Work Text:
The air in their apartment had always felt thin, like there wasn't enough oxygen or enough life to go around. Katsuki had been living there with Izuku for months, the blond was excited to think that after the suit, and them moving in together — for easy commuting — would bring them closer to the relationship Bakugou dreamed of. Often Izuku would come home late, after his school hours or their scheduled patrol, they usually had dinner together and spend an hour discussing all sorts of things like news, a comic series, to the point Katsuki just opted to move his bedtime one hour past 8 to have this little moments with his childhood-turned-crush.
After a rough accident during a rescue, Katsuki was badly injured and pulled from hero work for at least six months. When he was discharged, Izuku took care of him—washing his hair, scrubbing his skin, tending to wounds with small, practiced acts of service. He cooked decent meals. He lingered over morning coffee. He looked at Katsuki in ways that felt intentional.
Bakugou was certain. Certain enough to imagine asking. Certain enough to plan a future where they’d open a hero agency together—Katsuki handling paperwork during his leave, Izuku continuing as a teacher while patrolling and taking interns on the side.
It all collapsed after Shoto’s celebration.
He was rejected quietly, gently, classified as not that special—ranked low in a “Great Place to Work” joke judged by Kirishima and Izuku himself.
“I’m sorry, Kacchan. I don’t feel that way,” Izuku said, blushing, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re special to me. Just not romantically.”
“Not like she is?” Katsuki asked. The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Everything felt numb.
“No,” Izuku replied. “She 's different.”
Rejection didn’t burn. It hollowed. Judging by the smeared eyeliner and the tears that escaped without permission, Katsuki was left alone on the sidewalk, shaking.
He understood it quickly after that. Izuku loved the idea of being a savior. He confused it with love, mistook care for intimacy. Katsuki had mistaken it too—misread the softness, the touches, the “I’m here for you,” forgetting that Izuku would have done the same for anyone.
There was no substance. Just habit.
Katsuki left with his friends, numb, lost inside his own head. He returned to the apartment he thought would become theirs and realized he wanted out. out of his head, out of this apartment, out of this mess he created himself.
The pain didn’t sting or burn. It settled instead, heavy and empty, right beneath his ribs.
He packed quickly. A few clothes, his documents, and grabbed a hoodie that belonged to him but smelled just like his best friend.
Izuku liked doing that. Wearing his things.
“Platonic,” Katsuki muttered, laughing bitterly as his lips trembled. He dropped the hoodie on the floor and left without it.
Time passed. He stayed in the building leased for the agency, showering in the ready-room facilities, sleeping wherever he could. There was nothing to eat but a few protein bars in his gym bag. He wasn’t hungry anyway.
Time passed, friends came by, they all knew when Izuku announced he’d started dating Uraraka. Congratulations were in order, but everyone had a bittersweet feeling as Bakugou was very clear on his way of loving Midoriya, apparently to everyone except Midoriya.
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
The atmosphere in the small cafe was bittersweet. Izuku sat beside Ochaco, their fingers occasionally brushing over the table. He moved out too, and was actually staying with Uraraka while looking for settling down near the suburbs.
"I’m just saying," Kirishima muttered, staring at his untouched coffee. "I went by his agency to bring him a change of clothes. He didn't even look at me. He’s just sitting there in that quiet room, eating those dry protein bars. He’s lost weight, guys. His face looks... different. Tired."
Izuku offered a small, sympathetic smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Kacchan’s always been intense about his solo time, Kirishima. He’s probably just focused on his recovery exercises. He’s fine. He just needs to rest and process things on his own terms."
Shoto, sitting across from them, felt a slow, burning heat beneath his skin. He remembered the way Izuku used to touch Katsuki’s hair when they lived together—those "platonic" gestures that had clearly meant the world to the blond. To see Izuku dismiss him so easily now that he had Uraraka felt like a betrayal.
Without saying a word, Shoto stood up and left the cafe.
Shoto found Katsuki in the agency’s ready-room. It wasn't a tragic scene, but it was a lonely one. Katsuki was sitting on the edge of a bench, staring at a tablet. He looked... dimmed. The hoodie he wore—the one he’d kept because it was his, though it lacked the scent he’d hoped for—looked a little too big around the shoulders. He was thinner, yes, but more than that, he looked sluggish.
"Bakugo," Shoto said softly.
Katsuki looked up. His eyes were dull, lacking the usual crimson fire. "What do you want, Half-and-Half?"
His voice was raspy, like he hadn't used it in days. There were no takeout containers in the trash, only a few crinkled wrappers and a half-empty water bottle. He wasn't dying, but he was clearly neglecting himself—the depression having sapped the discipline he usually applied to his health.
