twst-trash - Tumblr blog

twst-trash · 1 year

Text

If you guys are into Todoroki or BNHA, I wrote this little fic for a secret santa exchange on my multifandom blog!

𝐎𝐟 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐲𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐬

summary: After messing up his soba order, Pro Hero Shouto can’t get enough of it- or, just maybe, can’t get enough of you.

cw: Pro Hero!Todoroki x server!reader. 18+ smut, praise kink, afab!reader (they/them pronouns, afab anatomy), oral sex (m and reader receiving), penetrative sex, slight temperature play. reader is attacked by a villain, but it’s short and pretty nonviolent. I have worked in many a kitchen, but never a Soba kitchen- sorry to my Soba waiters out there.

wc: 5.4k

Hi guys, I’m so incredibly excited to debut my first fic on this blog! Even better, it’s for The Teahouse server’s secret fic exchange. This is written with all my love for the lovely @/kaiapaia I’m hoping you enjoy what I came up with according to your prompt 🥺

The kitchen is on fire, almost as literally as it is figuratively, when you clock in to work at your third swing shift in a row.

The old shopworn curtain separating the front counter from the kitchen is kept solely for posterity at this point. Through the fibers of the cloth, gaping holes the size of a toddler’s fist, you can see the disembodied head of your kitchen manager frowning sternly at the expeditor. The rest of her is obscured by the remaining threads of the curtain, but you can easily imagine her stance- arms folded across her body, leg extended and toe tapping- ready to chew your head off for being three whole minutes late.

Dashi broth and fear have smelled eerily alike ever since you started working at the once family-owned soba restaurant in Musutafu. It had changed hands more times than you could count since then; the early days, before your clunky cash till was replaced by an iPad screen with convenient, dummy-proof pictures, long gone. The current management (if you could call it that) had driven out most of the original staff. It’s only you left, loyal to a fault and desperate for the extra cash seniority brings you at this job as you finish up your degree. It keeps you and your goldfish fed, and that’s about all you could ask for.

You tie your apron around your waist, stealing a few pens from the cup near the to-go register and shoving them into the pocket that held your server pad. Your manager sees you- of course she does- through the curtain before you’re even in the kitchen.

“Guess who called out today?” She scoffs, moving to stand near the empty sauce bar. Your tardiness is pardoned by the absence of your coworker, for now, for what it’s worth. She lifts the lid of the prep fridge, more tears of condensation collecting on the inside of the metal nine pan than pre-portioned broth cups. “Prep’s fucked.”

You already knew what Suzume was asking you- and it wasn’t your job to prep. The hostess had already given you your tables, some of them already seated and awaiting food courtesy of the lunch shift. You hadn’t even touched back of house work since the original owners had left. The ratios that had once been second nature were now fuzzily teetering at the edge of your memories. What went into the mentsuyu? A cup of soy? A few teaspoons- no- tablespoons of mirin?

Your idling forms are an unwelcome sight in the otherwise bustling kitchen. Another waitress muscles her way past you, shoulder knocking into yours in a way that feels intentional, as she plucks three or four containers of broth out of the fridge. It makes the sight even more miserable.

“Who's going to take my tables?” You ask, though your tone betrayed the fact that you were already relenting. Being stubborn about the situation would not change the fact that things still needed to get done.

Suzume shrinks at your question, a sheepish smile stretching across her face as a nonverbal admission that no one would be.

“Absolutely not.”

“Please, I need you– there’s absolutely no one else available today!” Suzume says, almost petulantly, slumping against the sauce bar in a way that bares her age. She’s only a few years older than you- much less demanding than your older managers, despite her Type A tendencies. Her obvious distress almost instills pity, a sort of guilt washing over you for not being able to do anything about the lack of staff. Still, you weren’t being paid nearly enough to do two people’s jobs at the same time.

Another bout of protests are poised behind your lips, but you’re interrupted by the hostess poking her face through a hole in the curtain.

“Need a cold soba broth base, on the fly, now. Shouto’s here.”

Both you and your manager peep through separate rifts in the curtain, scanning the lobby for the notorious semi-regular. When your manager spots him, already seated at his usual booth in the far corner of the restaurant, she tugs at your sleeve and points her index finger through the hole. There’s no missing the shock of white and red hair peeking out from above the booth- it’s definitely, unmistakably Pro-Hero Shouto. You’re pulled back into the kitchen and away from the view of the lobby where other patrons had also just caught wind of Shouto’s appearance, whispering amongst themselves all at once. Suzume’s hands are on your shoulders as she pleads.

