carmen

The silence was deafening.

Your wrists were raw from the quirk-resistant cuffs, your body aching from the cold concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse. You weren’t sure how many days had passed — three? Four? You’d lost track when the League stopped trying to get information out of you and instead began using your capture as a bargaining chip.

But through the fear, one thought kept you anchored.

Shouta will come.

And if you knew anything about your husband, it was that he would burn the entire world down to find you.

Across the city, the hero known as Eraserhead was anything but calm.

“You’ve got three seconds to tell me where she is,” he growled, holding the trembling low-level villain by the collar, eyes glowing red behind wild hair and exhaustion.

“She—she’s at an old factory on the east edge! That’s all I know, I swear!”

He dropped the man with a thud and was already gone, scarf flaring behind him like a banner of war.

You were barely conscious when the noise started — a distant rumble, followed by shouts. Tomura had left hours ago, but Dabi was still lurking somewhere. Then came a sound that made your heart stutter:

“[NAME]!”

That voice — low, rough, desperate.

Shouta.

You tried to respond, but your throat was dry, your body heavy. And then the door blew open, and he was there, framed by smoke and light, red eyes darting around until they found you.

He crossed the room in two strides.

You couldn’t hold back the sob when he dropped to his knees beside you, hands trembling as he gently cupped your face. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

“Shouta…”

“I’m here. I’m right here. They’re done. You’re safe now.”

His voice cracked, just slightly. Only you would catch that. Only you would feel the quake beneath the calm.

He pulled you into his arms like he couldn’t bear another inch of distance. You could feel his heart racing against your cheek, feel the way his fingers refused to let you go even as medics rushed in behind him.

Later, back at the hospital, he refused to leave your side — not for a moment. The doctors told him to rest, to let them handle things, but he stayed. He fed you ice chips. Held your hand through the IV insert. Sat beside you on the bed with your fingers tangled in his shirt like a lifeline.

When you woke the next morning, his head was on your stomach, scarf draped over both of you like a second blanket. His grip on your waist was firm even in sleep.

You ran your fingers through his tangled hair, and only then did his eyes slowly open.

“You’re really here,” he said hoarsely.

You gave him a sleepy smile. “I could say the same to you.”

He sat up enough to press a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, your nose, your lips. Slow, reverent. “I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t.” You cupped his face. “I knew you’d find me.”

“Damn right I did.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I would’ve razed the entire city to the ground if I had to.”

You gave a soft laugh. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“No, I’m not,” he grumbled — but you could see the smile tugging at his lips. “I just… I can’t breathe without you.”

Your heart squeezed.

“I kept thinking…” He hesitated. “The last thing I said to you that morning was ‘don’t forget to feed the cat.’ Not ‘I love you.’ Not ‘be careful.’ I was distracted. I was—”

“Shouta.” You silenced him with a finger on his lips. “I knew you loved me. I always know. You don’t have to say it all the time for me to feel it.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch.

“But I’m saying it now,” he murmured, voice thick. “I love you. More than sleep. More than coffee. More than peace and quiet.”

You burst into a watery laugh. “That’s how I know it’s real.”

He pulled you gently into his lap, tucking you under his chin. “When we get home, I’m taking a week off. Just us. You, me, the cat, and maybe a ridiculous amount of your favorite snacks.”

You relaxed in his arms, heart full despite the lingering aches. It didn’t matter how broken the world had felt for a few days — it was whole again now. Because he was whole again, with you in his arms.

← MHA ┆ NAVI →

a/n : thanks for reading.. i love aizawa !

The second bedroom of the apartment remains pink with glow stars on the popcorn ceiling that gave way to scars on your husbands already beaten hands, a sacrifice for comfort of the child you failed to give a home to inside yourself. 

It felt like the biggest failure as a woman, unable to house the love you and your husband created with it, a small baby girl not yet done growing delivered too early in a pool of her own blood, or yours, you couldn't differentiate the two when it happened. Neither could Katsuki, a man unfamiliar with his own emotions tending to a broken mother having the title snatched right from her core. 

Since that night you hadn’t shared a single word with your husband, Katsuki. He’d surrounded himself with work, missions, anything to carry the burden of failing his wife away from the forefront of his brain because forgetting didn’t hurt as bad as remembering. Battling his own demons alongside it, he closed himself off, almost completely as if the ring on his finger was nothing but a fabricated lie. 

Four days after that night he heard a knock against the white heavy door to his office at his agency, nearly an hour away from the apartment, not far enough if you asked him. He didn’t recognize the heavy knock, yours were quieter, hesitant, and his assistants were louder, having caught him with his wife too many times to ignore his need for privacy. He looked up from his stack of files, watching two familiar men walk into the room like they’d done it every friday after patrols. 

“Hey,” the blonde one said, hands shoved into his jeans with a look to his face that battled something inside his mind. It almost resembled pity, which pissed Katsuki off because he didn’t need that shit. Especially now that he’d failed his wife and child. 

“Still working?” the other started with his wild red hair, someone from his past that he’d counted on more times than he could count, and was never disappointed. His best friend, Kirishima. “It’s a bit late for more paperwork?”

Katsuki cleared his throat, realizing now that he hadn’t spoken a word since this morning to his assistant after she read him his schedule. “Was on patrol all day.”

“You’ve been doing patrols by yourself for a few days now,” Denki, the blonde one, started, “making budget cuts or something?”

“Fuck off,” Katsuki growled, “I don’t need to because my heroes know exactly what the fuck to do.”

“So why are you working late?” Kirishima prodded, eyes glimmering with something too familiar to him. This had happened once before, right before he proposed to the love of his life. Kirishima came as usual on a friday with Denki, poking and prodding at him all day until Katsuki eventually told them why he’d buried himself in work. Feelings are hard for the pro hero, harder than life itself when it comes to his wife, but hers were something precious to him. But that didn’t mean he didn’t take them for granted sometimes– It happens. 

“Because,” Katsuki answered, quite vaguely as he shuffled a stack of papers to file later. “Why does it even matter to you two?”

Silence fills the space as Kirishima takes a seat at the lonely chair across his wooden desk, the same seat you'd occupy whenever you felt like annoying your head strong husband. Denki stands rooted to the floor, like whatever was about to happen wasn’t something he was fully on board with. 

“I called your wife yesterday,” Kirishima starts, ripping the bandaid off quickly before his best friend can react, “I’m really sorry for your loss…shes worried about you.”

“You think I don't know that?!” Katsuki snaps, like a wire behind his eyes has snapped its connection to reasonability and gone straight to fight or flight. He slams the stack of papers on the desk and only Denki flinches, “You think I don't know that my wife is probably suffering in silence without me because I can't even bring myself to look at her?! FUCK!”

He wasn’t physically aggressive with his anger like he used to be in his teens. But there were moments when it seems that is his only vice, the only way to release whatever is melting his bones to his flesh, leaving him unsupported and helpless in his own body. His fist clashes with the wooden desk, leaving two knuckle sized dents and blood gushing from his skin. 

This wasn’t the life he chose when he was younger and wanted a life of lavish, using his quirk, making a name for himself. If he had to guess then that had to be why his wife, you, was the most sensitive topic of conversation for him. You came into his life by chance and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid that chance would also be the thing that takes you away from him. 

Chance, his biggest fucking problem, the reason he found you on the bathroom floor, broken, a husk of the woman you once were. A miscarige is a chance, that's what the doctor said, and now he was paying the price for thinking he could ever escape those odds. 

“That doesn’t mean you ignore your wife though.” Denki’s words cut through the tension like a knife, taking a logical approach. “Women feel more than men, it's like science or something. So imagine, if this is really getting you down like this, how must she be feeling?” 

“Thank you Denki,” Kirishima nods, thankful his hesitant friend is finally realizing how important this conversation really is to Katsuki. “Its always been the two of you Katsuki, you told me yourself. What’s stopping you, or making you hesitant, to speak with her about it?”

He’d never admit it, but shittyhair had a point. A very big one that he was finally starting to realize, cooling the molten rage and grief into something cold and hard inside his chest. 

With defeat, or grief, Katsuki slumps back in his chair, elbow on the arm of the chair, face in his hand. He’d grown a stubble there, unable to look at himself in the mirror since that night when he’d truly thought he’d failed you as a husband. As a father. 

Both men in front of him share a look before metal scratches against wood. Denki slides a key towards the exhausted blonde, hesitancy from before gone, leaving concern for his friend. “Here. I own a beach house on the southern tip of Haiti, bought it years ago and haven’t been for awhile-”

“Get to the point.”

“-its yours. Well, you can use it. I won’t be going anytime soon, not until I find myself the kind of love you have with her.” Denki stands to his full height, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I'd go. It's super chill, the locals make the best coconut cocktail you’ll ever taste.” 

Katsuki stares at the key like it personally wronged him. He didn’t need a shitty vacation house to make him feel better, he did just fine at work. He liked going on patrols to clear his mind, when he sat on top of buildings and just sat with himself with nothing but the world below him. Isolation, the very thing he craved when he was a teen. Control, the demon he was starting to adopt when he met you. 

But why not both? Didn’t he have both with you? 

He closed a fist around the metal key, shoving it into his pocket. He’d forgotten how much he loves having both. 

-

You knew something was going to come when Katsuki unlocked the front door three hours before usual on a Friday night, and you hoped it was change. 

Four days spent in hospital after hospital, bloodwork, vitals, medication, pills, drugs. It became a part of you, the big fat failure sign burned into your womb. Emotions weren’t there, buried in the ground beneath your feet and you can't cradle  them. That morning you’d started to notice the once built in condo belly your husband once teased was starting to deflate. Your body was finally accepting the fact you lost your baby, something your brain can’t even start to do. 

