought it would help to remove the cost.”

You stare. The number you owe—the one that keeps you up at night, that has you choosing between textbooks and groceries—just gone? It’s… unreal.

And he still hasn’t even kissed you. Not once. Not your hand, not your neck, not your mouth. You look at him, squinting like you’re trying to see the catch.

“So what do you want in return?” you ask, voice casual but lined with steel.

His eyes meet yours. Steady. Sharp. His tone is quiet, never raised. Never rushed.

“Company. Consistency. And eventually, intimacy. If you’re comfortable.”

He says it like he’s reciting terms. Not cold, not warm—just clear. Like a man who learned the hard way that clarity is kinder than assumption.

You nod. Slowly. Your heart’s doing something strange—pounding, but not with fear. With… possibility. It’s terrifying. 

And thrilling.

The first time he touches you isn’t even sexual.

You’re in his kitchen. A stupid moment: you’re boiling water for tea, insisting you can handle it yourself even though he offered. The kettle hisses. You misjudge the angle and burn your hand.

You hiss. Flinch.

He’s across the room in two seconds. One hand gently around your wrist, the other flicking the faucet on with practiced precision. Cool water. His fingers are steady. Strong. And he says nothing. Doesn’t scold. Just tends to you, silent and present.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it:

“You shouldn’t hurt yourself.”

And you know. He’s not just talking about the kettle.

He tapes a little bandage over the red mark, his movements slow and careful. When his fingers finally leave your skin, the warmth lingers. Not the burn. Him.

Later that night, he kisses you.

Not while you're dressed up. Not while you’re trying. It happens when you’re in socks and his hoodie, curled on the couch with your knees drawn up.

He leans in slowly. Gives you time to pull away. But you don’t.

His mouth meets yours like a question, like a breath. Warm. Steady. You kiss him back. Slow. Soft. Like answering. And when you part, his eyes stay locked on yours.

He whispers:

“Thank you.”

And it knocks the breath from your lungs.

Because you expected desire. Lust. Transaction.

But in his eyes, there’s none of that. Just… reverence. Like you gave him something he didn’t even know he needed.

When the sex happens, it’s weeks later.

It’s quiet. Like everything with him.

Not frenzied. Not reckless. He undresses you like you’re sacred. His fingers are cool, precise, reverent. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t demand. He watches you as if every inch of skin he uncovers is a secret, and he’s memorizing you for some silent vow.

He’s good. Better than you’ve ever had. Because he’s focused. Not on performing. Not on taking. He wants to feel. And he wants you to feel.

He’s silent, mostly. The sounds are from you—moans spilling loose, breath hitching, the wet slick of skin on skin, the soft creak of his bed under your rhythm. His breathing is ragged, lips parted, jaw clenched. But he never loses control.

He likes making you come. Loves it, maybe. Not just for the reaction, but for the knowledge that he’s the one who gave that to you. And after, when your body is shaking and you’re trying to catch your breath, he just holds you. One hand curled around your waist. The other brushing your hair from your cheek.

No words. Just his heartbeat against your back. Steady.

Anchoring.

And for the first time in a long, long time—you believe someone sees you. Not just your body. Not just your mouth or your waist or your moans.

But you.

And he touches that part of you, too.

Deliberately. Quietly. Like he knows it’s the most fragile thing you have.

────────────────────────

By the time you’re five months into the arrangement, you’ve grown used to the silk-and-gold rhythm of this new life.

Used to it, but never numb to it.

You still remember what it felt like before; rushing to class on no sleep, instant ramen as dinner, bills stacked like Jenga pieces you couldn’t touch without the whole thing crashing down. Now? That girl feels like someone you read about in a book once. Familiar, but far away.

Broke college student who?

That’s a ghost you left behind. You still work your job—part-time, less often, fewer hours—but it’s not out of desperation anymore. You can breathe now. You can choose your shifts. You can say no. And it’s not because you’ve become lazy. It’s because you’ve been given time. Time to visit your mom, time to go out with Shinju for drinks without worrying if it’ll clear your account, time to do nothing, even—to just exist.

And time for Shoto.

You like spending time with him. You like being around him. What started as caution has softened into curiosity, and then into comfort. And then, quietly, into something else.

He’s funny in his own dry, unintentional way—deadpan comments that come out of nowhere, the quiet way he’ll blink at you when you’re being dramatic, then say something like, “That seems inefficient,” and leave you wheezing with laughter. There’s still the age gap. And yeah, technically he’s paying you to be here. But there’s more to it than that now. It’s hard to explain. He feels good to be around. Solid. Safe. Like a weighted blanket for your soul.

And his penthouse? A dream. Towering above the city. Quiet, immaculate, private. You don’t just feel rich there—you feel invisible to the world. Untouchable. Like nothing outside those floor-to-ceiling windows can reach you.

Shinju says you’re lucky. She’s right. You don’t even argue anymore. You are lucky.

You’re getting spoiled and dicked down in high-thread-count Egyptian cotton by a man who wears nothing but Tom Ford, has stock portfolios older than you, and calls you angel in a voice that feels like velvet dragged over fire. You're regularly pampered to the edge of ridiculousness—nails, hair, clothes, skincare. 

You try to say it’s excessive, but then he’ll just look at you and say something maddeningly simple like: “Take care of yourself. I like when you shine.”

And how do you argue with that?

The black card lives in your wallet now. Quiet and dangerous. You try not to abuse it—maybe a new dress here, a massage there, but he wants you to. You’ll casually mention needing to trim split ends, and the next morning there’s a deposit tagged ‘For your pretty head.’ You’ve stopped protesting. You’ve learned how to let yourself accept softness.

You’ve also warmed up to him.

He’s surprising. Always has been. You expected cold, remember? But what you got was complexity. A man with a split-colored gaze and quiet hands who pays your rent and also insists you drink enough water. He’s gentle in a way that feels radical—always checking if you’re okay, always giving you an out. There’s kindness in him that doesn’t feel performative. You’ve seen him on calls, thanking staff by name, signing off charity initiatives that could feed whole neighborhoods without blinking.

And yet, he still turns into a slightly awkward mess if you compliment his hair.

That’s the thing about Sho—you’ve learned he’s also happy. Maybe not loudly. Not all the time. But genuinely. He’ll stare out the window sometimes with this faraway softness, then turn to you with a look like he’s still surprised you’re there. He’s told you fragments about his past; about his father, his brothers, the pressure. It hangs between you like unfinished threads. But there’s no heaviness in how he carries it. Somehow, despite everything, he chooses joy. He leans into optimism with the kind of stubbornness that feels childlike. Not naive—just brave.

And you?

You’re falling into something dangerous.

Because yes, there are rules. Boundaries you both agreed on at the start. He doesn’t fuck you without a condom—you made that very clear. You’re still in school, not interested in the sugar baby-to-baby-mama pipeline. And there’s a schedule. You only visit him a few times a week, never on consecutive days. You both have lives. This is meant to be arrangement, not a merger.

But those boundaries feel less like lines and more like suggestions now. Like guardrails you’re already leaning over.

Because sometimes he texts you in the middle of the night just to ask if you’re warm. Because he keeps a toothbrush for you in his bathroom now. Because he waits until you’re asleep before kissing your forehead like a secret. Because he looks at you sometimes like you’re not just someone he pays, but someone he can’t bear to lose.

And you keep telling yourself you’re not getting too deep. That you could leave if you wanted. But the truth? The idea of leaving gets harder every day.

But you push those feelings—those difficult, vulnerable, impossible-to-untangle feelings—to the back of your mind, the way you always do when you’re teetering too close to the edge. 

You focus instead on the now. 

On the present.

On the row of sleek, ribbon-wrapped boxes lined up across his expensive couch.

On the way your new designer handbag glows under the soft light like something pulled from a showroom. On the weight of the diamond necklace—small but dazzling, cool against your skin, delicate and bright like something meant to last longer than most people do. On the red lace lingerie folded carefully in tissue paper, the exact shade of his hair. Thoughtful. Intentional. Beautiful.

You sit cross-legged on the couch in his hoodie, carefully peeling back layers of packaging, trying not to look too giddy. But he watches you like he always does—quietly, calmly, like there’s no place else he needs to be.

You glance at him with a soft smile. “Sho… it’s so lovely. Thank you.”

He nods, that small, understated smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

There’s something gentle in the way he says it, like he doesn’t expect thanks at all. Like your joy is the only confirmation he needs.

This is the last time you’ll see him for two weeks; he’s flying to the Americas for business, something high-stakes and grueling. You don’t ask for details. He doesn’t offer. But you know what it means when he’s gone: the coldness of your apartment at night. His absence in your messages. Your own pulse moving strangely in your body like it misses him more than it should.

So you dressed up for him tonight. Nails done, soft and glossy. Hair perfectly done. Your skin glows from a two-hour spa session he insisted on booking. Everything smooth. Everything soft. Everything ready—for him.

Later, you wear the necklace for him.

You let the cool chain settle against your collarbones and then let the lingerie hug your skin, sheer and red and delicate in all the right places. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you walk out of the bathroom like you just stepped out of a fantasy. Like he dreamed you into being.

He doesn’t speak. Not at first.

Just stands slowly, eyes heavy on you, walking toward you with that steady, slow grace of his—like fire that takes its time burning. He cups your jaw. Stares into your eyes like he’s memorizing something sacred.

And then?

He peels the lingerie off painfully slow. His fingers are reverent, sliding the straps down your shoulders, the lace across your chest, down your thighs. Like he’s undressing something precious, not just something sexy. And as he exposes more of you, he kisses every inch of revealed skin.

Your shoulder. Your sternum. Your hipbone.

His mouth is hot and wet and slow, and it lingers—like he’s not just worshipping your body, but grieving the idea of having to leave it.

He loves your body; studies it. His eyes are laser-focused but soft, like they’re mapping every mark and line and curve. And he buys you jewelry not just for luxury but for how it looks on your skin, how it catches the light when you arch beneath him, how it frames your collarbone when your chest is rising with every gasp.

You call him pretty, whisper it against his throat as he kisses down your stomach, and his breath catches—just slightly. Like it still surprises him to be called something soft. You slip a finger between his lips and he groans—quietly, of course, but his breath stutters like you’ve just blessed him.

And then, he’s between your legs.

His tongue is slow and certain, not rushed, not greedy—just precise, like everything he does. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue heavy against your clit, drawing languid circles that get tighter and firmer as your hips lift toward him. His fingers curl inside you, slow at first, then deeper, just right, just right—until you’re gasping, moaning, pushing at his head with tears springing to your lashes, thighs trembling.

He doesn’t stop until you come twice. Until your body jerks and shudders and your voice cracks around a moan that sounds more like a prayer. Only then does he finally pull away, licking his lips like he’s just tasted something rare.

And when he stands, pulling his boxers down—his cock thick and flushed and curling up against his abdomen—he looks down at you, chest rising slowly, and says:

“I don’t want a condom tonight.”

Your eyes widen. You open your mouth, but then he adds, voice low and real: “I want to feel you. I want to remember how you feel… because I’m going away.”

And you should say no.

You should remind him of the rules. Of the line.

But your body is molten, your heart a traitor, and your pulse is louder than your logic. So you just nod. Just once. And that’s all he needs.

He slides in slowly, thick and hot and bare, and your eyes flutter shut as you feel all of him. Every inch. There’s no barrier this time—just him. Heat. Skin. Fullness.

You make a soft, broken sound, and he breathes out something close to a moan as he sinks into you.

“You feel better than I imagined,” he whispers. 

He fucks you slowly at first. Tender, deep thrusts, one hand gripping your hip, the other cradling the back of your head like you might break. His body presses close, chest to chest, lips brushing yours as he moves.

But soon, it shifts.

His pace builds. His breath gets louder. His restraint begins to fray.

Because there’s something different now. Something unleashed.

He makes a sound into your neck, thrusts getting rougher, faster. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room. He whispers how good you feel. How warm. How wet. He says he wants to keep you like this—full of him. And your whole body tightens at the words.

You didn’t know you had a breeding kink until now.

But the way he murmurs, “Let me fill you up, angel…”, his voice wrecked and breathless, does something to you you can’t undo.

He comes hard—deep inside, body shuddering, fingers locked into your thighs as he groans your name like he’s been holding it in for months.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He flips you over. Fucks you on your stomach. Then pulls you up on your knees. Then has you straddling him while he sits back against the headboard, his hands dragging you down onto his cock again and again. Then missionary, one of your legs thrown over his shoulder, his thrusts brutal and deep and relentless.

He comes inside you every time. Like he needs to. Like it’s a promise.

By the end, you can’t speak. Your body’s trembling, legs barely holding you up, hands weakly gripping at his arms, his shoulders, anything you can reach. You moan, whimper, say his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth.

And when it’s over—when you’re soaked and ruined and trembling—he doesn’t leave.

He wraps you in a towel, pulls you into his arms. Holds you like you’re still something fragile. And whispers, against your skin: “I’ll miss you every night I’m gone.”

You don't know how to respond. So you just press your face to his throat.

He pulls away slowly, chest still rising and falling, skin slick with sweat, and for a moment all he does is look at you.

Like he’s not quite ready to break the spell.

Then, with that same low, composed voice that always makes your stomach flip—voice of a man who owns boardrooms and bedrooms alike—he says:

“Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”

His eyes roam your body as he speaks, heavy-lidded and admiring, lingering on every mark he left behind. The bruises on your hips. The faint red fingerprints on your thighs. The hickey blossoming just under your jaw. His gaze is sharp—but not cruel. It’s not lust anymore. It’s ownership, yes, but not of your body like a thing. Of the moment. Of the intimacy you gave him.

He lives for this; the evidence.

He doesn't need to hear you beg. Doesn’t need to see you cry. He just wants to see you worn. Loved on. Marked. His marks. Subtle declarations that only he will ever really see.

The bath is already drawn by the time he helps you up—he must have started it earlier, the man always ten steps ahead. Warm water, soft steam curling at the edges of the marble bathroom, the faint scent of eucalyptus and jasmine floating in the air. He lifts you in his arms like you weigh nothing, murmuring a soft careful when you wince at the stretch in your thighs, and lowers you into the tub like you’re something fragile.

You relax into the warmth, a sigh falling from your lips as he kneels beside the edge.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays right there, hands dipping into the water as he helps rinse you off—washing your legs, your arms, your stomach with slow, reverent movements. Every once in a while, he’ll pause, letting his fingers skim over the bruises he left.

And then he says it.

Voice low. Steady. Certain.

“I’ll buy you anything you want.”

His hand comes up, thumb brushing the faint bruise on your hip. His eyes don’t move from yours.

“But this—” he says, gently pressing, not enough to hurt, just enough to claim. “—this is mine.”

Heat blooms across your chest. You roll your eyes at him, but your voice is breathy, caught somewhere between fondness and arousal.

“You’re so kinky, Sho.”

A rare smile tugs at his lips—not sly, not smug. Warm. It softens the sharp lines of his face, makes the scar beside his eye look gentler, almost sweet.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, brushing your damp hair back. “But only with you, darling.”

After the bath, he towels you off with the same care. Wraps you in the silk robe he left draped on the counter—it smells like him, of smoke and sandalwood and something soft, like fresh cotton sheets in spring. You feel weightless, pampered, floating.

He takes his time massaging your legs with lotion, something luxurious and thick and floral. Rubs your calves, your thighs, slow and soothing, like you didn’t just get absolutely ruined in every position known to man. And then, with your body soft and glowing and draped in silk, he tucks you into his bed, draws the covers over your hips, and kisses your shoulder.

You glance at him sideways, lips curling. “You really don’t have to spoil me this much, you know.”

He tilts his head, voice even. “I want to.”

And he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like giving is a language he was born speaking. Like your body, your time, your presence—is worth every ounce of it.

And maybe you’re still telling yourself this is just a transaction. An arrangement. A phase.

But when he wraps his arm around your waist and presses a kiss to your temple before saying, “Sleep. I’ve got you,” you feel something dangerous stir in your chest again.

You ignore the flutter, the warmth curling too close to your chest. You chalk it up to the afterglow and drift off in his bed, nestled in soft sheets and softer arms, lulled to sleep by the sound of his breathing and the warm weight of him behind you.

But hours later—too few hours, really—you wake again, groggy and blinking into darkness. The kind of quiet that only exists at 3 AM, when the city is asleep and the air hums with stillness. You stretch a little, shift against the mattress, and that's when you feel it: the low grumble in your stomach.

You’re hungry.

Of course you are. All that exertion. All that sweating and moaning and coming—twice with his mouth and four more times with everything else. Your body’s wrung out and spent and suddenly very aware it hasn’t eaten since late afternoon.

Behind you, Shoto is still asleep.

You turn slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him—and you can’t help but pause. Just look at him.

He’s sprawled on his back now, one arm tucked under the pillow your head had been resting on, the other resting loose across his toned stomach. His breathing is slow and deep, steady in that way that makes you feel safe. His lips are slightly parted, and a faint, nearly imperceptible sound leaves his throat as he exhales. His hair—normally styled, parted so neatly—is a soft mess against the pillow, the white and red strands tangled and falling over his forehead.

He looks so young like this.

You almost don’t recognize him—not the way the world knows him. Not The Cold Flame, not the ruthless CEO, not the heir to a dynasty of steel and fire. Just Sho, sleepy and beautiful, boyish in the most unexpected way. Peaceful.

You lean in without thinking, guided by instinct and softness, and press the lightest kiss to the tip of his nose. He scrunches it under your lips with a sleepy grumble, a little twitch of his brow, before settling deeper into sleep. You smile to yourself.

God. He’s so cute.

You think about curling back into him, falling asleep with his arm around you again, but your stomach protests—loudly this time. With a reluctant sigh, you slip out from under the sheets, careful not to disturb him. Your legs are still sore, but you pad your way toward the kitchen, feet silent on polished marble floors.

Shoto’s kitchen is a dream. Sleek, spotless, enormous—designed by someone with a minimalist fetish and too much money. State-of-the-art everything, from the hidden fridge panels to the built-in espresso station that probably cost more than your college tuition.

But despite how modern it is, it’s still starting to feel a little like yours.

You’ve stocked a drawer with your favorite teas. Tucked a few snacks into a pantry shelf—your snacks, not the imported kind he keeps for show. Instant noodles. A bag of your favorite chips. Stuff you used to live off of. Stuff you couldn’t always afford. And tonight, you want the comfort of it.

The contrast makes you laugh softly to yourself. One moment, you’re being draped in diamonds and silk, letting him feed you wagyu flown in from Tokyo—and the next, you’re hovering over a pot of boiling water, cracking an egg into cheap ramen and assembling your favorite weird sandwich with crumbled chips on stale white bread.

It’s the kind of nostalgic comfort only a broke student would understand, and it tastes like home.

You sit at the kitchen island, legs swinging a little as you scroll through your phone and slurp your noodles, alternating bites between that and the ridiculous chip sandwich. And you feel good. Relaxed. At peace.

Until you hear the footsteps.

You look up, startled for half a second—until you see him.

Shoto.

Bare-chested, barefoot, wearing nothing but navy pajama pants that sit low on his hips. He’s scratching at his chest absently, red and white hair tousled even more than before, his eyes still sleep-swollen and blinking like he’s adjusting to the light. He pauses in the doorway, his gaze finding you immediately.

