#shoto

It’s a featherlight breach in comparison to the rest of him, and it wrecks you that this is only the beginning. That, despite him having barely done anything, your arousal already gathers heavily onto the pad of his finger. Undeniably wet. Sticky.

You remember he asked a question, and your whispers come out choked. Tight. “I- I don’t know what he’s saying—” Shoto pushes one thick finger in, smooth, sliding steadily along your walls that clench tight around the single digit. A whimper nearly breaks out before you clamp your mouth shut, the feeling of his knuckle cool stone against your entrance. 

This feels wrong. Wildly inappropriate as Kaminari mumbles to himself across the line. But it seems to barely affect Shoto as his only response is to tighten his arm around your squirming waist, pulling your back flush against his chest as he pries you open on his lap.

Two forgotten wine glasses sit on the table, barely touched. The aftermath of the party was strewn around the house: cups and stray chairs littering everywhere, a half-eaten cake on the kitchen counter, the space worn with the familiar echo of friends. 

All background to what’s playing out obscenely on the living room couch.

“Would you like my help?” he asks. A little too sweetly, as if he weren’t the reason for your fog-filled mind.

You hurriedly nod, though not entirely comprehending what he’s saying, teeth biting harsher into your lip when he slips another finger inside.

Shoto rests the side of his head against yours, red strands of hair peeking into your vision. He speaks—a low sound. A deep rumble that reverberates through your limbs, and you’re scared that you might cum from his voice alone.

You probably can. His effect on you is just that powerful.

“Tell him to go home,” he whispers into your ear, sending a shiver up your spine. Less of a suggestion and more like a command.

It comes out immediately, strained. Straight to the point. “Kaminari. Go home.”

“You’ll give it to him tomorrow,” Shoto murmurs, pumping in and out of you. Steady, strong strokes that leave you breathless, that have you wondering how he can make you feel so full with two mere fingers. Until he stills, reminding you generously, “His jacket.”

You gasp out, fighting to keep your composure, if only through your stuttering voice. “I’ll- I’ll come by tomorrow. I’ll stop by. To give you your- your jacket.”

Kaminari whines, high-pitched and noisy and clearly intoxicated. “But ‘m still nearby. We all turned back already and ‘ts cold.”

“Try again, sweetheart,” Shoto urges you.

Which makes you breathe out hotly, heart racing in your chest, words tumbling out fast. “Just go home, Kaminari. It’s late, a-and dark, and I’m tired. Sho’s tired. We’re practically—”

Shoto suddenly curls his fingers upwards, grazing a sensitive spot inside. You jerk against his hold, pinching your eyes shut, trying to dull the warmth webbing from your core.

The rest out comes weakly. “—practically in b-bed already…”

Practically.

Past the squelching of his fingers leaving and entering you, rustling can be heard from over the phone. You hear voices—people who are completely oblivious as to what’s transpiring on the other end of the line. Worried mumbles, loud complaints, whines, arguing and yelling over who knows what.

You feel Shoto smile against your temple.

Then finally, you hear your friend’s voice again, crackling like electricity in the already charged air. “Alrigh ‘right. We’ll sswing by t’morrow then. Hey, kiss ‘Roki g’night for me, won’t cha?”

An I will means to come out. It really does. But Shoto relentlessly starts his pace again, thrusting in with more force, pressing the heel of his palm onto your clit, and his other hand makes it just in time to wrap around your mouth as a moan helplessly erupts from you.

The span of his hand easily covers half your face, hushing the delicate sounds meant for his ears only.

You squeeze your eyes tight as he works you. Aloof, careful, serious; all words people would describe him. If only they also knew how shameless he could be, shamelessly unworried as he finger-fucks his lover whilst on the phone with his dear friends.

“—oh!” Mina’s voice. At least, you think it is. “And tell him happy birthday for us again! We hope he had a lot of fun tonight!”

Shoto doesn’t move from his position, though he raises his head just slightly. His thrusts are rapid now, but his voice is steady, unassuming. Dare you say it, amused. “Thank you, Mina. I will.”

Three consecutive beeps ring out, signaling the end of the phone call. By the third chime, Shoto’s hold on you releases immediately, hand unwinding from your face, digits quickly pulling out stickily. Almost too fast for you to process, if not for the instant cold washing over you.

You whip around on his lap, glaring up at him with flushed need, pants leaving your lips erratically. Your eyes ask him what you can’t seem to say. Anger and embarrassment masking plead.

What’s wrong with you? Why did you do that?

And why did you stop? 

Shoto tilts his head to the side, and you know, you just know he understands.

“You were going to come.” He states it as a fact because it is.

So, why did you stop? The words were on the tip of your tongue but unescaping. Instead, your fist lifts to thump weakly against his broad chest. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He never does because it’s not an action meant to push.

“We have a long night ahead of us,” is all he says, eyes patient, but darkening by the second.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You don’t nod, nor shake your head, but prickling anticipation boils in the pit of your gut. He says this as if he knows what’s best for you. And you can’t deny the flutter in your stomach at his unwavering confidence, at his own self-trust that he knows exactly what you need and how to give it.

At your silence, Shoto grabs your frozen fist against him, bringing it up to kiss your knuckles. Reverent and appreciative, how one treats something they love. Desire scorches into your bones at the sight, heart beating wildly in your chest.

And his voice clings to you, sticks to you like honey:

“Here. Why don’t I show you?”

Shoto would never deny how smitten he is with you. In fact, he knows it hit him very early on in the relationship: this all-consuming love he felt for you, this desire to be by your side, this greed to be the recipient of your attention at all times. 

You came into his life like a flurry of flames—became the center of his world, and if there’s one thing he can ever be confident of, it's that he could provide you with everything you needed and more.

If only you’d let him.

Perhaps it’s because you two have been dating for only half a year now, or maybe it's because he was high-profile in the hero world, but you still had this air of courtesy surrounding you. A distance that kept him from veering too close, a wall that shot up in favor of “taking the relationship slow.”