The door closes from the front entrance, sounding through the kitchen into the living room where you sit on the couch, fighting medical tape and a piece of cotton from a previous needle from rounds of bloodwork. You glance once footsteps get heavier, closer. He appears into view, hands busy with his tie, stance wide and you realize he’s looking directly at you. 

“Hey.”

You lift your eyes, meeting the same ones owned by a man that held you four days ago like he was afraid you’d disappear. Yesterday, you spoke with his best friend and knew he’d put in a good word for you. “Didn’t think that actually worked.” 

“Shut up..” he murmurs, moving closer and taking his usual seat on the coffee table in front of you. You watch him tug the tie free, tossing it on the seat beside you. It’s the first glimpse of normalcy you’ve seen in what feels like decades. 

His eyes tract the bandage on your arm, instinctively pulling closer to inspect why it’s there. “Hospital?” 

“A few,” you supply softly, “bloodwork, monitoring, questioning— the whole nine yards.”

He lifts his eyes, the closeness sparking a familiar warmth you hadn’t felt in awhile. “You healthy?” 

“Mhm.” You shrug small but his expression has you feeling bad for the attempt at distance. “I’m okay. It’s an oddly natural process, anatomy freaks me out.” 

He lets out a small snort, “that would be physiology, dumbass.” 

“Both,” you can’t help but offer a small smile, “I hate both.” 

“Need help with this?” He asks, changing focus back to the horrificly sticky medical tape on your arm. “They didn’t need to use such a big fucking piece either, damn near cutting off circulation-“

“Go get the supplies,” you offer, hoping to stop a sour mood from forming by protecting his good mood. “Downstairs bathroom.” 

It takes him less than two minutes before he’s back to nursing the morbidly painful tape on your arm with oil and a cloth. A comfortable silence fills the space, one that you aren’t sure you want to pop. But no matter what you try to focus on you can’t get the elephant out of the room without addressing it. 

He beats you to it. “I’m sorry I haven’t really been around lately. I’m a dick, I abandoned you when you needed me most-“

“What the fuck?” 

He pauses, you do too but just a bit, and the room gets too crowded. 

“Huh?” 

“You sound like a written script,” the words punch out of you like they came from your stomach. “Is that how you’re able to face your wife after what happened?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Look at me!” You point to the countless needle wounds on your arms from the blood work, the shots, the meds. You’re a walking pharmacy and he’s acting like the miscarriage is the only pain here. “I’m full of holes from doctor's visits you didn't want to be a part of.” 

His hands pause on your arm, “I wanted to be apart of them-“

“But you weren’t.” Your words have a finality to them that makes his shoulders slump. Keeping his eyes low, he works quietly on the medical tape stuck to your skin, leaving the words hanging in the air like a weight heavier than the loss of a premature baby. 

You didn’t know how he was handling it, didn’t know if he felt just as empty and useless as you. Since school where your relationship first bloomed, he had a hard time communicating his emotions. You thought you’d worked on it enough through adulthood until marriage, but now you’re starting to see a set back. He wasn’t talking, not sharing his feelings like usual. 

It only made you feel worse. If you couldn’t be a good mother did that also mean you were a bad wife? The answer should be obvious, but right now it seems too complicated to make sense of. 

It didn’t take long before he massaged the tape off your arm, trashing it in the nearby bin. He cleaned up his mess, quietly without a word to you. Just when you think he’s gone back to his cold, distance, he comes back and settles back on the coffee table in front of you, hands clasped between his legs. 

Thinking. That’s all he was doing, you could see it in the slight furrow of his brow and the soft twitch at the corner of his lip. For a moment you start to wonder if this may be the start of a long, dreadful life full of waiting and eggshells. 

You watch him reach into his pocket and settle a metal key on the cushion beside you where his discarded tie still lays boneless. You look between him and the key, only solidifying your suspicions.

“It's for a beach house. In Haiti.” His eyes meet yours and you can’t make sense of the expression there, a mix of regret and guilt. “I’ll take time off work. How long you want to stay, we’ll stay.” 

“Why?” You ask although the answer seems a bit obvious, however, you want to hear him say it. 

“Because I won’t let this be the end of us. I want to heal us.” 

-

After another round of bloodwork and nearly two weeks after you got the key to a beach house in another country, the doctor cleared you for travel, even insisting on it with a sad little smile. Honestly it was a miracle she didn’t prescribe a vacation herself on special treatment. 

Two days after you were cleared, Katsuki bought plane tickets and you flew out the next night. The flight was long and excruciating, spending nearly thirty hours in the air before arriving on the southern left arm of the island. You arrived in Les Cayes by bus, passing banana trees with a large mountain range behind you as you touched down on La Tourterelle, a popular beach for tourists during tourist seasons. 

The heat carried the weight of a thousand suns, making the hole in your womb seem minuscule to the hot climate that only offers bursts of relief from the ocean breeze. 

You felt bad when Katsuki hauled your two suitcases down an old paved road, muttering something under his breath about a rental. You chose to ignore it, setting your eyes on the beach through thick banana trees. The water seemed to glisten with white glitter, every wave sounding as if you were right by the sea with your toes in the sand instead of sneakers on pavement. 

The walk wasn’t long along the island’s coastline, meeting a hint of brown within the trees that turn less of bananas and more thick with full leaves and shade. A small cabin rests in the center of it, just at the edge of the old road. It’s small, a good sized porch on thick stumps for potential flooding since the island did see earthquakes almost as often as Japan. 

“This place is beautiful,” you hum, following behind him up the stairs. Entering the cabin, the air felt colder and stale, like it’s been years since the structure last saw a familiar face. 

You took the time to explore the cabin while Katsuki found the master and put luggage away. Downstairs was the living room and kitchen, the master room on one side with the bathroom on the other. Upstairs in the loft was a makeshift lounge with a private bar and a pool table. It was obvious this beach house was borrowed, most likely from Denki judging on the WiFi that connected to your phone the second you walked through the door. 

You brushed your hand along the length of the pool table. You didn’t know much about it, just that there used to be one back at UA high in the dorms that Katsuki liked to play. 

You wonder if he still did, with Kirishima and Denki at the bar every Friday. He never did talk about his Friday nights, always too drunk or horny to finish the conversation every time the topic did arrive. 

Like a moth to a flame, you hear footsteps until Katsuki steps on the hardwood planks of the loft. “Everything’s in the closet downstairs, your sandals are by the main entrance and I put the food in the fridge but we should stop somewhere either today or tomorrow.” 

“Do you still play?” You ask, changing topics from meaningless chat. “Pool, you used to all the time.” 

It takes him a second to register the question, eyes flickering to the green felt and oak trim. “Sometimes. Winning every time killed the passion.” 

“Humble,” you tease. 

“Have to be,” he shrugs, flicking the leaf of a nearby houseplant. This place must be managed by someone if there’s thriving houseplants. “I have everything I want.” 

“Dream job,” you hum, gently pushing the white ball to a steady roll before it clacks with the triangle of balls in the middle, “dream car…dream house.” 

“Dream wife.” You barely catch it, his eyes elsewhere before they sense your gaze and meet yours. “Don’t forget that part.” 

Your heart flutters anxiously and it’s the first thing you’ve felt in what feels like forever. The first emotion felt since you buried a piece of your heart and its nerves. Nothing but teenage jitters for a love that seems eternal. 

“Smooth.” You offer a small glimpse of a smile before turning on your heels, heading past him. He stops you before you even get the chance, hand to your waist, pulling you close. Without words, he hugs you tightly to his chest, resting his chin on top of your head. 

You want to push him away, voice the anger you know that’s hidden inside the marrow of your bones. Your body betrays you, melting into his touch like it’s the first and last time you’ll ever get the chance for intimacy this innocent. 

“Can we talk…about it?” 

His chest rumbles against your side at his words and you shake your head before you can even process the words, pulling away from him. 

“No. No, I’m not ready.” 

You can feel the tension rise, the pressure of his eyes against your skin like he’s tearing right through your flesh with words held back by his tongue. If you had to guess, it was taking every ounce of his self control not to just tie you to a chair and demand answers about how you’re feeling. 

It’s hard to talk about emotions you don’t have, so you stay persistent and head back down the stairs. 

A few hours go by and Katsuki goes off on his own for the entirety of it before coming back with a rental jeep and groceries for a week or two. It’s refreshing, knowing he wants to stay as long as you want. 

You set up camp on the beach, cradled to a water bottle on the beach with a black wool blanket to protect the sand from the ocean on your body. You can’t gauge how long you’d been cooking under the sun with the occasional dip in the water, only the warmth of a premature tan on your skin. 

You were enjoying the island, the privacy of the beach without a single soul between you and the sea. It was comforting, the most comfort you’d found worth relishing in since the miscarriage and full schedule of needles and medicine. 

You close the cap on your water bottle, glancing up at the sun that starts to paint the sky pink in a beautiful farewell on the day. It brings peace, the kind of peace you’d been looking for between appointments and wondering what your husband was doing at work. 

Despite being alone, it wasn’t until now that you felt lonely. With your husband just a few steps inside, you couldn’t help but miss him more than you did for those four days where you two didn’t share a word with each other. 

What was he doing? Did he also feel this coldness despite the heat? 

You didn’t know if you were ready to know, you couldn’t exactly process your own thoughts so thinking you could make sense of his right now looked foolish. You’d only upset him, furthermore proving your point that you failed at everything you thought you were good at being: a woman.

With a heavy heart, a heated headache, and half the ocean in your lungs, you pack up your things once the sun finally sets over the horizon. The lights inside the cabin guide you back, every step slow and calculated, like you were counting every single step back towards the topic you’d been avoiding for nearly two weeks. 

