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It was sweltering when you stepped outside to make your way to Shouto’s apartment.
A thin film of sweat immediately began to build wherever your skin pressed against the box you carried, and the sun beat down furiously on the crown of your head. You instantly started to second guess your choice to take the train, wondering how dumb of a move it had been to decline an alternative means of transit. It was going to be like being packed into a sardine can and roasted over a hot stove.
Shouto had offered to send an agency car, but there were only so many more times you were going to make the trip from your crumbling student apartment to his place, and you had wanted to make the most of it. You didn’t even really need to bring boxes over just yet--as Shouto had hired a moving company to take care of everything next week--but you didn’t want to lose anything that was inside this one. This one held all your most treasured items--keepsakes from your friends, a pressed white tulip, and all the gifts Shouto had ever given you (minus, of course, the vegetables).
Steeling yourself for an uncomfortable twenty minutes, you set off towards the station, weaving through the tired crowds of people who looked just as sun-weary as you. Thankfully, with a hat over your face and a box you could shift to obscure your features, very few people seemed to recognize you as you did so.
A lot of the media attention surrounding your mishap a year ago had died down, and you had been good about keeping your relationship mostly private, so you weren’t exactly a household name to most people. But there were enough twitter-savvy teens and meme-literate college students that you were sometimes recognized as you went about your daily life.
This time, you were only eyed curiously by one pair of teenage girls as they bundled into the train car across from you, but they didn’t say anything to you, didn’t ask you to reenact the most embarrassing five seconds of your entire life into their phones, as many often did. The box hid you from the rest of the train car, and no one else seemed to take interest in your presence.
After exiting the train at downtown, you made it to Shouto’s building in record time, all but rocket-fueled by your desire to get out of the hot sun. The security team in the lobby of his building gave you friendly nods as you passed, one of them graciously pressing the button for the elevator so you didn’t have to fumble around your box.
You thanked her, making your way into the elevator and elbowing the button for Shouto’s floor. The elevator was even cooler than the lobby, and you shivered in delight as the frigid chill of air conditioning washed over you. God, this building was so fucking nice compared to yours. You were going to be spoiled as fuck once you lived here.
You made it to Shouto’s floor without incident, though digging in your bag for your keys was impossible at the moment, so you knocked on his door as firmly as you could manage with the box still balanced in your arms.
There were a few seconds of silence. Then, the door swung open and Shouto stood there, grinning at you.
His hair still looked a little damp from a recent shower, and he was wearing a dark button up over a soft tee shirt and a pair of dark jeans. He looked unbearably good, as boyishly handsome as ever, and your heart gave an embarrassing little stutter, like it always did whenever you saw him. You suspected it was always going to be like that, no matter how long the two of you had been dating.
Shouto’s eyebrows went up as he considered the box in your arms. That heterochromatic gaze picked over you curiously, expression going carefully blank, like it typically did when he was up to some mischief. And then, after a long moment, he spoke.
“You’re not wearing the scarf,” he said, sounding upset.
You stared up at him, feeling your brow wrinkle. The scarf? It was fucking summer, and the scarf was neatly tucked away in the box you were holding. It was literally boiling hot just outside the well-air conditioned hallways of his building. Why on earth did he think you would be wearing--
You inhaled a little sharply when the answer hit you.
The scarf.
The scarf was the first thing he had mentioned the day he had finally confessed to you. Well, after you had confessed first, really, on national television earlier that week, that you were thirsty as hell for him and were also really bad at picking up subtle clues. Or overt clues. Or any clues, honestly.
But now you were standing in his hallway with a box again, and he was clearly remembering what had happened the last time you had done so.
You wracked your brain for what you had said to him in reply that day, trying to hone in on the words past the sudden swell of embarrassment.
“Uh, it’s in here,” you finally replied, gesturing to the box.
That grey and blue gaze dropped to the parcel in your arms, then flickered up to your face. You pushed the box at him, the way you had the day he’d confessed, feeling just as squirmish as you had then.
What else had you said to him? Something very watery and over dramatic, likely. Something like...
“It’s all, um, there--if you wanted to check,” you said. “Except for the vegetables obviously. But I can pay you back, if you give me a couple months.”
Shouto was clearly suppressing a smirk as he feigned curiosity. “Pay me….what?”
You suppressed your own absurd laugh, wondering how far down mortifying memory lane he wanted to go.
“I also wrote down a recommendation for a new cleaning lady, if you want,” you said, patting the top of the box. “It’s in there. Her name’s Mika, she’s super nice. And I can message you or your manager when I have the money. Just let me know which one you’d prefer. Or I can have Mika drop it off.”
Shouto gripped the box, then, long, elegant fingers pulling back the flaps for him to peer inside. He looked absolutely delighted to find the scarf actually within. In one fluid movement, he pulled the scarf out, depositing the box behind him, and turned back to grab your sleeve, pulling you quickly into the apartment with him.
“Okay, what are you doing with the scarf this time?” you laughed, breaking character.
One white eyebrow went up as Shouto gripped your wrist firmly, eyeing you closely as he pulled off your baseball cap.
