#ririondabeach

“Rough day?” you ask softly, kicking off your shoes and dropping your bag by the door.

He grunts, eyes fixed on the screen he’s clearly not watching. “Villains were fuckin’ idiots. Agency paperwork was worse. Everything pissed me off.”

You hum in understanding, padding across the room in your socks. He doesn’t look at you right away, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves—tight shoulders, clenched jaw, that low growl he makes when the world’s been too much.

You don’t push. Not yet.

Instead, you move behind the couch, leaning over the back to press a gentle kiss to the top of his spiky blond hair. He smells like smoke and sweat. His body stiffens for half a second before he exhales through his nose.

“Food’s in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” you say quietly, letting your fingers trail down the back of his neck, slow and deliberate. “I missed you.”

Another grunt, but it’s softer this time.

You round the couch and sit beside him—not too close, just enough that your thigh brushes his. He still doesn’t look at you, but you catch the way his eyes flick down for a fraction of a second before snapping back to the TV.

You lean into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re all tense, Katsuki.”

“‘Cause the world’s full of morons,” he snaps, but there’s no real bite in it—not toward you.

You smile against his arm, letting your hand settle on his chest, fingers idly tracing the line of his collarbone through the open zipper of his costume. “Let me help.”

He finally turns his head, crimson eyes narrowing. “Tch. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” you murmur, shifting closer. Your lips brush the sharp line of his jaw, feather-light. “But I can make you feel better.”

His breath hitches—just barely—but you feel it. You always do.

You keep it slow. Painfully slow. Your hand slides lower, over the hard planes of his stomach, fingertips grazing the edge of his abs. You kiss his jaw again, then the corner of his mouth, teasing, never quite giving him what he wants.

“Y/N,” he warns, voice low and rough.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, innocent and knowing all at once. “Yes?”

His eyes darken. You can see the fight in them—the part of him that wants to stay pissed off at the world, and the part that’s already crumbling under your touch.

You swing a leg over his lap, straddling him carefully. His hands immediately go to your hips, gripping hard like he’s anchoring himself. You lean in, lips hovering over his.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper.

He growls—actually growls—and surges up to kiss you, hard and hungry like he’s been holding it back all day. You smile into it, letting him take control for just a moment before you pull back again, just out of reach.

“Nuh-uh,” you tease softly, rolling your hips slow and deliberate against him. “My pace tonight.”

His eyes flash dangerously, but he doesn’t fight it. Not really. His grip tightens on your hips, but he lets you set the rhythm—slow, torturous, perfect.

You kiss him again, deeper this time, hands sliding up into his hair as you grind down just right. He groans into your mouth, low and needy, and you feel the exact moment he gives in completely.

“Bedroom,” he rasps against your lips, voice wrecked.

You smile, sweet and victorious. “Thought you’d never ask.”