You drape the wool blanket over the porch railing, kicking off your sandy sandals outside before walking inside with your water bottle and a black lace pull over Katsuki bought you on your honeymoon almost two years ago. 

The smell of something spicy and sweet lingers the air like thick heat, coating your chilly skin as you venture further into the wooded building. The lights are dimmed, Katsuki over a hot stove with a few pots and pans on burners. 

This was and will always be your favorite sight of your husband, cooking a meal as if he were putting his soul into it, leaving nothing behind. 

You only realize you’ve been staring until he lifts his head and nods his head your way. “Cmere, try the sauce.” 

Such simple demands for a man who carries the weight of a world on his back and makes it look effortless. Your feet carry you closer until you can smell the hint of coconut. “What are you making?” You ask, stopping just a few moments beside him, leaving room for distance— distance he didn’t like, moving just half an inch closer to you with a wooden spoon held out. 

“Coconut shrimp. I think. This old hag gave me a recipe in town when she caught me buying shrimp. Tried to haggle me for it too.” He holds the spoon closer to your lips, “try it.”

You accept the spoon, letting him feed you a small taste. The flavors burst on your palette, coconut, sweet, tangy, everything you didn’t know you needed. Your reaction must show on your face because he cracks a smirk, playing you with those eyes that are too naturally suggestive. 

“You like it.” It’s not a question, but a statement. 

You challenge, “it’s not bad.” 

“You like it,” he restates, “admit it.” 

You shake your head simply for the fun of it, feeling that easy banter fall back into place like the missing puzzle piece of many. The earthquake of your miscarriage had disrupted a few and now it was a matter of when you’d find every piece again. 

“Never.” 

“You little shit,” he murmurs, taking a small taste for himself. “It’s fucking phenomenal.” 

“It really is,” you finally admit, albeit under your breath as you steal a fried shrimp from a basket, dipping it into the sauce and popping it straight into your mouth. He chuckles at the action, not surprised by your quickness, only this time he’s letting you get away with it. 

With a clearer head, you move towards the small kitchen island with enough space for three, sitting down in the middle of the two metal chairs. You’re starting to realize that this puzzle can’t be fixed if you don’t at least put a bit of effort into it. 

“How’s work?” You start with a conversation. Ease a bit of the tension around steady conversation. 

“Like normal bullshit that I don’t have the patience for.” He stirs the pan of sauce and shrimp, occasionally checking on the rice. “Nobody knows how to do shit right and I’m left to clean up messes that were easily preventable.” 

“That sounds challenging,” you murmur, chin in your hand. “You’re pretty specific though, in a good way. So it makes sense.” 

“I’m specific?” He asks, tossing a glance over his shoulder. 

You offer a small nod. “Very. In a good way.” 

“How am I specific?” 

“Hmm,” you search your memories for a quick example. “Well, for starters you like to do the cooking-“

“You’re a shitty cook.” Plates clink with utensils. You throw out a small gasp. 

“Okay…but you also critique my work when I fold the towels-“ 

“You’re a shitty folder.” 

And a shitty excuse for a woman. But you don’t say that. 

“Katsuki.” 

A plate of coconut shrimp and rice slides your way along with a spoon. Your eyes lift, meeting his parallel to you as he leans his elbows on the other side of the counter, his own plate in front of him. 

“Go on.” 

Once out of your momentary pause, a sigh leaves your lungs. “You always sit on my left.”

It’s his turn to pause, jaw going still before he swallows. “It’s your blind spot.” 

“I’m not a car.” 

“Snore like one-“

“Katsuki!” 

For the first time in a while, you and Katsuki share your first laugh again. It’s light, full of years of pointless arguments back when they still seemed so big and real, now nothing but playful banter between the two of you. And it’s so fucking refreshing. 

You watch him shake his head, scooping another spoonful of shrimp and rice into his spoon. “I don’t think I’m specific. I think I just like shit done right.” 

“Well your right could be someone else’s wrong,” you point out with your spoon, “you don’t know what kinds of morals people have and which ones they respect most.” 

Your words seem to settle inside his mind because he’s silent for awhile, the kind of silence that leaves you wondering how he’ll respond. 

“How do I know who will respect me and who won’t then,” he murmurs. He’s opening up to you, asking for advice like your words might actually matter. 

“You can’t.” His furrowed eyebrows egg you on to elaborate. “If you could gauge or see what kind of person someone is then what would be the point in getting to know someone?” 

“I’m not trying to make friends with those bastards working under me.” 

You shrug, “maybe you should.” 

He seems to have a hard time with your advice because he does that thing where can read the hesitation on his face. Like you’d been doing for years, your hand cups the underside of his jaw and silently take in the blonde stubble there. “Hey. I’m not trying to say what you’re doing isn’t productive, it’s worked this far, right? I’m just giving my own thoughts.”

“I value your thoughts.” His hand cups around your wrist but he doesn’t move your hand, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. 

“You do?”

“Don’t be stupid. You know I do.” 

You didn’t until just now, but telling him wouldn’t hold value. Nothing would, not when you’ve already shown you aren’t much of a wife than you are a mother. 

You pull your hand away like his face burned to touch, feeling yourself retreat back into yourself. No matter what, you couldn’t shake the dread hanging over your head like a corpse. You wish he could see who you really were, it would make things a lot easier for him at least. 

The clocks are ticking on your marriage and you’re starting to wonder if maybe it’s too late to salvage what it once was. 

-

Katsuki slept alone on the couch the first night, feeling like he’d taken two steps back rather than forward. Like a stick in the mud, his marriage is still at a stand still and he has no idea how to begin to fix it. 

Last night, your words and actions affected him deeper than he’d care to admit. You’d grown wiser, harder around the edges. He’d like to think you were finally starting to get your head on straight, but he knew this side of you was too new for him. Too different from the immature woman he fell in love with. 

He couldn’t help but feel like he was fighting fate itself. The thought brushed the tip of his head, was this what destroys his marriage? 

He didn’t want to think like that. His parents had issues and they worked through them, nothing was unfixable, his mothers motto when it comes to relationships like navigating choppy waters. 

He sifted through memories of her relationship advice as he made coffee, the middle of his brain snagging one to replay as he listens to the brew of coffee. 

He sat at the table for dinner, already fuming with another shitty emotion he didn’t know how to process in his fucked up brain. Love, the kind of thing his dad always talked about when he was a child. 

It was a bunch of bullshit, love. He couldn’t make sense of it, how could something so filled with mindless arguments be anything close to the kind of love his father couldn’t shut the fuck up about? 

“You look like you need to shit.” He lifts his eyes, meeting the face of his mother where he gets most of his complexion from. Her hands are in a cardboard box, tending to a broken plate that she’s trying to salvage instead of tossing. 

“Shut up, hag.” 

“Katsuki!” Her anger is only a facade because a soft laughs leaves her, shaking her head in mild affection for her son with the tongue of her father. “Just tell me what’s wrong. I am a mother, I could help.” 

“Like you could ever help,” he mutters, but even the words don’t sound too convincing. 

“Try me.” 

With a reluctant groan, he rests his chin in his hand. “It’s her. It seems like all we ever do now is fight about stupid, little shit that doesn’t even make sense. Fuck, I don’t want this relationship if fighting is all we’re going to do.” 

The last part is only half true, he just hopes his mother doesn’t catch on to it. 

“Ahh,” a soft smile materializes on her face, “young love. I remember those days, hormonal and emotional all in one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Take this plate for example—“ she points to the broken plate now put back together with white grout, “—while it might still be broken, I’ve changed it into a cute wall decoration.”

“I don’t think-“

“Shut up.” She fires a glare his way and he reluctantly goes quiet. “Think of your relationship with her like this plate. While you may always fight, shattering your relationship with every argument, you also have the power to transform it into something beautiful. Love is about balance, it’s going to get hard. You just have to know what to do when it does.” 

“So then what do I do?”

“I just told you.” 

“No you didn’t-“

“Do your homework, ungrateful little shit.” 

His thoughts end with the sound of the coffee machine shutting off. He remembers being so lost after his mother told him that, it took weeks before he realized he could just talk to you about his annoyances and you’d listen. 

That was the first time he learned how to resolve issues with you, only now, the issue isn’t as small as the others. He’s battling grief without any knowledge how to handle it. Should he be gentle? Harsh? He wish he knew. 

Pouring a cup of coffee, he makes it just how you like and heads for the master. With a soft knock, he opens the door to find the sunrise already making a home on the walls and furniture in the room. You’re in the middle of the bed, laid on your side with a pillow clutched in your embrace. 

The word cute fills his brain but he doesn’t pay attention to it or the blush heating his ears and neck. 

As he approaches his eyes catch a plastic pill case on the bedside and he grabs it. He can’t even count how many pills there are, just that there are a lot and something shifts inside of him. 

He sits on the edge, placing the mug on the table before putting his full attention on you. He hadn’t realized how little he knew about you, your body, how it’s doing after everything. He used to be so in tune with your health, but now he knew absolutely nothing. 

He watches you stir awake, soft moans leaving your lips as your eyes flutter against the sun. Force of habit, he finds his hand moving your hair behind your ear. He nearly melts into the bed when you move into his touch, half asleep and still looking for him despite the choppy waters. All he wants is to curl up behind you and hold you like before, but he knows he has a long way before that. 

“Wake up.” He says it softly with that usual rasp, giving him that hardness around his edges like rocks. You moan in response, slowly rolling on your back with your arms folded over your eyes. 

He knew it was a little early, only an hour after you usually get up, but he wanted to know what the pills were for— learn his wife’s health again.

“Come on baby,” he murmurs, much softer this time with a small rub to your shoulder, “I even made you coffee.” 