Shoto took it all in: the slightly hollowed cheeks, the messy hair, the way Katsuki didn't even have the energy to tell him to get out.
“Have you eaten anything other than that crap today?” he asked pointing at the wrapper around the usually tidy desk.
Bakugou looked back at his tablet and sighed.
“M’fine, no need to come over and mother me, tell shitty hair as well” he said without looking at him again.
“He is an ass,” Shoto said. referring to the greenhaired hero.
“Yes, he is.” Katsuki answered shortly while tears gathered up without blinking in fear they would escape.
“please eat this” Shoto said while laying back a container full of spicy mapo tofu.
Katsuki contemplated the container while not hungry, it smelled nice, so with a little hesitation he opened the little styrofoam box.
"S'my favourite” he said while placing a small bite on his mouth.
“I know.”
"Did you see him?" Kirishima asked immediately, leaning forward.
Shoto ignored the chair and stood at the end of the table of the small izakaya. He looked directly at Izuku. "You told us he was 'fine,' Midoriya. That he was just resting."
Izuku blinked, looking a bit defensive. "I mean, he's Kacchan. I called him to sort things out, and said he was fine, He’s probably just—"
"He's not." Shoto interrupted, his voice flat and heavy.
The word hung in the air. Shoto didn't mean Katsuki was literally perishing; he meant he was empty.
"He’s sitting in a room that smells like stale air, eating cardboard bars because he doesn't care enough to feed himself," Shoto continued. "He’s lost the muscle he worked for years to build, same he used to work his ass off to earn enough money to buy your suit. He’s depressed and very much wasting away, You led him on for months and do not dare to play stupid and say you didn’t noticed how he poured his heart out on your hands for the past 3 years. , and now that you're done with him, you're content to let him waste away” he spat with hatred to his once veary dear friend.
"That's not fair, Shoto," Ochaco whispered, but Shoto didn't look at her.
Shoto stood closer and grabbed Midoriya by the collar of his off-white shirt
“I stood aside because I knew that he was in love with you," Shoto whispered angrily " He did everything for you, he died for you and now he is doing it again” he pushed the teacher “I will not allow you to keep using him”
Everyone listened in awe. Shoto had never been one to display his feelings aloud, but one thing was very much clear. “I’ll take care of him,” he said to everyone, “ do not contact him.” was a message straight and direct to the former one for all user.
Kirishima looked up, a wave of relief washing over his face. "Please, Todoroki. He won't listen to any of us, let us know how to help”
Shoto gave a single, sharp nod and walked out. He was done talking. He didn’t have a plan yet, but he couldn’t let him sleep one more night at the agency dorms.
When Shoto arrived to pick up Katsuki, his eyes turned to ice. He saw the way Katsuki’s clothes hung off his frame like rags on a scarecrow.
Katsuki was asleep and his secretary let him in because he knew who he was. . He simply wrapped Katsuki in a heavy coat and carried him out.
The first real meal came that evening, after Katsuki had dozed back into an uneasy sleep.
Shoto didn’t wake him. He moved quietly, the house already accustomed to silence, to deliberate motion. When Katsuki stirred on his own, it was to the soft clink of ceramic and the low murmur of something simmering somewhere deeper in the estate.
The tray was already there when he opened his eyes.
A bowl, wide and shallow, filled with something thick and pale—rice porridge enriched with stock, ginger steeped until fragrant rather than sharp. Two soft-poached eggs rested on top, the whites just set, the yolks barely contained. A dusting of chili oil bloomed red across the surface.
Katsuki frowned at it. “The hell is this.”
“Eat slowly,” Shoto said.
He sat on the edge of the bed, not close enough to touch, but close enough that Katsuki could feel the heat from his body through the mattress. One large hand rested flat beside him, steady, unmoving. He wasn’t watching Katsuki’s face. He was watching the bowl.
“I didn’t ask for a private chef, and I know you don't know hot to cook" Katsuki muttered.
“You didn’t have to, and I do know how to cook"
"soba is not cooking. is noodle boiling"
Katsuki hesitated, then picked up the spoon. His hand shook, just slightly. It pissed him off enough that he scooped too much at once, burned his tongue, hissed.
Shoto didn’t comment. He shifted the glass of water closer.
The second bite was smaller. Then a third.
The silence stretched, not empty—observant. Katsuki ate like he expected the food to disappear if he didn’t hurry, then like he was afraid it would stay. When the yolk broke, he paused, staring at it like it was something dangerous.
“I like it” he said quietly.
“I know.”
That was all Shoto said. He stayed until Katsuki finished half the bowl, then took the tray without comment and left. He did not praise him. He did not tell him to finish. He let the choice stand.