“Here’s the deal. You prep the sauces, and I’ll take half of your tables– for an hour. Until Shouto leaves.” Suzume says, and, for good measure, sucks some air into her cheeks before sighing. “You can even take his booth. He’s considerably generous, if you catch my drift.”

You’ve heard from your other coworkers that much, at the very least. In all your time working at the restaurant, you hadn’t had the opportunity to be his server. Whether you were training a new hire, helping back of house with prep, or preoccupied with too many tables already, Shouto had somehow evaded you. The thought of serving him made you nervous, even though, realistically, it shouldn’t. He seemed nice enough in interviews and the ads that break up your late night television binging. And yet, the sight of his muscular frame squeezed a little too tightly into the narrow corner booth never failed to make you anxious. Butterflies, you’d probably call them, had you still been an infatuated teenager- but you’re older now, and a Pro Hero is, quite frankly, way out of your league.

“Fine, whatever.” You grumble, “Just get the recipe booklet from the office for me.”

You make your way out of the kitchen, making sure to apologize about the wait to the patrons you passed. Your heart races the closer you get to Shouto’s table, serving book clenched tightly in your hands.

“You’re not my usual waitress.”

His tone and expression are even, despite the intensity in his heterochromatic eyes as he scans over you. You’re suddenly a little insecure in your uniform. Your white button-up is a little too tight from constant cycling in the laundry and the cheap brand of black slacks you own are infamously unflattering. It’s true that regulars weren’t usually clambering to see you in particular, but it still hurt a little to disappoint him.

“I’m sorry, we’re a little short staffed today, so your usual waitress probably isn’t in–“

“I see you around here all the time. You just aren’t my usual waitress. It’s a nice change.”

“O-oh, thank you.” You say, face warming, tapping your notepad with the back of your pen. “I think it’s just a formality for me to ask what you’d like. Cold soba? Extra shredded daikon on the side?”

“You know my order.” He says, halfway between a question and a statement. There’s a small smile that breaks the even line of his mouth, and honestly, he’s a little too handsome to look at. You force yourself not to stare, eyes wandering toward the napkin holder next to him that would probably need to be refilled once he left.

“‘Course I do.”

We all do, you think, though you weren’t so keen on letting the pro hero know that he was a frequent name on the tips of every worker’s tongue. Instead, you just shrug and smile at him. “Anything else today?”

“That’ll be all. Thank you.”

You bow politely at him before scuttling into the kitchen.

You prepare some dipping sauce, one for Shouto and several others as backup, but quickly stepping into the walk-in for extra ingredients seemed to be a mistake. By the time you’ve come back, all of your prepared sauces were gone, and even worse, so was the recipe booklet. You curse, unable to recall what you had just put together. Shouto was surely growing impatient, and you had no time to spend looking for the recipe. Instead, you freestyle a cup of mentsuyu. You’ve done it so many times in the past that the process should be muscle memory… right?

You rush out of the kitchen and timidly set the tray of soba down onto Shouto’s table, waiting for him to take a bite. There’s a sudden rush of anxiety swirling in your stomach as you watch him gather the soba noodles into a neat bundle with his chopsticks and dip them into the mentsuyu. He raises the chopsticks to his lips, and you swear that time slows as he opens his mouth.

Shouto’s face breaks its cool exterior, knitting his eyebrows together at the taste, but the expression passes as soon as it’s come. You let out a snarky breath. Hopefully that meant that he was okay with the taste, even if it wasn’t precise.

“Do- do you need anything else?”

“No.” He hums, in a way that you choose to interpret as contentedly. “Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course!” You squeak, bowing again before heading back into the kitchen.

The recipe booklet is, somehow, miraculously where it had once been on the prep table. You flip to the mentsuyu page in record speed, eyes flickering to the measurements for each ingredient.

Fuck. You weren’t even close.

And whatever acrid concoction you created is currently being consumed by Pro-Hero Shouto. Son of Endeavor. The Shouto Todoroki. A voice in the back of your head is screaming at you that you’ll be arrested for attempted poisoning.

You’re beyond embarrassed when you go to hand him the check, but are surprised to see an empty wooden tray. He had eaten all of it.

He’s polite as he takes the check from your hands, thanking you again and- god, his stare really was intense.

Moreover, the rather sizable tip signed at the bottom of the merchant copy of his receipt seems to imply that he really, really liked it.