The mention of coffee has you sitting right up, messy hair and irritated eyes that still have sleep clinging around your irises. It’s the purest form of yourself, one he hadn’t realized he missed seeing. 

“Coffee?” 

He hands you the mug and you nearly melt into the cup, warmth seeping into your hands. “Thank you.” 

He doesn’t respond, instead, he grabs the pill case and places it on the bedding on your lap. “What are these?” 

You swallow a sip of coffee, feeling it warm you from the inside. “Pills.” 

“No shit.” He grabs the case, opening the small capsule for the day. “But what kind?” 

Another sigh leaves you, softer this time. He’s trying, wants to know about your health, it’s obvious in the way he nervously fiddles with the case, ignoring your gaze. You scotch closer, pointing to each pill as you speak. “These two are vitamins, they were more important when I was losing all the blood but I stopped bleeding two days ago. This tiny one is an antibiotic and this big one is a probiotic so I don’t get a yeast infection— that would be a nightmare.” 

“These pills could make you worse?”

“No no,” you point to the tiny pill again. “Just the antibiotic. It gets rid of all the good bacteria, which is why I counter it with a probiotic to increase the production of the good bacteria. Your mom taught me that.” 

“She did?” 

“Mhm.” After your second year anniversary with Katsuki, spent in bed because of a viral infection, his mother taught you the importance of probiotics when taking antibiotics. It was the first time you’d ever heard his mother talk to you like you were her own, like she knew you two shared a deeper connection than what you knew at the time. 

The memory, compared to now, leaves you with a newfound sense of hope. His mother was a wise woman, one of the wisest you’ve gotten to chance to know. If she saw it then, then maybe this miscarriage won’t ruin the life you’d built around her anxious son. 

“I had no idea.” 

You snort, “your moms very informative. I go to her about most health questions I have.”

“Not that..” he dumps the pills for the day into his hand, offering them to you gently. “This. I didn’t know you were taking pills for it…you said it was natural.” 

“It is,” you reassure, accepting the pills and downing them with a sip of coffee. 

“Then how was your miscarriage fucking natural?” You can hear his frustration and confusion in the rawness of every word that leaves his mouth and you wonder if telling the truth is the right thing to do right now. It must be, lying wouldn’t do any better to the truth. 

“Because it was. Our blood types are different, negative and positive…” you swallow, placing the mug in your lap as his eyes finally meet yours. “My body killed our child because it saw it as a threat…so yeah, the miscarriage was pretty natural.” 

The silence that hangs is deafening and it only solidifies the same fact you’d been turning over your head since it happened. You weren’t a good mother, no better than a wife, a sorry excuse for a woman if you can’t even protect your husband's child from your own body. 

The reality of it makes you dizzy, eyes burning but you close them before your deep rooted pain shows in the form of tears. 

You weren’t compatible, biologically, without the help of a medicated pregnancy. Those were the doctors words, the chances of bearing a child with your blood type nearly impossible in chances. 

The coffee mug is taken from your hands and in a flash you’re being pulled my big arms, face pressed against a warm chest through a thin tee shirt. You can hear his heart, smell his musky sweetness and you lean into it. 

The threshold snaps and the tears come pouring out from your failure to house a child in your defective body. He holds every ounce of it, cradling you close just like he did that night. 

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against your hair and you can hear the tears in his words as well, “I’m so fucking sorry, Y/N.”

-

A few days go by and it’s not stiff and anxious around him anymore. Conversation turned easy, but never too deep. Touches became a thing again, but never too heated. And you let him sleep in the same bed as you again, but never too close. 

Things were starting to fall back into place, but not everything. You were still missing that deep rooted connection that was severed the minute he buried himself with work and you got too busy at the doctors. 

Intimacy, the most simplest forms of love two people can share. 

But now you stand along the beach, holding his hand like you used to, the sun hitting its peak on the day before the clouds take away its power. The waves sound clear, every kiss to shore a mocking one for the situation you find yourself in. 

It wasn’t like you didn’t want to be intimate with your husband, you craved his skin every second you didn’t have it. But…you didn’t feel like you could fulfill him like before. You’d shown yourself you couldn’t be a good mother, what else were you bad at without knowing? 

“Hey, come back to me.” He gently tugs your hand, pulling you from your inner turmoil. “You’re thinking. What are you thinking?” 

Over the years you’d learned it’s better to be honest with Katsuki. While the honest truth might upset him more than lying would, he’d never have any reason to doubt a lie you’d tell. You couldn’t do that to him, knowing he takes your words as rule. 

“Stupid stuff.” 

“Your stuff isn’t stupid.” 

“This stuff is.” 

He pauses and pulls you closer which is easy in the sand. You face him, the sea behind you with a breeze that carries a sense of courage. 

“It’s just..” he gently squeezes you hand at your hesitation, “we haven’t kissed in awhile.”He cracks a natural smile and you shove his chest playfully, “don’t laugh!” 

“I’m sorry that was just really fuckin’ cute.” 

Your face burns and you have to turn away before you burst into flames and do any more damage to his mental health with a dead wife. 

“You want intimacy?” He pulls you close with his free arm around your waist, his lips close to your ear. “Because that’s my favorite skill.” 

You don’t need to respond, your body language says it all. Your face is hot, your body is stiff, and your hand is shaking gently in his. It’s everything he needs to see before pulling you impossibly close, replacing your hand for your face. 

It’s slow at first, the motions of his eyes taking in your face like he’d never done it before, and then his lips brush yours. It’s the softest thing ever, the heat of his breath mingling with yours with the coolness of his lips against yours. Without realizing, you’re pushing closer, deepening the kiss. 

It’s warmer, thumb tracing the angle of your jaw while his fingers toy with the loose fabric of your sundress behind you. It’s something out of your wildest fantasies, the way his lips, his touch is enough to send off a multitude of fireworks inside your stomach. 

It’s exactly the thing you’d been missing, the kind of connection you now knew you needed to nurture. 

The thing you’d been missing without quite realizing it. Him. All of him. Every single inch of him. 

He pulls away but you push closer, “hey-“ you pull him closer, “wait.” Your lips crash against his, pushing every unsaid word against his lips. It's almost instant that he kisses back, wrapping both arms around your waist like this was him finally coming home. 

His tongue delves into your mouth, exposing everything all at once and you’re forced to take it. But you can’t stop yourself from moaning against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

It takes all but a mere minute of pure hunger between your tongues that he finds his self restraint and gives a tug. His hand in your hair tugs you back without enough force to hurt. “Fuck— Pause—“

He’s out of breath, panting like a mutt with a wild look in his eyes like he can’t believe he’s letting himself pull away from this and from you after mere eons away from you. 

“You don’t want me?” It’s meant as a statement but comes out a question, unable to stop the slow gravitational pull to his lips that he’s trying so hard to pull away. 

“Don’t put those words in my mouth—“

“That’s not denying it.” 

He shakes you in his hold. “If you’re going to argue with me right now over something dumb then I’m telling you it’s not going to walk around the very thing we’ve both been avoiding.” He’s got a desperate look in his eyes and it instantly shakes your core, “we need to talk about how traumatic that must’ve been for you, baby. I can’t shake the feeling you won’t tell me because I couldn’t protect you from that, the only damn job I have.” 

He releases your face, holding his arms around your waist like he can’t ever let go. But his eyes, they’re the purest they’d ever looked before, like his whole life depended on addressing the elephant in the room. 

“You did the best you could,” you supply, unable to avoid the sting in your eyes and the tears that quickly follow. “I know it wasn’t easy for you either, I’d never seen you make such a face before when I showed you the small bump. Like you were ready for fatherhood, ready to take a new route in your life.” 

“I fucking left you alone to deal with all of it alone,” another small shake, “I’m a goddamn hero yet i couldn’t save you from this— I should’ve taken better care of you— i should’ve taken off more time for you.”

“Stop that,” you whisper, “you did everything you could in the moment, that you shouldn’t apologize for. It should be me,” your voice cracks, “my only job was to grow a healthy baby and my body rejected it.” 

“You did a perfect job,” he murmurs, pulling your head to his chest, holding you securely in his embrace under the sun's heat before the clouds take over the sky. “The miscarriage was a chance we hadn’t realized, but you are not the one to blame. If I could go back in time the only thing I’d change is my ignorance.” 

This was it, sharing grief. The very thing your marriage needed for it to be fixed, being able to share it. He holds you tighter once the tears start, holding you as close as possible like the world was closing in around you two. 

You could make sense of it and you didn’t need to, not anymore. The only thing you needed was him, all of him, to remind you that the miscarriage was traumatic but you don’t have to battle that demon alone. You don’t have to do anything alone, not with the rings that bind you to him. 

-

It felt as if the gates were opening and you couldn’t find your grip to stop it, not when Katsuki carried you back to the cabin and hands, lips, and tongues took the lead. You weren’t sure if you were ready for sex yet after the miscarriage, but your doctor wouldn’t have insisted you go on this vacation with your husband if it was too big of a risk to take, that and you couldn’t care less about anything but him and the way he carries you to the master. 

His lips devour yours, taking everything he’d been missing from you without remorse. You let him, tightening your thighs around his hips as he places you on the bed, hovering over you like he was about to take his time with you and refund every hour he spent away from you. 

Pulling away, his large and calloused hands slide down to your thighs before slowly pushing up the thin fabric of your dress to your hips. “God damn,” he groans, eyes taking in every inch of you like he’s scared to look away, “still got those fucking pregnancy curves baby, making my dick hard.” 

Scooping your thighs in his arms, he drags you closer to him on the bed until you feel himself right between your thighs, right against your core and it sends shivers down your curved spine. You’d never been this wet before, inner thighs nearly soaked as he slowly rubs his confined erection against your pussy clad in black silk panties. 