Shoto was desperate to break it down.

And the truth is, he wanted you to rely on him. To need him. Because while he admired your strength and independence, you didn’t need to be when he’s around. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger or ever deny yourself anything, because he’d do it for you. You only had to say the words.

But Shoto knew you were too headstrong for that, too cautious. And so, he was careful. Careful to scatter his love in ways that you’d accept it, careful not to be too forceful. He should’ve known it’d backfire on him—his patience, on his birthday of all days.

January 11th, the day was spent walking around the winter-chilled city. A date meticulously planned and led by none other than you. He thought it was cute, adorable really, with how insistent you were to celebrate his special day, perhaps even more excited than he was.

It was going great. You were attentive—practically doting on him, ensuring he was having a fun time. Giddy by his side. But more importantly, you were open: lenient when he talked about future birthdays as if he was certain you were going to be there, willing when he prodded about bits of your life that you’ve always been hesitant to share. Perhaps it was the birthday luck everyone spoke so highly of.

Perfect—it was going perfectly. That is, until an unwelcoming encounter with an old friend stopped you in your tracks. Shoto had narrowed his eyes at the sight: your childhood neighbor who graciously interrupted him on the streets with a loud yell and a too-familiar call of your name, your eyes lighting up in response to the unexpected reunion.

Shoto was silent throughout the entire interaction, save for when he introduced himself stiffly behind you. It displeased him further when the man barely acknowledged him, when he excitedly babbled about how things were going well back at home, and that everyone missed you. And his heart stopped when he heard the conversation unfold before his very eyes:

“It was nice seeing you. I was actually curious about how everyone was doing back home. It does make me miss it.”

It did?

Your friend smiled, an action that had Shoto seething inside, even more so at the faint blush reddening the man’s cheeks. It made his blood boil.  “You should move back home. Like I said, everyone misses you.”

“Ah. Yeah… maybe. I’ll think about it.”

Shoto reeled then. Not physically, but inside, his mind was racing. Were you just being polite? Or did you actually mean your words? Were you actually thinking of moving back home?

Were you going to leave him?

Shoto felt his world nearly crumble then and there.

But after your friend left, you looked at him with such a warm and beautiful smile on your face. A sight that never fails to make him want to keep you all to himself, a sacred treasure. He was deathly quiet when you pulled him along to the next planned destination, thinking—reflecting, unable to help himself when he asked:

“You’re moving back home?”

Your head whipped up to him, eyes wide, a little shocked. “Huh? Oh… No… I was just saying what I think he wanted to hear.” You didn’t offer any other explanation, but Shoto saw it, that crack of hesitation in your expression. After all, he studied you well, seared every emotion and reaction you exhibited safely away in his mind. He could tell, in a heartbeat, that you had some reservations, though he didn’t know exactly what.

Then again, it was undeniable: Shoto is smitten with you—he loves you. So, in that split second, he decided he wouldn’t be upset or angry with you. He couldn’t be.

He just had to make you see it, what he could give you.

The day continued with that notion solely on his mind, through all the birthday festivities you had planned and the warmth you basked him in. It didn’t stop when you two made it back to his place, for a chorus of Surprise! welcomed him at the threshold of his door—the presence of all his loved ones there, courtesy of you.

He was indeed surprised. Not so much because of you, that you would think to plan something like this; it was telling of your character, of how much care you put into things. It thrills him, to be the one you think so methodically of. It almost makes him forget that you hesitated.

Shoto was more surprised at seeing his family whom he couldn’t visit often due to work, and at his friends who embarked on paths different from his. It was pleasant to catch up with them, since he hadn’t seen them for a while. And that should’ve been the first sign.

If they haven’t seen him all that much, then they haven’t seen you. And for most, it was their first time officially meeting you. So, as much as everybody wanted to be with the birthday boy, they just as much wanted to be with and get to know his new beloved. 

You are easily lovable, and loved by many; it’s one of your charms. He sees that. He understands why, even if all he was itching for was you to be by his side. The timing couldn’t have been worse, the culmination of everything built up today that made this wretched spear of possessiveness stab him at the throat. That dug with each passing second.

At first, it was five minutes. Iida had pulled you away briefly, leaving him to chat with Fuyumi and Natsuo. Shoto was admittedly confused, on edge and alarmed. He counted down the minutes, listening aimlessly to their rambling, until you came back, waving off how Iida was fussing over proper first introductions.

The sense of relief that hit him was immense, a hefty arm gently wrapping around your hip that tugged you back to his side. He ignored the mildly interested looks of his siblings, just focusing on the fact that you were near him again.

Then, it was twenty-four minutes, give or take thirty seconds. Uraraka came up to you, cheeks redder than usual from the alcohol, and promptly tugged you to the other side of the room. Girl time, she said. It was frustrating because you were still in sight. So close but out of reach, laughing and spreading your love to those around you.

Shining like the bright star you were, giving undivided attention to those who craved it. 

Oh, how he longed to take you back. He would’ve, if not for Kaminari holding him hostage.

Shoto can blame it on his birthday all he wants, perhaps use the idea that your world should revolve around him on his special day. But he would be lying to himself. It just happened to be on his birthday when it truly hit him: the insatiable need to swallow you up whole. To be the center of your universe and simultaneously lead you through it at the same time.

He knew he was greedy, but he couldn’t care less.

Eventually, you came back, only to be whisked away again. And this time, it was an hour, two minutes, and thirteen seconds.

By then, Shoto was undoubtedly irritated.

Because this time. This time, you don’t make your way back to him. Mina excitedly decides to ask for your life story. Midoriya catches you in the midst of his tangents. Bakugo, for some reason, was insistent on hearing your thoughts on the birthday cake he so graciously made. And pulls you into a debate on the right amount of sweetness in pastries.

It’s not your fault.

That is, until he managed to grab you for forty-two seconds, before someone snagged you again. His hand latched onto your hip firmly, messily, a little roughly, and that’s when he felt it. Slipped underneath your shirt, the texture of familiar lace he’s seen paired with your supple skin in the heat of the night.