The first week passed like that.
Shoto did not hover. He structured.
Meals appeared three times a day, sometimes left on a table, sometimes brought directly to Katsuki wherever he’d settled—bed, couch, the sunlit tatami room overlooking the inner garden. The food grew denser by degrees. Protein folded in quietly. Calories added without ceremony.
Katsuki complained. Every time.
“You trying to fatten me up?”
“Yes,” Shoto said once, plainly, "you look awfull"
Sleep came easier here. The house held warmth evenly, floors heated just enough that Katsuki stopped waking up shivering. Shoto adjusted the thermostat without asking. He laid out clean clothes at the foot of the bed each morning, never the same ones, always soft, always too big.
Katsuki wore them anyway.
There were no questions about the agency. Shoto did not let him go back. When Katsuki snapped about it, voice sharp and brittle, Shoto listened until the anger burned itself out.
“You can return when you’re whole,” he said.
“And who decides that?” Katsuki shot back.
Shoto met his eyes. “I do.”
It should have made Katsuki furious. Instead, something in his chest loosened, just a fraction. He turned away, scowling, and didn’t bring it up again.
The grief came in waves.
First, denial. Katsuki woke expecting messages that never came, reaching for his phone with a sharp inhale before remembering. Shoto said nothing. He simply moved the charger closer to the bed, ensured the phone stayed powered, untouched.
Then anger.
Plates slammed. Doors were kicked. Katsuki snapped at servants, at the silence, at Shoto himself. Shoto absorbed it without flinching. When Katsuki shouted himself hoarse, Shoto brought him tea with honey and set it down without comment.
Bargaining came quieter. Katsuki talked in half-finished sentences, pacing rooms, muttering about what he could have done differently. Shoto listened from doorways, from across tables, never interrupting, never correcting.
Depression followed, heavy and suffocating.
Katsuki stopped pacing. Stopped snapping. He sat for long stretches staring at nothing, appetite dulling again. Shoto adjusted—not retreating, but closing the distance just enough. He sat nearby while Katsuki ate, close enough that their knees almost touched. He placed a hand on the back of the chair, a presence rather than a claim.
At night, Katsuki slept deeper. Sometimes he woke disoriented, heart racing, and found Shoto already there in the dim, sitting in the chair by the bed, eyes open.
“You watching me sleep now?” Katsuki muttered once.
“Someone should,” Shoto replied evenly.
Acceptance didn’t come all at once. It arrived in pieces.
In the way Katsuki stopped flinching when Shoto adjusted his blanket. In the way he finished his meals without being reminded. In the way he leaned back into the cushions instead of perching like he was ready to flee.
One evening, as Shoto brought in dinner, Katsuki spoke without looking up.
“…You’re not doing this for nothing, right.”
Shoto set the tray down carefully. “No.”
Katsuki swallowed. “W'd you want then?"
And met with no answer. But a small shrug from the bi colored man.
He picked up his spoon anyway.
Shoto watched the hollows in Katsuki’s cheeks begin to soften. Watched color return, muscle slowly reasserting itself beneath skin.
He would not let Katsuki disappear again.
Not on his watch.
Part 3: The Recovery Begins
As days blurred into weeks, something shifted—quietly, almost imperceptibly, the way weather changes without asking permission.
Katsuki began to come back into himself
Shoto never commented on the change. He never asked Katsuki how he felt. He didn’t praise progress or measure improvement. He simply adjusted around him, the way one learns the habits of a house they intend to keep.
If Katsuki disappeared into the library, a mug of tea would appear on the table beside him—always warm, always heavy with cream and honey. Not asked for. Never announced. Just there. When Katsuki scowled and snapped, “I didn’t say I wanted this,” Shoto would only hum in acknowledgment, replying, “Drink it anyway,” before returning to whatever he had been doing.
On colder nights, when Katsuki lingered on the balcony with a cigarette he never quite finished a nasty habit he'd always hated and reproached to his friends. Shoto followed and silently lighted it. A blanket would settle over his shoulders, thick and weighted, Shoto’s fingers brushing the line of his collarbone—deliberate, lingering just long enough to remind Katsuki that someone was paying attention. That the hollow angles of his body were being catalogued. Corrected. Slowly.
“You’re going to freeze,” Shoto would say, voice even.
“Not your problem,” Katsuki would mutter.
Shoto never argued. He just stayed.
Meals became routine. Not extravagant, not celebratory—nutritious, dense, carefully portioned. Katsuki complained loudly and ate everything anyway. Shoto noticed when the sharp edges of Katsuki’s frame softened, when his shirts stopped hanging so loosely off his shoulders, when the weight returned not all at once but in quiet increments.