He looks so beautiful it’s unfair.

Something flutters deep in your stomach—not hunger this time. He’s tall, all long limbs and lean, sculpted muscle. His body is disciplined, honed, made for war or boardrooms or both, but there’s something vulnerable in the way he stands there half-asleep. Like he’s just a man looking for the warmth that slipped out of bed without him.

“Hey,” you whisper, putting your chopsticks down. You smile gently. “You okay? Doesn’t your flight leave in like five hours? Go back to sleep, you need the rest—with the jet lag and everything.”

He blinks, rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “I didn’t feel you in bed. Saw the light. Are you alright?”

You nod, touched by the concern in his voice. “Yeah. Just… hungry.”

He walks closer, slow and barefoot, gaze lowering to your plate. His brow furrows slightly. “What are you eating?” A pause. “That does not look nutritious.”

You scoff, grinning. “Wow. A billionaire snob CEO like you wouldn’t know about taste. This”—you gesture proudly to your bowl and plate—“is instant ramen and a chip sandwich. Food of the people, Sho.”

He stares a moment longer, still blinking slowly, and then—with a little huff through his nose that might be a laugh—he walks around the island and sits next to you.

Your heart does that stupid little flip again.

You push the plate toward him. “Want a taste?”

He gives you one of his long, unreadable looks. But then, wordlessly, he picks up your sandwich like he’s handling a piece of equipment he doesn’t understand and takes a bite.

You rest your chin in your hand, watching him.

The expression that follows is complex. A mix of confusion, curiosity… and begrudging respect.

“It’s… salty,” he says finally.

You grin. “And crunchy. And weird. And kind of amazing.”

He takes another bite. This time on purpose.

You can’t help but laugh. “See? You’ll be craving this from a hotel suite in Buenos Aires.”

He chews thoughtfully, then glances at you, something quiet blooming in his expression.

There’s a softness to it. A warmth he doesn’t always show. Like he’s filing this moment away—you, in his kitchen, barefoot in one of his robes, feeding him chip sandwiches and ramen in the middle of the night—and it matters.

It matters to him.

“You look happy,” he murmurs.

You blink. “I am.”

And you mean it. Here, in his massive kitchen, under dim lights and wrapped in luxury, eating the cheapest food you can think of with a man who’s supposed to be untouchable… you feel safe. Content. Seen.

He looks at you like he wants to say something more—but instead, he reaches for your chopsticks, and eats your noodles.

He pauses with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth when you brush the hair from his face—your fingers gentle, almost reverent. The red strands fall easily away, revealing more of his expression in the soft kitchen light. His eyes are calm, that rare storm-cloud gray-blue softened with sleep and quiet affection.

“Do you like it?” you ask softly, tilting your head just a little, watching his face.

He blinks once, finishes chewing, and then nods with a slow, deliberate kind of sincerity that only Todoroki Shoto seems capable of. “Yes,” he says simply. “The ramen is good. But I like the chip sandwich the most.” He glances down at the remaining half on the plate, then back up at you, thoughtful. “It’s my first time eating it.”

You smile, warmth curling under your ribs. “Well, I’m glad I got to see you try it.”

His lips curl into the faintest smile, one of those rare ones—so small and so honest it’s almost startling. He nods again, eyes still fixed on you. “I was homeschooled for the first few years of my life. Then boarding school. We didn’t have food like this.” He picks up a chip crumb and examines it like it’s a strange artifact, lips twitching slightly. “It’s interesting.”

You scoff playfully. “It would be interesting for you, Mr. I-Have-Sashimi-for-Breakfast.”

That earns a real response—his smile deepens, just a bit. It’s not wide or showy, but it’s felt. Something flickers across his face like the memory of amusement. “Not all the time. Sashimi is not a favorite of mine. It’s—”

“Soba. Cold soba,” you interrupt, finishing for him.

He freezes for a second, brows lifting ever so slightly. It’s subtle, but it’s visible. Like your words caught him off guard. He blinks, and there’s something almost boyish in the way his mouth parts a little before pressing together again. You see the realization hit him, the soft awareness in his eyes—you noticed.

“Don’t look so surprised,” you tease, nudging his shoulder gently. “You eat it all the time. And need I remind you—your old username? Todo.soba11?”

You say it like it’s a secret. Like it’s sacred. And to your delight, you watch it hit him all at once. His head lowers slightly, eyes dropping to the bowl like he’s embarrassed—but not in a bad way. You swear you see the faintest tint of pink rise on his cheeks, just barely visible under the warm kitchen light.

Oh. My. God. He’s blushing.

The same man who signs multi-million yen contracts before breakfast. The same man who fucks you into mattresses with slow, possessive hunger, murmuring mine against your neck. The same man who owns four penthouses, a private jet, and a suit collection that could pay off your entire student loan debt—he’s blushing. Because you remembered something small about him.

Because you see him.

And he looks so cute like this, sitting beside you with chip dust on his fingers and pink on his cheeks, shy and a little quiet and completely unaware of how deeply you’re falling for him.

He clears his throat softly. “That account was… old.”

“Yeah,” you say, teasing gently. “From when you were still pretending not to be the heir to an empire.”

He smiles again, and this time it’s small but real. Like something delicate and sincere and unguarded. He picks at the edge of the sandwich with his fingers and doesn’t look at you immediately when he says, “I like that you know these things.”

You blink.

You watch him for a moment—bare-chested, sleep-tousled, sitting across from you at this impossibly expensive kitchen island with a plate of junk food in front of him—and your chest aches a little. He’s still him, of course. Powerful, absurdly rich, disciplined to a fault. But right now he’s also just a man trying something new, learning to laugh with someone, letting you see him without armor.

It’s… soft.

And you’re dangerously close to liking this too much.

“Well, you know things about me too,” you murmur, voice quieter than before as you shift closer to him. You lean in slowly, careful not to shift the plate too much between you, and rest your chin on his shoulder. The warmth of his skin sinks into you instantly—his body still heat-soft from sleep, the faint scent of him pulling you in: cedarwood, clean linen, and something warmer, almost like cinnamon, that you’ve come to associate with the way he smells only when he’s just woken up.

He doesn’t flinch or stiffen. Instead, he shifts slightly, turning his head, his pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His eyes—those deceptively calm, mismatched eyes—find yours. They flicker, first to your lips, then back to your eyes, and then he kisses you. No hesitation. Just a slow, quiet press of his mouth to yours. It’s soft. Still half-asleep, no urgency in it. A kind of kiss that says, I’m here. I see you. I want this moment to last.

Your lips part just a bit, letting the kiss deepen—only slightly—and your hand comes up to rest on his bare forearm, fingers grazing cool skin. His mouth is warm, pliant, and familiar now. He doesn’t kiss like someone who’s showing off. He kisses like someone trying to say what he doesn’t have the words for.

And then he pulls back. Just a breath. His eyes flick over your face with that quiet curiosity that always feels like he’s learning you, storing each detail somewhere in the neat, precise corners of his mind.

“You taste like instant ramen instead of caviar and scotch,” you tease, your tone light and amused, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “That’s a nice change.”

There’s a beat.

Then he blinks.

And in the most earnest, Todoroki Shoto way possible, he says—seriously, almost puzzled, “I don’t drink scotch. I don’t like it. Maybe you tasted something else?”

You pause.

Your brain short-circuits.

Because he says it without a hint of irony, so straightforward and genuinely confused, and it’s so him that it nearly breaks you in half.

You laugh—quiet, soft, helpless. It bubbles up in your chest and spills out before you can stop it, and you rest your forehead lightly against his shoulder, shaking your head. “Sho,” you whisper, “it’s a joke.”

Another blink. His brows furrow just slightly, like he’s backtracking, trying to retrace the logic.

“Oh,” he says, his voice quiet again, like he’s a little embarrassed now. But he doesn’t pull away. His arm shifts behind you, hand resting lightly at your lower back, grounding you there. “Right.”

You glance up at him, and you swear his ears are a little pink now. Not from the heat, but from the you. From your laugh. From the intimacy of this moment. From the ease that’s starting to settle between the two of you like warm honey, slow and thick and dangerous in the best kind of way.

And for a moment, you forget the dynamic. You forget the rules. The arrangement. The money. The unspoken end that hovers somewhere in the distance.

Because right now, he’s just Sho. Tired and bare-chested and surprisingly terrible at sarcasm. He’s letting you in again—closer, deeper—and you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it.

You wrap your arms around his waist under the pretense of hugging him from the side, but really, it’s just to stay close. Just to feel him.

“You’re such a dork,” you murmur against his skin, and he hums under his breath.

“I’ve been called worse,” he says softly. And when you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

And it hits you like a whisper:

He’s learning how to be with someone.

And maybe so are you.

────────────────────────

His trip takes longer than planned.

You’re counting down the days like a fool, checking your phone too often, scrolling through your camera roll at pictures you shouldn’t miss this much. Originally, it was just two weeks. But then he flies straight from the Americas to Europe—Monaco, specifically. Something about a sudden board meeting, or a merger, or a foreign investment expansion. You don’t know the details. He doesn’t explain much.

But what does Shoto do?

He flies you out.

The message comes in the middle of the night—his time. Morning, for you.

Sho: Come to Monaco.

You stare at your screen, blinking. Still half-asleep. Surely he doesn’t mean it literally.

You: Monaco? Monaco Monaco?

Sho: Yes. I’ll have the jet ready. You’ll miss one class day. I already checked your schedule.

Of course he did.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over your screen. Because it sounds insane. It is insane. You have classes. You have a paper due. You’re a college student with a sugar daddy, not some heiress with a passport full of stamps.

So you do what you always do when your reality breaks open a little too wide: You call Shinju.

She picks up and you don’t even get the sentence out before she’s yelling.

“GO.”

“Shinju—”

“Go! Are you serious? It’s fucking Monaco! He’s flying you out like some kind of spoiled Bond girl and you’re hesitating?!”

You bite your lip. “It’s just one day of class.”

“Exactly. One. Day. Of. Class.” Then she adds, softer, knowingly: “Besides… you miss him, don’t you?”

And that shuts you up.

Because you do. You miss his hands. His voice. His steadiness. The way he always looks at you like you’re already forgiven.

So you say yes.

Monaco is… something else.

It’s glittering water and hills lined with terracotta rooftops and endless wealth wrapped in elegance. Everything is white stone and glass. Sleek, expensive, ancient and modern at once. You step off the jet and into the kind of heat that makes diamonds glint brighter.

He puts you in a suite that overlooks the harbor. The bathroom is marble. The bed is so soft you melt into it. There's a bottle of Dom Pérignon on ice and a silk gift bag on the dresser. Inside it: lingerie. Black lace and red silk. And a note.

Wear this. Come to the balcony. - S

You do. Of course you do.

You’re not sure whether it’s the ocean air or the days without him, but the second his hands touch your waist out on that balcony, you lose your mind.

He’s shirtless, muscles taut from stress and flying and power. His hair’s messy, wind-tousled. He kisses you with heat and hunger, his mouth rough, almost impatient—which is rare for him. You moan into it, and he pulls you against the railing, palms hot and wide on your thighs.

He fucks you there, on the balcony, your back arched against the glass. The city lights below. The harbor glittering. You’re nearly crying by the time he pushes inside you, bare and deep, your legs wrapped around his waist.

He murmurs, “I missed you like this.” And you believe him.

Later, it’s the hot tub.

Steam rising. His hands sliding wet and firm over your ass. Your legs spread wide, floating in the heat while he sinks into you from underneath.

He holds you there—grips your hips and grinds up into you with slow, endless strokes while your head falls back and your mouth drops open.

The water sloshes. Your skin is hot. Every thrust sends a wave rippling outward.

And when he comes, he holds you there—close, close, like he’s trying to pour something more than just come into you.

And then there’s the office.

Because Todoroki Shoto doesn’t stop being Todoroki Shoto just because you’re here. Business resumes. Which is how you end up naked, flushed, and panting on his lap in a Monaco high-rise office, bent slightly forward, his palm around your throat and his cock still buried inside you.

He’s still in his dress shirt—white, sleeves rolled up, belt undone, shirt wrinkled from your desperation.

One hand is on your neck, pressing just enough to make your thoughts scatter like glitter. The other holds your hip down—tight, possessive, forcing you to stay still even as your whole body trembles. You whimper, biting your lip, trying to keep quiet.

And Shoto?

He’s on a business call.

Voice calm. Composed. That subtle authority he always carries, even while his cock pulses deep inside you, still wet and sticky with his last orgasm.

“Yes,” he says, not even winded, thumb stroking your pulse. “We’ll have those numbers by Q3. I want updates before Friday.”

You dig your nails into his forearm. He doesn’t flinch.

He presses his mouth to your shoulder, teeth grazing skin just as his hips shift up—slow and deep—and you moan into the back of your hand as he fucks you in tiny, brutal thrusts while conducting international finance.

You’re lightheaded. Feral. Obsessed.

He hangs up five minutes later. The moment the call ends, his grip tightens.

“Good girl,” he breathes, voice low against your throat.

And then he flips you onto his desk.

There are no more calls that day.

Later, you're draped across his desk—skin bare, cheeks flushed, legs tangled, lips swollen. The lacquered wood beneath you is still warm from where he had you just moments ago, where he pulled you apart with slow, careful strokes until you were trembling and boneless and gasping his name like a secret prayer.

But this… this isn’t sex anymore.

This is something quieter.

Something more dangerous.

Shoto leans over you, still half-dressed—shirt untucked, buttons open, hair a little wild from your fingers. His belt hangs unbuckled at his hips. You’re naked, sticky with sweat and him, your thighs marked with soft red prints from where he gripped you too tightly. Your chest rises and falls in soft, uneven breaths as his mouth grazes your collarbone again and again, like he’s worshipping you.

His kisses are slow. Reverent. His hands trail across your ribs, your stomach, the curve of your hip—not greedy, not urgent. Just there. Holding. Memorizing. Like if he touches you slowly enough, maybe you won’t disappear.

He murmurs against your skin, voice low and rough, worn down with jet lag and hunger—for you. Not lust. Not control. Just you.

“I thought about you every day.”

The words hit like an ache. Gentle and unbearable.

You blink. Your breath stutters.

Because he means it.

It’s in the way his eyes search your face—not just for beauty, but for your reaction, your comfort, your truth. It's in how his thumb brushes your knee absentmindedly, like he needs the contact to stay grounded. It's in the way he looks tired all of a sudden—not from travel, not from sex, but from missing you.

And maybe you weren’t supposed to get this far in. Maybe this was supposed to be simple.

But there’s nothing simple about the way your throat tightens, or the way you lean up to kiss his cheek; gently, silently. No teasing. No games. Just closeness. Just thanks. Just yes, me too.

His breath catches.

He closes his eyes.

Then he lowers himself so his head rests just below your breast, arms wrapping around your waist, and stays there, holding you like a man who’s starved for the comfort of your skin.

And you let him. You hold him back.

It’s not always about sex with you two.

Sometimes—more often than you ever expected—it’s just the intimacy. The warmth. The simple, grounding comfort of another person’s skin against yours, the silence between heartbeats filled with soft breathing and weightless closeness.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The suite is dim, soft amber lighting glowing low from the sconces. The balcony doors are open, letting in the hush of Monaco’s midnight air and the faint distant hum of ocean waves. The bed you’re in feels like a cloud, all plush pillows and silk sheets, but it’s his body that really anchors you—solid behind you, arm around your waist, chest against your back like a fortress of warmth.

Your skin is still dewy from the bath he insisted on running, your limbs heavy and wine-drunk, draped across him like it’s second nature. One leg tangled over his, his hand tucked beneath your ribs, fingertips drawing slow, absentminded circles into your hipbone.

The bottle of wine—whatever brand it is, something expensive and probably older than you—is half-finished, resting carelessly on the nightstand. It doesn’t matter. You didn’t drink it for the taste. It was part of the ritual: the bath, the wine, the laughter. His low, quiet voice rumbling in your ear, telling stories that feel so impossibly normal for a man who wears bespoke suits and signs billion-dollar deals.

“—but then I farted once,” Shoto is saying, tone completely straight, “and the smell was terrible.”

You snort into his chest before you can help it. “God, you’re so stupid sometimes.”

He smiles. Not the rare, careful one he uses in boardrooms or in front of cameras. But the real one—soft and lopsided, that shy flicker of amusement that lights up his entire face when he’s completely relaxed. The one that makes you ache.

You reach up and brush a hand through his hair, gently pushing the strands away from his forehead, fingers combing through the red and white like it’s something sacred. You stroke your thumb along his jaw, feeling the faint scruff there. He nuzzles into your touch like a cat—closed eyes, a low hum in his throat, his grip around your waist tightening just a bit.

You’re amazed, in this moment, by how deeply content you feel.

It hits you all at once. How light your chest feels. How much tension you’ve let go. How happy you are, here in this bed, in this city, with him.

Shoto is your sugar daddy, sure, but he’s also the man who takes the time to learn your favorite snacks. Who always checks in about your day. Who listens more than he talks, who lets you see the parts of him that are still healing. The one who makes you laugh with dumb stories about his brothers and awkward teenage years, even though he’s a whole empire now.

You lean up and kiss his cheek. Then his lips—slow, lingering, almost lazy.

He returns the kiss, soft and sleepy, one hand slipping up your back to pull you even closer. Your bare skin against his—chests, stomachs, legs all pressed together—feels like too much and not enough at the same time. It’s not about arousal. It’s not about control or roles or power.

It’s about closeness. It’s about belonging.

He presses his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, and murmurs something too quiet to catch, but you feel it in the way his thumb brushes up and down your spine, in the way he presses your bodies together like he’s trying to fuse you into one.

He blinks his eyes open, the softest glint of silver and turquoise catching the low light. Still half-drowsy, still flushed warm from the bath, the wine, your touch. His arms tighten slightly around you, like a reflex he doesn't even realize he's doing—like he needs to keep you close even now, as if you'll slip away otherwise.

You smile against his bare chest, your cheek resting just over his heart, and whisper, “Tell me more about this city.”

He hums low in his throat, like the question surprised him, but not in a bad way. You feel the reverberation through his skin as he stirs, shifts a little to face you more fully, eyes opening now with a little more alertness.

“Is there any fun things we can do?” you ask, voice playfully curious. “Or do I just have to keep you company while you’re here at non-business things?”

His response is immediate. “We will do whatever you want, darling.”

You pause.

Something about the way he says it. His voice is low, still gentle—but there's something under it this time. A quiet insistence. A vow. Something more than politeness or sugar-daddy indulgence. It feels… deeper. Like it means something. More than just "Yes," more than convenience. It’s him saying I want to give you what makes you happy.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe the jet lag is hitting. But your chest flutters.

Still, you shake the thought off with a teasing grin and say, “Really? So if I want to go to the beach, and afterward have a ride in your expensive car with the hood down while we go shopping—and maybe I’ll suck your dick during said driving—you’ll let me?”

That gets his attention.

His lips twitch with amusement. But he doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t playfully scoff or feign embarrassment. He just tilts his head slightly, the edges of his mouth curling into a soft, knowing smile as he watches you, quiet and sharp-eyed.

“I think the last part would be dangerous,” he says with such gravity you almost laugh again. “Considering I would be focused on you more than I already am.”