His eyes widened just slightly; he could even feel the blood pumping through his body.

Because you understand him well, if the knowing smile you gave him was anything. Then there you were, ushered away again like Cinderella at midnight, throwing a gaze with twinkling eyes behind your shoulder. Mouthing the words: your gift.

He barely saw you for the rest of the night. (Three hours and thirty-six minutes)

No. He was just able to get his hands on you when the last person trickled out. Yellow-haired and with one less jacket than he came with. Shoto was already by your side before the door shut with a resounding click.

“Did you have fun?” you had asked him, sweetly.

His response was instant, “Thank you for planning this for me. It was nice seeing everybody.”

Then you chuckled lightly, sighing when his hands molded to your waist, pulling you flush against his body.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I had fun,” Shoto affirmed. Then looked down with honest affection, tinged with something dark. “I admit, it’s more fun now that I have your attention again.”

You laughed, raising your arms to rest on his shoulders, wrists crossing behind his neck. “What do you mean? I’ve been paying attention.”

“No.”

His simple statement made you laugh harder, vibrating against his body. The corner of his lips lifted at the sound, as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“I love you.”

The words came out breathlessly, a forever-standing devotion. Then,

“It slips my mind at times. The reminder that other people will want to love what I love.”

You smiled cheesily, knowingly. But he can’t imagine that you can truly fathom how he really feels. “Are you jealous, Shoto?”

“It’s my birthday,” he stated back, half-heartedly, childishly. You gazed into his eyes, crinkles forming around your own.

“I want you,” he said lowly.

Not just on my birthday, but forever. I want your eyes only on me. I wish to be the center of your world, like how you are in mine.

Shoto didn’t say any of this. Instead, he lets you grasp his hands. Lets you lead them underneath your shirt, and feel the lace that’s been tempting him all night. His gift for him, or so you said.

I want to see how I affect you. I want to see you fall apart for me. I want you to rely on me. To want me. To need me. I want to show you how I can give you everything you deserve and more, that there will never be a reason for you to leave.

Shoto still didn’t say any of this, but his hands roamed. At the back of his mind, he didn’t want to scare you with his obsession. So he starts with this:

“Let me take care of you.”

Without a doubt, these were odd words to be coming from the birthday boy. But if birthdays were to revolve around his world, and you were his world, it made sense. And there is no other gift in the universe that would be greater than you.

A call vibrated from the couch when he crashed his lips onto yours, sealing the deal.

Shoto’s lips chase after you. It’s invigorating, the way they melt into yours, over and over and over again. He cradles your cheeks, trapping your head still as he moves you backwards. One step after another until the back of your knees hit the bed, and your hands instinctively clutch onto his chest.

But he keeps moving forward, his tongue dancing with yours in fervor. You pull back to take a breath, deprived of oxygen, but he keeps pushing, swallowing your yelp as you fall backwards. Big hands that help your body move upwards on the mattress, his lips never disconnecting from yours.

When you finally settle on the cushy mattress, you push against his chest again, breaking away from the kiss. “Sho– I can’t breathe–”

Shoto’s head darts underneath your chin, sucking on the spot he knows sends you into a frenzy. You whimper at the sensation, heart jumping when you feel the harsh latch of his lips. He sucks, licks, bites, devours.

Your body arches into him, squirming. Tingling with want, with need. He’s relentless, marking your neck feverishly while his hands come up to play with your nipples, brushing the pad of his thumbs against the peaks.

You jolt, sensitive from his touch everywhere. He wastes no part of him: tongue licking all over your skin, fingers tweaking the hard buds over your shirt, meaty thigh grinding into your clothed core. You bite your lip, trying to contain the moans from rolling out, but a harsh bite makes you gasp.

“I want to hear you,” he mumbles against your neck, in between licks. “Don’t hold back. Not right now.”

Hands make their way into his hair, tugging at the red and white strands. Pushing and pulling because you can’t decide if it’s too much or not enough.

Shoto doesn’t give you a choice. 

Warmth wells in your belly again. Familiar and telling. He must know, with the way you yank on his hair, and the tender smile you feel against your skin sends you into a high.

(He loves how compliant your body is with him. How reactive you are. How you never fail to respond to his touch.

He wonders how many he can coax out of you tonight.)

“Sho. Please, please—”

“Yes?” His thigh presses harder against you, firm and unyielding. You grind your hips up, moving in rhythm with him. He helps your movements, grabbing a handful of your ass as it rolls up.

The friction is delicious. Muscles trained with years of hero work so strong and hard against your core.

“Can you cum for me like this?”

He’s shameless because he knows you can, and you do, with a drawn-out moan, head buzzing, chasing after the high denied from you on the couch. Not a second later, he peels your clothes off, taking his time. It’s almost embarrassing, just how easy your body succumbs to him. Clothes on and all. Bare thighs sticking to the wet fabric in between your legs.

When you’re left in the lingerie you wore for him, his breath hitches. Marveled under his gaze.

What you would give to know what’s running through his head right now. 

Shoto kisses your forehead, breaths hot against your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers while his hands roam your shoulders. Leaving a trail of fire as he goes down to the swell of your breasts, fondling, before tracing your hips and thighs. 

As if he can’t get enough of you. 

You tremble underneath his caresses.

And slowly, he pulls the lace off, running over the sliver he felt earlier just to lift it off your body. He kisses your naked breasts—one by one, as he pulls your panties, wrecked from your orgasm, down your legs. 

Then, he shifts, rising up before settling in between your legs, hooking the backs of your knees over his shoulders. Your eyes widen as he stares at your glistening folds, his gaze of wet stone and sea glass purposeful.

He looks up, and you nearly flinch at the raw intensity in them.

It makes you almost laugh. With the way he’s treating you, doting on you. You question whose birthday it is, really.

And without warning, without so much as a word, he dives into your heat like a starved man. One long strike of a lick that has your hips bucking up, hands immediately flying to his shoulders. 