“Woah.” Suzume says, later that night as she’s checking the register’s balance. “He usually tips well, but never that well.”

“Yeah, I… really don’t know why.” You call from your place sweeping underneath the booths in the lobby. During your break, you had even attempted to recreate the abominable sauce for your comp meal. It was awful- too salty, too bitter, and somehow a little oily. You were starting to think that the only flaw Shouto Todoroki had was his apparent poor taste.

“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” Suzume laughs, handing you your share of the tips from dinner service.

—-

And so you do.

His visits to the soba shop became even more frequent after that. Stranger still, Shouto had taken to requesting you in particular to be his server. He was a little more talkative than you imagined him to be- interested in what you did outside of work, what you were studying, what your hobbies were. Whatever you had done with the mentsuyu, he apparently couldn’t get enough. Suzume had even clued you in on the fact that Shouto would ask about you even when you weren’t scheduled. Soon, even your other coworkers had noticed, envious of the attention (and, more importantly, money) that Shouto paid you. You were embarrassed to admit how you’d discovered what Shouto liked, especially considering your seniority over everyone else in the restaurant, so whenever anyone asked you what your secret was, you simply gave a vague answer and continued working. Some one-sided tension brewed between you and your coworkers, but you ducked your head and hoped that the whole ordeal would blow over- maybe Shouto would snap to his senses and realize the garbage he was eating.

“I need you to go out for a delivery.” Suzume says one day, before you’re even clocked in.

“We don’t deliver.” You say, though you already knew that you didn’t have to remind Suzume of that. The smirk on her face was enough for you to know that she had something devious up her sleeve.

“We do today.” Suzume proudly proclaims, setting an already prepared paper bag in front of you. It had been shoddily stapled together, but the smell of buckwheat and freshly shaved daikon clued you in to what was contained within. “Shouto called. Wants you to deliver it to his agency. You just gotta make the mentsuyu.”

“His agency?” You repeat, searching Suzume’s expression for any hint that she’s joking- and she’s not. “Suzume, I don’t have a car. I’m not riding the bus to deliver this thing.”

Suzume fishes around her pockets and pulls out the keys to her infamous teal moped, parked just outside the shop. “Treat my baby well, okay?”

—-

You walk past the sliding glass doors of Shouto’s agency and are immediately impressed by the size of it. Though Shouto had only been on the scene for a few years, his agency was large and neatly organized. It was jarring to see sidekicks and heroes that you had only seen on the news brush past you, all larger than life. You felt extraordinarily unextraordinary making your way to the receptionist’s desk as heroes walked and rolled and flew past you.

“Welcome to the Todoroki Agency.” The receptionist smiles, eyes flickering to the bag of food in your hands. “Dropping off a delivery?“

“Yeah, for Shouto.” You say, resting the food on the counter in front of her.

She nods, punching in the number to Shouto’s office. Holding the phone to her face, she turns her attention back to you. “You can probably just leave it there, I’ll have someone– oh! Hello, Shouto-san. Yes, your food is here. I can have– oh, alright then. Are you sure you don’t want me to have it brought up to you? Of course, my pleasure sir.”

The receptionist puts the phone back onto the receiver and cocks her head at you. “Shouto-san said he’d like to talk to you, if you have the time.”

You blink at that, not sure if you should take him up on that offer. You were still on the clock, after all, and it was nearing the time the shop usually had its lunch rush. Still, the fact that he wanted to talk to you at all made your stomach do flips. Butterflies.

Suzume owes you for making you go out of your way for the delivery. She can wait a little longer for you to return, you decide.

The elevator chimes from the end of the hall, and out emerges Pro Hero Shouto in all his glory. His eyes find you instantly, a small smile turning the corner of his lips.

“I’m glad to see you here.” Shouto says as he approaches the reception table. “I’m busy with paperwork today, so I couldn’t come to eat in person.”

“We don’t usually do deliveries.” You explain. A flash of concern crosses Shouto’s face, perhaps upset at himself for interrupting the regular flow of the restaurant, but you quickly backtrack. “But my manager was more than happy to make an exception- and I’m always happy to spend more time with you.”

Too far. Embarrassment finds a home in your stomach, but Shouto simply smirks, seemingly pleased with your answer.

“Nice helmet.” He gestures toward your head at Suzume’s teal eyesore. You’re mortified- you hadn’t thought to take the helmet off, thinking that doing so would be unjustifiable for such a short delivery. You must look like such a nerd, standing there inside his agency alongside heroes with a helmet on.