And then, as if that wasn’t already enough to make your stomach twist, he adds, “But if that’s what you desire, we’ll do it.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

He nods. “I should tell you that I have a high name in this city. If we do get arrested for public indecency, I might have to say you were a crazy woman that jumped in my car.”

The snort you let out is ungraceful and loud, but you don’t care. You prop yourself up on one elbow, grinning as you look down at him. “Really? That’s your plan?”

His grin widens just a fraction, enough to show a glimpse of tooth. A rare, real smile. “It’s the only way they’d believe I let it happen.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “I don’t think you’d ever do that.”

And this time, he doesn’t say anything right away. His expression shifts—subtle, like everything with him is. The amusement is still there, but it softens into something tender. Something so achingly sincere it almost doesn’t belong in a suite this luxurious, in a city this shiny.

He shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says, voice quiet. “I don’t think I ever could with you, angel.”

The words sit heavy between you. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes your pulse slow, your breath catch, your body lean in instinctively toward him—drawn like gravity. That warmth he carries in him, quiet and buried under layers of stillness and self-control, flickers to the surface like a flame trying not to burn too bright.

You smile, something small and shy, and nuzzle back into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. You feel him exhale gently into it, as if the moment makes him melt a little, too.

“I just want to relax,” you murmur, “and spend time with you.”

That’s it. That’s all you say.

Shoto blinks at you for a moment, like your words are something sacred—like they settle somewhere deep behind his sternum and make a home there. You’re half-draped across his chest, still warm from the bath, your skin bare beneath the silk sheets and his arm slung low over your waist. His heartbeat thuds under your ear, steady and calm, but now there’s something else behind it. Something gentle. Something that glows.

You feel his fingers tighten slightly at your hip, like your words gave him permission to hold you a little closer. His voice, when he finally answers, is low; warmer than wine, quieter than the hush of the ocean outside.

“I’d like that,” he says. “Just you and me.”

It’s not about what you said anymore—not about beach trips or convertibles or risky, teasing fantasies whispered in the dark. It’s the way you said relax… the way you said spend time with you, like it’s not about luxury or the lifestyle he provides. Like he is the part you’ve come to want most.

Your breath catches for just a moment. You don’t mean for it to, but it’s there. The softness of this. The way he’s looking at you now—those heterochromatic eyes, usually so guarded, so unreadable—now open, glassy at the edges. He looks at you like he feels something too. And maybe you’re just tipsy and sleepy and curled up in a foreign country with nothing but the ocean and your own heartbeat to ground you, but maybe it’s real.

“You mean it?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. “You’d take time off… just for that?”

“I’d give you all the time in the world,” he says, without hesitation. “All you have to do is ask.”

You swallow, eyes darting across his face—still looking for some kind of catch, some hidden meaning. But there isn’t one. There never is with Shoto. For all the mystery in his eyes, he doesn’t lie. He doesn’t posture. When he tells you he’ll give you the world, he means it, because it’s the only language he knows. Quiet devotion. Steady offering. Soft-spoken promises that sound too big to hold but never feel too heavy in his hands.

Your heart squeezes, and you lean forward again, pressing another kiss to his lips—this one slower, less teasing. Just soft and full of emotion you can’t name yet. His hand cups your jaw, guiding you closer, and when you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours again.

“I like you like this,” you whisper, “soft and sweet.”

He hums. “I’m always soft with you.”

That makes you smile. You trace your fingers across his chest, watching how his throat moves when he swallows.

“I’m gonna take you up on it,” you warn him, still smiling. “The beach, the ride, everything.”

“Even the public indecency?”

You giggle and shrug. “Maybe not that one. But don’t act like you wouldn’t let me.”

He laughs, the real kind—a low, breathy sound that rumbles from his chest, and god, it does something to you. Makes you feel so full. So wanted. So safe. You’ve never felt like this in someone’s arms before. It doesn’t matter that it started as an arrangement. It doesn’t matter how it began.

Because here, now, pressed against him under silk sheets in a Monaco penthouse, it feels like something real. Like something blooming slow and deep.

You tuck yourself closer, one leg hooked over his thigh, and whisper against his skin, “I just want you, Sho.”

And he says it like a vow, soft against your temple, lips barely brushing you—

“You already have me.”

It’s almost criminal, how perfect the day is.

Monaco sun glitters over the sapphire water, casting gold onto everything it touches—including you, reclined on a white lounger, legs stretched out, your skimpy white bikini catching the light like pearls. Your sunglasses are oversized and designer, your lips glossed, and your hair is still damp from the sea. You look like a siren; Shoto’s siren. The kind men lose entire kingdoms for.

He’s beside you, bare-chested in black swim trunks that hang low on his hips, his body lean and powerful under the sun. His scar catches the light differently here—less like something marred and more like something sacred. A memory etched into him. The red of his hair darkens in the saltwater, clinging to his forehead in messy strands. He looks effortless, but he keeps glancing your way like he still can’t believe you’re here.

You swim together, laugh together; weightless in the waves. You splash him once, teasingly, and he retaliates by hoisting you up into his arms, bridal-style, wading deeper into the water with you squealing about how you're going to drown. He just raises a brow like he's above such drama and keeps going until you’re both waist-deep. Your arms wind around his neck, his hands steady on your thighs as you float against him, warm and held and so seen.

Later, you tan, stretched out like royalty. Shoto sits nearby, a book in one hand, a drink in the other, but his eyes are mostly on you. Every hour or so, he gently reminds you to reapply sunscreen like the sun might dare leave a mark on what’s his. He even does it for you once, rubbing lotion into your back and the backs of your thighs with large, reverent hands, slow and tender like he’s painting you.

You float together in the water until sunset—your back to his chest, arms around each other like a lazy embrace that refuses to let go. The waves rock you gently, and you talk about the days you were apart. The late nights you couldn’t sleep. The food he tried in New York. The book you read. How you missed his voice. How he missed your laugh. It’s not romantic in a dramatic sense. It’s quiet. Undeniably real.

And when the sun dips lower and paints the horizon in molten orange, he kisses you. Just once at first. Then again, slower, deeper, like the whole beach could disappear around you and he wouldn’t care. Like the only thing that matters is the press of your lips and the salt on your skin.

Then—

“I think I stepped on a rock,” he mutters against your mouth. 

You laugh, head thrown back, your body shaking gently in his arms. The noise is pure and bright, and Shoto just looks at you with that small, almost bashful smile like he’s glad he made you laugh, even if it cost him his foot.

Later, as you’re drying off and slipping back into your sandals, he disappears for a moment and returns with something cupped carefully in his palm.

A seashell.

Not a perfect one—there’s a little chip at the top, a faint spiral, edges smoothed down by years of waves. But it’s iridescent. Pale pink and white, shimmering faintly like moonlight. Unique. Singular. Beautiful because of its imperfection.

He holds it out to you like it’s a diamond.

“I saw it earlier and thought of you.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. You just stare at him, at the way he’s offering you something so small, and yet it feels heavier, more meaningful than all the black cards, the gifts, the jewelry combined.

Because this? This isn’t from a boutique or a showroom. This is something he found, something he chose, something he thought of you when seeing.

You take it carefully, fingers brushing his.

And when you look up, Shoto’s already watching you with that look again—that quiet, gentle awe.

The seashell sits warm in your hand, and you feel your heart thump in your chest.

No designer gift has ever felt like this.

Of course, you're back at the hotel before long.

The room is still sun-drenched when you step inside, the light slanting through the gauzy curtains, painting golden stripes across the marble floor. Monaco stretches out below your balcony—boats bobbing lazily in the harbor, the pink haze of sunset brushing against the hills. But you’re not looking at any of that.

You're focused.

First things first: the seashell.

You don’t even pause before slipping it carefully from your fingers into the small silk pouch inside your purse—nestled between a travel-size perfume bottle and your wallet. You make sure it’s secure, gently wrap it in a piece of tissue, and zip the pocket shut like it’s a piece of jewelry. Because it is. To you.

It’s not about the shell itself; it’s about the way he looked at you when he gave it to you. Quiet. Certain. Like he wasn’t just handing you something small and pretty. He was giving you proof. That even while walking alone on a foreign beach, he thought of you. Not just your body. You.

You’re still feeling the echo of that when you strip off the top of your bikini, tossing it onto a nearby chair without a second thought. Your breasts are still faintly warm from the sun, tan lines fresh and skin slightly tight from salt. You walk barefoot across the suite, wearing nothing but the tiny white bikini thong that still clings damply to your hips. It cuts high on your waist, the strings riding up as you move, every line of your body sun-kissed and golden.

You’re moving through the room like you belong there. Like you're used to this—worn luxury and ocean views and designer oils laid out in neat rows across the vanity. You’ve done this before, this ritual: sorting through bottles, deciding between jasmine or rose or that thick, expensive cream that smells like vanilla and sandalwood. It’s indulgent. Pointless. Entirely yours.

And that’s when you see him in the mirror.

You’re not startled. You feel him before you see him. That warm gravity he always carries. That stillness.

Shoto moves like he’s carved out of something deeper than just muscle and bone. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t startle. He simply arrives behind you—silent, shirtless, hair damp from rinsing off quickly at the beach.

His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, and it’s not a smirk or a grin that meets you. It’s something softer. More dangerous. A quiet hunger buried beneath calm restraint.

He steps in close. Arms sliding slowly, deliberately around your waist. His chest is warm against your back, body heat sinking into your spine. His hand comes up—not fast, not greedy—and cups your breast gently, fingers spreading to fit the weight of it in his palm.

His mouth finds your shoulder, then trails inward—kissing the edge of your tan line, where skin shifts from sun-kissed bronze to paler, untouched flesh. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just breathes against you. Smells your skin. Kisses you like he’s studying you.

And then, warm and low, he murmurs against your neck:

“Bend over, angel.”

You don’t even hesitate.

It’s instinctive, the way your body responds to him. To that voice. To the command that isn’t cruel or rough—it’s precise. Measured. Like everything he does. Not a demand. An invitation. A quiet promise of what he’ll give you in return.

So you do it.

You bend over the marble vanity, arms bracing you against the cool stone. You arch your back; deep, instinctive, feline—your spine curving beautifully as you tilt your hips back toward him. Your ass lifts, soft and round and on full display, the thin strap of your bikini thong framing you like a bow on a gift.

Shoto breathes out slowly behind you. You can feel the heat of it on the back of your thigh.

Then his fingers hook into the strings at your hips, and he peels the thong down—slowly, reverently. Not yanking. Not impatient. Like he’s unwrapping something he’s waited all day to see. He slides the fabric down your legs and lets it drop soundlessly to the floor.

And now you’re bare.

Open.

Exposed and displayed for him, still damp with sea water, thighs slightly parted and skin golden from the sun.

You know what you look like. You know what you’re doing—how deeply you’ve arched, how unashamed you are, how the curve of your hips and the glisten of your folds must look to him. You’re presenting yourself like something holy. Like something meant to be worshipped.

And Shoto?

He kneels.

He always kneels when it matters.

You feel his hands on your ass, firm and warm, spreading you gently. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The way his thumbs graze your inner thighs is answer enough. The low, barely audible sound he makes in his throat—that restrained, nearly invisible groan—is praise. Is need.

Then his mouth is on you.

He licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, tongue hot and deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He never does. He’s too focused, too careful. Every movement is calculated. He tastes you like he’s memorizing you. Like he wants to learn what makes you squirm, what makes your legs shake, what pulls those helpless little noises from your throat.

Your fingers grip the edge of the vanity. Your hips tremble. He hums against you—pleased. Encouraging.

When he finally stands, it’s with that same calm power, like he’s rising from a kneel not just as your lover, but as a man who’s decided something.

His hands find your hips. His cock is already hard—thick, hot, and pressed against the back of your thigh. He doesn’t need to guide himself. He knows exactly where you are. How to slide into you in one long, unhurried thrust.

You gasp—loud, involuntary—as he fills you completely. His hips press flush to yours, the stretch perfect, your pussy already slick and clenching around him. You hear him inhale—sharply, tightly—like the feel of you still manages to shake something loose in his chest.

And then he moves.

He fucks you slowly at first. Deep, smooth strokes that make you choke on your own breath. One hand remains on your hip, steadying you. The other slides up your back, over the slope of your spine, until it’s curled at the back of your neck—his thumb brushing gently just beneath your hairline.

You’re panting now. Whimpering. Every thrust makes your breath stutter, your eyes blur. He’s not speaking. Just moaning softly every now and then—low and controlled, the sound guttural and beautiful.

And you feel everything.

The strength in his hips. The stretch. The precision. The way he angles deeper—seeking that spot inside you that makes you see stars. You’re moaning now, openly, shamelessly. Not just because of how good it feels, but because of what it means. What it is.

This isn’t just fucking. This is him. This is Shoto; all quiet intensity, all reverent heat, all focused pressure. The kind of sex that makes your chest tighten, because even without saying it, he’s telling you: I missed you. I thought about this. I thought about you.

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth near your ear. “You feel better than I remembered,” he breathes.

You whimper his name, a murmured “Sho…” and he makes a sound, hips jolting forward harder. His fingers tighten on your hips. Not to hurt. To anchor. To hold you together while he loses control in the only way he allows himself to—with you.

When you come, it’s not soft. It’s a wave. It crashes through you, shaking your whole body. Your legs give out slightly, and he holds you up, fucking you through it with a low groan, never stopping, never breaking rhythm.

He finishes inside you with a deep, shuddering breath, hips pressed tight, his cock pulsing as he fills you, and his mouth is on your shoulder again, biting down just enough to mark. To claim. To remember.

And when it’s over, when you’re both panting and slick and trembling against the vanity, he doesn’t pull away.

The shower is already running, steam curling around your bodies as the last of the Monaco sun spills across the marble floor through the bathroom windows. The water is hot and steady, hitting your skin in a soothing rhythm, like rain after drought. You’re both inside now, the wide glass shower big enough to feel indulgent, the tiles warm beneath your feet, the air thick with heat and the soft scent of sandalwood and salt lingering on both your skin.

Shoto stands in front of you, water streaking down the planes of his chest, dripping from the ends of his hair. He’s quiet, like always, but it’s not silence that feels empty. It’s full. Heavy. A quiet that speaks volumes. He’s looking at you with that half-lidded, unreadable gaze—one only you have come to understand. It means he’s still in it. Still present. Still with you, even if his mind should be turning toward the dinner meeting waiting for him across the city.

But he’s not thinking about that yet.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder—soft, open-mouthed, lingering against the skin where your tan line begins. Then another at the hollow of your collarbone, and another just above your heart, as if he’s marking each place with a kind of quiet gratitude. The loofah is in your hand, and you’re dragging it in slow, lazy circles across his chest, your eyes half-lidded, the intimacy of it all making your breath slow.

“Five more minutes,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the sound of water.

Shoto blinks, those mismatched eyes dropping to meet yours. He studies you for a beat longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing your face—committing you to memory all over again even though he just had you bent over the vanity minutes ago. But this isn’t the same as that. This is different. Softer. It’s not about hunger now. It’s about closeness. Longing.

You’re clinging to him, arms wrapped around his neck as you press yourself close under the spray, the curves of your body molding against his. And he lets you. He always lets you—never pulls away when you reach for him like this, never denies you softness even when the rest of the world demands steel.

He cups the back of your head with one hand, cradling it with care, while the other strokes slowly down your spine. His fingers pause just above the small of your back, where the water collects and rolls down in steady rivulets. He kisses you again; deeper now. Slower. His mouth moves with yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him. Like he needs this as badly as you do.

The kiss stretches on. Minutes melt. You lose track of time, of how long you’ve been pressed against him, lips moving together in that quiet, drugging way that makes your knees weak. And still, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t break the moment.

You sigh against his mouth and run your palms across his chest again—his heart beating slow and strong under your touch, his muscles warm and solid. You glide them up over his shoulders, trace the slope of his scar. You love his scar. Not just because it’s part of him, but because of the way he lets you touch it. The way he doesn’t flinch anymore. Not with you. You kiss the junction where his neck meets his shoulder, and he sighs—soft and shaky, a little sound that tells you this is getting to him too.

Then, you whisper, quiet and low, “You should go.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. His brows knit, and for a moment, you see the hesitation flicker across his face. That instinct in him to give you what you want—even if it costs him something. It’s who he is. Shoto doesn’t take easily, but he gives constantly. He was raised in discipline and duty, but now he chooses softness—with you.

“I’ll tell them I’m running late,” he says, voice low, hoarse from earlier and from the emotion thick in his throat.

And god, it nearly breaks you; how easily he’d throw it all aside. For you. Always for you.

But the guilt blooms again, slow and stubborn, and your fingers press into his shoulder blades as you shake your head gently. “No,” you whisper. “You should go. Really. I don’t want you missing things because of me.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t move. The water still beats down around you both, steam thickening. And then, quietly:

“I missed you.”

You feel your throat tighten.

His voice is so soft when he says it, like it’s too sacred to speak louder. Like if he does, it might shatter. And in that moment, you know he doesn’t mean just in the way his body missed yours. He means you. Your laugh. Your warmth. The way you touch his scar like it’s nothing. The way you hold him in your arms like he’s not the product of something harsh and painful, but something deserving of love. He means the nights he spent in a penthouse in New York or London, in a suit that fit too well and a chair that felt too cold—thinking of your voice, your smile, the way your fingers trace lazy circles over his skin as you fall asleep.

He missed being known. And you know him better than anyone.

You press your forehead to his chest. His heart is beating a little faster now.

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “But you don’t have to prove anything, Sho. You’ve already given me so much.”

His hands tighten at your waist, grounding himself in your presence. And after a long moment, he nods.

He pulls back slightly—not all the way, just enough to brush your damp hair behind your ear and place one last kiss to your temple. It’s not rushed. Not urgent. But it carries weight. A silent promise that this, you, will be the first thing on his mind when he steps out that door—and the first thing he returns to.

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs. “Don’t fall asleep without me.”

And you smile and nod. “I’ll try.”

He kisses you one last time—gentle, lingering—before finally turning away to step out of the shower.

And even though you feel that ache of missing him already starting in your chest… you also feel full. 

Held. 

Wanted.

And you do really miss him.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That it’s normal. That of course you’d miss someone who treats you like a goddamn goddess, who makes you feel beautiful even when you’re half-asleep, puffy-eyed, draped across a sun-warmed bed in a country that doesn’t speak your language. That missing him is just part of the game. The arrangement. The role.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re jet-lagged, because the waves drained the strength from your limbs and the sun kissed you too long. Because this hotel suite is too big, too quiet, too lonely when he’s not in it. You’re still in that silk robe—the short champagne one he likes, the one that clings to your hips and slips dangerously down one shoulder. The tie is loose. Your hair’s half-dry. Your legs are still faintly glowing from the oil you rubbed in earlier, and you’ve barely moved from the bed since he left.

It’s just the waiting that’s messing with you. You’re used to having him close—his body heat, his attention, that subtle way he watches you like you’re art he can’t stop studying. Being without it for even a couple hours has your thoughts turning over themselves.

So you tell yourself what you think someone in your position should tell themselves.

That you’re not some lovesick girl. 

That this is just your sugar daddy. A man who happens to be generous. And sweet. And hot. And—fuck—so considerate it hurts.