“Wait!” you gasp. “It’s too much, just wait—”

Shoto doesn’t wait, tongue heavy against your folds, lapping at everything you have to offer and more. Your toes curl at the sensation, chest rising with deep breaths as he explores the bundle of nerves the way a lover does.

He knows what you like, what you prefer. Practiced precision of using the plane of his whole tongue on your slit before dipping shallowly inside. Alternating between licks and deep sucks that make you reel in return.

It’s obscene, hearing him gulp from between your legs. Eyes closed in focus, savoring your taste. 

Your thighs clamp around his head, unable to handle it all. But strong arms wrap around them, under and over, effectively holding them apart and giving you something to ground yourself with. To be able to push and squirm freely without losing the feeling of his tongue, his mouth that lets you both hear and feel his love.

It’s euphoria.

(Shoto couldn’t feel more delighted. He doesn’t think it can get better than this. The feel of your hands tugging at his hair. Pulling just to push his head down again when he purposefully slows down. Your moans that carry into the air, echoing his name.

This is good. Perfect. He wants you to want him, to never get enough.

It makes a smile stretch across his face. And he feels like a madman when he breathlessly chuckles into your warmth.)

You twitch at the sensation, feeling the curl of his lips and a stuttering breath against your heat.

“Are you l-laughing…?” you breathlessly ask,  shocked. He answers with another deep suck, effectively distracting you with ease as you keen.

(Because to him, he’s not trying to mock you, or be condescending. He simply just loves to see you in pleasure, to see you feel good. Loved. Because of him. Because he knows you; mind, body, and soul.)

Moonlight swimming with city lights filter in from the window, bathing you in an angelic glow, contouring all your dips and curves. You look beautiful. Other worldly with your eyes screwed tight, body shaking in intervals, chanting his name with your head thrown back.

Shoto grinds his bulge into the mattress, unable to help himself. Oh, how he can’t wait to sink inside you, to feel your warm and welcoming heat around his cock—

“S-Sho..!”

Your eyes shoot open when he pulls back just slightly, whipping your head down. For a second, you’re taken aback at the sight: your slick glistening on his mouth and chin, his tousled hair, eyes that burn and freeze you at the same time.

He captivates you in his gaze. A devastatingly handsome face that speaks in an equally as devastatingly low voice.

“Do you want to come?”

His voice sends butterflies into your stomach and you nod, shyly, hands tugging on his hair to urge him back. But he doesn’t move.

“Tell me. What would you like me to do?”

Your heart stutters at the question, lips forming into a pout. Because he knows. He knows what you want. He always does. So why—

“I want to hear you say it.”

Again, less of a suggestion and more like a command. He’s good at that, phrasing his words simply, with his tone making you question yourself. It implies something completely different; leading—guiding you the way he wants.

You huff out a shaky breath, stunned at what he’s trying to play at, with your slick covering his face so filthily.

“Shoto…” you whine, nudging him with the heel of your foot. But he is nothing if not unyielding in his desires. He only offers kitten licks to your entrance, teasing, but far from enough.

“Say it for me. Let me hear you.”

With eyebrows furrowed, you stomp down the feeling of embarrassment threatening to take over. You’re not used to saying what you want out loud, at least not explicitly. But he looks at you with private earnestness, an emotion you can’t quite understand.

“I want you to keep going…”

Shoto’s eyes saturate with desire, darkening by the second. 

You hesitate again, so incredibly shy under his heated gaze. Hard stone and freezing waters. You almost don’t want to say it, don’t want to admit how much you want him.

“I- I want you to make me cum,” you whisper, cheeks burning hot. “Please make me cum.”

And with that, Shoto wordlessly continues, neither approving nor disapproving. One hand unfurls from your thigh before stuffing you full with three fingers at once. A moan rips from your throat, hips lifting high but a big hand effectively presses you down by your stomach. His digits stretch you, preparing you for what’s to come so deliciously.

You feel the warmth in your belly rising again. Strong. His fingers don’t pump, don’t thrust. Only the pressure of them deep inside and the pads of his fingers pressing firmly into that same sensitive spot. That, paired with his hot tongue attacking your clit, swirling and flicking, sends you into orbit.

Your body thrashes, your orgasm hitting stronger than the last. He easily keeps your body pinned to the mattress, curling his fingers just slightly more to make you gush. A sob releases from your chest when his fingers leave you, right before his mouth fully covers your opening and he sucks sloppily, as if he couldn’t waste a single drop. 

Gradually, the tension in your limbs eases, chest rising and falling heavily. Shoto gives you one last lick—a gentle one, before he pulls off of you, breathing just as deeply as he licks his lips, eyes pinned on your spent figure.

He’s never eaten you out like that before. As if you were water in a desert, his last meal on earth. It both confuses and rouses you beyond belief.

And he’s still clothed.

As if Shoto read your mind, he slowly unbuttons his shirt, panting—steam billowing out the corners of his lips. And you can’t stop staring: him on his knees, one princely hand working his way through the buttons, staring down at you as if you’re the only thing that ever mattered.

It drives you crazy. He drives you crazy. Since when did your brain think of just him, him, and him?

With shaky limbs, you heave yourself up, mirroring his position: on your knees in front of him, looking up as he looks down. Shoto doesn’t say anything, barely moves a muscle. Simply watching you as he lets you pull his shirt open, sliding the sturdy fabric off his body.

His bare torso greets you. Muscular, pale, and scarred with battles. You’ve seen pictures of him when he was younger, and he’s grown larger—bigger over the years. Still with his princely charm, but more fit, a fullness to him that makes your mouth water. 

You marvel at him, roaming your hands across the plane of his chest. Delighted at him twitching underneath your palms, the slight intake of his breath.

So handsome, big, strong. And all yours.

Your hands travel: up and down his arms, his shoulders, his waist, and to his stomach. Obsessed with the way hard muscles and scars span across his body. They show years of discipline and hard work; they tell stories. Stories of the man in front of you who looks at you with so much devotion, it should scare you.