“Jesus, Kats,” you whimper, staring up at him wildly as if you could deny the overwhelming need curling between your thighs like a horrible ache. “P-Pause…”

“You wanna pause?” He asks, like the idea itself sounds like sin. His hands nearly fist your hips like a small attempt to keep you below him, “when your pussy’s this wet?” 

Shaking his head, he smacks the fat of your hips with a sinister smirk on his lips, straightening his back to get a better view of your vulnerability beneath him. The way he holds your eyes leaves you sure he can also feel it, how hard the lust is hitting like the distance away from one another was its own potent aphrodisiac. 

But that smirk on his face, dripping with sin, suggested he was well aware just how hard his dick was starting to strain against his jeans. 

“Tell me,” he drops a hand and slowly undoes the metal buckle of his belt, “you want me to stop?” 

You can’t even bring yourself to lie, not when he’s doing the zipper like that. He knows the answer already, it’s written all over your face, your body. 

“Speak up.” He growls, tugging himself out of his jeans. You nearly gasp at the weight of his dick against your cunt, unable to look away from his body and every vein or muscle that ripples with a threat to steal your self-restraint. 

“No, I don’t want you to stop.” You shake your head against the pillows, “don’t stop.” 

He doesn’t need to hear anything else, your breathless undertone is enough to drive him fucking insane. He gets down on his knees and elbows, lips brushing your cheek, your neck, your chest, every inch of you skin he’d missed until his face burries between your thighs. 

“Oh,” you can’t control your voice as his thumb tugs your panties to the side, “oh, god.” He’s on you in seconds, tongue delving deeper inside of you as his fingers hold your thighs with a bruising force. He hasn’t eaten you out like this in months, missing how well he knows your body better than you know it yourself. 

You fist the pillows behind you when he adds a finger, tonguing your clit like he’s clocked in. A moan rips from your throat, eyes rolling back with the curve of his finger inside of you, already adding in another. 

His fingers are already drenched inside of you, slipping in and out with ease, accompanying every thrust with a lewd, syrupy noise. It lights your body on fire, shivering against the sheets, feeling his fingers hit that sweet spot inside of you that makes you wonder if there really is a cloud nine and if that’s where he’s taking you. 

His cheek rests against your thigh, both of them on his shoulders as he makes out with your clit like a starved man, devoting everything to you. He kisses your clit with fever, moaning and mumbling nonsense like he’s confessing to sin and you’re the only god he wants forgiveness from. 

Every touch, taste, it drives you frantic for release, shivering and moaning into the master room, the clouds finally taking dominion over the sky and making everything dark. But even despite the gloomy atmosphere that threatens the island with rain, the only thing you care about is the storm that’s brewing in your abdomen. It’s thickly hot and warm, mending your skin and bones until your frantically reaching for his hair, closing a fist around it. 

Your orgasm rips right through before you can give warning, washing over you like a tsunami after an earth shattering quake. It steals your breath and your vision, head filled with fog and unyielding lust that overcomes you with white hot pleasure. It’s the sweetest revenge for a man with the purpose of making up what was once lost. 

He devours you until there’s nothing left to feed, lifting his head with a dazed expression that drips with something too intense. You hold his stare through your shallow pants, blinking wildly as if to stay conscious through the aftershocks. 

“Still alive?” He asks, voice still rough and wet from his earlier adventures. You nod with as much energy you can offer, letting your head fall back into the pillows, catching your breath. “Need a break?” 

Your eyes shoot open because the very last thing you want is a break. “No,” you shake your head, “no breaks.” 

But you feel him pull away and it scares you that this will stop here, will stop like this. In a haze, you flip your bodies until your positioned in a straddle of his hips, hands on his chest for stability as his eyes stare up at you with wicked amusement. 

“Baby, was just going to get you water-“

You shut him up with your lips, crashing yours to his with a kiss to seal the fate of your future. It isn’t when you pull away for breath that you find your words. “I don’t want to stop. Please, I can’t- I need you inside of me.” 

You don’t care how desperate you sound, if your voice teeters on the edge of cold desperation, you need him so bad that it’s starting to hurt. You hadn’t realized, but sex with Katsuki was the only thing that connected you with him, and right now all you wanted was that burning, golden thread. 

His palms find your upper thighs, holding you but never forcing, his own way of tearing down his walls just for you. Your movements are slow, unable to stop the soft tremor in your thighs as you slip off your panties and throw your dress off. He does the same with his shirt before holding your hips, unable to keep his hand off of you even for a second. 

You can feel the nerves from before, as if asking you if this was really worth the risk of potentially hurting yourself more…but that didn’t matter when you look down and see the same desperation in his eyes that’s eating you alive from the inside. He looks like he might die if he doesn’t feel you around him in the next minute, like his whole life depends on you, and only you. 

You start slow, unable to form words, but he didn’t need them to understand this was going to be slow for start. Wrapping your palm around him, feeling him throb with heat, you align his tip to your entrance and he freezes. 

“Wait, baby, no condom?” He gives you a concerned look, like maybe this wasn’t a good idea, “are you sure- oh fuckkkk!” 

You slide down on him slowly until your clit brushes against his blonde hairs, hands tightening against his chest at the stretch. It’s almost like the first time, feeling him so deep that it hurts so good. Your head falls back, fighting a mix between a moan and a cry. He watches you just the same, biting down on his lip, fighting his primal urges to just flip you over and fuck weeks worth of celibacy into you. 

You’re going fucking dumb from just the fullness of his dick so deep inside of you, like his dick has a motive to penetrate your soul. It steals everything from your lungs, body rolling forward by your hips like muscle memory, remembering exactly how good sex with Katsuki Bakugo is. 

“Look at me.” Your eyes immediately follow his voice downward, meeting crimson eyes that penetrate you just like his cock. “Hanging in there?” It comes out rough, matching his intensity. “No pain?” 

He’s checking in on you, making sure you’re not pushing your limits despite those primal urges bubbling beneath his tanned skin. You nod, slowly gliding your hands up and down his chest. “No pain,” you confirm. “Just..slow, it’s been awhile.” 

He grunts with a small nod, sliding his hands to your waist, helping you move your hips back and forth until you both find the rhythm. It feels too good to be real, his gentle touches against his primal grunts, those eyes that watch every single movement you make like he just can’t get enough, it’s euphoric. 

It’s not long before you find that equilibrium between the slow movements and the pressure between your thighs before you’re picking up speed. His grunts grow rougher and more clipped with every thrust, watching you sit up to get a better angle— using him like it’s what he’s built for. 

“Hah- fu-fuck me- ngh, like that, just like thattt,” he groans, jaw hardening with every bounce like hes holding himself back. “Don’t stop dontstopdont- fuck~ you’re so tight-“

“Baby, oh s-shittt~” you don’t even recognize your voice, your desperate moans with every squelching thrust, and he’s damn near putty because of it. It’s almost pathetic, seeing a man so well respected among those around the world— a hero who saves all and turns to a moaning mess when his wife rides him. But he’s yours, for now, and it’s so good. 

You ride him like you owe it to yourself and he moans like it’s sin. Taking a leap into the devils pit, your world tilts and you’re tossed on your back. He’s on you in seconds, hips thrusting like he needs it, lips devouring yours. 

Your orgasm comes fast and he can feel it, thighs clenching around his hips, moans slipping past lips. He can’t pull away, can’t stop. 

You moan against his lips like it hurts, fisting his hair as every thrust breaks you into a million pieces. It’s never been this intense, tears cooling the corners of your eyes. 

You pull away from his lips, head lolling back as you try to catch a breath. But he’s not wasting a single moment, giving your ass a small smack as he rolls your body, leaving you perched on your stomach with your ass in the air. He slides himself back inside and you have to moan into the pillow, his chest pressed against your back, his lips right by your ear. 

It’s so intimate, his grunts in your ear, his sharp thrusts of his hips against your ass, reminding you exactly who he is— your husband. 

“I’ve missed this,” he whispers against your heated ear, “makin’ love to you.” 

“Me too,” it’s soft, vulnerable. “We do it so good.” 

He laughs softly, brushing his lips against your hair. “Good girl.” 

He changes his pace, giving you slow grinds against your hips like he’s putting all of his attention on you. The heat from his body against your back eases all your tension, letting yourself drown in the feeling of him. It’s the most intimate way you’ve ever felt pleasure. 

“I still want a baby.” He slides his hand up your side, thumb brushing your ribs. “That won’t ever change. But I don’t want to risk your health because of it.” 

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, nearly forgetting to respond because he just feels so good. “We just need to be careful…”

He presses another kiss to your shoulder, “I’ll be there more often,” another to your jaw, “take better care of you.” 

His words hit a spot deep inside you, melting your heart to your flesh. You want that, another try, a gamble with chance. You wanted to give him fatherhood, a tiny version of himself to love just as much as he loves you, but never more. 

“Cum inside,” you manage to open your eyes, glancing over your shoulder, eyes holding his. “Another try. Please.” 

Something snaps inside of him and you take the brunt of it. His hips quicken, his lips find yours with a hunger like no other. 

Your moans get louder, his grow rougher. Fisting the pillows, your eyes roll back and you wonder if this is how the religious know there is a heaven. 

He cums inside shortly after you do, kissing you over and over until his lips go numb. 

You couldn’t explain it, the clarity that overcomes you like the first warm morning in spring when even the birds sing in joy. 

You didn’t want to stop, you couldn’t stop. Without a time limit on your stay, you find yourself pulling him closer, ready for another round. 