“Mm,” he hummed absently in his deep tone. “Something I should have done the first time.” He caught your other wrist, pressing it into the sinfully soft fabric of your favorite accessory.
You looked at him, bewildered, feeling your mouth twist into a slight frown. You rather liked the way things had gone the first time around, considering that you had ended up with a boyfriend at the end of it all. What was his bone to pick with the first time around?
“Uh, if I’m recalling correctly, the first time went great,” you said to him. “Like, really really great. Christening your countertops several different times great.”
There was a flash of white teeth as Shouto grinned.
“Ah, but I missed an opportunity,” he said. A soft sensation slid over your other wrist, and you looked down in confusion.
Then it hit you what he was up to, and your face instantly went up in flames.
A firm tug had your wrists knotted together, and Shouto smirked down at you, tugging you closer by the silky fabric of your scarf. Your stomach swooped at the intent look in his eye.
“I had been upset you weren’t wearing the scarf,” he said. “But there was an easy way to fix that.”
You swallowed heavily, your tongue feeling strangely thick. Your brain was suddenly, but predictably, very very empty.
“Y-yeah. But technically you, um. You did fix it,” you babbled helplessly, limbs growing shivery with static as Shouto pressed closer. He was so warm, and he was so stupidly handsome.
“I’ve, uh, worn it a lot since,” you managed.
Shouto considered you quietly, a familiar, wry little smile pressing at the corner of his mouth.
Before you’d started dating, you’d been confused as hell by that expression, suspecting it meant he was bewildered by your very existence but was too polite to say so. After just over a year together, however, you had learned that was just what his face did when he thought you were being unreasonably appealing. Which, mystifyingly, was mostly when the working part of your brain disconnected from your mouth.
You scrounged around for other coherent words, thoughts thick and sluggish, like you were thinking through pudding.
Shouto, however, was merciful, putting an end to your suffering by leaning down and taking your mouth with his.
All the coherent thought you’d managed to dredge up melted away like frost under the morning sun. You pressed yourself closer to him, leaning up to give him better access to your mouth. Shouto kissed you as stupid as he always did before a hot hand came up to cup your face, thumb sliding over your cheek affectionately.
“It seems I’ve got you in the scarf as I had wanted,” Shouto said quietly, once he let you up for air. “But now I find that the scarf is all I want you in.”
You opened your mouth to respond, though what you might have said was as much a mystery to you as anyone. But all that managed to come out was a choked, breathy little noise.
Shouto laughed.
Then there were large hands on your waist, and the next thing you knew, you were staring down at the wood paneling of Shouto’s floor as it moved underneath you. Shouto adjusted you over his shoulder briefly, and then he was charting a brisk course to his bedroom, depositing you like an errant pillow back onto his sheets.
Your cheeks burned as he crawled over you, gaze hot and searching.
“Are you alright, love?” he asked.
You nodded vehemently, eyes pulled to the little flat sliver of his abs where his shirt had ridden up.
“Good, yeah, I’m so good,” you managed to garble out. You were going to be so embarrassed about this later, but as usual when it came to him, you really couldn’t help it. If you’d learned anything in the year you’d been together, it was that you would always have the world’s fattest crush on Shouto Todoroki.
Strong fingers came up to grasp your chin, tipping your face up for another searing kiss. You managed to loop your bound arms over the back of Shouto’s neck, tangling your fingers in his soft hair and pulling him down to you more firmly.
Shouto flattened himself against you, so that you could feel every strong plane of his body, every hard muscle. You shuddered, and you could feel Shouto smirk against your mouth.
“Like that, do you?” he asked, hands pulling at your shirt. You wiggled so that he could pull it out from under you, sliding it up to rest just below the scarf. In the next second he’d also gotten you out of your pants, so that you were mostly bare to him in the cool apartment air.
Shouto looked you over for a moment, looking like he still couldn’t believe you existed. “Having you over the countertops was something that I wouldn’t change. Something that I won’t change, once you move in.”
Your face went hot and you squirmed underneath him.
“However,” he said softly, “I believe I would have liked to have been more deliberate with you. Taken my time with you,” he paused. “Perhaps...I might have made you come once for every photo of me on your twitter.”
The tips of your ears went hot. Jesus Christ, he couldn’t be serious.
You had deleted that twitter over a year ago, and though he’d apparently been allowed access to the contents by his manager (rude) there was absolutely no way he could remember how many pictures of him you’d retweeted. You’d been the one doing the retweeting, and even you didn’t remember, though you thought the number was probably embarrassingly high.
“There was like, one,” you squeaked out.
Shouto’s smile went dark and he leaned over you, his perfect, infuriating mouth so close he might have kissed you again.
“Thirteen,” he said, mouth brushing yours as he spoke. “There were thirteen photos of me on your twitter. All while you tried so hard to act like you didn’t want me, that you wanted to be just friends.”
“Hey, you said you wanted to be my friend,” you protested. You jerked when his hand slid up your side to cup a breast, thumb slipping under the band of your bra.