It doesn’t. Because you’re quickly seeing that same devotion reflecting back at you in his glassy eyes. 

Slowly, you pull at his waistband, the air shifting its intimacy and tenderness to include lust again. Something raw and scarily intense. You unbutton his pants, unzip his zipper, and look up at him, with thumbs that skim his skin just above his trousers. Goosebumps rise after its trail.

You wonder exactly what type of look you give him—what he sees in his eyes, because he gives in immediately. Wordlessly strips himself out of his pants before kneeling in front of you again, tender hands that snake up your arms.

Shoto gently pushes your shoulders, signalling for you to lie down, but you try not to budge, shaking your head. He tilts his own quizzically. 

Because instead, you pull him, and he lets you. Lets you move him how you like. Lets you maneuver his body until his back rests against the headboard, and you make space in between his legs.

“Let me take care of you, too.”

His eyebrows immediately furrow, already rising to get up. “This is not a favor you need to—”

“I know,” you interrupt him. “I just…”

Shoto waits, eyes boring heavily into yours. You know that he knows what you want to do, and he’s neither stopping nor urging you.

“I want to make you feel good.”

It’s true.

Shoto pauses for a second, and you question why he’s thinking so astoundingly hard about this. Yes, your relationship was still a little new, but the sex was familiar, even if you had to admit that tonight surprised you in more ways than one.

He doesn’t nod, doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t really give you any decipherable emotion. But your heart skips when he raises a hand to stroke your hair, slow and soft strokes. He then palms the back of your head, drawing you in for a deep kiss. All before releasing you and relaxing against the headboard. 

Liquid gold courses through your veins when his eyes roam up and down your figure, heavy-lidded. His cock stands upright, flushed and swollen and hard. Precum dribbling from the tip and down his length.

You sit on your knees, tucking your legs underneath as you take in the sheer size of him.

He’s so goddamn big. You could never get used to it.

Usually, he would frequently check in on you when you gave him head, during sex in general. Asking if you’re alright, if you want him to take over, that you don’t have to. But he doesn’t say anything now, and it makes you wonder why again. Why, despite being patient and quiet, is there this particular intensity to him? Why was there this unfamiliar push and pull with him tonight?

You find that you chase after him without hesitation, the desperate feeling of wanting to please him coming in full force. It’s addictive, having him look at you with such passion.

Wrapping a hand around his length, you observe him closely, hoping for any reaction while dragging your palm up and down. Starting off with slow, full, firm strokes, just the way he likes it. The only tell he gives is a tick in his jaw, as he watches you with his mouth shut.

Leaning forward, you gather spit in your mouth, dribbling and using it to aid your strokes. Your hand pushes all the up, then all the way down, meeting trimmed red and white hair at the base. You feel his legs tense when you lick the tip, swipes of your tongue that allow you to taste the salt of his precum. Then finally, the whole of his swollen head.

Shoto’s fists clench at his sides, the sheets peeking in between his taut fingers. 

(He wanted to keep going—to keep tasting you with his mouth or fill you with his aching cock. Wanted to bring you to another orgasm. But the look you carelessly threw his way stumped him.

In between the desire-saturated eyes and the pleading pout on your lips, he found elation. And he guessed this worked too. Another way to fill your mind with just him, to be the center of your world. Because if wanting to please him showed you needed him, he’d let you.)

You stretch your mouth around him. He’s girthy, and big. What you can’t fit in your mouth, you cover with your hands, the mix of his spit and precum enabling the twists of your wrists. You move up, then down; hollowing out your cheeks, taking him as deep as you can.

The sounds are obscene: the slurps of his cock entering and leaving your mouth, the gulps that follow when you reach the top, the near gag when he hits the back of your throat.

Shoto doesn’t rush you.

So you become more desperate. Because how is it that he barely has any reaction? Usually, he’d be helping you, wiping away your tears when they leak out, telling you to take breaks. But he does none of it. And it’s only when you notice his iron-grip on the sheets that it shows just how much he’s holding back.

Why is that?

Your hands venture on their own, finding his—grabbing them with his cock still in your mouth and pushing them into your hair. Letting him know that it’s okay to do so. Telling him wordlessly, I want to please you.

Let me.

And Shoto watches. Observes. Hopes that you don’t look up with your tear-rimmed eyes. For if you did, you would’ve seen the smallest flick of a smirk gracing his face. His hands tangle into the tresses of your hair, firm, but gentle in a way that he ensures it’s a clean hold.

And he pushes down.

His eyes had widened when you took his hands to place them on your head, how hard you gripped them into your hair in hopes that he’d do the same. It filled him with exhilaration: seeing you try so hard, seeing you perk up with the pressure of his hands on your head. The rise of emotions rivaled the sensation of your mouth taking him whole.

Shoto loves to see you indulge yourself, even if it is in this way.

So, he pushes more. And not in hopes of making you gag, but because he can see the way you rub your thighs together when his grip tightens, desperate for relief. It surprises him for a second, right before a thought forms in his mind, one that makes his chest swell with curiosity and molten lava heat.

“You’re so good for me,” he praises you lowly, cock twitching when you stutter around his length. He watches your eyes promptly fly up to his. Shocked, but eager.

Shoto’s throat is so dry that it hurts to swallow, but he fights through the desert in his mouth.

“It’s what you wanted, right? To make me feel good?” he rasps out, jaw aching from how hard he clenches it. “You’re doing so well for me, so pretty when you suck my cock.”

The words feel foreign on his tongue; he was never one to be talkative during sex. But his mind buzzes when he sees the effect it has on you. You squirm, thighs pressing impossibly close together. So tightly that he nearly wants to wrench you off of him, just so you can get that relief you so desperately need. For him to be the one to give it.

Shoto leans down closer to your ear, holding back a groan when your pace wavers and your hands either grip him too tightly or too loosely. Then, it all tumbles from his lips, honey velvet:

Keep going. Good girl.

Yeah, just like that. There you go. I know it’s big.

You make me feel so good. So, so good.