“thas’a cool snow globe!” a childish, boy-ish voice squeaks from beside you once you’ve set the box down— daring to tug your gaze upwards to meet a child who perhaps embodies the same sunshine that’s giving you warmth today. his eyes are a brilliant blue, gaps in his teeth where his adult ones just about break through the gums. the boy points a finger tip covered in blue marker, no doubt, towards the trinket in your box with glimmering matching eyes. 

smiling softly, you take it out of your box, thumbing the embossed logo of your university before shaking it and handing it to the tiny blonde. “isn’t it?” you whisper to him like you’re sharing a secret, leaning in real close and cupping his hands in your own. they’re warm. “if you hold it up to the sky, just right…” you add, pushing your hands upward with his to hold the snow globe under the sun. “the light catches on the glitter inside, making a snowy little rainbow!”

“woaaaah! that’s even cooler!” 

the boy grins, eyes scintillating like the pearlescent flecks mixed into the water of your snow globe— little bits of white covering the two happy caricatures stuck inside. 

“yoshi! how many times do i have to tell you not to run ahead, buddy?” the little boy, that you now know as yoshi, freezes in place— candescent azure eyes shooting over to his father as if he’s been caught in the act. he knows they’ll be late for swimming if they don’t keep walking…but your snow globe is just so cool. if you thought the kid was bright, the man before you is even brighter…the centre of your solar system, a warm heart lodged between his two juicy pecs and a chiselled jaw. he looks like he’s walked straight out of a movie, sending your brain into a tizzy. 

he’s stunning and your words come out jumbled as you address him. “is he yours?” you ask, body struck with the heat of the pro hero before you, the sun above you too. 

you feel a bit silly for asking the question, the uncanny resemblance between the two becoming even more obvious— as with the fact that it’s lemillion you’re talking to. the elder blonde’s hearty laughter echoing between you both on the side of the street. “yes, he’s mine. all my own flesh and blood,” mirio responds proudly. you’ve always loved children, but you never thought the pro hero would have one of his own.

and you never thought you’d wanted to mother someone’s children as much as you did his. mirio togata, desirable, handsome and good with kids. 

“introduce yourself buddy, be polite.” 

the little boy nods eagerly, bowing to you with respect after beaming at you warmly. “i-i’m yoshi togata! nice ta’meet you ma’am!” 

you giggle and mirio grins. you’re cute, endearing almost— and he finds himself laughing with you.

“it’s lovely to meet you too, yoshi,” you reply, sticking your hand out to shake his tinier one as you give them both your name kindly. 

sweet, just like you. mirio likes the way you interact with his son. he likes you, so far.

before mirio can introduce himself back, the driver in your mover’s van honks loudly. “move it lady! i’m not waitin’ out here for you all day or i’m uppin’ the price of your service.” you give the pair an apologetic look in response, offering a high five to yoshi and a shy wave to his dad, scurrying off to finish unloading the van. 

and mirio watches you go, for more than one reason.

the second time you encounter mirio togata, is after a disaster— his very reason for existence, his sunshine, little yoshi, nearly loses his light. 

you had always wanted to teach. nurturing children into the faces of tomorrow was your calling— guiding them to be good and help others without question…and as it turns out, the graduate teaching position you’d been hired for took in a lot of students who were the children of pro heroes, and the little blonde raised by his almost identical father just so happened to be a student in your kindergarten class. yoshi togata had taken an instant liking to you as his teacher, a child-like wonder akin to magic from fairy tales emitting from the little boy whenever you looked at him, helped him along in reading and solving calculations in the dreaded maths classes. 

yoshi absolutely adored you. 

he wanted to sit with you at lunch time, tucked himself into your side during nap time and screamed your name the first time his quirk ever activated. as much as the darling boy looked like pro hero lemillion— his quirk was scarily similar to it as well.

yoshi wails the whole way to the hospital, the lack of air he received after slipping through the concrete in the school yard while scraping his knee, a little beyond the school nurse’s jurisdiction. you’d already gotten someone to cover your class, speeding to the nearest emergency room with hope that someone had alerted his father of the situation.

when mirio arrives, yoshi’s cheeks are luckily smeared with chocolate pudding cups instead of saltine tears and he’s surprisingly cheerful for a kid attached to a small IV drip— dressed in his own red-riot themed hospital gown, with you resting beside the bed in his ward.

“how ya feelin’ buddy?” lemillion whispers, tone on the edge of worry as he slips off the cape to his hero costume. “heard you got your quirk today.” 

the bouncing baby boy with sunshine in his eyes shuffles onto his knees, wobbling over the edge of his bed before being snatched up by his dad, bright laughter bubbling on his lips when he nearly slips through the beefy man’s arms. “uh huh! an’ miss got me puddin’ cups! said i was real brave.” 

“you were kid, but we gotta get this quirk under control! dad’s gonna have to teach ya!”

togata turns to you next, appreciation evident on his matured features— radiating around you warmly. “h-he really was brave,” you say sincerely, sitting up and a little more awake now the pro hero of your dreams is looking deep into your soul. “i was so worried! but yoshi behaved just like a pro.” you cringe a little at your choice of words, but the strapping blonde before you only takes your hand, lips brushing across the back of your knuckles in such a way that tingles run down your spine. 

sapphire orbs flick upwards to make yours as you feel the heat of the sun simmering underneath your cheeks. 

“thank you for looking out for him,” he says, voice cheerful and like honey in your ears. “i never got to properly introduce myself, even after all this time. i’m—“

“lemillion, i-i know.” 

“mirio. togata, actually. and it’s a pleasure to meet you.” mirio cuts you off but the gentle smile never leaves his handsome face, and you’re sure you might pass out— embarrassed by his forwardness and flirting in front of his son, your student ( who’s too occupied by pudding cups and old cartoon reruns to actually care. ) 

there’s a knock to the door before it opens as the two of you share a moment. “mrs…togata and lemillion, sir! i have an update on your son’s vitals and quirk—“ suddenly, the doctor enters the room like a hurricane disrupting a quaint little farm.

and you jump back from the pro hero, bashful and shy. “o-oh! no. i’m not…we’re not!” gesturing between yourself and mirio, you shake your head— trying to dispel any wedded-couple vibes the pair of you might give off. “i’m just the teacher.” 

the doctor raises a brow, looking up from his sheets on the young togata’s vitals and then hums. “my apologies then,” he turns to mirio. “your son seems to be doing extremely well— considering the circumstances and shock to his body he must’ve experienced….” 

the doctor’s words fade into nothing but static as you attempt to calm your beating heart— sending reassuring smiles in yoshi’s direction from time to time while his father and the medical expert discuss the next steps to take regarding his quirk. 

but you don’t think you’ll get your heart to calm down tonight… not with the way mirio still holds your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it fondly.

your third memorable encounter with mirio togata falls on the day of your school’s winter fundraiser. 

lemillion had made himself a permanent fixture in your humble little life as a teacher—somehow acquiring your number from the school offices to constantly text you throughout the day. you knew that the pair of you were crossing the boundaries of professionalism, parent and teacher, but it couldn’t be helped. your heart fluttered at every message you exchanged, pictures of yoshi enjoying himself at school and some of mirio on patrol being sent back and forth. 

and so, you were beyond excited when the winter fate rolled around, the children of your class volunteering with their parents to help out at different stalls— yoshi had been sure to sign up to help you with the bake sale, roping in his dad as well. the two stayed up all night prior, baking pro hero themed cupcakes decorated with hundreds and thousands and dollops of tubed colourful frosting to sell, though messy, it only warmed your heart having their company.

“remember yoshi, i don’t want you phasing through the tables to steal the merchandise from the bake sale!” you remind the younger togata sweetly as he helps you set up the various baked goods for display. he shakes his head in affirmation, golden curls bouncing over ocean eyes and freckled cheeks despite the crumbs residing on them— evidence of his crimes. “though, i’m sure your dad will boost our donations! since he’s a pro hero and all.” not to mention all the mothers and single teachers are ogling the hell out him right now, you’re sure that they’re plotting your murder too. 

wiping yoshi’s mouth, you shift your attention to his father— rolling your eyes amusedly at the bags under his own from staying up late to bake. “i certainly must be givin’ you an ego boost helping out too, having a pro hero do all your dirty work.” lemillion teases, voice lowered and husky— though grateful when you pass him a hot coffee. 

“oh please mister togata,” turning on your own flirty charm, you send a wink the pro hero’s way. “you adore being my little helper, i’m sure you’ve missed having a woman boss you about like you need.” the second half of your words are whispered, almost sultry as you cross more boundaries in your unique and blossoming relationship. 

mirio flushes, and in the tight space of your bakesale booth— presses his broad and molten-warm chest against your back, coffee in one hand while the other sits in a calculated manor on your hip. 