You tell yourself that lying here in Monaco, curled into his sheets, still warm from his mouth and hands, wearing nothing but silk and perfume, doesn’t mean anything. That the way your stomach flipped when he said don’t fall asleep without me is just your body reacting. Nothing emotional. Just the residue of a really, really good orgasm.

You tell yourself to stop being so dramatic.

And yet—

When the door opens softly, hours later, and you hear the quiet hush of expensive shoes against marble; when he steps into the suite still in his charcoal-gray suit, tie loosened, hair slightly messy like he ran his hands through it on the drive back; when he finds you, lounging in his bed, robe slipping open at the thigh, lips parted slightly like you fell asleep waiting for him; and when you see what’s in his hands—

You swear your heart skips something vital.

Shoto stands there in the golden light of the suite, holding a bouquet of red roses. Deep crimson, long-stemmed, the kind florists don’t wrap without velvet ribbon. He’s not grinning, not doing some cocky show of it. He just looks… soft. His mouth is curved in the smallest, quietest smile, like he’s happy to see you again and isn’t trying to hide it. His eyes—those dual-colored, steady eyes—flick to yours like he’s checking that you’re okay before he says anything.

You sit up a little, the robe falling slightly lower on your shoulders, and suddenly you feel your throat tighten again, just like in the shower.

He crosses to you without a word and sets the flowers gently on the bed beside you. Then, carefully, he kneels at the edge of the mattress, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, just above your knee. Warm. Grounding.

“I thought they’d suit the room,” he says softly, his tone low, like he didn’t want to wake you even if you weren’t fully asleep.

You blink at the roses. They’re perfect. Not cliché—somehow they fit. Like he’d thought about it, weighed the choices. And the fact that he brought them back after a business dinner, when he should’ve been too tired to even think, is what kills you.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” he says, and there’s no hesitation.

No performative charm. No teasing grin. Just fact.

And now you’re fully awake. Too awake. Because something in your chest aches with how badly you want to kiss him. Not with heat, not with need—but with gratitude.

You ignore that stupid feeling swelling in your chest—press it down, bury it beneath the silk and the roses and the warmth of his hand on your thigh. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. You smile instead. A real one. The kind that tugs at your lips even when you try to bite it back. The kind you don’t usually give anyone.

You brush your fingers over the roses—soft and cool and fragrant, a rich, heady scent of something expensive and classic. They're freshly cut, you can tell. Still full and vivid, like they were meant to sit in a marble suite in Monaco next to a girl like you, in a silk robe, with salt still clinging faintly to your skin.

You tilt your head toward him, your smile lingering as your eyes meet his. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, but you don’t mean it. You lean in before he can say anything back.

The kiss is barely there—just the soft brush of lips, warm and slow and quiet. There’s no tongue, no hunger. Just that feeling. That heat blooming in your chest again like something gentle and glowing and terrifying all at once. And when you pull away, it’s with the faintest wet sound, a kiss that echoes in the stillness of the suite like a secret.

“Thank you, Sho,” you whisper, voice just as soft as the kiss.

He doesn’t answer.

Not right away.

Instead, he leans in again—this time his lips press against your bare shoulder. Not your mouth, not your collarbone, but the rounded slope where your robe has fallen open. He kisses you there like it’s sacred. Like the sun warmed that spot just for him to claim later. 

His breath lingers hot against your skin, and then his voice comes, quiet and close: “Did you eat?”

You shake your head, eyes flicking down, your fingers still brushing the edge of the velvet ribbon tied around the stems.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you admit. Your voice is small. Honest.

He blinks, brows drawing in slightly. You can see the faint shadow of concern in the way his mouth tightens—not dramatic, not panicked. Just focused. That subtle Todoroki way of caring—silent and attentive.

“You should eat,” he says simply, but it’s not a scold. More like a reminder. A fact. “I can order you something. Room service still delivers this late.”

And you almost say yes. You almost let him.

But then—too soft, too honest—you murmur:

“I didn’t want to eat alone.”

Your voice is barely audible. Like a confession you didn’t mean to make.

And for a moment, the room is silent. Heavy.

The kind of quiet where something changes—not because it explodes or breaks, but because it settles.

Shoto looks at you.

Really looks at you.

There’s something behind his eyes—something flickering and slow, like warmth building under frost. And then he shifts. Not away. Closer. His hand finds yours where it’s resting near the flowers, and he laces your fingers together without a word. His palm is warm, always warm, callused in just the right places. When he speaks, it’s quieter than before.

“I’ll stay with you next time,” he says. “No dinner. No meetings.”

You turn to him, blinking. “Sho, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts, firm but soft. His thumb brushes along your knuckles. “If you're here, I want to be too.”

The weight of that settles between you—not heavy, but solid. Real.

You nod slowly. You don’t trust your voice. Not with the way your throat feels too full.

And Shoto, true to form, doesn’t press. He simply lets go of your hand gently and rises from the bed with the quiet elegance that always makes him seem untouchable—like something sculpted from stillness and light. But then he walks over to the in-room phone, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, and starts speaking softly into the receiver.

He’s ordering you food.

You watch him from the bed. The curve of his spine, the cut of his jaw in the soft light. The way he pauses to look back at you while confirming the order, like he’s making sure you’re still okay, still there, still his.

He hangs up and returns without fanfare, kneeling once more beside the bed, hand returning to your thigh like it belongs there.

“I’ll eat with you then,” Shoto says simply, and you blink like the words didn’t quite register. Your lips part, ready to argue—some automatic, flustered deflection bubbling to the surface—but he cuts it off with a calm follow-up, completely unfazed.

“I had something small,” he adds, his tone casual. “And I need the protein.”

You blink again. “Protein?”

“For when we work out.”

You snort, incredulous, a hand lazily tugging your silk robe tighter around you. “I don’t work out, Sho.”

You expect him to meet you with that same cool stoicism he always has, that calm restraint. But instead—his mouth quirks. A rare smirk tugs at the corner, soft and crooked and teasing. It makes him look boyish, for a moment. Not the composed man who commands attention at boardroom tables and walks like he was born in a world with marble floors. But just a boy. Just your boy.

And then you see it—the gleam in his eye. Mischief. Pure and quiet and utterly Shoto.

You narrow your gaze, instantly suspicious. “Wow. Really mature,” you mutter, dryly. “Who says I’d want to work out with you?”

He just shrugs—careless, smug, still smiling.

And then before you can get another word out, he kisses you. Firm and fast and warm.

You yelp against his mouth—not because you’re shocked he did it, but because it’s so effective. You feel his hands slide under the robe like silk against silk, and the next thing you know he’s pushing you back into the pillows, the bed swallowing you both whole.

“Shoto—!” you start, but it’s breathless and already edged with laughter.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and your legs shift automatically, wrapping around his waist like you’re made to do this, like your body remembers him. Your robe parts easily, falling open like it’s meant to, and the heat between you builds so quickly it feels almost criminal.

You never get around to the food.

The room service goes ignored—probably arrives and is left politely at the door with a soft knock, but neither of you hear it. Not with the way Shoto’s mouth finds your neck, or the way you tug him down by the open collar of his shirt, not caring that it’s still pressed and elegant and clearly not meant for rolling around in bed.

But he lets you tug anyway.

Lets you undo each button one by one with shaky fingers.

Lets you press your mouth to the line of his chest like you’re starving.

And he touches you like he never left. Like all the nights apart have been building up in his bones and only now is he finally letting it out—slowly, quietly, thoroughly. His hands map over your thighs, your hips, the warm slope of your waist beneath the robe.

And you—you forget everything else.

Forget the ache of being alone in the suite. Forget the ocean outside the window, the city glittering below.

All you know is him.

His body, half-dressed and heavy over yours, his tongue licking into your mouth with lazy confidence, his hand curling behind your neck like he’s holding something precious. You feel his weight in your chest and your bones and your thighs and it’s not just arousal—it’s comfort, intimacy. That quiet, consuming sweetness you only get with him.

You don’t get much sleep.

You stay tangled under the sheets long into the night—laughing, moaning, whispering, holding. You fuck slowly. Then again. Then again, when neither of you can bear to separate. And at some point, maybe hours later, you fall asleep pressed skin to skin, his hand tucked beneath your cheek, your leg slung over his hip, the scent of roses still faint in the air.

And the food?

Still waiting, untouched, just outside the door.

On your last night in Monaco, everything feels a little heavier—but not in a bad way. 

It’s that soft kind of weight, the one that settles in your chest when you know a good thing is about to pause. The kind of ache that comes with the end of a perfect day, a perfect trip, a perfect kiss. The kind you carry home with you.

Shoto takes you out to dinner, just like he promised. It’s another high-end restaurant tucked into the cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean—a place with soft jazz playing, white tablecloths, and a menu that doesn’t list prices. You’re used to these places now, kind of. You know how to carry yourself in them. You don’t flinch when the sommelier brings a bottle that costs more than your last semester of tuition. But even with all that luxury, there’s still something about tonight that makes you feel… different.

Maybe it’s the dress.

You picked it out that afternoon while he took a call—silk, body-hugging, a shade that glows against your sun-warmed skin. It’s the kind of dress that hugs your waist, dips a little too low at the back, and makes your legs look endless when paired with your strappy designer heels. The jewelry is subtle—diamond studs and a pearl necklace he surprised you with before dinner, hung on a thin chain, resting just above your collarbone.

You step into the living area of the suite, still adjusting one earring, and he looks up from his phone.

And then he stills.

Shoto is not a man of excess emotion—not outwardly. He’s calm, composed, his expressions small and precise. But when he sees you, really sees you, there’s this brief flicker across his face, like something inside him stutters. His gaze drags over you slowly—neck, shoulders, waist, hips, legs—and then comes back to your face with soft, wide eyes.

“You look beautiful today,” he says, plainly. Not flirtatiously. Not dramatically. Like it’s simply the truth.

And it hits you in the chest. Too hard.

You blink, caught off guard by how earnestly he says it. Your heart flutters—traitorously. You smile anyway, recovering quickly, trying to ignore the way your stomach dips.

“Thank you, Sho,” you murmur, stepping close to him. Your fingers curl gently around his—warm, long-fingered, and steady—and with your other hand, you reach up to straighten the line of his button-up collar. It’s a quiet moment, domestic and simple. Like you’ve done it before. Like you will do it again.

His eyes lower to watch your hand, then flick back to your face.

He doesn't say anything right away. He doesn’t have to.

Because that look in his eyes says enough: he sees you. Not just how good you look—but the softness underneath. The care. The intimacy in the little gesture. He holds your hand like he wants to keep it there forever.

At dinner, the night unfolds like a dream—low candlelight, ocean breeze drifting through the open terrace, the scent of salt and wine and jasmine in the air. He orders in French, fluid and confident, but still glances at you after every dish to see if you like it. He always does that—quietly making sure you’re comfortable without calling attention to it.

He doesn’t talk much about work tonight. Instead, he asks you about your classes. Your friends. Your favorite books. The things you’re afraid of. He listens intently, blue and gray eyes focused entirely on you, like you’re the most interesting thing in the world. He asks follow-up questions. He wants to understand. He doesn’t interrupt.

There’s something almost vulnerable about how quiet he gets when you talk about your life outside of him. He doesn’t show jealousy—not exactly—but there’s a kind of wistfulness in his expression, like he wishes he could follow you into that world. Like part of him wonders where he fits.

You make him laugh—really laugh—over dessert when you tease him about his obsession with perfect coffee temperatures. He leans back in his chair, mouth curved into a rare, full smile, and shakes his head, cheeks tinged pink from the wine. His scar softens when he smiles like that. It always does. And for a second, you forget everything else. You just look at him, and think: this man. This man is mine.

Or maybe not yours. Not officially. Not forever.

But he’s yours right now.

And when he reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours again, his thumb stroking the back of your hand gently, there’s no denying the truth sitting between you.

This is no longer just an arrangement.

After dinner, you walk back to the hotel on foot. Monaco sparkles around you—narrow streets, glowing shopfronts, the hum of nightlife gently buzzing through the summer air. You slip your arm through his, heels clicking on the stone path. You don’t even care that people look. You want them to. Because he looks stunning tonight. Dark shirt slightly open at the collar, blazer thrown over his shoulder, white streak in his hair glinting in the streetlights. And he has you on his arm.

At one point, you stop to look out over the edge of a railing, the city below glowing in warm amber lights. He stands behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Do you want to go back?” he murmurs near your ear. “Or do you want to stay here a little longer?”

And you don’t know if he means the railing, the street, the night… or Monaco itself.

So you turn in his arms, slowly, and wrap your hands around the back of his neck.

You look up at him. He looks down at you.

And for a moment, the world hushes.

Shoto has always been quiet, composed, thoughtful. But when he looks at you right now, he doesn’t hide a thing. Not the longing. Not the hesitation. Not the part of him that wants more than this ending.

His hand comes up and brushes your cheek. He leans in. You meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft. Lingering. Not heated or rushed or teasing—just true. Like goodbye and maybe and please don’t go all at once.

You kiss again.

And again.

And again.

Until finally, he pulls back and says, voice just above a whisper: “Come upstairs with me.”

You nod, heart beating in your throat, and let him lead you back. His hand holds yours the whole walk back to the suite—tightly, securely—like he’s not ready to let you go.

And you don’t want him to.

That night, back in the suite—doors closed, lights low, Monaco glittering through the glass like a distant dream—the sex is different.

And it scares you.

Not because it’s rough. Not because it’s wild or overwhelming. But because it’s gentle. Intimate. Reverent in a way that feels too close. Too real.

It starts the moment he unzips your dress.

You’re standing near the bed, the silk slipping from your shoulders as his hands move with practiced ease. But instead of the usual quiet urgency—his need to get it off, to get to you—he takes his time. His fingers linger against your spine, tracing each vertebra like he’s memorizing your back. His mouth brushes your shoulder, then lower, and lower still, slow, almost shy.

There’s nothing performative in it tonight. Nothing about ownership or indulgence or play. It’s not the sex of a man showing off what he can afford or what he wants.

It’s the sex of a man who’s feeling everything.

You turn to face him in just your lingerie, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach twist. There’s no smirk. No hunger. No cool control. Just longing.

And it terrifies you.

Because this isn’t just lust. It’s something softer. Something deeper. Something that reaches past all your rules and your boundaries and your oh-so-clever understanding of what this arrangement is supposed to be.

He steps closer and cups your face. One hand on your cheek, his thumb stroking under your eye. He tilts your chin and kisses you—soft, slow, almost chaste at first. But it deepens quickly. His mouth moves against yours with that quiet heat he always holds back until it slips.

And it does slip.

He breathes your name when you sigh against him. He murmurs it again, quieter this time, like he’s afraid if he says it too loud he’ll ruin something.

He undresses you slowly. Like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t think he deserves. His eyes trail over your body, but not with lust—no, with awe.

And when he lays you down on the bed, he follows. Stretches out beside you. Presses his chest against yours.

You expect him to move fast, maybe to press his thigh between yours and grind, or mouth at your neck, or roll you beneath him like always. That’s the rhythm of this thing, isn’t it? Passion, heat, urgency.

But tonight… he just looks at you.

He takes a breath. Another. And he whispers, like it hurts, “I don’t want this to end.”

You don’t know what to say. Because you feel it too.

He touches you like your body is something sacred. His fingertips graze your skin like they’ve never touched you before, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. His hand coasts down your stomach, slow and deliberate, before slipping between your thighs.

He works you open with care. His fingers move with a kind of patience you didn’t know he possessed. He studies your face the entire time, watching every reaction, every soft gasp and flutter of your lashes, like he’s trying to carve it into memory.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not with a groan or a curse or a rough grip.

It’s with a shudder.

He buries his face into your neck and breathes you in, and you feel his whole body tremble. Like he’s holding back something more than just his climax. Like if he lets go, he’s afraid of what might come out.

He rocks into you slowly. Deeply. His hips roll with a kind of control that doesn’t match the wild thrum of his heartbeat against your chest. You feel it pounding. Hurried. Nervous. Human.

Your hands grip his back. You bury your face in his shoulder. And it’s not the sex that’s making you lightheaded; it’s the closeness.

Because he’s looking at you. He’s seeing you. And it’s not about your body.

He fucks you like he’s trying to tell you something in the way his lips brush your jaw, the way he kisses you when you moan his name, the way he gasps when you cup his cheek and kiss him back like you mean it.

There’s no game here. No power play. It’s not a sugar baby and a man with too much money and too much time.

It’s him. It’s you. And it feels like love.

That’s what scares you.

Because you swore it wouldn’t get this far. You promised yourself you could keep this casual. Keep it clean. But this? This is dangerous.

When you come, it’s not from being overwhelmed; it’s from being seen.

And when he comes—deep inside you again, without hesitation this time—it’s with your name on his lips and his hand gripping yours tight against his chest, like he’s holding on to you just to stay afloat.

Afterward, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t pull away. He stays curled around you, heartbeat slowing against your spine, hand still resting over your navel like he wants to keep everything inside you where it is—his warmth, his mark, his presence.

He doesn’t say anything else. Not about love. Not about feelings.

But as he pulls the covers over both of you and presses a kiss to the back of your neck, you know something’s changed.

And the part that really scares you?

You don’t want to change it back.

[hoothootreiber]

To love me better

Tags: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna x fem!Reader, american!Reader, forced/arranged marriage, dark romance trope, dead dove, age gap romance (reader is around 21-22, Sukuna is 37), cursing, suggestive language, use of nicknames like “doll” and “angel”, use of y/n, NSFW, MDNI, Sukuna is his own warning, description of violence including murder.

Synopsis: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna owns all of entertainment district. You’re trying to work to put yourself through law school. He has a proposition for you, and you have one for him. Chaos ensues.

An: Toji has entered the chat. I wonder who else will make an appearance. Hey, so this part is pretty short. I’m sorry. I just need to find my groove again.

Part one. | Part two. | Part three. | Part four. | Part five. | Part six.

*art creds for sukuna image goes to @.maru6 here on tumblr

The sound of the gunshot rung in your ears.

The restaurant was painfully quiet. Before the gunshot, you hadn’t even realized that it was nearing closing time. Almost all of the patrons had left besides the man who your future husband just murdered.

“Get over here,” Sukuna ordered lowly over the phone. He pulled the cellular device away from his ear, and he tapped the end call button.

His eyes slid over towards your trembling form, and he raised an eyebrow as if to challenge you to say something.

Your throat was painfully dry as you looked up at him. Why did you actually believe he’d keep you out of his business?

With another snap from his fingers, the waiter reappeared at his side. His face paled as his took in the grizzly scene at the booth right behind you.

Sukuna handed over the gun to the waiter. “Get rid of it.”

“Yes boss,” the waiter responded mechanically with a small bow. He then scurried off to god only knows where.

This had to be a nightmare. Surely, he didn’t just kill someone right in front of you.

Your body was still shaking, but the adrenaline was slowly tapering down, being replaced with anger. “How could you? We just made a deal, signed a contract, everything!”

Sukuna looked over at you, and he scoffed a small laugh. “I believe I remember telling you that I would keep you out of my life as much as possible. This was non-negotiable.”

“You killed a man right in front of me! I’m an accessory to murder, dammit.” Tears brimmed in your waterline.

“Technically, I killed a man behind your back, kitten. You never actually saw me pull the trigger, now did you? Who’s to say I was even the one who killed him?”