There, that’s it. God, I could just—

Shoto barely recognizes what he’s saying, only spewing whatever comes to mind. It’s intoxicating, finding that it encourages you. Bobbing your head up and down faster, slurps that become louder, deeper, messier. 

And it feels incredible, truly. It always does. But he can’t help but marvel more at the way your legs twitch from underneath you, jolting when the friction grazes closer to where you need it to. An odd thrill mixed with fascination swirls inside him when he realizes the effect his words have on you. Or rather—

“You like my voice,” he states it as a fact. He knows it is now. Your face turns bashful, twisting in embarrassment as your lips leave the tip of his cock with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting you to it before it snaps. It’s adorable the way you shy away, unable to meet his eyes but clearly so aroused. 

And you’re still stroking him like the good girl you are. The sight makes him unbelievably harder, makes him want to give you everything you deserve and more.

He can’t help but ask, “Have you always liked it?” Rough and strained.

You nod again, slowly, eyes flitting up to meet his and then back down to your hands. In a small voice, you say, “From the day I met you.”

“In that way?”

“Yes.” You fidget underneath his stare. He doesn’t know what prompts this—what urges you to reveal this special piece of information, but his cock jumps when the words roll off your tongue:

“I-I’ve used it to get off before. Those voice memos you send me.”

And that carefully woven thread inside him, the one he’s been delicately weaving, the one that’s been wringing taut the entire night—threatening to break, finally snaps. Breaks with a sharp crack, its fibers ruined in the aftermath.

Shoto rises, up on his knees with swift movement as your hand releases from his member in shock. He grabs the back of your head again, palms it with urgency, and meets you halfway into a kiss that consumes. 

To think that his voice would have such a powerful effect on you, to think that the sound of him would be enough to get you off. For a split second, he imagines the perfect picture of you lying in bed, home alone and needy, listening to his voice while thrusting your pretty little digits in and out of your wet folds. With fingers that would never be as good as his. 

He groans into your mouth, pushing you back with such force that you two fall and thump onto the bed. Lips breaking apart for a needle of a second before crashing into each other again.

Shoto wants you, so badly. Just as badly as he wants you to want him. It’s all he can think of as he nudges your legs apart, settling in between them. The sound he makes is carnal, roused deep from his gut as the length of his cock meets your bare, warm, wet folds for the first time tonight.

He can’t help but move, sliding his length along your folds, your warm pools of slick easily allowing him to grind back and forth. Back and forth. Broken moans fall, echoing in the bedroom. A symphony of you two. 

And it all happens so suddenly for you: his mouth practically swallowing yours whole, his hands traveling everywhere from your cheeks to your breasts, his feverish grinding that pulls a needy whine straight from your head. He’s so thick, so impossibly hard, but you can’t help but feel despairingly empty as your walls clench around nothing.

Then comes Shoto’s voice again, gravelly, right into your ear. It sends an electric bolt to your stomach, the vibrations running straight to your core. 

“What do you think of when you listen to them?” he rasps out.

“Y-you. Inside of m-me,” you manage to get out, bucking up to meet his rocking rhythm, already wound up when he’s not even inside of you yet. The head of his cock grazes your stomach, his balls—hot and heavy—meeting you flush before drawing stickily away again.

It takes all that you can to not do it yourself, to reach down and angle him where you want. To have it finally sink into the place that’s been aching for him all this time.

Shoto doesn’t let up, not quite yet. “What? What inside of you?”

God, he’s being so infuriating tonight. Can’t he already see how wrecked you are from him? Can’t he tell just how much you want him? 

You relent, still finding the words hard to say through the slicked grinds. “You. Y-your….” 

“You’re hesitating,” he states, to which you quickly shake your head, heart plummeting to your feet as his torso rises off of you. Your hands hastily grab his arms, legs immediately wrapping around his waist, and words tumble from your lips faster than your mind can catch up.

“No, please,” you nearly sob out, and you feel embarrassed. So incredibly embarrassed, but you still try. “Please, I want it. I want you now, Shoto.”

Your eyebrows furrow—distraught, and you think he’s never been so unfair as his movements abruptly halt, hips lifting up despite you saying what you think he wants to hear. 

Why does he keep pushing just to pull back?

(Shoto can only feel so bad when you’re so, so close to where he wants you to be.)

“Don’t be embarrassed.” A hand strokes down the side of your hair. Patient. Too frustratingly patient. “I’ll give it to you.”

Shoto braces a forearm beside your head, the other snaking its way down to grab his length, heavy in his own sturdy hands.

And he whispers, calm and low. “You know I’ll always give you what you want. Won’t you do the same for me?”

Your face scrunches as he shifts the head of cock to your slit, biting your lip when he shallowly sinks it in before pulling away. Then he does it again, and again, and again. Teasing you before greedily taking it away, even tapping your clit with it, watching as you jolt from the contact.

You squirm, raising your hips because you want more. More. But he moves in sync, away from you, and you have half a mind to think he’s being hypocritical. It all becomes too much to bear. 

“I want you. Your cock.” you desperately say, small as ever. “Please, I want it so bad.”

Shoto plunges in only slightly deeper. Unmoving as an iron wall to your legs that fail to pull him closer despite using all your might. He holds the base of his cock tight, stopping himself from sinking more of it in before pulling back again.

“No, please,” you sputter helplessly. “I want you to fuck me. W-Want you deep inside me. Want you. Shoto—”

And finally—finally, he pushes in again. Slow, shushing you when you cry out as he doesn’t stop, when he stretches your pulsing walls apart, making way for his thickness. Your mouth drops open, hands clawing against his back—no doubt leaving marks as he fills you, sliding each throbbing ache away inch by inch.

His words are faraway, barely reaching your ears as he murmurs into your ear again, in between rough groans:

Need to take it slow. Don’t want to hurt you.

You take me so well, you always do.

Do you feel it? My cock inside you? It’s what you wanted, right?