“oh, i do love a woman in charge, miss.” the way he utters your name, sounds like and is as sweet as melted chocolate— far too risqué for a school fundraiser, and it’s your turn to shy away from the heat of the moment. 

you allow yourself to be distracted by the children, yoshi included — who must have snuck off using his quirk— playing dangerously close to a heavily decorated Christmas tree that threatens to topple over as they weave around beneath it, and rush off to stop them— leaving the darling lemillion to deal with a swarm of hungry mothers and staff, desperate for a slice of his pie and not the cake your booth has to offer. he can’t help but watch you longingly, the way you bend down to speak soft to the children, holding their chubby little hands while giving them a gentle reprimand. 

you’re so good with kids, good with yoshi— and mirio would be lying if he didn’t say you were good with him too. 

you didn’t judge him for having a child before marriage, when he was still making a name for himself— you were kind to him, sweet and oh so understanding. 

and perhaps he’d come to like you for reasons more than just being good with his son.

though his fantasises of having you close, having you to himself and making you a part of his family are promptly cut short by the intrusion of his long time friend…izuku midoriya. when the number one, his competion from way back when, seems to appear from nowhere— joining you with the now squealing children, giving them a lesson ( no doubt ) on how to be a good hero. or some mushy crap like that. 

you seem impressed, smitten at how good deku is with your students, ruffling their hair and holding them up high above the green ringlets that make everyone go crazy…including you. mirio doesn’t miss the way your eyes light up brighter than those on the Christmas tree as izuku plays with your kids, puts his hand on the small of your back and whispers way too damn close to your ear. 

since when did that shrimp have moves? the blonde can’t help but wonder. why do you like him so much?

your smile is near blinding when you return back to the bake sale booth with izuku on your arm— rambling about how much it took to get him to come, how good for the school it will be… as if togata hadn’t been standing right there the entire time. it bothers mirio a little bit, just how bright you shine when this other man is around, despite the budding romance you both might be sharing. 

so he really can’t help himself, jealousy boiling over, when he blurts out. “are you two dating? am i missing something, number one?” in a strained, faux happy voice. 

“o-oh! god no!” 

“w-what? mirio no! midoriya is my cousin.” you’re quick to dismiss the idea, shaking your head while the number one hero turns bright red. “i invited him along today because he’s obviously a hit amongst single parents— freckles like this are sure to bring in the big bucks.” you cheer, punching your relatives star spotted cheeks. 

izuku is rendered embarrassed for the remainder of the fundraiser, mirio absolutely mortified and you extremely amused but the rest of the bake sale goes without a hitch until closing and clean up time. yoshi sleeps on a bench behind your booth ( ultimately crashing from a sugar high ) as your cousin serves the very last of your eager customers trying to tempt him with their cookies instead of buying the ones izuku‘s girlfriend makes for a living.

as though not to disturb his sleeping son, the elder blonde shoots you a quick text.

mister togata - 5:45PM : I definitely was not jealous earlier. 

mister togata - 5:46PM : So pls disregard me making a fool out of myself in front of your cousin.

you stifle a breathless chuckle like music to mirio’s ears, before looking back to see if yoshi is still resting peacefully and shoot another text in response.

yoshi’s pretty teacher lady - 5:49PM : oh i dunno, don’t think i can forget you mistaking my cousin for my boyfriend. 

yoshi’s pretty teacher lady - 5:49PM : but maybe i can make an exception for you. 

that familiar crack of heat flitters in the air when you both look up from your phones and catch one another’s gaze— suddenly aware of how small the space in booth is, how close you both are…how if you stood on your tiptoes you might be able to…

to kiss him.

to kiss one another.

but the moment is soon lost, wanting energy dissipating within the air as yoshi stirs to mumble tiredly. “don’ get too close to daddy miss!” the baby boy utters your name once, rubbing his eyes. “he’s got cooties.”

it’s only then that you truly realise how close you to the man…to this pro hero whose son is someone that you teach. it’s wrong, unprofessional… and losing your career isn’t worth kissing togata, no matter how much you want it.

so you back away— treating mirio togata as if he really does have cooties, putting up a wall between you both.

the fourth time you cross paths with mirio togata, you’re wet. 

and not because of him. 

the rain from an unexpected storm after work soaks you to the bone as you desperately call out to deku from your shared front porch— pleading and begging with the gods for him to be home since you’d forgotten your house keys back at your office on campus. 

neither of you had realised it at the time, but when you’d first met mirio on your move-in date— you’d made arrangements to bunk with your cousin, izuku, in the same gated community that mirio lived in. the one where he just so happened to be neighbours with the top hero too. 

the sunshine-like pro hero had spotted you shivering like a purse dog outside while home with a sickly little yoshi and despite the frosty awkwardness that built up between you both after the bake-sale, mirio knew it would be cruel of him to just leave you outside like that. “come inside,” he frowns, as if to scold you the same way you’d do with your students. “you’ll catch a cold like this if you don’t. and i’m not taking no for an answer, deku is on patrol, won’t be home until late.” 

you look defeated, like a kicked puppy as you trudge into the togata household, clothes heavy with water. “i’m sorry,” you pout, as cute as ever— stealing mirio’s heart right from where it beats in his chest. 

“don’t be, head upstairs and take the first right into my room. you can grab a change of clothes and stay here until your cousin comes home. i’ll fix you something to eat.” 

it has the man’s stomach in knots how easily you follow his command, how beautiful you look with raindrops clinging to your skin. you’re even more so when you come back down dressed in an old sir night-eye shirt of his, heading over to join a pleased yoshi on the couch who can’t stop talking about how how he hated missing school and being sick and how glad he is that you came to visit.

yoshi trusts you so much, and that’s more than enough to drive mirio insane…but seeing you in his shirt too? it’s icing on the cake. 

the rest of the evening is spent with you making funny shaped homemade pizzas with the younger togata and picking a book for him while his father and lemillion draws him a bubble bath. after washing up, you read yoshi the story until his eyes droop… and you can’t help but be a little jealous of how long his golden lashes are as they brush the freckles on his chubby cheeks. mirio spends that time avoiding eye contact, staring at your bottom when it peeks out from under his shirt and thinking of you in the most unholy ways.

when the time comes, you tuck the darling yoshi into his dinosaur and suneater themed sheets alongside his father before letting the elder togata guide you to the guest bedroom just one floor up and two doors down from his own. “sleep tight,” you murmur to the man, just a breath’s width apart in the doorway. “i-i’ll head back to midoriya’s in the morning. s-so thank you for tonight…”

he wants to say thank you back, for spending time with his son and teaching him so well, but lemillion’s words are lost on the way you look up at him with such bright doe eyes and a sleepy sweet smile. you chuckle breathlessly and slip away into the room, leaving mirio a flustered statue in place. 

neither of your nights end there, however.

crossing the lines of professionalism once more, surrounded by all of his scents— hazelnuts and burning wood…you’re overcome with desire, there’s a familiar twitch between your thighs and a throb at your clit that you have to soothe. every neuron in your brain screams at you to stop, though your fingers circle your nub from over the crotch of your panties and thoughts of mirio above you, inside of of you and all over you ebb at your moral judgement. 

it’s wrong, to moan mirio’s name into his sheets that smell like him…for you cunt to drool selfishly through your night clothes against the warm blanket he’d provided you with. the blonde hears you through the paper thin walls, cock swelling more and more with every mewl you let out. ones that are promised to him and him alone. 

mirio chokes on groans, fists his cock and spreads his precum all over his expensive bed linen, humping his duvet as he imagines your supple, heated flesh beneath him. you’re like the sun, pulling him into your orbit and incinerating him from the inside out. he calls your name like it’s a prayer, half hoping you can hear his wanton for you echo across the hall, too busy jacking off to burst into your room and pump you full. make you a mother to his second and third child. 

it’s far from appropriate, the pair of you getting off to one another in the middle of the night like this— but neither of you can think to stop, minds clouded by lust and orgasms that breach the horizon of the early morning… the tastes of each other’s names like sins on your tongues.

the filth and final time you encounter mirio togata like this, you’re like a lamb being sent to the slaughter.

pretty prey walking into the lion’s den.

you learn from yoshi during pick-up time that his father had fallen sick with the winter’s cold…explaining why you hadn’t seen him much between the special encounters after your night of sin. suneater— or mister amajiki, a close friend of the togatas, picks up yoshi under the guise of a play date while mirio recovers from a particularly serious cold and flu he caught on patrol. 

“you should go see daddy!” yoshi babbles before bounding down to his uncle’s car. “he calls out for you a lot!” the cluelessness yet enthusiasm of a child will never cease to amaze you, and you have to control your stutter when hesitantly agreeing with your student. you know why mirio calls your name so much, that night hadn’t been the only time you’d gotten off to one another, nor would it be the last. you’d even walked in on the pro hero fisting his cock with your name wet on his tongue but neither of you had said a word at the time. 

once all of your students have been sent off with their parents and carers, you make sure to swing by the closest mart to make somewhat of a care package for mister togata. some cough drops, cold medicine, heating pads for his hands and several tins of soup— all with the hope of helping him feel better. 

you’re not nearly prepared for the sight you’re given when knocking on mirio’s door later on.

he says your name as soon as he opens up, hoarse and almost sultry,, and the man is half naked too— golden skin radiating with heat, coruscating with sweat and a slight flush from the fever. “fuck, pretty girl. you’ve come t’take care of me, hm?” mirio slurs in a slow and sexy way, swaying on his feet and collapsing onto you right on the front porch. “wha’d’are ya doin’ here gorgeous?” 

embarrassment floods your veins, tangling with the heat burning from mirio against you. “l-lets get you inside, you’re sick.” 

“lovesick, baby, been missin’ you all week.” 

his words shouldn’t send your brain into a flurry as you push the pro hero back into his house but they do. you struggle with avoiding how he slobbers all over you like a horny dog, how he smirks cockily  while you push him to sit against the livingroom couch. “we need to bring down this fever,” dismissing the blonde, you rush to his kitchen for a tall glass of water and boil the kettle to make him one of those medicated hot drinks. “you’ll be better soon, mister togata.”

blinking over at you with reddened lined eyes, lemillion keeps a predatory gaze on you despite how ill he is. “using formalities with me, sunshine?” he coos in response, distracted when you return by attempting to tug off more of his clothes…or his pants, rather. “that’s not what you were calling me the other night when you phoned to let me watch you shove your tiny fingers into that tight…pretty pussy…moaning my name—“ 

“mirio!” 