“Well, you know. Safety first.”

God, you were bad at this. This is the first time that Shouto has ever stood next to you. You’re used to seeing him sat in his booth, where the two of you were closer to eye level. Now, standing up straight and tall, a tower of muscle, you couldn’t help but feel nervous.

At least Shouto finds it funny.

“Would you want to continue our conversation in my office?”

You balk at that, heart skipping several beats at the thought of being alone with him in his office. Sitting across from him as he ate soba at his desk, chatting like friends. Like lovers–

“I’m sorry. I can’t.” You grab the bag from the counter and hand it to him. “I’m on the clock, and Suzume is gonna start sending the dogs after me if I’m gone for too long.”

Shouto hums, reaching for the bag of food. His left hand brushes yours, considerably warmer than your own. It’s a reminder of his extraordinary Quirk– of the divide that separates you. You linger there for a moment before you pull your arm back, embarrassed by how much you wanted his touch.

“Well, you’re welcome back any time.” Shouto offers, but you’re already walking out of the door, too embarrassed to look back- to notice the way Shouto stared at you as you left.

—-

A few days later, for some reason or another, Suzume needed to go home early. She had told you that much at the beginning of the shift, before pleading that you cover her closing duties. There were tears, there were promises of covering your future shifts, and some extra cash slipped in as incentive. Though her reasons for leaving were shoddy at best, you still agreed to cover her.

– and so you had stayed an extra 45 minutes, balancing the register, taking inventory, and writing the following day’s morning prep sheets. Your main motivation took shape in the takeout bag that sat behind the to-go register. Paid for but forgotten, completely up for grabs. Before you lock up for the night, you remember to snag the bag off of the counter. You jiggle the handle to the restaurant a few times, just to make sure there would be no unexpected break-ins that the higher ups could pin you for.

The street is quiet. The wind that carries the chill of the night brushes against your cheeks on your brisk walk home. The soba shop’s close proximity to your apartment was what initially drew you to it - the bus was your first option most days, when it decided to arrive on time, but the walk wasn’t too bad either. It was only fifteen minutes on a relatively well-lit and busy street, so even at night, you still felt somewhat secure. You hold your bag of leftovers close to your chest, comforted by the warmth emanating from the vegetable tempura meant to compliment your cold soba. Despite having to stay late in order to pick up Suzume’s slack, you were in high spirits.

‘I really have to ask for a raise’ is the thought that distracts you from the man leaning against the lamp post.

When you stumble, you almost mistake it for your own carelessness. It’s only when you look down and see his hand, unnaturally extended and stuck on to the back of your upper thigh, that you realize someone else was responsible for you near-fall. You gasp aloud, dropping the bag of food in your hands. It falls to the ground with an ugly clatter, broth staining the sidewalk beneath it. Your hands rush to the site where you’re connected, scrambling to pry the unwelcome limb away from you. It hurts a little when you try to rip him off, mortified to find out that his palm was stuck onto you like a piece of velcro. Even trying to take a step forward tugged unpleasantly on your skin.

“I just wanna talk, baby.” The man laughs. “Can’t a guy have some fun?”

“Get the fuck off of me!” You yell back, hands anxious and fumbling. If you could just get a good grasp on him, maybe you could just bite your lip and rip him off like a bandaid.

Before the man can get any closer or move his other hand to another part of your body, a rush of cold air overwhelms your surroundings. The grip on your thigh is replaced by an intense cold, seeping through your pants. Your skin throbs underneath your slacks, the ice freezing the fabric to the back of your thigh. Even though it hurts, you know you’re safe. You don’t even need to look up to know that Shouto’s there, but you do anyway. Your eyes meet his, and you find a tenderness there, a comfort, before he turns his attention back to the offender. He’s encased to the throat with ice, rendering him completely immobile.

“I’ve contacted the authorities, they’ll be coming to collect you soon.” Shouto says coolly, though his right hand is still extended toward the man as a warning- a reminder that there was nothing stopping the hero from completing his transformation into a full iceberg.

When the man simply chokes on a pained gargle, Shouto lowers his arm.

“I would have frozen his tongue off if he tried to say anything smart.” Shouto whispers to you, and you snort despite yourself. His left hand hovers above the junction where you were frozen together, a small flame melting the ice until you’re able to break away from the glaciar of the man next to you.