(Shoto watches your expression as hard as he can, forces his eyes to stay open, and watches your own roll to the back of your head. He’s not even sure if you recognize yourself speaking: “you feel so good inside me”, “you’re so big”, “yesyesyes” spilling from your lips.

And when he finally bottoms out after what felt like eons, he drops his forehead onto yours, panting out thick puffs of steam. Not thrusting nor moving, just feeling each addictive pulse and clench of your warm walls around him. It’s sporadic, absolutely telling to him.

You’re about to cum again.)

He’s so deep that you can feel him in your stomach, throbbing thick and heavy. Can feel him pulsing as if his cock had its own heartbeat. And you know it's coming. The buildup of his praise, of his coaxing voice, of him finally stuffing you deep, leading to a steady high again.

It’s a done deal when Shoto grinds up once. One firm motion that hits deep inside your walls. One hard hump that shakes the bed.

And you cum for the third time tonight. 

You thrash underneath him, the wave of your orgasm making your body arch into his, moans breaking prettily from your lips. Shoto’s eyelashes flutter against yours, feeling you squeeze his cock like a vice. Muscles taut when he humps into your warm and wet heat again, and that's all it takes as you suddenly feel him spilling deep inside, moaning low, his cum releasing in hot spurts.

You breathe in each other’s pants. And only seconds had passed, did it hit you:

You both just came. And that’s all it took. Just like that.

It’s a short revelation because before you can fully comprehend it, Shoto shifts, and you whimper at the sensitivity blossoming from your core. And through it all, somehow, you can still feel him. His hard cock, even after cumming, pulsating in your walls that seem to have molded themselves around him.

“S-Sho– I don’t know if I–”

You whimper when he moves again, pulling just barely the tip out before filling you up. Going all the way out, then all the way back in. Slowly, with purpose. And it fucking wrecks you. That, despite the overstimulation and sensitivity jolting your insides, another heat crawls its way back into your stomach, catching the last embers before igniting again.

He burns his way into you, sears himself on your mind—on your body. And you want to let him, want to wrap yourself around his flames that devour.

So you do. You fall into him hopelessly.

Shoto’s voice comes out hoarse, and you can’t completely tell if he’s talking to you or to himself. He thrusts. “You feel incredible.” Another thrust and a groan. “My love. You’re so perfect.”

He knows you. Body, mind, and soul.

“We were made for each other. I know it,” Shoto lowly says, this time with half-lidded, trance-like eyes boring into yours. It enraptures you: the tiny scrunch in between his eyes as he bottoms out again and again, the low and quiet moan that seeps through gritted teeth.

If the entire night was spent coaxing you—pushing you just to pull you back in, then this was unrelenting. Unyielding. Fully swarming your senses that you can’t think of anything else besides him. Besides what he’s pounding into your body and purring into your ear. And you find yourself letting go instead of trying to hold on, because despite falling apart at the seams, you can trust that he’ll always carry you to the end.

You truly don’t know—don’t know what he sees in you that you can’t seem to see yourself. But you bask in it. Embrace in his all-consuming love that scorches.

It’s a raw feeling. Both inside and out. Both inside your heart and out your core as he drives into you with vigor.

And it keeps building up, that coil he’s been springing all night, pulling you this way and that. It feels good, too damn good because you love the sensation of him overwhelming your entire being. It causes tears to start rimming your waterline, the overstimulation breaking you.

“Shoto–! S-Sho–!”

Shoto pulls away for a fraction of a second, and you’re almost about to protest—about to fire out how unfair he’s being despite how sensitive you are, before his hands slink down and around your thighs. Big hands palm the underside of it, and your heart nearly lurches out of your throat when he pushes your legs up, folding you into a brutal mating press.

You’d throw your head back if you could, if not for his warm hands cradling it to his. Your mind blanks as he sinks into you deep, the lines between pleasure and pain blurring so wickedly sweet. All you can do is hold onto him as you soundlessly scream, barely able to catch a breath.

“One more,” he coos against your face. Not a suggestion, and not so much as a command either. It’s as if he’s simply stating a fact, a path that he knows will run its course.

Shoto pounds into you, the bed creaking under all the weight—under all his vigorous effort to bring you to your climax again. Sweat-soaked skin slapping against each other as he rams his cock into you as if his life depended on it. 

You can feel your tears trickle out of your eyes, a wobbly path down as your body shakes from his thrusts. Shoto gently licks them away with his tongue, leaving a lingering kiss on your temple so tender that it tugs at your heart despite him fucking you deep into the mattress, his weighty body nearly suffocating you under him.

Hot. Your belly feels hot, core tight and exhausted but still craving him. Still craving more with each powerful split of his cock and each dampening kiss to your temple. 

(Shoto feels his body burning with so much desire that he fears flames might erupt from his skin. The line between pleasure and pain blurs for him as well. A murky river that borders on the high of seeing your blissed out face paired with your wrung out body, and the prickling sensation of needing you so badly. In every way possible.

It almost hurts, the extent of his hunger for you. 

He needs you. And he also needs you to need him.)

“I–” you gasp through stuttered breaths, “I-I’m going to—”

“What do you want, my love?” Shoto pistons in and out of your contracting walls, his voice thick and rough. “What do you need?”

“I want you,” you squeeze your eyes tight, legs shaking in the air, but Shoto makes sure to hold them tight against his body, leveraging them. “I need you.”

“Need?” he asks. A voice that becomes hazier in your mind. 

“Yes, yes, yes.” It comes out slurred and reliant. “I need you. I need you, please, please—”

“Yeah?” Shoto spreads his legs outwards—further apart, allowing him to drive into you deeper. Harsher. Rougher.

“You’re going to let me give you everything you need?”

You nod, though you don’t know if he can tell, don’t even know if your nods even come out as nods. But his name leaves your mouth over and over again, the only thing grounding you as you feel yourself peaking. Right at the edge of toppling over.

“Say it, my love. Let me hear it,” Shoto coaxes, with finality.

Your voice shakes, desperate and longing. Desperate to cum and longing for him.