“just like that gorgeous… fuck, say it again, baby.” you know that the man is delirious with his flu, but the low voice he drops deep, dripping with honey, filling you with that familiar lust you got off on whenever the two of you met up in secret. “‘mirio, m-mirio…oh fuck! mirio!’ you get so cute when you whine for me like that.” he’s playing you for a fool and you’re falling for it— like an easy game of cat and mouse, mirio coyly flirting with you as you desperately try to keep his sweatpants on. bundling him up in blankets and filling him up with cold water to calm down his fever. 

you’re about to check his temperature again while pressing the back of your hand to his forehead when large and calloused hands grip the fat at your hips— tugging you straight into mirio’s lap like a lion dragging around its prey before the kill. “d-doesn’t look like you’re hot anymore…” you squeak, quivering in his grip and feeling every ripple of his thighs and abs beneath your fingertips as you steady yourself against him. 

“fever went down ages ago baby,”  he grins, all toothy and pearly white— pinching your waist, slender fingers cupping the curve of your ass to pull you back and forth over the growing bulge in his lap. “you’re just so fucking cute, dotin’ all over me, sunshine.” biting your lip, you fall apart easily— bearing witness to tousled golden locks and a smirk that sets a fire alight in your lower belly. “you wanna kiss me, don’t you?” 

then you’re nodding your head, any logical thought cleared from your mind ( even the ones about not spreading germs that you usually tell to your students )— you want to know what the sun tastes like, if it’s as warm or as hot as science makes it seem. a heavy hand cups your throat without squeezing and brings you down for a passionate lip lock, your own finding the thick tresses of light and fiery hair as mirio’s tongue glides over the seam of your lips after pressing against yours. you moan at the sweet taste of honey and ginger on his lips, whimper in the form of begging for the man to let you in and consume you whole until you’re nothing but stardust.

neither of you part, lungs burning for oxygen like you’re lost in space with no air to breathe— grinding and kissing like your lives depend on it. everything is sloppy, spit-slicked and full of the admissions of feelings— you like each other. need each other like the earth needs its light and the sun needs something to shine down on. mirio sucks on your bottom lip, takes it between his teeth and slowly pulls away from you, but you follow him, chasing your own personal ecstasy. 

“so needy, sunshine,” mirio coos, a certain deep rasp caught in the ridges of his throat. “so pretty like this too, so cute, all small in my lap. with my hands around your darlin’ little neck.” cobalt eyes, as luminous as the skies on a clear day flicker up to meet yours, swimming with tears of desperation— a craving for more of mirio togata carved into each fleck, drowning your dilated pupils. “do you want me to fuck you?” 

you nod again, the world around you spinning and your thoughts intoxicated with the golden boy hero beneath your thighs that tremble with each compliment he feeds to you. “yes— god, please.” 

“please, what?” togata asks you, voice stern as he works on pulling you out of the layers of your clothes— blouse and bra gone before you can even register it. 

pouting, you whisper a needy. “m-mirio?” 

shaking his head as if chastising a child, the man tuts and mocks your pout all while working on plucking off your skirt next, leaving you in nothing but your innocent cotton panties. “that’s daddy when i’m with you,” he tells you like it’s a promise with his fingers once again fumbling between your bodies and underwear to toy with the pearl between your puffy pussy lips, dragging the newfound wetness over your clit. clear strings of your arousal seep through your panties and leave a dark spot on his sweats. “daddy, when i have you like this, you got that?”

“y-yes,” you mewl eagerly, shifting on your knees so you’re better spread over mirio’s lap— giving him better access to prep your sweet hole as it flutters around his thick digits, earning a breathless chuckle from his wet lips. “yes, daddy.” 

“good fucking girl,” he says proudly, gaze fixated on between your pretty thighs— watching you quiver from the praise before mirio relents, easing two fingers past your soaked entrance and scissoring them immediately. stretching you wide to take his girthy cock. “oh fuck, my little sunshine’s so warm, so wet for me.” he groans, drawing his name against your silken walls, thumb painting wide sloppy circles into your clit.

your face feels hot with tears, something that mirio enjoys seeing, especially when they clump in your eyelashes. “please…i want more,” i want you. is what you mean, nails lightly cutting into mirio’s shirtless shoulders as you ride the digits pumping in and out of your slick cunt, squeezing tight around them as you gush into the seat of his palm. “d-daddy!” 

“shhh, i know little sunshine, daddy knows,” he hums softly after pressing down on your g-spot, carefully pulling his fingers out of you to push you onto your back on the couch. “be good f’me and don’t cum yet, kay? want you to hold onto that until i’ve got you on my cock. yeah?” mirio’s words are tender, though domineering, while he shifts to hover over you, hot tongue burning against your skin as he licks a trail from the hem of your panties, between your arching back, bare breasts and budding nipples until he meets your lips— drooling into your eager open mouth as you pant out for more. “so fucking perfect, sunshine.” 

cool air rushes over your pulsating, glistening pussy— mirio having pulled your underwear aside, only causing you to cry out from the lack of stimulation. “don’t cry, pretty baby,” you manage to hear him over the blood pulsing through your ears, body tingling all over at the feeling of mirio’s girthy cock pressing against your inner thigh through layers of fabric. “‘m gonna fuck you now, don’t worry. daddy’s gotcha.” 

he hikes a thigh of yours up over his hip, shoving down his boxers and sweats just enough to let his mushroomed and seedy cockhead press into the heat of your pussy. you dig your nails into mirio’s sweaty scalp, mouth hanging open and hips rising from the sticky leather of the couch covered in your juices. the man above you is the centre of your universe, you think. though your relationship may be somewhat taboo, you feel the care and affection he has for you in every single one of his touches. calloused hands moulding your body into the perfect shape to fuck, to make love to and makes you feel like jello as his fat, veiny dick pushes deeper into you— big for the slickness of your pussy to resist him. 

“relax for daddy, sweetheart, let me in…c’mon, fuck. open up f’me,” mirio simpers, rolling his hips slow and sensual until your walls tremble around him— welcoming his dick home, bathing him in all of your arousal. he throbs inside you, finally sheathed in all your warmth as if you’re the core of his earth. “that’s it…my good girl, oh fuck. fuck, you feel better than i ever imagined. so fucking tight baby, gonna let daddy fuck you right, huh?” you can tell that he’s losing himself within you, now forcing your knees into your shoulders to put you into a mating press and wasting no more time setting a rough, feverish pace to his hips and pounding into your sweet cunt. 

you cry and squeal and claw at togata, the world spinning on its axis around you while the blonde fucks you into a stupor— his tip smearing copious amounts of thick precum along your velveteen insides until there’s a white ring of your mixed arousals cuffed around the base of his blue veined cock. “d-daddy…s’good. so fuckin’ good,” your own juices splash up against the pro hero’s stomach and and every time his hips slam down against your own— wet skin slapping on skin in a rhythmic and sensual tune. 

galaxies twinkle in your pretty eyes, your teeth sinking into mirio’s golden and broad shoulders while you scratch at his back. the sound of sex clinging to the air in the room is primal, animalistic as lemillion cups your throat again— tilting your head so that he can mark his claim into your sweat tainted flesh. the fabric of your panties pushed to the side rubs deliciously at his soaked, creamy shaft and the waistband of his pants rub your clit raw, the effect the clothing has on you both leading you to believe that neither of you will last much longer like this.

“‘m makin’ you see fuckin’ stars, aren’t i sunshine?” he asks you, each word punctuated by a harsh thrust—cum-loaded balls tapping against your ass, the sound mixing with your squeals to make a lustful song. “want this pretty pussy to cum for me. can you do that, my good girl?” mirio moans heartily above the couch squeaking beneath your bodies that dance together in rough and passionate movements.

he smiles again, nice and bright when you nod and start to circle your hips upwards as best as you can into his. “‘m close, can cum for daddy. wanna cum for daddy. please don’t stop, please—!”

“alright baby, i gotcha…look at you. so cute and needy for your daddy. for me.” mirio gunts back into your mouth, falling apart at the sight of your lovesick and teary face, crumbling at the way your cunt clamps down on him— refusing to let him pull out in an attempt to milk him for all his worth. you’re tight around him, practically choking mirio’s cock as his fat milky tip bullies your insides and harshly bares down on your g-spot— sending you headfirst into your orgasm. “that’s it…fuck look at that, pretty lil pussy cummin’ around daddy’s fat cock. s-shit.”

soft praises are expelled into the buzzing air between you both, with you gasping for breath and squirting on the blonde’s dick so hard that he’s forced out of your pulsing walls before he cums in hot waves over your raw mound— painting your ravaged pussy lips white with his hot and thick seed. 

you’re both left panting and sticky messes on the couch as you come down from your highs— your mind running a mile a minute when you realise what’s just happened, what you’ve done with the father of your student. no less.

“m-mister togata, i-i’m—“ you start to apologise, coming too, heart rate spiking in your chest. 

but mirio is quick to stop you, forehead and sweaty blonde locks pressed to your own with a dreamy and satisfied look on your face. “before you say anything more. i want you to know that this wasn’t just a hook up for me. nor were the times before that.” he explains,blinking up at you with unadulterated affection, perhaps even love. “i like you, a-and i like how you look out for my son. and i know our relationship has been far from appropriate, i’d like to take you out for a proper date— do things right instead of sleeping with you to work up my courage to ask you out.” 

“mirio…” you smile, brushing back his hair. “i’d love that, a lot actually.”

“yeah?” he asks, timid for a man who just fucked you to the high heavens and back before linking your fingers. “say you mean it, or you’ll be breakin’ both mine and yoshi's hearts.” 

“yeah…” you murmur through a laugh, leaning up for a sweet kiss to seal the deal. 

the fifth time you encounter mirio togata, you walk into the lions den, but come out with him hand in hand— your hearts belonging to one another.