You reach your hand behind you, touching the tender spot at the back of your thigh. You hiss, retracting your arm as quickly as you had put it there.

Shouto frowns at your pained expression. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to hurt you.”

“You saved me. I’ll take a freezer-burnt leg over whatever the alternative would be.”

Shouto softly exhales, eyes flickering to where he had frozen you. “Is the back of your leg still cold? Could I– would you like me to warm it for you?”

Your eyes widen at that, too taken aback to speak properly. Instead, you simply nod, letting Shouto kneel behind you. His left hand is steadfast and professional, hovering just above the afflicted area. Despite that, you can’t help but feel your nerves ignite, knowing that he was so tantalizing close to touching you. The heat from his hand inspires another heat deep within your core, especially when you glance back at Shouto kneeling on the ground behind you and notice his lingering gaze at the assets that lived just above your thighs–

When the police arrive, you’re quick to make your statement. Gathering the bag of food that you had ejected out of your hands earlier, you’re disappointed to find that you had lost nearly half of both containers of broth. You’ll still eat it, of course, but the moisture soiling all of the containers makes everything a bit unappetizing.

“Are you walking home? I thought that you had a moped?” Shouto asks as you’re about to leave. You stand, damp takeout bag in hand, surprised that he had remembered Suzume’s moped from your visit to the agency.

“It’s my manager’s. I usually walk or take the bus home, but I had to stay late tonight.” You explain.

Shouto frowns, something that wrinkles the sides of his mouth, like it was his own personal failing that had you in the clutches of the villain that he had literally saved you from.

“Let me walk you home.” Shouto says, moving to grab the takeout bag from you. You knew that you’d probably be okay with walking the rest of the way home, but Shouto’s face read as though he had already made up his mind- he was going to walk you home. And you really didn’t mind being doted on by him for just a little longer.

When you approach the door of your apartment, you pause. You know you should probably call it a night, thank Shouto for what he had done and that you’d see him next time he decided to stop in for lunch, but you can’t help wanting to be a little selfish. You wanted to occupy a little more of his time, if he’d let you.

“Do you want to come inside and eat some of this?” You ask.

Shouto looks confused for a moment, and you swear you notice a slight red tint to the man’s cheeks before you gesture to the takeout container.

“Someone forgot to pick up their takeout order- there should be two zaru soba sets and some tempura, if you’re interested.”

“Ah,” Shouto says, looking down at the bag in his hand. “I would very much enjoy that.”

You unlock your apartment door, flickering the lights on and kicking some of the clutter you had laying on the floor underneath the couch before Shouto could come in. You tell Shouto that he could start eating the soba at your coffee table if he’d like, and that you could throw some tea on if he wanted.

He declines, sitting on your rug, salvaging the containers of broth and mentsuyu and noodles. When you sit down across from him, you watch as he dips the buckwheat into the sauce and takes a bite. His eyes widen, and you’re about launch into a tangent about how the sauce probably wasn’t how he liked it today, when he suddenly says:

“This tastes a lot better than it normally does.”

Something inside you breaks.

“You… prefer it this way?” You ask slowly, unbelieving, shocked when Shouto nods.

“It’s usually shit.” Shouto says, completely deadpan.

You laugh. You can’t help yourself. It’s a full, straight from the gut, ugly chortle. You can barely find the breath required to respond to him. “You– I messed up your order, but you tipped so much and kept coming back, so I thought– I thought you liked it that way.”

“You’ve been purposefully poisoning me this whole time?” Shouto asks, an eyebrow raised at you as you try to compose yourself, but the soft grin that graces his lips lets you know that you won’t really end up the next person arrested.

“You kept coming back to the shop! And asking for me in particular! I thought you just had bad taste.” You explain, wiping your eyes. “Why did you keep coming back if you hated it so much?”

Shouto pauses, letting his eyes wash over you. He’s focused on your lips when he confesses.

“I wasn’t going for the soba.”

It takes a minute for you to process what he had said, feeling your body light aflame once more. You can’t believe this is happening. Having Pro Hero Shouto in your living room is surreal itself, but implying that he was interested in you? You wonder if you’re dreaming or if this was all an elaborate prank by management to punish you for messing up on the job.

Shouto packs away his portion of food, analyzing your body and expression again. “Is your thigh still cold?”