Your eyes widened in horror as he was playing semantics with you. He just put this permanent necklace collar around your throat and immediately went back on his promise.

You looked away from him, unable to truly deal with him right now.

Footsteps emerged from the open part of the restaurant, and you glanced over nervously. What if it was a cop? Surely, the authorities have been alerted? All of the kitchen staff can’t be in on this.

Instead of an officer, a tall beefy man with muscles bigger than your head, black hair, and green eyes walked up. He had a scar on the corner of his lip and a lazy smirk on his face.

“Took you long enough, Zenin,” Sukuna quipped as he pulled out his phone.

“Calling me a Zenin is about as accurate as calling you an Itadori.” The man had a raspy voice and a nonchalant attitude as he casually strolled into the restaurant. Your eyebrows furrowed, contemplating the name he had mentioned. Itadori. Where have you heard that name before? “What do we have here?”

“He’s a grunt of the Gojo Clan. I’m honestly disgusted that he sent someone as incompetent as him to tail me.”

“I was talking about the pretty one who’s still alive,” the man said, slowly eyeing you up and down. “What’s a cute little thing like you doing here?”

Your jaw slightly dropped as he casually flirted with you as if there wasn’t a dead man behind you. Before you could even think of a response, your future husband decided to speak up.

“You’re gonna end up like the bastard with a bullet hole in his head if you keep flirting with my wife, Zenin.” His jaw hardened, staring down at the other man.

“Oh? So it’s like that, huh?” he asked, not losing the smirk. “My mistake then, Misses Sukuna.”

You thought better than to respond based off the look Sukuna gave you.

The Zenin man strolled closer towards the lifeless body with an air of aloofness about him. He looked down at the bloody scene before shrugging. “What do you want?”

Your future husband fixed one of his cuff links on his shirt before sparring the grunt a passing glance. “Mail his head directly to that imbecile’s doorstep with the exception of the eyes. Send one to the Geto man he seems enthralled with, and send the other eye to Hiromi Higuruma.”

“You can’t—!” you blurted without thought. You couldn’t believe he was actually planning on mailing your professor an eyeball.

Both Sukuna and the Zenin man looked at you with amused looks.

The yakuza lord took three calculated steps towards you. He watched you shrink back away from him with reserved pain. He had been building your trust slowly, but it had all withered away with a simple action.

Still, he reached out to you, a curl of your hair around his finger. Your teeth were practically chattering in fear while he was so close. Was he going to punish you for your outburst?

“You’re very naive. It’s rather alluring, but let me educate you anyway.” He slid his palm over your cheek, gently coaxing you to tilt your head up at him. “The man that’s dead on the floor? He had been tailing us for most of the evening. While he could’ve been just gathering intel, he also could’ve been waiting for an opportunity to strike.”

You swallowed thickly. “That’s not enough for a death sentence,” you whispered quietly, carefully. You didn’t want to piss him off, but you also wanted to make it very clear that you were against this. You wouldn’t just acclimate to this type of life, and you weren’t just going to sit quietly while he did whatever he wanted.

His red eyes met yours, and for a moment, you thought you fucked up. “When I’m with my wife, it is. Make no mistake, kitten. I’m very serious about your protection. No one is going to get the jump on me while you’re on my arm.”

He continued, “As for mailing an eyeball to your professor, that’s just a warning. He’s the only person I suspect that would tip Gojo off about our location.”

Immediate disbelief filled you. “You’re simply paranoid if you think a lawyer like Hiromi Higuruma is in the Yakuza’s pocket.”

Sukuna gave you a feline grin. His fingers pinched your cheek in a teasing manner. “Your naivety is showing again, kitten. I have you in my pocket, don’t I?”

Your face warmed with embarrassment, and you mentally scolded yourself for feeling butterflies dance around your stomach. This man is a cold blooded killer. He just showed you what he’s capable of. How could you feel this way from some meaningless words?

“Send me receipts once it’s done, Toji.” Sukuna ordered before he nodded his head towards the door, signaling for you to follow him. His slid his hand down to your arm. He didn’t grab you, but it was enough to show that he wasn’t leaving without you.

What other choice did you have? You were stranded in the middle of the entertainment district without him. Hesitantly, you followed him out of the restaurant, keeping your head tilted down as you mulled over your life choices.

Meanwhile, Sukuna’s body felt… heavy. He didn’t expect disappointing you to have this much of an effect on him. He had played by the rules, hadn’t he? Was he supposed to just allow lowlife thugs to disrespect him in his own territory? Was he suppose to risk your safety and just hope that the Gojo clan wouldn’t strike?

Unfathomable, he thought. You didn’t understand the dangers of being with him just yet. He wasn’t going to risk your safety simply because you were naive to believe you’re untouchable.

Sukuna knew the moment the Gojo clan found out that he had a weakness now they would stop at nothing to use it against him. He would do the same to him, which is why he mailed his “presents” to Suguru Geto. As far as Sukuna could tell, the young man with long dark hair wasn’t in on the Gojo empire, but it sent a message to Gojo that Sukuna knew how to strike where it hurt.

If he took his wife from him, Sukuna would take his beloved too. Both of them would forever be alone, playing this cat and mouse game.

He glanced down at you again and tightened his jaw. You looked like some sort of kicked puppy, believing he had truly betrayed you and found some loophole in the contract to exploit.

His chest burned with barely contained anger. If he planned on dragging you into his lifestyle, he would’ve just said it. He had been very clear and upfront about his intentions, and yet you still believed him to be some sort of conniving snake.

Once you two were at the car, he opened up the door for you and let you get. You flinched as he shut the door a little too hard before climbing in on the driver’s side.

The ride was silent and tense. You felt every single second of it, and it was excruciatingly painful.

The sky had fallen dark, showing off the bright colorful lights of the entertainment district. You stared out the window at the hordes of people club hopping and visiting street vendors.

“How much of this do you own?” Your question surprised Sukuna. He had expected the silent treatment to last much longer.

“My name is on majority of the deeds. If my name isn’t on the deed, I own a good portion of equity in the business,” he answered carefully.

You kept your gaze out the window. The thought of looking at Sukuna made your chest feel tight. “Even the small street vendors?”

Sukuna tapped his finger against the steering wheel. He wasn’t a fan of dancing around the conversation like you weren’t upset with him. “They own most of their business. I merely make a small margin of profit off sales and such. I have no interest in micromanaging properties.”

You hummed thoughtfully, finally sitting back in your seat. You folded your hands in your lap. “How did you know that guy was from the Gojo clan?”

There it was. “I could tell. He was sloppy while trying to take pictures of us for confirmation. The waiter had also confirmed it.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Thinking back, you tried to pinpoint when the waiter had said anything about the gentleman behind you.

“Don’t stress yourself thinking too hard kitten. It was a signal you wouldn’t have noticed anyway.”

You took a deep breath, filling your lungs up with oxygen as you tried to settle the waging war inside of you. On one hand, he had done it to protect you. On another hand, he took a life right in front of you.

“It was jarring,” you muttered, allowing for a moment of vulnerability seep through. “I didn’t like being in that position.”

Sukuna quickly looked over at you. He could mark this down as yet another time you managed to catch him off guard. As much as Sukuna didn’t want to admit it, he hadn’t thought about how you must’ve been scared. Your body had been trapped in a fight of flight mode.

He had been raised around death his entire life. His family had been in this business for generations. It was ingrained in him. Everyone he worked with was used to it, or he didn’t give a damn about them to notice if it bothered them.

You were different — not a co-conspirator, not a business partner. You weren’t raised in this life, and while it was Sukuna’s duty as your husband to protect you from it, it was also his duty to make you feel safe.

You didn’t feel safe when he shot and killed that man. It was too sudden. He hadn’t properly explained or given you any sort of warning. He had gotten tunnel vision.

“That’s a fault on my end. I will not put you in that position again, angel.” It wasn’t an apology, but it was all he knew how to do: be better moving forward.

You stared at him in slight disbelief. Admitting he was wrong was something you hadn’t expected from a yakuza lord.

Feeling your stare, he grunted in response, causing you to shift your gaze elsewhere. He took accountability. He gave you his word he wouldn’t do it again, yet you found difficulty believing his word after such an incident.

You shifted your gaze out the window, deciding that you’d just need time to think. You needed to gather yourself, but it appeared as though Sukuna wasn’t going to afford you the opportunity.

“Where are we going..?” you questioned, shooting a look of confusion and slight fear towards him. He hadn’t taken the turn to head back to the student housing. Is this when he offs you?

Any look of guilt or concern had vacated Sukuna’s sharp features. He turned his head to give you a one-over, and a predatory grin curled on his face. “Home.”

“My student housing is…” your voice trailed as you pointed a finger back towards the exit he should’ve taken.

“Oh doll, are you still in shock?” he asked with a twinge of mockery in his tone. “Do you not remember agreeing to stay in the guest room until we are officially married?”

Fuck. You had completely forgotten about the clause. “I didn’t think that was effective immediately. I don’t have any of my things. I need clothes and hygiene products—“

“I can assure you, angel.” His fingers gently cascaded over your thigh until he cupped your flesh with such care that all your senses melted into him. “Despite your incessant worrying and forgetfulness, I have things under control. All you need to do is sit there and indulge me, yes?”

Your body felt warm, and you couldn’t decipher whether it was from his caressing touch or from how he took charge of the situation. Slowly, you eased back into your seat. What else were you to do? Jump out of his moving car on the freeway?

“Good girl,” he praised, giving your thigh a delicate squeeze. Your breath lightly hitched in your throat from the sensation, and your core involuntarily clenched around nothing. His touch felt like flames licking at your thighs.

You tried to will your heart to stop racing, but you subconsciously knew you were willingly going into the lion’s den.

Taglist (50/50): @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah @lizatonix @starmapz @everywonuu @totallygyomeiswife @sukubusss @depressiondiaries @t4naiis @hishearttohave @soraya-daydreams @lulunx @s-1-xx @el-lise @prettyngeto @marifujioka @iheartlinds @gina239 @actuallynarii @shxyxyxxxx @krispycreamepie @emoedgylord @nina-from-317 @pandabiene5115 @paintedperidot @dissociativewriter @lmaoshush @ninani-nanina @sadrna @boisenberry77 @tojifush @erwinawesomeness @meanwhilesomewhereelse @safasz @kassfunk19 @moncher-ire @gradmacoco @riahlynn-102 @diduzzula @juiceeypeach @kunasthiast @jinxiewritings @mordacioust @rinofcike @therealjustpeachesback @cutesytwt @loonytunesmith @stargirl-mayaa @dyavorange @beau-regards

[hoothootreiber]

Happy Birthday Izuku Midoriya! 🥳

[hoothootreiber]

HI HEHEHEHEHE r ur requests open?? if not, pls ignore this

if it's open, here's my humble request!

sooo what abt angst to fluff BUT it's smth related to bakugo crying or smth. like maybe they fought and it was really bad, like the argument started small until it escalated into how u thought bakugo doesnt give a fuck abt you especially during arguments because he barely shows any emotion other than anger, and like, he barely opens up to you about his feelings. so you asked for space for a bit and went back to ur apartment.

idk how to adjust the flow BUT the following scene is that you come back to his apartment to apologize (maybe make the timeskip within the day of the fight) and catch him crying?? or idk FEEL FREE TO EDIT THIS IDEA WAS SUCH A SCRAMBLE

then you end it with tooth rotting fluff!!!

thats all hehe pls PLEASE im begging make edits to improve this istg this is like my definition of pregnancy cravings. if u do make this req THANK YOU ALREADY I LOVE YOU 🫶🫶🫶🫶 (im too shy to say thanku once u post it hehe)

➽──❥The Silence After the Storm

— and the soft thunder of ‘please don’t go'

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader,

You and Katsuki Bakugo had built something—quietly, fiercely, stubbornly—from the ground up.

From days of burnt pancakes and early hero patrols to nights of tangled limbs in the safety of his penthouse, where city lights spilled through the curtains like spilled stardust. You, a dedicated professor with a quiet strength. Him, Dynamight, the explosive heart of heroism, loud where you were patient, storm where you were sea. Somehow, it worked.

But love, even the fiercest kind, cracks when it's left in silence too long.

The fight had started with something small. It always did. A stupid comment in the middle of dinner. A snap in his tone that you weren’t in the mood to forgive. A careless word. A sharp glance. Maybe it was how you were tired—God, so tired—of being the only one in the room who cried when you argued.

"You always shut me down," you had said, voice shaking. "You never let me in."

"And you always blow shit out of proportion," he had snapped back, his hands clenched, not in anger, but in self-preservation.

It spiraled. One moment, it was an argument; the next, it was a breaking point.

You weren’t asking for grand declarations. You weren’t asking for him to cry. But maybe once, just once, you wanted him to show that his silence meant pain and not indifference.

So you’d said it.

“Sometimes I feel like you don’t give a fuck.”

And he’d gone still. Not shouting this time. Not stomping. Just that awful, infuriating stillness that made you feel like you were yelling into a void. His only answer had been, “That’s not true,” and somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d screamed.

You told him you needed space. That you’d be staying at your old apartment for a while. You waited for him to argue.

But all he said was: "Okay. If that’s what you need."

No begging. No fury. Just quiet.

And that was the worst part.

For days, he texted. Not excessively—just enough.

"Morning. You eat already?"

"Patrolled Shibuya today. Some kid recognized me by my boots. Dumbass hero fashion sense, huh?"

"Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll come pick you up. Or I'll just leave the door open. Whatever you want"

It was so… normal. So Bakugo. It made you think he was okay. That he was holding it together like he always did.

Two days passed. Then three. He texted. Just enough to say he cared.

It was so… normal. So Bakugo. It made you think he was okay. That he was holding it together like he always did.

It felt like he was fine.

So why weren’t you?

On the fifth day, the guilt outweighed the silence.

You didn’t tell him you were coming. Just packed the same bag you left with. No fanfare. No long thoughts. You told yourself you didn’t expect much when you unlocked the door—but what you found knocked the air from your lungs.

Katsuki was in the kitchen. The lights were low, one of your cardigans slung over the couch. A dish half-eaten on the counter. His back was to you. His shoulders were slumped. And when he turned to the soft sound of the door closing—

His eyes were red.

Not bloodshot.

Red from crying.

You stood there. Frozen. Because Katsuki Bakugo—gruff, unbreakable, stubborn Katsuki—had tears drying on his cheekbones, the rawness still etched across his face. You hadn’t even known he could cry like that. Not in front of you. Not in front of anyone.

“I thought you were fine,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He exhaled sharply, turning his face from you like he was ashamed to have been caught hurting. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice rough, “I’m a pretty damn good liar when I wanna be.”

You stepped forward, dropping your bag beside the couch. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“’Cause you already think I don’t give a fuck,” he bit out—but there was no fire behind it. Just rain. “Didn’t want to prove you right.”

And suddenly, you were in his arms, and he was burying his face in your shoulder like he was trying to hide in your heartbeat. You cupped the back of his head, ran your fingers through his hair, whispering, “I didn’t mean that. I was hurting. I just—I needed to know it hurts you too.”

He pulled back, just enough to look at you—eyes tired, voice barely above a breath.

“It does. It fucking hurts. I just don’t know how to show it. I’m not used to people caring this long.”

You laughed—quiet, watery. “You’re a terrible communicator.”

“I know.”

“But I’m worse at staying away.”

He kissed you like a man returning home, hands trembling just slightly as they curled around your waist. And when he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he whispered like a vow:

“Don’t leave again.”

Then, a little softer—

“This is your home too. I built it for us. You sleep here. You eat here. You cry here. You stay here.”

A pause.

“Stay with me.”

You nodded.

Later that night, he tucked you into the bed that still smelled like you, curled up behind you like a storm learning how to be soft.

And when morning came, it was you who reached first for his hand, and him who whispered into your hair:

“This time… I’ll try harder. For us.”

And he did.

Because love wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

And this time, it didn’t walk away.

────୨ৎ────

This is such a cute req!!! I had fun writing it, sorry it took me a while🥺 I hope you enjoy xoxo💜💜

[hoothootreiber]

His back muscles are IT🔥👅

[hoothootreiber]

something, somehow, someday

series masterlist

series summary: you know you will love satoru for the rest of your life, but when you wake with his cursed energy in your navel there is no option but to flee. what future is there for a child of a god? at 18 satoru is without you, and you make off with a piece of him you hoped he'd never meet.

pairing: secret baby daddy!gojo x reader

tags: secret child trope, angst (lots), eventual fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort

main masterlist

18+! minors dni <3

~~~~~~~

prologue: aurora borealis

chapter 1: your takara

chapter 2: near miss

chapter 3: sun stall

chapter 4: close to you

chapter 5: glory of the snow

~~~~~~~

let me know if you'd like to be tagged :3<3

[hoothootreiber]

i think he likes green

[hoothootreiber]

i fucking love him so much wHY IS HE NOT REAL

Bakugo would be a groom zilla and I need a story of that 🙏

── .✦ 🕊♡In This Explosion of Forever

(a Groomzilla’s Guide to Loving You Loud)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

You always thought you’d be the dramatic one about the wedding.

Not in a bridezilla way, but in a Pinterest-board, lace-options, “should the hydrangeas be pale blue or moonlit pearl?” kind of way. You had five years' worth of photo folders labeled "Maybe someday,” and a dream guest list buried in your Notes app long before Katsuki Bakugo ever even thought of putting a ring on it.

But then he did.

He proposed in the most Bakugo way possible—on a rooftop, after patrol, his hands still dusted in soot, heart blazing under the city lights. He had dropped to one knee like it was a challenge to gravity itself and said, “I want to be yours for the rest of my life. So marry me, dumbass.” You said yes with tears on your cheeks and ash in your hair.

And that’s when things got… unexpected.

Because it wasn’t you who spiraled into chaos over seating charts and napkin fabric.

It was him.

Your fiancé. Your Katsuki. The same man who once claimed wedding ceremonies were a “capitalist performance” and scoffed when Mina gushed over floral arches. Now? He was color-coding spreadsheets and snapping at the cake tasting coordinator for bringing “basic ass vanilla.”

You watched in disbelief as the man you loved—Pro Hero Dynamight, combat genius, King of Explosions—spent three hours interrogating a poor florist about whether the blush peonies clashed with your gown or complimented it.

“Katsuki,” you had said gently, watching him hunched over a binder like he was plotting a battle, “it’s a wedding. Not a mission.”

“That’s exactly why it has to be perfect,” he muttered, flipping pages. “This isn’t some half-assed hero gala. This is ours. I’m not letting a single thing screw it up. Not even tulle.”

He had a vision—down to the scent of the candles at the reception tables (a smoky sandalwood-vanilla blend, meant to smell “like us”). His mother, Mitsuki, was no help, gleefully feeding his obsession. She beamed through every meeting, proud that her son finally cared about something that wasn’t blowing up buildings.

“He was just like this as a baby,” she whispered to you one day. “Couldn’t even let me fold his socks wrong. You think he was just gonna let a DJ ruin his wedding playlist? I say let him run the show.”

And so you did.

You watched as he micromanaged the lighting guy, demanded extra fittings for his suit because “the fabric wrinkles like shit,” and nearly came to blows with Kirishima over best man speech length limits.