“You weren’t accepting my gifts,” he said, fingers grazing your nipple. You bit down on an embarrassing noise, letting out a sharp breath. “How else was I to make you take them?”
You opened your mouth to respond but Shouto made another pass over your nipple, and a moan escaped you instead.
“That’s right, love,” he said encouragingly. “Now I’m going to make you give me something in return. Thirteen somethings, in fact.”
He peeled down the cup of your bra, fastening his hot mouth over your breast. You whined, twitching when he flattened his tongue, dragging it slowly over the point of your nipple. A strong arm came up to press your hands down over your head.
“Shouto, thirteen is insane,” you panted.
He paid you no mind, instead swirling his tongue in a way that made your vision blur.
A tugging at your wrists made you look up, in time to see Shouto one-handedly looping the long end of the scarf through the slats on his headboard and pulling tight. Your whole body clenched up at the implication.
The slide of fabric over your breasts told you that Shouto had also managed to get your bra up, and hot mouth closed over your other nipple, long fingers carefully plucking at the other. “We have all weekend, love. Thirteen is ambitious but quite possible.”
You made a weak noise of acknowledgement, hips shifting forward against his stomach.
Shouto laughed, hot breath ghosting over your breast, and then he was crawling down your torso, hands grasping your underwear. He pulled it down slowly, torturously, until he managed to get it off you, then pulled your knee over his shoulder.
You whimpered, feeling like you might actually pass out from how hot he looked, one thigh thrown carelessly over his shoulder, gaze intent, staring down at you like a starving man looking at a hot meal.
You squirmed, trying to pull your arms down to get your hands on him, but the scarf held fast, pulling more firmly over your wrists.
“Shouto, please,” you said, though whether you were begging for him to touch you or to let you go, even you didn’t know.
Shouto seemed to take it as permission. Those two-toned eyes passed over you hotly, and then he was leaning down, biting down gently on the inside of your thigh. You jerked violently, but he held you in place, mouth trailing slowly, slowly down to where you wanted him.
You thought you might actually black out before he got where he was going.
“I can’t believe I ever told you you were unwelcome in my apartment,” he murmured, sucking a slow bruise into the skin at the crease of your thigh. “Once you move in, I’m never going to let you leave it.”
“Oh my god,” you said.
Shouto’s tongue flicked out, catching the edge of your sex, and you tried not to choke on air.
Then, finally, he moved, fastening his mouth over you, exactly where you wanted him. All reason completely left you.
After that, everything was an unbearable flurry of feeling--a soft tongue swirling over you, the tickle of his bangs on your stomach, the press of broad shoulders between your knees. There was the rasp of his sheets between your shoulder blades, the slow, deliberate press of two fingers inside of you, a firm grip on your thigh, fingers digging in tightly.
You could feel every point of connection with him, every minute movement of his mouth over you, and the sensation built up into something so horribly, terribly good. You were unable to do anything but writhe and pant underneath him, babbling something that sounded like it might be an approximation of his name.
Shouto hummed and sucked softly, those long fingers curling inside you. He finally hit a spot that made you see stars, and you practically lifted off the bed, back bowing. Shouto licked you through it, tongue curling expertly around your clit while you sobbed out his name, only slowing when your body went slack, collapsing back into his sheets.
When you could see straight once more, you realized he was staring up at you, that wry smile curling the corner of his mouth again.
You fought down a blush, feeling an embarrassed grin pull at the corner of your own mouth.
“You’re unreal,” you said. “I can’t believe I’m going to get to have you all the time.”
Shouto pressed a short kiss to the skin of your hip. “You already have me all the time.”
You flapped a hand in its bindings. “You know what I mean. I can’t believe we’re going to live together.”
His fingers slid gently over the back of your thigh. “I’d have had you in here sooner, if you hadn’t insisted on graduating first.”
You laughed. He was always so very straightforward about whatever he wanted.
He had been making very unsubtle noises about living together only a few months into your relationship, but you’d insisted that you wait at least a year. He’d grown up with more conservative mores, having been raised a rich boy, and taking things quickly once he knew he was serious about you seemed to be the style of things. But you, despite your frankly unreasonable thirst for your own boyfriend, knew the value of taking things just a little bit slower.
So you’d waited a year, just to be prudent, though you’d known all along how things would end up.
And now he finally had his way.
“I’m all yours now,” you promised, laughing. “Soon you’ll be sick of me hogging the bed, and leaving books everywhere, and getting so blackout at the farmer’s market that we don’t have room for all the vegetables.”
“Ah, you’re using me for vegetable access,” he accused, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the smile he was attempting to smother into your thigh.
“A girl’s gotta have her priorities,” you grinned.
Something lit up in Shouto’s gaze again, and he shifted up against your thigh to lean over you more fully. His fingers gripped the back of your knee tightly.
“I'll make you pay for that,” he promised darkly. “Twelve more times.”
You shivered as he took your mouth again, fingers sliding back between your thighs with obvious intent.
And then you really did. You paid for it.
Twelve more times.