Absolutely not, you think, but nod anyway. A little too enthusiastically, but that doesn’t deter Shouto. He moves to you, extends his hand to help you up from the ground, and pulls you close by your waist. You’re flush against his chest, close enough to feel his heartbeat, the erratic thrumming a twin to your own. His left hand grazes the back of your thigh, right underneath your ass. His hand is warm, firmly grasping the meat of your thigh. Though only slightly warmer than the rest of his body, his touch feels searing to your invigorated nerves.

“Tell me if I’m going too far.”

“You’re not.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Go further.”

His lips meet yours then, and your body turns to putty. He lifts you with ease, a perk of having that immense Pro Hero strength, and rests you on your couch.

“What’re you doing?” You pant when he breaks away, his hands at the button of your slacks.

“You asked me if I wanted to eat some of this.” He says, kneeling down in front of you. “And I do.”

You shimmy out of your pants, and Shouto wastes no time. His mouth presses a hot kiss against your clothed sex before peeling the offending material to the side, the flat of his tongue stroking up and swirling around your clit. You whimper, hips bucking into his face. Shouto is a man on a mission, mouth unyielding, groaning at the taste of you.

“You taste so good, angel.” He mutters against you, “Better than the soba.”

“Let it go.” You groan, though you can’t stay angry at him for long, not when he’s wrapping his lips around your clit. You can feel him smiling, the little shit, at making you flustered.

When he sinks his fingers into you, curling his digits and stroking the spongy roof that lived there, it’s over for you. Your thighs squeeze the sides of his head as you cum and Shouto moans, his free hand squeezing the tent that had grown between his own legs. Rolling waves of pleasure overtake you as you gasp Shouto’s name, his fingers and mouth unrelenting until your body calms.

He’s peppering the inside of your thighs with warm, wet kisses, and you swear he’s about to go in for seconds before you interrupt him.

“Bedroom, Shouto.”

At your command, he’s lifting you again, carrying you first to your bathroom (you should’ve clarified the direction) and then to your bedroom, laying you down on your mattress. Shouto is quick to undress, pulling his pants and boxers down in quick succession. You sit up from your bed, biting your lip at the sight of his cock. You can’t help but kiss the pink tip, salty precum staining your lips, before taking him completely into your mouth. Shouto lets out a shaky breath as you work your mouth on his cock.

“You’re– a lot better at this than you are at sauce making.”

Any protest you might’ve had dies with the firm grip he holds on the back of your head.

“You’re doing great, angel. So good for me, so perfect.” He whispers, encouraging you as he shallowly thrusts into your mouth, careful not to overwhelm you. “Mouth feels so good on my cock.”

He pulls away, suddenly, his breath labored, and gently presses you back into your mattress. You strip yourself free of your remaining clothing and Shouto pauses.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, gazing up from your spot underneath him.

“You’re beautiful.” Shouto says, a hand moving to grasp your breast. He seizes your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and you arch into his touch. “I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you in the restaurant.”

You can’t imagine that- Shouto gazing at you while you did your silly little tasks at the soba shop. Wanting you like this, stoking the embers of longing within him like you had for him.

“Me too.” You whisper, and Shouto slowly thrusts into you, one hand steadying itself on your hip and another on your breast. Your body screams with the need to touch him, too, so you run your hand up the length of his abs from underneath his shirt. It’s unfair, you think, that his shirt is still on. His body was sculpted by the gods themselves, all muscles and lean sinew. You think of the shirtless photos that exist of him on the internet, either for hero photo shoots or paparazzi shots of his suit ripped open during battle.

And now that same man is above you, rolling his hips into you, whispering into your ear about how wet and tight and perfect you are around him.

“I’m not gonna last much longer, angel.” He mutters against your neck. “Let me kiss you more.”

Your lips move sloppily together, rhythm dictated by Shouto’s deep thrusts inside of you, tongues working together as you drive each other closer and closer still to the edge. You cum again, throbbing around his cock, arching your back as he continues rocking against you. Shouto’s not far behind you, a strangled gasp spilling from his lips as his hips still.

Shouto rolls over, hand finding yours in the darkness. His thumb strokes over yours, watching you gently as your breath evens out.

“Shouldn’t have spent so much money on some shitty soba.” You mumble, nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck.

“I’ll get lunch somewhere else for a change.” Shouto says, pressing a kiss to your head. “Preferably with you.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

You were starting to get sick of soba, anyway.

#also working on few fics for this blog so that I can have some stuff to post when next semester starts!#self promo

893 notes · View notes