The best part? He wasn’t doing it to impress. He wasn’t trying to control you. He just… cared. So damn much.

“This is the first day of the rest of our lives,” he told you one night, his voice rough in the dark as your head rested on his chest. “If I’m gonna do forever with you, I want this day to be fucking unforgettable.”

And honestly, he wasn’t wrong.

Every detail screamed care. Every choice had you in it.

From the pressed fire-orange accents in the floral arches—“looks like the goddamn sunset on your birthday last year, remember?”—to the handwritten escort cards, because “you hate those pre-printed shits with the ugly fonts.”

He listened.

He remembered.

And he made the entire wedding a monument to how deeply, ferociously he knows you.

And then came the day.

The ceremony was golden with sunset, under an arch of blush peonies and white roses—yes, the ones he approved. The aisle smelled like sandalwood and candlelight, and you walked down it to the faint hum of violins, your eyes locked on his.

Katsuki Bakugo. In a custom-tailored charcoal suit with a blood-red tie you picked. His hair still defied gravity. But his eyes—gods, those eyes—were molten.

They softened the moment they landed on you.

He didn’t cry outright. No. But his mouth tightened, his fists clenched, and that sharp breath through his nose told you he was fighting a tidal wave behind that storm-colored stare.

You walked to him.

Your bouquet trembled in your hand, but your heart did not.

“Hey,” you whispered as you reached him.

“Hey,” he whispered back.

And for once—just once—he didn’t have anything else to say.

Not until your vows.

You expected him to wing it. Maybe grumble out a half-joke. But when he took your hand, cleared his throat, and—

"I ain’t good with words,” he began, “but I remember every moment with you. I remember the first time you yelled at me for burnin’ rice. I remember how you kiss the back of my hand before bed. I remember the sound you make when you laugh so hard, it’s almost a snort. That shit’s burned into me. You—you’re my calm. My storm. My everything. I’ll protect you. I’ll piss you off. I’ll love you in all the ways I know how, even if they’re loud. I’m yours.”

And that’s when you cried.

Even Mina cried.

Even Endeavor cleared his throat and looked away.

The reception was a blur of dancing lights and laughter. Kirishima gave a speech that was more tears than words. Denki almost electrocuted the lights. Sero caught your bouquet. But none of that mattered.

Because hours later, barefoot and disheveled in the honeymoon suite, with petals still in your hair, Katsuki held your hand like it was priceless glass. His wedding band shimmered under the lamplight.

“You’re mine now,” he muttered, forehead to yours.

“I always was.”

And he smiled—really smiled. The kind that only comes when the battlefield is quiet, and love is the only thing left standing.

So yes, he was a groomzilla.

But he was your groomzilla.

And when the rest of the world faded away, the only detail that mattered was this:

That Katsuki Bakugo never loved softly.

But gods, he loved you.

[hoothootreiber]

how i feel when i get 4 notes on a post

[hoothootreiber]

my bnha masterlist !!!!

— bakugou katsuki (爆豪勝己)

#— katsuki - anything on blog about him !!

long fics (more than 1000)

mini fics (less than 1000)

mini fics 2

drabbles (less than 600)

drabbles 2

drabbles 3

drabbles 4

series, collections and masterlists!

cruise universe masterlist — meeting a pretty blonde on your cruise holiday was not what you expected

FOR YOU - viking!bkg masterlist

strip club owner bkg au - bakugou owns a strip club

career!yn collection - what job do you want today?

teenagefan!yn, past meets present, engaged, i should think of a name for this — not a masterlist but everything’s on the tag

love island collection - you meet the pro hero on love island

bakugou brothers collection - bakugou has an older and younger brother

OIL bakugou — an oblivious work romance

interview collection — all the interviews he and you have

— midoriya izuku (デク)

#— deku - anything on blog about him

after an argument with izuku

midori

cant say no

topless in the kitchen

crush on his assistant

gym bro deku

high w zu

sex toy talk

c*ckring

your holiday is booked!! (900wc)

izuku misses you so much. you've just gone on holiday.

— todoroki shouto (轟焦凍)

#— shouto - anything on blog about him

love me a little more (4k)

he don’t even scroll through insta ‘less he going through my pictures

teeny tiny part two

crush on his assistant

saving you from conversation

half red half white

home is where you are

must be love on the brain (2.9k)

todoroki is the face of next month's heroes weekly cover and this time he's pretty much naked. you're not sure how you feel about that.

tiktok trend: black hairstyles

— todoroki touya (荼毘)

despite, despite, despite (3k)

[hoothootreiber]

i hope someone would write a love island au featuring MHA 🙏🏻🙏🏻

[hoothootreiber]

okay so, this swiftie girlie just had another idea. i was listening to Call it What You Want and I was thinking of childhood friends to lovers kinda trope where reader and bakubabe have a necklace of each other's initials but like the class doesn't know they're actually together and they notice reader's necklace and idk up to you how everything's gonna be revealed. AAAAHHH the lyrics "I want to wear his initial on a chain round my neck, not bec he owns me, but cause he rlly knows me." is so CUTE and ADORABLE.

p.s. i'm also excited for the mutual pining request you have 😪 take your time tho!

__ ★₊˚﹟🪐 The Initial On My Neck

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

You’ve known Bakugo Katsuki since you were old enough to toddle on chubby legs and steal the last cookie from the jar. Back then, he was loud, feral, and had a scowl that could curdle milk. But he never once pushed you away. Not when you colored outside his notebook margins. Not when you cheered for Deku on sports days. Not when you cried so hard on the first day of preschool that you soaked his tiny All Might shirt.

He just handed you his juice box and sat beside you like he already knew the world would make more sense if he stayed close.

He never left.

Years passed. You grew into that closeness like skin on skin. Side by side. Always. Through scraped knees, hero dreams, his temper, your quiet patience, and everything in between.

He gave you a necklace when you were thirteen—just a small “K” pendant on a silver chain. Said it was dumb and ugly and that it didn’t matter. But he looked away when you smiled too wide. You haven’t taken it off since.

You returned the favor when you turned thirteen. Gave him a bracelet with your first initial—simple, black thread, nothing flashy. He wore it every day until it broke during training, and when you teased him about finally taking it off, he shrugged and said, “Didn’t need it on my wrist when it’s already in my damn chest.”

He said it so casually you choked on your water.

Now you're both in Class 1-A, older but still orbiting each other like the world forgot how to pull you apart.

The thing is—no one in class knows you’re dating. You don’t hide it. But you don’t flaunt it either. Bakugo doesn’t hold your hand in public. You don’t kiss behind bookshelves. There are no heart-eyes or pet names.

But there’s a softness in the way he always saves you the last rice ball. The way you always end up paired together. The way he glares at anyone who stands too close, and the way your smile seems to know exactly how to calm his storms.

Still, the class is suspicious. Especially when they notice the K dangling from your necklace.

You wore it every day, he does to: a thin silver chain, subtle, but not so subtle that someone wouldn’t notice. Hanging from it, a small, worn letter “K.” They joked about it sometimes, wondering aloud what boy had dared to give it to you.

And Katsuki? He never reacted. He’d just scowl slightly and return to whatever was in front of him. But you noticed—how his fingers would tap rhythmically, jaw ticking, like he wanted to say something. You'd brush his arm beneath the desk. You were fine keeping it a secret. You didn’t need the world to know.

After all, you didn’t wear his initial around your neck because he owned you. You wore it because he knew you—deeply, wordlessly, and always.

It all unraveled, of course, the way these things tend to do—with a healthy dose of Class 1-A chaos.

You were all in the common room that Friday night. Someone had put on a movie no one was watching. You’re lounging on the couch, mid-stretch, half-listening to Kaminari and Mina argue over some new hero ranking poll when the attention swings toward you again.

“So, seriously,” Mina says, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. “That necklace you always wear—what does the K stand for?”

Before you can speak, Bakugo—seated on the floor in front of the couch, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from training—grunts lowly, “It’s me.”

You kick him lightly in the back, trying to play it off, but your face is already heating up.

"Yeah right"

The others laugh, brushing it off as just another grumpy Bakugo joke—until he leans forward to grab his water bottle from the coffee table.

His shirt rides up slightly at the neck.

And they see it.

A silver chain, faint but unmistakable, gleaming under his collar.

And tucked beneath it—just barely visible where his shirt slips—is a pendant. A letter. Your first initial.

The room goes dead silent for a moment.

Then Kirishima blinks. “Wait… hold on—did anyone else just see that?”

“See what?” Kaminari frowns, already rising from the floor like a bloodhound catching scent.

“That!” Mina gasps, pointing dramatically. “Bakugo has a necklace!”

Jirou squints. “No way. There’s no way he’d wear a necklace unless—”

“OH MY GOD,” Hagakure cries. “IT MATCHES HERS!”

Bakugo straightens slowly, clocking the way everyone is now staring at him. His brows furrow. “What?”

“You have a necklace,” Sero says, voice rising with every syllable, pointing with a shaky finger. “With her initial.”

Dead silence.

You could’ve heard a pin drop. Even Todoroki blinked.

“What—?” Kaminari sat upright, nearly knocking over the cards. “Like… you you both?!”

You just smiled, brushing your hair behind your ears. “Yeah. He just told you a while ago that he's the k in my necklace so...”

Sero gawked. “HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING?!”

“Since forever,” Bakugo said, like it was obvious. He wasn’t even flustered. In fact, he looked annoyingly smug. “We’ve been together since second year. Idiots.”

“WHAT?!” came a chorus from around the room.

“I KNEW IT!” Mina cried, flopping backward onto Jirou, who immediately started grilling you for details. The rest of them erupted like a volcano—questions, teasing, Sero demanding how Bakugo got someone like you, and Kaminari threatening to make a PowerPoint presentation about the missed signs.

But you just laughed. Head thrown back, joy curling in your chest. You looked down at Katsuki—who was trying (and failing) to hide the soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He reached back, lacing his fingers through yours where they rested on the couch cushion behind him.

And across the room, the class tries to process the fact that love doesn’t always need grand gestures.

Sometimes, it just wears your initial around its neck.

And chooses you.

Quietly.

Fiercely.

Always.

And in that moment, surrounded by friends and noise and light, you felt it again—that sacred quiet that only existed between you and him.

Let them talk. Let them scream. Let them name it whatever they want.

You’d call it what you wanted: home.

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

I love Taylor Swift and I loved this request!! Had so much fun writing it—hope you enjoy it too!! Sorry it took a while to get this done, xoxo 💜

[hoothootreiber]

والقمرُ يشهدُ: قلبي ليس لي

the moon bears witness: my heart is no longer mine—

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The first time you see Katsuki truly drunk—not just a little warm in the cheeks or loose-limbed from a celebratory toast—but drunk, like slurring his words, clumsy with his hands, can’t stop smiling kind of drunk—is at the Hero Billboard Chart After Party.

And honestly? It stuns you.

Because Katsuki doesn’t drink. Not really. Not seriously. He’s never liked how it makes his head fuzzy, or how it dulls his control. Even back in the early days, when the others would crowd bars after missions, he’d wave off the beers and sip on soda or water, nursing one glass of whiskey over the whole night, if that. His tolerance has always been low, but more than that, he just doesn’t care for it. Doesn’t see the point.

So seeing him like this? Red-cheeked, grinning, swaying slightly as he leans on you like you’re gravity itself—it’s a revelation.

You’re standing off to the side of the event space, in a quieter alcove draped in soft lights and velvet panels, the dull thump of bass from the DJ booth thrumming through the floor. Katsuki has one arm slung low around your waist, fingertips pressing slightly too firm against your hip, like he’s making sure you’re real. And he keeps looking at you—like he can’t not look. Like he forgot anyone else even exists.

You don’t know what got him like this. Whether it’s the fact he placed fifth on the rankings—fifth, when he was hovering just below the top ten last year—or because Kaminari and Sero probably goaded him into taking celebratory shots (you saw their dumb grins earlier). Maybe it’s both. Maybe it's just the tension breaking, all the pressure lifting at once.

But he’s flushed and sweaty, his ash-blond hair sticking up messily, eyes glassy and low-lidded and completely hooked on you.

“What?” you ask with a skeptical squint, feeling his gaze burn into your profile.

He blinks slow, a beat behind, and his voice is a little too loud, a little too lazy, when he grumbles, “Nothin’.”

Except it isn’t nothing. Because his hand slips lower, trailing deliberately down the small of your back and curving over the swell of your ass. And he gives a slight squeeze. Bold.

You snap your head toward him, lips parted in disbelief. But he just grins—grins—like you’ve handed him the damn sun. His cheeks are crimson, his smile all sharp teeth and warmth and mischief, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

God, he looks beautiful. Messy and undone and soft around the edges. The kind of beauty you don’t see when he’s scowling in press conferences or yelling on patrol. This is him unguarded. Radiant.

And your heart does this little achey flutter. Not just because he’s drunk and touchy, but because he’s happy. And relaxed. And letting himself be soft with you in a way most people will never see.

You shoot him a look, snorting, “This is so unlike you.”

He leans in close, the scent of something warm and oaky clinging to his breath, and bumps his forehead gently against yours. “Sh’not,” he mutters.

You arch a brow. “You’re trying to make out with me at an industry event.”

“‘M always tryna make out with you,” he says without hesitation.

And then—before you can even retort—he’s chasing your lips, sloppily pressing his mouth to yours, and you laugh into the kiss because it’s not smooth or practiced or like anything he usually does. It’s needy. Clingy. All tongue and heart, like he’s forgotten that other people exist. You feel his fingers curl around yours, tugging your joined hands against his chest like a secret.

You pull back a little, breathless, just to look at him.

He’s flushed all the way down his neck, chest rising and falling quickly under that ridiculously tailored coat. The deep charcoal wool glints slightly under the lighting, and you catch the faint outline of stars stitched into the lining as it shifts open.

He’s breathtaking tonight. More than usual. Not because of what he’s wearing—though the bespoke look certainly doesn’t hurt—but because of how he’s looking at you. Like you hung the fucking moon.

And maybe you do, in this moment. Because your outfit—the moonlight tones and shimmered constellations—doesn’t just complement his. It answers him. You, wrapped in soft light. Him, wrapped in deep shadow. You, glowing in pale silk and brushed wool; he, structured and sharp in slate and midnight. You belong together, even in the fabric.

He blinks, licks his lips, and murmurs, “We leavin’ yet or not?”

You blink. “What?”

He sways forward again, letting his forehead rest against yours. “Wanna go home,” he mutters.

You can’t help but grin, brushing his hair back gently from his damp forehead. “Why?”

He huffs, pouty, and you swear his eyes drop to your lips again. “So I can touch you without these extras watchin’.”

Your breath catches. Your face burns.

You laugh, helpless. “You are touching me.”

“Not enough.”

And okay, that does it. Because there’s a need in his voice—low and rough and sleep-warm—that goes straight to your core. He’s drunk, yeah. But not incoherent. Not sloppy. Just open. Honest in a way Katsuki never is unless he’s either on death’s door or—apparently—three drinks past his limit and proud of you both.

You lean forward, brush a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and murmur, “Let me say goodbye to Mina and Kirishima. We’ll go.”

He nods, obedient, and when you try to step away, his hand stays locked in yours like a tether. He follows you like a shadow, practically glued to your back.

The second you both step outside, the cold night air bites at your skin. It’s sharp and brisk, carrying the scent of the city—concrete, car exhaust, something faintly floral from the hotel garden nearby. The moon is full overhead, casting pale silver light across the pavement, catching on Katsuki’s hair like stardust.

He’s still holding your hand, refusing to let go, his grip loose but firm, like his body knows you belong next to him. You glance up at him, the subtle rise and fall of his chest under that perfectly tailored coat, his cheeks still flushed from the drinks and your kiss, and for a moment he looks so soft it makes your heart skip.

You open your mouth to say something, to tease him again maybe—but he moves first.

He turns to face you, steps into your space, and kisses you. Full on. In public.

His mouth is warm and unhurried, lips parted, slightly chapped from the cold. It’s not rough or urgent—not the way he usually kisses, like he’s trying to take something from you, like he's got something to prove. This is different. He’s not pulling at you, just leaning in, into you, his whole body loose with adoration.

Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers come up automatically to cup his jaw. It’s strong under your palms, rough with stubble. You can feel the faint quiver of muscle as he leans deeper into the kiss, like he’s pouring his whole heart into it. His hands slide to your hips, but one slips lower—way lower—and suddenly he’s squeezing your ass like he owns it, tugging you against the length of his body with a groan that’s almost swallowed in your mouth.

“Katsuki—” you murmur against him, breathless, your hands still framing his face.

He just grins.

Grins.

He pulls back and you see it—his eyes still half-lidded and heavy with want, his cheeks a deep, glowing red, and that smile—crooked and boyish and completely unlike him. It’s a look he never gives the cameras, never wears in public. It's yours. Just yours.

“Baby,” you laugh softly, your voice warm and amused, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “You’re so clingy right now.”

He snorts, shoulders shaking slightly. “So?” he grumbles, but there’s no bite to it. “You’re mine.”

Your brows lift in amusement, but your stomach swoops. “So you’re gonna grab my ass in front of paparazzi?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like the idea of headlines tomorrow doesn’t bother him. And maybe it doesn’t. Not tonight. Not with how high he’s riding. Not with the moon overhead, and the cold sharpening every sensation, and your body warm against his.

He leans in again, presses a kiss to your forehead this time, then your cheek, and then just rests his forehead there for a moment, breathing you in. You can feel him smiling against your skin.

“You love it,” he mutters.

And you do. You so do.

Not just the kissing or the way his hands know every curve of your body. But this—this unfiltered, tender, unguarded version of him. The Katsuki who smiles and kisses you and doesn’t care who sees. The Katsuki who’s drunk on victory, and alcohol, and you, and doesn't bother hiding it.

Bakugou Katsuki. Fifth on the Hero Billboard Chart. Known for being intense. Angry. Explosive.

But right now?

He’s yours.

And behind you, somewhere not too far off, you know there’s a shutter click. Maybe even a few. There’s definitely someone in the bushes.

But Katsuki doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look around.

Because tonight, all he sees is you.

بل هوَ عبدٌ لضحكتِهِ المُضيئةِ

—it’s enslaved to his radiant grin.

[hoothootreiber]

Katsuki does his own Calvin Klein ad and the comments you see all over TikTok make you jealous!

Pairing: Bakugo x fem!reader

Tags // Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, smut, top! reader, oral (m receiving), cumflation(?), jealousy, a little fighting, LOADS of comfort, Jungkook mentioned ig? All characters are 20+

You're mad.

Extremely mad.

Ac/dc’s TNT plays on repeat from the speaker of your phone, your laptop, your TV, the Main Street screen from the building across your apartment a few stories below. And truly, every single time a replay goes on and on, each screen unsynced, your anger grows even worse inside your already too tight chest.

The reason?

Your boyfriend’s Calvin Klein ad has actually broke the internet.

It’s fucking ridiculous—The whole thing is worse than what happened with Bad Bunny a few months ago.

The comments are all over the place. Messy. Too messy. Too thirsty. Too delirious. Too fucking disrespectful.

You've scrolled through way too many edits. No scratch that. You've only scrolled through edits. With millions of likes, hundreds thousands of comments—that you've spent hours reading to their entirety. The actual video from the official Calvin Klein account has thirty, no forty million likes. Almost as many saves and shares too.