“I need you,” you wail. “Give it to me, p-please. Everything.”

And Shoto rejoices. Heart flying to the crown of his head, heat burning in his being, rejoices. Voice so low that it comes out as a near growl.

“I can give you that. I’ll give you everything you want, anything you’ll ever need. What you deserve. I’m the only one who can.” Shoto keeps thrusting, erratic but anchored. Tinged with a profound urgency that aims to crumble. 

“You sound so pretty when you say my name. You deserve this—deserve to cum. You deserve everything.”

He knows your body like the back of his hand. Knows where to angle and that the storm is at its peak when your walls start convulsing around him and choked sobs leave your lips. It tells him to find that spot again—that sensitive spot he has to curve into that would make you writhe wildly. A knowing smile graces his lips when you do, with smug pride he’ll never admit to your face.

You feel the pressure of him everywhere. On you. In you. His mouth that crashes onto yours, muffling your cries and kissing you hard. You feel him inhale deeply, taking even the breath that escapes your nose.

Shoto drives into you, grinding harshly when his cock stuffs you to the hilt. Then does it twice. Three times. And with one final grind, you fall apart for the fourth time tonight, a dark sea full of stars behind your eyes.

Chanting: I want you. I need you. I love you.

You tell him to cum inside. You tell him you want it and need it. You tell him you need him. And it all goes straight to Shoto’s head, then his cock. Drives him to insanity as he buries himself inside, shuddering, balls tensing as he spills rope after rope of cum into you. He milks you of your orgasm as you squeeze him through his, tremors wrecking you both. 

Shoto fills you to the brim, both heart and body, its essence spilling at the edges.

Your chest heaves under his, exhausted as you fall dead weight into the mattress. Minutes pass, and only then do you finally take in your surroundings, bleary eyes blinking their way through the moonlit bedroom. The air is thick—humid with the smell of sweat and sex. But it hardly bothers you, fatigue quickly taking over your mind.

You vaguely note how the white wash of the moonlight shines onto Shoto, sweat glistening on his skin from the aftermath. Beautiful in every light.

You want him. You need him.

You love him.

Your lover slowly rolls your legs down, kissing the inside of your ankle softly as it passes him, massaging aching limbs as you wince from the released pressure. A small whimper vibrates from your throat when he pulls out his softened cock, limp as you both watch the mess that oozes from your hole.

“Stay here,” Shoto says gently, stroking a tender hand through your hair. You nod wordlessly, still panting, throwing your head back against the damp pillow as he rises from the mattress. The bed dips then bounces back when he gets off, heading towards the bathroom with a certain grace in his stride.

Your gaze falls to the ceiling, eyelids getting heavier with each passing second.

In the quiet of the bedroom, your hand drifts to your neck, pressing on the tender love bites created by him. You tap lightly on your skin, feeling a slight sting that brings a bashful smile to your face, not needing a mirror to know the many marks blossoming across your body.

Then your fingers travel: to his stomach that he pressed down, to the hips that he gripped, to the thighs that he held onto. Each graze across your skin reminds you of Shoto, reminds you of the devotion he speaks and shows with his heart. It makes you giddy—makes your chest swell and thrum with such warmth that you physically have to put your hands over yourself to quell it.

“You know I’ll always give you what you want. Won’t you do the same for me?”

“You’re going to let me give you everything you need?”

“I can give you that. I’ll give you everything you want, anything you’ll ever need. What you deserve. I’m the only one who can.”

“You deserve everything.”

Your vision blurs with those words on your mind, promises that wrangled its way into you so deeply that you would remember them even in your dreams.

When Shoto returns, he finds you on the edge of slumber, drowsiness and vulnerability cradling you softly. It’s with this in mind that he treats you carefully, satisfaction and ache warring in his heart. 

He brings a warm, damp towel to the bed. Gentle strokes that clean his spent and sweat off of you, loving hands that knead at parts of your body that he knows will be sore in the morning. You grumble at the tenderness in your limbs, and he soothes them without hesitation, laying kisses across your skin.

Shoto changes the sheets, the blankets, even the pillows. Soft silk, the ones he knows you like best; doing anything to make you more comfortable. All before sitting on the edge of the mattress, with fingers running through your hair tenderly, diligently working out the knots.

“Should I head home soon?” you lazily mumble, though you don’t move a muscle.

Shoto’s heart ascends, his motions pausing before continuing. 

Because normally, you’d announce you were going home—claiming it’s late, refusing his offer to stay over time and time again. And he’d let you go, a dip in his eyebrows as he watched you pack your things and drove you home, all because he thought it best to ease you slowly.

But things are different now. You were asking him if you should leave. Almost as if you knew what he was going to say.

“No,” he murmurs lowly, trying to keep his tone steady, his excitement at bay.

“Stay here,” he declares. “With me.”

“Yeah?” you say softly, a noise of contentment leaving you as his hand cards through your hair.

“Yes,” he responds. “Move in.” You should.

You giggle, and the sound makes him restless. Shoto watches as you slowly shift yourself, moving your head from the pillow to his lap, looking up at him with shimmering eyes. Wordlessly, he drapes the sheets back over your bare body, admiring the way you tuck into his embrace.

“Jumping the gun, don’t you think? You’d get tired of me.”

His palm cradles your face, thumb swiping across your cheek delicately. “Never.”

Your face softens, a worried glint in your eye. It’s astounding, he thinks to himself, how you can still doubt his feelings. “Never?”

“No. Never,” he affirms, his hold on you tightening ever so slightly.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

You look at him—look at the way he’s gazing down at you with enamored eyes, a hint of something private lurking underneath them. It causes goosebumps to rise on your skin, but it only makes you huddle closer to him—aching for his warmth.

Then willingly, you place your heart in the palms of his hands that cradle you, whispering without an ounce of hesitation,

“Yeah. I do.”

And a smile stretches across Shoto’s face, a quiet, pleased curve that spoke of a million words. Words that he wouldn’t dare say out loud as he thinks:

The greatest gift in the world just fell right into his hands.