You’re naturally jealous. You knew you were bound to be even if you were the one who practically begged him to say yes to the offer and you definitely knew your boyfriend was the cause of thirst for many people worldwide.

It’s never been a problem until now. You've usually encountered the occasional ‘congratulations to whoever is bouncing on it’ edit, hell you’ve even smiled like an idiot at it, but now? After digging through comments that explicitly say ‘his girlfriend aint even deserve all that’ and ‘damn Dynamight’s gf i said LET GO’ you want to scream. Yell. Get back at him.

You can’t even bear to witness the video anymore. Only because when looking at it out of context, you feel like you can forgive him because of how hot he just looks!

It’s all over your screen; Katsuki flexing his muscles, biceps, forearms, back, thighs, torso. Letting off explosions, pulling the waistband of his boxers down just enough to tease, stomping his hero boots before he kneels completely. All while being extremely sweaty.

Seriously, fuck him and that hero work durability underwear line.

You’ve now unliked the original post out of pure spite. Then re-liked it. Then unliked it again because it felt like you were feeding the beast that's unleashing negativity and pumps jealousy throughout your whole body

You’ve closed the app, deleted it, redownloaded it, and then ended up stalking your own boyfriend like you were a crazed fan girl and not the person who literally shares a bathroom with him, only to be met with the same ten posts on TikTok—yes the one where he does push ups with you on his back and the other edit he has posted of you, even the one and only repost he has that’s of your ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ TikTok, where he acted like a feral beast and actually tried to bend you over. 

And then his instagram, where there are only a few yearly hero chart posts that have him as a co creator and like, three actual posts that he made himself. One from his agency, one from a school reunion and one with you smiling next to him, both bloody and bruised after a villain attack with the caption ‘you should see the other guy’.

Back to TikTok now, you take one last look at the ad before you ultimately close it, yes, for real this time, fists clenched like you’re about to march straight to Calvin Klein Japan HQ and file a formal complaint about emotional damages.

Instead, you exhale sharp through your nose and storm into the kitchen like a woman on a mission.

Fine.

If the internet wants to thirst over your man like they’ve never seen shoulders before, then so be it. You’re not threatened.

Not really. Not even a little.

You’re the one he comes home to. You’re the one who knows the exact way he likes his coffee in the morning, the brand of muscle balm he’ll pretend he doesn’t need, the scar on his side he never talks about. 

They don’t know him.

But you do.

And tonight, you’re going to prove it. Prove that you’re the most perfect girlfriend for him, that you won’t let go because someone on the internet begs you to. 

You slam the fridge door shut with the kind of force that makes the condiments rattle. Chicken breast. Garlic. Thyme. That expensive parmesan he rolls his eyes at but always eats the fastest. You’ve got all the ingredients for the dumb TikTok “marry me chicken” and honestly, yeah—maybe it’s manipulative. Maybe it’s desperate.

You don’t care. You've made it before and he adores it.

If the competition is public thirst, then your counterattack is a home-cooked seduction plan followed by a bath with that weird overpriced salt soak that smells like cedarwood, cocoa and sex. Let them drool behind screens—you’re setting the mood with candles and your favorite playlist and maybe even the nice satin robe with nothing underneath if it’s clean.

And it almost works.

It almost makes you feel better. Like maybe you’ve got the upper hand again. Like maybe you’re not going insane over a stupid fucking ad where he literally flexes his thighs and kneels and sweats on purpose. And flexes again.

Until you start chopping the garlic and realize your hands are shaking.

You stop abruptly.

You stare down at the cutting board, knife hovering mid-air, and realize your throat’s a little tight. Your chest’s a little too hollow.

Because the truth is—deep down, like deep deep deep down, where all the ugliest thoughts live—you’re not mad.

You’re scared that you’re not enough. Insecure. Like youve got any right to when you've literally grown up with him. When he’s never even bat an eye to anyone but you.

But you feel like a high school girl again. Standing in the hallway outside your class, so mad and sick of jealousy that fangirls from year one are swamping your boyfriend that you drag him by the ear into the classroom and shove your tongue down his throat. 

And damn, was that punishment from Aizawa worth it when he caught you.

No, now, it’s even worse. It’s not just the girls at school. Not just Japan. It’s the whole world.

And you're so scared that the world seeing him like that is going to remind him of what he could have. Of what else is out there. Of how easily people fall to their knees for him—not in ad campaigns, but in real life.

And what are you?

Somebody who gets overwhelmed easily. Somebody who overthinks. Somebody who can’t even watch a thirty-second ad without spiraling into a meltdown that tastes like garlic seeped deeply into fingernails and salt and the distinct flavor of not enough.

What if ‘animemencracker22’ could cook better for him or what if ‘Dynamightsleftbicep’ could massage his head better when they run him a bath? If ‘gymratgirl4life’ wanted to go out with him more and if ‘corrrrruptedlvr’ wasn’t throwing jealousy fits?

You’re not the girl in the comments. You’re not the fantasy.

You’re just you.

And even when you’re holding the knife and planning the perfect welcome-home meal and pretending like the bath you’re running later isn’t strategic—you still wonder if that’s going to be enough to keep a man like Katsuki Bakugou.

Worse, you wonder if he knows you’re trying this hard, because of your overwhelming need to feel like you deserve someone like him. 

You let the knife drop and suddenly, you’re not hungry anymore. You were never even hungry to begin with. Your fucking eyes are welling up with stupid tears that you dont want to shed. 

You’re not even a jealous person. Save for two or three times, you don’t feel like this over him. And it’s not because you’ve taken him for granted, but it’s been years that you two are together that have worked you into not thinking Katsuki could want anyone else other than you. You don’t want anyone else other than him.

But what if he’s tired. What if he feels youre the same old song stuck on repeat when he could have anyone. 30 million people in the world and you included.

The silence in the kitchen hums louder than any song on loop, only broken by the sound of your choking as you’re trying not to violently sob. The garlic’s sharp sting still clings to your fingers. The oven’s preheat light blinks like a mocking little eye. Your playlist, the one reserved for special nights, is halfway into some sultry R&B Aaliyah track that now feels like a joke.

Your arms go slack at your sides.

This was supposed to feel empowering. Sexy. A big middle finger to the comment section and the edited thirst traps and the “she doesn’t even deserve him” discourse that’s been hijacking your feed all damn day.

Instead, you feel small. Stupid. Still so embarrassingly in love.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your hands like that’ll somehow push the thoughts back in. Like that’ll make you forget the way your chest aches with that special kind of loneliness that only shows up when you’re still physically close to someone but emotionally spiraling into the trenches of your own insecurity.

You glance at the clock. Patrol should end in twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. And you push your lips together, scrunching the corners of your mouth in, pursing your lips and squint your eyes. 

You’ll push through, because even if you’re so extremely jealous, Katsuki still deserves a nice home cooked meal and a hot bath, even more often than every other day, when you stay home to handle the agency paperwork, because of your latest injury after a villain attack.

He really hasn’t done anything wrong, you tell yourself, other than being extremely hot.

So you end up cooking, with tears in your eyes and the most pouty expression and by the time you finish, setting the pan on a part of the stove that isn't hot and curl down in front of the fridge, dropping to your knees to cry your heart out—The door clicks open.

Oh. Shit.

Weighty boots make contact with the floor first. The heavy stomp of post-patrol exhaustion. Then the groan of his back hitting the door frame. You hear the soft rustle of his gloves coming off, his keys clinking in the ceramic dish by the entry.

You freeze—You can’t let him see you like this. You can’t let him be the one who finds you curled on the tile like some lovesick idiot who lost a battle to TikTok.

“Heyy I’m home” you hear and you grunt to yourself, trying not to let it be known you sniffle right after.

“…Smells fuckin’ good,” his voice calls out—gruff, like he’s trying not to yawn. “You cookin’ somethin’?”

You grunt again.

He doesn’t see you right away. But his voice gets closer. Each step across the hardwood is loud and certain and distinctly him. The kind of sound that always used to make you feel safe.

Now it just makes your stomach twist.

You force yourself to stand, too fast, too suddenly, brushing your hands on your thighs then your apron and you try to act normal when your chest is about to cave in again.

Katsuki rounds the corner, still in uniform, gauntlets off, sweat clinging to his hairline, a little dirt smudged near his jaw, where some blond scruff is starting to grow. His eyes find you instantly—and narrow.

“Babe? You okay? Say hi back”

You hate how quick he notices. How easy it is for him to read you. You’ve never been good at hiding from him, especially not when it comes to shit like this.

“Oh—uh, hey. I was,” you say, eyes glued to the counter. “Got distracted.” Still, you force a smile “im fine”

“You don’t look fine.”

You flinch. “Can we—can we not do this right now?”

The silence stretches.

Katsuki exhales through his nose, tilting his head like a puppy, eyes big with inquiry boring in yours as if he’s debating whether to let it go or push. You know which one he’ll pick. He’s never, ever been the let it go type.

“You saw the ad.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even said with guilt or amusement or defensiveness. Just certainty.

You look away. Embarrassed. “Everyone and their mama saw the ad Katsuki.”

A pause. Then a sigh. Then he rubs a tired hand over his jaw.

He walks over, slow and careful like you’re a spooked animal, and you hate it. You hate that he’s being gentle when all you want is to yell at him and fall into his arms and scream into his chest all at once.

His hand lands on your waist. Warm. Familiar. Real.

“You mad at me?” he murmurs, lips pouty in the way you just love.

You shake your head up and down. A silent yes.

“I’m mad at me too tho.”

His brows furrow. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t care this much,” you mumble. “I shouldn’t be jealous of a bunch of people who don’t even know you. I shouldn’t be chopping garlic like it’s a last-ditch attempt to prove I deserve you, but I—I just—”

Your voice cracks.

Katsuki’s eyes soften, his lips too.

“You think I’d wanna be with anybody else?” he asks, so blunt it hits like a punch.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He lifts your chin with two fingers, thumb softly brushing lines across your bottom lip— he makes you look him in the eye.

“I did that ad ‘cause you told me to. ‘Cause you said I should. And I ain’t think it’d piss you off—but even if it did, I’d still be comin’ home to you.”

You swallow hard.

“They can watch,” he adds. “They can comment. They can make all the stupid fuckin’ edits they want. But you think I give a shit about any of ‘em when I’ve got you runnin’ me a bath?”

You blink. “…You knew I was running you a bath?”

“You only play that playlist when you’re tryna seduce me.” He snorts.

Your face burns, but your chest still burns hotter, tighter. Tight-est. You’re not ready to let go of this just yet. A hug and no kiss yet are already making your head spin back to that awful insecure state. You hate overthinking every little thing, but you can’t help getting caught up in it.

“Chicken smells good,” he adds casually. “Wanna feed it to me naked?”

You shove his chest gently. Though when you look up at him, you realise you're still greatly mad at him. “Shut up. No”

“C’mere,” he mutters, dragging you into his arms again. You go willingly, burying your face in his neck, nuzzling your nose too deep into his skin. “I love you,” he says into your hair. “All of them can choke.”

“They’re your fans, Katsuki”

“Yeah yeah. They can choke on my dick”

Oh that—that makes you snap.

“Im sure they’d love to” you hiss, lurching back away from him, too mad at how willingly his arms let you go. 

You want to jab, hurt him just a little. Make him jealous just a tad. Make yourself look like you've got better options than plain old ‘_narutoswife’ in his IG comment section.

He doesn’t deserve it. No, not at all. He just came back home from work and you want to catch a toxic attitude instead of communicating. You just want to make him a little mad over you too.

“Fyi, if you remember, Jungkook did say in an interview that im his type! He called me a strong female hero! Choi San also follows me on instagram” you say, crossing your arms, your eyes shut closed and lips pursed.

Unfortunately, you end up making him mad at you. That was so foul. Especially when he was about to sue Jeon freaking Jungkook for what he said in that interview. When the fuck did you become his type even? And why would he say that on national TV about some other man’s girlfriend?

His eye twitches. Just barely. But it definitely twitches. Great!

“…The fuck did you just say? You wanna start somethin’ now?” Katsuki says, voice low, sharp, practically growling, mouth pushed to the side of his face, one brow raised in desbelief,

Your arms are crossed like a petty little shield but it’s not enough to protect you from the instant shift in the air—his energy changing the moment those names leave your mouth. You can see it, feel it, in the sudden tension between his brows and the twitch of his jaw, in the way he takes one step back just so he can plant his hands on his hips and fully absorb the ridiculous thing you just said.

“Well I am his type,” you mutter, fake-casual, even adding a dramatic upward move of your chin for flair. “He literally said so. On record.”

You double down when you shouldn’t. Because now you’ve committed, and if you take it back, it’ll only make you look desperate. You tilt your head, faux-casual, all sugar and venom.

Katsuki blinks once—slow. Like he’s buffering. Like you’ve just spoken a dialect of petty he never expected to hear from your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet in that scary way, “are we talkin’ about Jeon fucking Jungkook right now?”

“I mean, he’s not the worst,” you say, airily. “He’s cute. Built. Has manners and a Calvin Klein ad too! Like you”

“You are not fuckin’ doin this with me—” His voice spikes as he takes a step forward, fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from hurling the rice cooker across the room. “You’re mad at me for a promo gig and now you’re bringin’ up some K-pop bastard—?!”

You bite your lip to stop the smirk. It’s immature. Childish. And so, so satisfying—ah the sweet feeling of getting your lick back.

His hands fly up and immediately start doing that panicked, half-feral gesture thing he does when he’s so mad he doesn’t even know where to put his anger. “You think that’s cute? You think throwin’ other guys in my face is what’s gonna make this better? You want me to start listin’ all the bitches in my DMs right now? ‘Cause I will. I fuckin’ will—”

“Oh so now it’s bitches plural—”

“They don’t matter!” he barks. But you don’t seem like you believe him. “You’re just mad and you’re not telling me the actual reason”

Your face goes hot, tears rising again. “I’m mad because you don’t get it!”

“Then tell me! Tell me what I’m not gettin’!”

“I want you to care!” you explode. “I want you to see that this hurts! That I don’t feel good enough half the damn time, and now I’ve got people with 800k followers stitching your photos sayin’ how they’d treat you right while I’m in our kitchen  trying to figure out if I’m even the one you’d want anymore if you realise there’s someone better out th—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ finish that sentence.”

His voice goes deadly low.

You glare at him, eyes blazing. “Why not? Afraid I’m gonna be right?”

“No. Because you’re not.”

His chest is rising now, jaw clenched tight. You’ve both crossed the line, bleeding all over the tile floor with your words.

“None of them matter. Just like Jungkook doesn’t matter. I don’t care about anyone else on TikTok and I definitely don’t give a shit if he writes you a song and a marriage proposal and names his next album ‘Strong Female Hero I Wanna Wife’—you’re mine. You hear me?”

You’re stunned into silence. Half because of the outburst. Half because of the fact he just said you’re his with the kind of conviction that makes your skin burn and tingles run up your back.

“…You gonna tattoo that somewhere?” you murmur, trying to deflect your way out of being completely swept off your feet. 

He steps closer, wraps a hand around your waist, nose nearly brushing yours, eyes blazing. “Gonna put a ring on it. Don’t tempt me.”

You blink at him, wide-eyed. His palm feels hot, too quirk charged against your clothed skin “What if I’m not joking?”

He narrows his eyes. “You are.”

You shrug, then whisper just slightly. “…Maybe.”

Next thing you know, Katsuki’s scooping you up like a caveman—no warning, no prep, just two strong arms under your ass, your back colliding with his chest, and your feet dangling uselessly as he stalks toward the bathroom.

“Put me down! I haven’t even plated the chicken!”

“We’ll eat it later.”

“I— but—”

“You’re so mine, and I’m about to prove it.”

He kicks the door open like a man on a mission. Your bathwater is already perfectly hot and steamy, the playlist still humming from the speaker in the corner. You barely notice it because you’re too busy clinging to his shoulders like you’re about to be ravished.

“I can’t believe you got mad at me over a Calvin Klein ad,” he mutters against your neck, lips hot and dragging lower as he sets you down only to start untying your apron, aggressive and purposeful.

“It was a very public ad, and you were nearly naked” you argue, squirming, trying to twist out of his grasp—but he’s already unlooping the neck strap, already tossing the apron somewhere over his shoulder, not even watching where it lands on the bathroom floor “Katsuki, no—”

“Sex isn’t gonna fix everything, you know,” you say, breath hitching when his mouth finds that spot just below your jaw, the one he knows makes your knees buckle. He’s too fast to start pressing hot open mouthed kisses on your neck. 

“Then let’s talk about it” he says, calm as hell. He sinks onto the edge of the bathtub like a menace, eyes smoldering, hands still locked around your waist like you might run. “You said you don’t feel enough, why’s that? What part of us did I neglect that made you feel like this?”

You blink, thinking. Well he didn’t really do anything wrong, he just. Exists. And he’s gorgeous and amazing at everything he does.

Oh god? Do you resent him for being good at everything?

“You’re deranged.” You finally respond, pouting but refusing to look at him while you say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

Katsuki’s palms rub soothingly up and down your thighs, head tilted back to look up at you ever so slightly. He's trying to pull you in closer, get you loose, comfortable. He wants you to drop this ‘being difficult’ act you've got on right now.

You follow his lead, come in closer, until your knees scrape the edge of the bathtub and your thighs the inside of his.

“Yeah but,” you pause for a second, debating on whether this is the right thing to say. “why me”

Finally, you kneel between his legs. Your eyes are locked into his, trying to study him, his expression, trying to find a glimpse of hesitation behind his gaze, even if there’s none. 

Katsuki catches the insecurity in your head, with a simple bore of his eyes into yours. And it’s bad. How he can read you so well, like he isn't confused and insecure at times too.

“Is it cause we grew up together?”

“Well that’s why your dear to me, but no” 

“Then why?”

“Cause you’re you. Simply. You’re kind and fair. Too smart and you’re too pretty. You stand your ground and stand up for what’s right. I knew damn well who I hunched on my back and tried to set off with explosions at five years old”

He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tips your face toward him until you’re locked in his orbit again.

You want to cry again. Be it the memory, or the fact that you've pushed him to say this much about why he’s in love with you. You've got no reason to get jealous over people on the internet. They don’t know Katsuki like you do. They never could. Fate chose you to be the one to grow up a few blocks away from him. All your shared memories together, no one on TikTok could live them out.

No matter any Vogue cover, any Calvin Klein ad, or late night show interview, you and Katsuki are two human beings who grew up together, beat the odds of death together. Fell in love with each other to top it. So many humans in history have had this storyline, they’ve shared their first time with each other the night before setting off to war, kissed for the first time behind the bleachers in middle school. 

“I was so scared back then” you sob. Just one violent sob after another “‘m sorry babe. I'm so sorry for how I acted right now. You're just so hot that I can’t handle it. Can you like, be that bratty little five year old again?”

Katsuki huffs a breath, mouth twitching like he wants to smirk but knows better. His hands stay firm around your waist, grounding you while leaning towards you.

“Well I can’t be five again,” he says, voice rough but fond, lips already pursing as his forehead sticks to yours “but I can give you a small brand new Bakugo”

You let out a choked, watery laugh, but he’s already shifting closer, his thighs spreading so you fit better between them. One of his hands, followed by his eyes, slides up to your chest, and with exaggerated slowness, he taps a finger just above your sternum.

Tap. Then a little higher. Tap.

Then again—until two fingers are softly “walking” their way up, up, up your chest like little boots. You blink at him.

“Katsukiiii”

Tap.

The pads of his fingers rest at the hollow of your throat for a beat before lifting to your chin, tipping your face toward him like you’re fragile glass he’s been carrying his whole life.

He’s pouting. You can see it clearly now—the petulant pull of his mouth, the faint crease between his brows, like he’s upset you made him feel things and doesn’t know how to ask for reassurance without being difficult.

“You sayin’ shit like that,” he mutters, eyes flickering down to your mouth, then back up, “makes me feel like I’m not doin’ enough. Like I ain’t sayin’ it right. And I already suck at this.”

You open your mouth to protest, say you didn’t really mean it when you said that you don’t feel enough, that it was a moment of weakness, just like when you tried to tell him you’ve got options, but he presses his thumb gently against your bottom lip, quieting you, you’ve already apologised. He hasn’t.

“Lemme show you instead,” he says.

His voice isn’t cocky. Not quite. It’s soft—almost shy. Like how it was when you asked him to walk you home a week into UA, like he knows now, sex won’t fix anything, for sure, but the humanity of it, the lack of personal space between you as you groan in each other's open mouths, will help, just a little to ease the pain of your words.

“You’re my soft spot,” he adds under his breath, kissing the corner of your mouth like he’s afraid you’ll vanish off to some hot idol that does fanservice for a living, before he finishes the sentence. “Always been. N’ I don’t want you forgettin’ it. I ain’t leaving you for no one”

His fingers trace the line of your jaw now, slow and reverent. The pout still hasn’t left. You’re not sure it ever will. But now it’s paired with heat, and a pull between your legs that starts low and deep as he finally—finally—brushes his mouth against yours.

Just a whisper of a kiss. All pout. All need. All Katsuki.

You wouldn’t really trade him for anyone, either.

You can feel how badly he wants to be touched back. He always wants to be physical and touchy after an argument. You know how grounded and real it makes him feel, how reassuring it is to him to know he is still loved enough to be touched, despite words that are meant to sting.

You make a move to peck him, only right as this was your fault, and he slowly moves his lips against your own, soft, smooth. Slipping between every hollow space until you can't pull away. Seems like the chapstick you got for him last week has done wonders to make his lips so soft and plump, when they’re usually so chapped; his mouth glides against yours with practiced ease.

“M sorry” he whispers, so faint against your lips, but you still catch it.

His voice stays in your skin long after it’s said, like steam caught between your ribs, not ready to evaporate just yet.

You don’t say anything at first—just lift your hand to cradle the back of his neck, drawing tiny circles at his nape with your thumb. His eyes flutter a little at the touch, and it’s so Katsuki the way he tries not to lean into it. Still pouting, still pretending he’s not craving softness like it’s the only thing that could save him, but you know him better.

You let your other hand wander, trailing along the hem of his work top, your fingertips skating just beneath the fabric—slow, just the way he likes it. And when your hands drift to the button of his pants, you catch that tiny hitch in his breath. Barely audible. But it’s there. His lashes drop, golden. Sun-kissed. His grip on your waist tightens, not to stop you, just to hold on.

“You said you’d show me,” you murmur, your voice dipping low, warm against the shell of his ear. “But maybe I show you first.”

He doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard. And you skip the rest of the sentence ‘how much better I am than those TikTok bitches who want you’.

The button of his work cargos clicks open beneath your fingers.

It’s intimate, the quiet that settles between you. Not awkward. Not even heated yet. Just close. Bathwater is still steaming behind him. The scent of your shared home in the air—sandalwood, white musk soap, the thick smell of chicken being cooked—him. 

His cologne, faded but still clinging to the collar of his shirt. The playlist hums something slow and familiar in the background—Hot like fire, because maybe Aaliyah wasn’t mocking you a while ago—like this moment has its own soundtrack and the world outside doesn’t exist.

Your fingers fiddle with his zipper, slow and smooth. He looks down at you—heavy-lidded, and all vermillion, lips slightly parted, like he’s already halfway gone from just being touched with intention for pleasure.

“You looked so confident in the ad” you whisper as your fingers brush just below his waistband, teasing. “But this is better. This right here. When you’re a little shy for me.”

He exhales shakily, like you cracked something open inside him. And you feel it—something primal and possessive bloom in your chest.

“No one gets to see you like this but me”

“You’re tryin’ to kill me” he mutters.

You smile up at him, biting your lower lip. “No, Katsuki. I’m just trying to blow you away with my insane head skills”

He laughs, a breathy little sound, as his hands move to take off his shirt, softly ungluing his eyes from yours for only a second. You lick your lips at the way his muscles flex, so thick and bulky and by all means yours.

Suddenly, the ad pops back into your head, every shot, every zoom in. You’re overtaken by lust driven jealousy again.

No one on fucking TikTok gets to see the way his abs flex when he cums. You do.

So you work to lower his pants in fast movements, pushing the heavy fabric down until it hits the floor in shuffling sounds. 

Your hands slide lower, palms flattening against his calves, then his hips as you stick your cheek to his thigh. He watches you like you’re a sunrise—warm and tender, grazing where his skin ends with where your skin begins, or running tender, teasing circles all over his tip through his boxers.

His fingers twitch against his thighs, unsure of where to go—if he should cup your cheek, fist your hair, or just hold on to the edge of the tub before he slides down into something desperate.

And when you look up at him from where you’re knelt, his breath catches. His hand finds the top of your head, like he needs the grounding contact, thumb brushing a gentle path through your hair, and his eyes are wide with something soft and so, so red and open.

“Yesssss” he says hoarsely, half-laughing, half-moan “im about to get the best head of my life”

You quirk your brow and pucker your lips as if it’s your turn to pout now, then, you jab “Was it bad before?”

He shakes his head, cheeks already pink. “It’s always damn perfect”

His breathing catches in his chest but by now, your lips catch onto the skin of his thigh, placing a kiss there while still looking at him. It makes him go completely red now, face ears and chest flustered.

You kiss higher on his inner thigh, barely missing where he’s straining against the fabric of his boxers. Katsuki’s knuckles press into the edge of the tub now, trying to keep himself grounded, but his hips twitch when your lips ghost just beneath the band of his boxers.

He looks like he might fall apart already. Lower lip caught between his teeth, lashes fluttering low, cheeks warm and pink in the bathroom light.

Your fingers tug at the elastic slowly—like a question. And he nods, fast, almost frantic.

You hum, and finally pull the waistband down, freeing him.

He’s already hard, tip flushed and leaking, twitching a little in the cool air. And the way he watches you—mouth parted, chest rising and falling quick—is nothing short of irrelevant. He looks at you with hunger, full blown everywhere on his face, like it burns just to feel it. His hand hovers near your cheek, and you guide it up into your hair with your own.

“Keep it here,” you murmur. “I want you to touch.”

Katsuki’s thumb brushes your scalp, tender, trembling.

His thumb twitches as it strokes your scalp.

You press your lips softly to the base of his cock. Not rushing. Just placing open mouthed kisses over his length. Letting the heat of your mouth register on every kiss before you move to the next one. Then again, higher this time. Then again—closer to the tip, where he shudders and grips your hair a little tighter. Your lips wrap tenderly around half of his tip, your tongue storming out for a circular lick before you give him a little suck.

His hips shift like he’s trying to stay still and failing. Then you kiss just beneath the tip, so close your breath makes him hiss.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, hips twitching once more. “You’re—baby, you’re—”

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue along the underside, slow, teasing, drawing a whimper from him so small and raw that your thighs clench just hearing it.

“You gonna beg?” you ask softly, glancing up.

His head falls back against the tiled wall for a second, mouth parted, so red in the face. “Don’t make me—fuck—‘m already losin’ it.”

You take him into your mouth inch by inch, slow and careful, tongue flat underneath, eyes still locked on him. You feel his thighs shake.

He moans—a rough, broken sound—and his hand fists harder your hair. You pull back with a wet pop and stroke him slowly, thumb brushing over his leaking tip. “You’re so easy to ruin, Katsuki. One suck and you’re falling apart.”

“You—you're evil,” he pants, biting his knuckle. “You can’t say shit like that when your fuckin’ mouth is on me.”

You grin, licking your lips. “It’s on you again now.”

You take him deeper this time, hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue drag in deliberate patterns. He groans, head tipping down again to watch, jaw slack. His voice is wrecked. Raw. Low in his throat.

“Katsuki–” you pause, you murmur, pulling off again, cupping him with both hands now. ogling your eyes into his “Tell me i'm the only one who’s ever gonna make you feel this good’

Every movement you make is intentional—little flicks of your tongue, your hand twisting at the base, your lips tight around him. You don’t let him cum yet. Every time you feel him start to twitch harder, you ease back, sucking gently on just the tip.

“Babe,’s all you—” he chokes out, voice ragged. “Never gonna be anyone else but you”

“Yeah?” you breathe. “No thirsty fangirl, no fantasy, no fuckin’ ad? Just me?”

His eyes lock on yours—glassy, wild. He nods hard. “Just you.”

You glance up again. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown. He looks desperate. Like he’s holding onto the last threads of sanity. But this moment is bathed in vulnerability, raw love that makes you want to claim again and again. Katsuki’s had his moments like this, way more than you. He lets you go through with it, he even likes how jealous you are right now, but this doesn’t mean he’s not utterly and completely ruined and under your spell right now.

You kiss his head again, so sweet, and finally wrap your mouth around him once more—this time faster, deeper, your hand working in tandem. He lets out a strangled cry, almost panicked with how hard he’s trying to hold on.

“You’re mine, Katsuki. You know that, right? Doesn’t matter how many people thirst over you online.” You press your lips around him again, drag your mouth up slow, just to the tip. “They don’t get this. They don’t get you like I do.”

He looks down at you again, eyes still glassy. So red. So wrecked.

You take him deeper, your cheeks hollowed, your tongue gliding in slow circles, teasing him at every sensitive spot. The veins on the underside of his cock, the base, as he hits the back of your throat. Katsuki moans, raw and shaky and his hips stutter forward before he forces himself still. The inside of your mouth is so slippery, so warm, he’s literally going crazy with each movement.

“Don’t even fuckin’ want anyone else.” He sounds destroyed now, ruined into a slurring mess as your hand is sliding along his thigh. 

“Let me—let me cum, shit—please, let me—”

His tip kisses the back of your throat, and you gag around him, just a little—just enough for him to choke on a moan that sounds like he’s dying.

You don’t let up. You feel the way he twitches, the way his thighs tense, the way his grip in your hair tightens. He’s close. So close. You hum against him, nodding just a little, eyes locked into his in such an intimate, tender way. You take him all the way in one last time, his tip hitting the back of your throat, eliciting just a small choking sound from you, letting him fall apart in your mouth, with every soft roll of his hips into you.

He grunts. Head lolling back again, so hard that is adam’s apple protrudes enough even for you to see. His hips stutter, and he tries to hold back—but his thighs are trembling, breath breaking. He snaps his head again, desperate to look at you and he swallows now, bites his lower lip in concentration before he clenches his legs, to buck his hips into your mouth.

His hands come to cradle your head, your cheeks, like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the one keeping him from falling through the floor. And the way you keep eye contact with him while swallowing him down your pretty little throat–It’s a killer.

You back up, worrying his tip between your soft, plump lips and that's it–He shatters. Violently and way faster than he thought he would. Clawing at your face to make you take him in once again; he bottoms out, and you… you take him in easily, like a champ.

Katsuki falls apart in your mouth with a raw, choked moan, hips bucking just once as you hold him steady, taking every twitch, every pulse, every broken sound he makes as his cum spills in ropes down your throat. You try to swallow as much as you can, eyes tearing up at the amount of cum that’s making you choke– Katsuki’s favorite sounds when you’re giving him a blowjob. He’s only urged to spill more, but this time you back up a little, letting him fill your mouth until it spills down the sides of your lips.

“F-fuck. Baby. Fuck.” He gasps like you’ve already stolen the air from his lungs, and he spasms. His hips jerk forward once, like instinct takes over.

Your eyes well up again, tears beading on your lashes from the stretch, from the pressure, from the sheer force of him.

He groans again at the sight—his cock buried in your mouth, cum spilling out the corners of your lips, glistening. His hands cradle your cheeks like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the feel of your skin under his thumbs.

You swallow again, letting him ride it out with one last soft suck, and he moans like he’s unraveling from the inside out. His knees almost buckle.

And still, you don’t stop touching him. Your hand strokes slow at his base as you pull back with the loudest pop, letting some of the mess trail down lower at your chin, your lips swollen and glistening as you tilt your head up.

“You came so much,” you murmur, licking a drop from your bottom lip. “Were you that needy for me, baby?”

He groans as he’s still recovering, hips twitching slightly as your breath ghosts over him. His hands finally leave your cheeks, fumbling around, still shaky, down to where his pants are.

“Where the fuck’s my phone?” he rasps, breath catching on the tail end.

You blink up at him, mock-innocent. “Why do you want it, hmm?”

His gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, chest heaving as he glares like you’ve just personally offended him by being too hot to handle yourself.

“First, I’m taking a fuckin’ photo of you like this,” he grits out, voice still rough and low, “with your mouth all messy, lookin’ proud of yourself like that.”

You smirk, tilting your head as cum still drips slowly down your chin, your fingers catching it just to suck them clean. “So you can jerk off to it later?”

“So I can frame it,” he mutters darkly, eyes dragging over every inch of your face. “And then you’re watchin’ the ad again. Every second of it.”

You blink slowly. “But it makes me mad”

He nods. “Yeah exactly. Youre watching it.‘Til you get so fuckin’ riled up you suck me off meaner than this.”

Your lips curl. “Meaner? Baby… I was being sweet to you.”

“Exactly,” he pants, reaching for your wrist to drag you up into his lap. “I wanna see you do it when you're pissed.”

You climb into his space, knees bracketing his thighs, grinning into his mouth as you kiss him—messy, deep, still tasting like him. “Careful what you wish for, Katsuki. I might make your dick fall off”

His voice is just a whisper now and wrecked against your lips.

“Fuck yes”

Yeah… maybe the Calvin Klein ad was a good idea.

______

The water’s somehow still warm, barely steaming, and smells like cocoa and the shea butter soap he always pretends he doesn’t use until you catch him stealing it.

You’re settled between his legs, your back against his chest, and he’s folded around you—arms over your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath soft and steady against your skin. You sink into him, muscles loosening all at once.

The bathwater laps at your collarbones. His thumbs trace slow circles into your stomach. And for a while, the only sound is your breathing, synced. The occasional soft swish of water when one of you shifts. The playlist outside still hums faintly, muffled through the bathroom door. Just gentle vocals and low drums. Like the score to this quiet little world you’ve made.

“Sorry I was a dick,” he mutters. His voice remains unsure of what to say in a situation like this, yet muffled against your neck. “I just—y’know…”

“Yeah. Me too. I should not have mentioned Jungkook because people online are asking how I handle all of that” you chuckle, tenderly placing a kiss at the back of Katsuki’s hands when you lift it from the water.

He frowns, letting off a sound of annoyance “asshole, he can shove that seven song up his ass”

“Oop— you listening to him now?”

“No, it’s all over the radio though” Katsuki kisses your shoulder in response. Then again, higher this time. “But I don’t care about nobody. Just you. Always you.”

You tilt your head and press a kiss into his damp hair from the side, catching just a little bit of his ear in the process. “I know, baby. I know.”

And you do. Deep in your bones. The same way you know how his eyes soften and he whines when he’s sleepy, how his jaw ticks to the right when he’s embarrassed, how his voice drops an octave when he wants to be taken seriously. You know him. Not the whored out Calvin Klein version the world sees.

You curl your hands around his forearm and let yourself melt back into him completely, the bathwater swaying at the peak of your chest now. Safe. Soothed. Held.

He squeezes you a little tighter and rests his chin on your shoulder, finally quiet. And if you listen close, you can feel it: the rise and fall of him. The warmth of his skin. The steady thrum of his heartbeat under your back. 

“So” you murmur “wanna talk about that little mini Bakugo you mentioned earlier?”

Katsuki mumbles something under his breath, eyes closed against your skin. He’s mellowed out in the split of a second, but you’re riled up at the thought when your mind returns to it. 

“‘S no use.” He whines, finally, like he’s annoyed “Our kid’s gonna look like you”

“So you'll get a mini me all over again and I won’t get the same? Un-faiiiir! Booooooo” you groan, leaning your head back against his shoulder dramatically. The water sloshes with the motion, and he huffs a tired laugh into your neck, chest vibrating behind you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, lips brushing your skin. “Like I wouldn’t be fuckin’ obsessed with either version.”

You smile. Small. Soft. Let your thumb glide along the scar on his wrist and then you swallow. Blink a few times. Then nod once, slowly, before you speak.

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it? A little baby with your temper and my sweet tooth?”

He lets out a real laugh now, low and gruff and warm against your back. “Fuckin’ menace. Our apartment wouldn’t survive.”

“Your PR team wouldn’t survive.”

“Shit, you’re right.”

You both laugh, muffled and close, and when it quiets again, you let your fingers lace through his under the water. His grip tightens like a reflex.

And then, just above a whisper:

“You really think about it sometimes?”

“…Yeah.”

“Me too.”

He kisses your shoulder again. No jokes this time. Just silence and warm water and cocoa steam. The both of you holding that dream quietly, like something sacred. 

In his arms, now, today, midst June, after feeling threatened that strangers online will ever do better than you when it comes to him, you think of you and him, back in his childhood room, watching Spirited Away as Mitsuki would fetch you cookies and milk before Katsuki would try to shove her away and she’d pretend to be knocked over.

“Hey…We’re still naming the baby Chihiro like we promised back then, right?”

He goes still behind you. Like, dead quiet. Like you’d short-circuited something in his brain.

You almost think he didn’t hear you until you feel the deep inhale against your spine, his arms tightening just a little more around you like he’s trying to fuse your body to his.

“…You remember that?” His voice is hoarse now, barely more than a breath.

You smile, eyes still half-lidded, watching the water ripple at the edges of the tub. “Of course I do. You made me pinky swear on it, when Mitsuki said we’d get married and have kids too!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but it’s soft, affectionate—almost embarrassed. His nose nudges your jaw like he’s trying to hide the warmth in his face. “Was a fuckin’ loser.”

“No,” you say gently. “You were just sweet. Always were.”

There’s a beat. He swallows. You feel it in his throat against your shoulder.

“…Chihiro, huh?” he murmurs, finally. “Still want that? Even now?”

You nod, and his hand floats up from beneath the water, trailing along your stomach, resting just under your ribs. Protective. Hopeful. Like something unspoken is blooming there.

“I always loved that promise,” you whisper, throat a little tight. He doesn’t answer. At least not with words.

Katsuki grins against your neck, and the sound of it, the way he breathes in like he’s grounding himself in the smell of your skin—it’s everything. It’s homely. Warm water. Summer steam. A shared name from a shared childhood.

Take that ‘tojissecondworm222’, not only do you handle all that, but everything the world’s fantasy driven Dynamight has to offer, is yours. 

Always has been.

Always will be.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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