He noticed everything.
And Katsuki noticed that Shoto noticed.
The realization unsettled him more than any confrontation ever could.
Because this wasn’t rescue. This wasn’t obligation. Shoto didn’t hover the way Izuku had—bright-eyed, anxious, searching for gratitude. There was no expectation of repayment, no unspoken debt disguised as kindness.
he felt like something worth loving.
When Kirishima visited for the first time, he almost didn’t recognize Katsuki.
Not because he looked better—not yet—but because he looked present.
Katsuki sat curled into an armchair, scowling down at a book he clearly hadn’t been reading for the past ten minutes. His hair was still unruly, his expression still sharp, but the emptiness Kirishima had grown used to seeing was gone. Replaced with something heavier. Anchored.
Kirishima waited until Katsuki disappeared into the kitchen—complaining loudly about “overcooked vegetables”—before pulling Shoto aside.
“He’s not exactly happy,” Kirishima whispered, glancing toward the doorway. “But… he’s here. Like—actually here.” His brow furrowed. “it felt like he was fading out. Like he could’ve vanished and no one would’ve noticed.”
Shoto didn’t look offended.
“I would never let that happen” he said calmly.
There was something final in his tone that made Kirishima pause.
“And if he tries?” Kirishima asked carefully. He was very intentional with this question, and carried deeper meaning, one carrying a weight and a real possibility with patients with depression such as Bakugou.
Shoto’s eyes flicked back toward the kitchen, where Katsuki was arguing with the stove like it had personally wronged him.
“He is getting help, not just mine but a real professional one” Shoto replied. No hesitation. No drama. Just certainty.
Katsuki later took his prescription along with a snack and a hot drink. Antidepressants made him hungrier and a lot moodier.
Later, when Kaminari dropped by and joked—too loudly—that Katsuki looked “healthier,” Katsuki nearly exploded. But Shoto intervened without raising his voice.
“That’s enough,” he said, standing slightly closer to Katsuki than necessary.
The message was clear: no messing with him.
And Katsuki, to his own surprise, didn’t pull away.
Days passed and Todoroki patrolled a calm district, taking care of minor civilian requests.
Shoto found Izuku alone in a quiet street, The air went cold immediately—a literal frost creeping across the floorboards. Izuku looked up, a nervous, "hero-style" smile plastered on his face, but it faltered the moment he saw Shoto's eyes.
"Todoroki! I was wondering how Kacchan was—"
"Don't say his name," Shoto interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous hum.
Izuku blinked, his hands hovering awkwardly. "I was not trying to lead him on, we’ve always been close, so I didn’t really think he was into me like that”
"You were playing with him," Shoto stepped into Izuku’s personal space, his shadow looming large. "You bathed him, you touched him, you let him believe you knew what you where doing, so do not tell me you do that with everyone”
"It wasn't like that," Izuku stammered, his eyes darting around. "I just didn't know how to tell him—"
"Because you're a coward," Shoto said, the words cutting like ice. "You liked the devotion, but you didn't want the responsibility. You watched him waste away for years did nothing but offer half-hearted comfort that only made him hungrier for something you never intended to give."
Shoto grabbed the collar of Izuku’s hero suit, pulling him close enough to feel the chill. "Katsuki is under my care now. He is eating. He is sleeping. And he is becoming a version of himself that you no longer have the right to look at. If you ever try to 'help' him again, I will personally ensure your reputation isn't the only thing that breaks."
Shoto let go, watching Izuku stumble back, breathless and pale. Without another word, Shoto turned and walked away. Katsuki would never know about this conversation; he didn't need the stress of Izuku's ghost haunting his recovery.
When Shoto got home, he found Katsuki finishing a bowl of miso soup. Shoto sat beside him, hand resting tentatively on the back of the sofa, just inches from Katsuki's shoulder.
"You did well today," Shoto said softly.
Katsuki grunted, but he didn't pull away. He was starting to look a little fuller 2 months into his recovery, a little more grounded. And Shoto knew, in the quiet of his heart, that this was only the beginning.The atmosphere in the Todoroki estate shifted—not heavy with grief anymore, but threaded with something tighter. A pressure that lived just beneath the skin. A quiet, ongoing contest for control neither of them had named out loud.
Katsuki stood shirtless before the full-length mirror in the ensuite, hands hovering over his own body like he wasn’t sure whether to touch or strike.
He wasn’t fat. Not even close.
But the razor-sharp angles were gone. His hipbones no longer jutted like weapons. There was a softness—slight, undeniable—settled over his ribs, a living cushion where there had once been only bone and ache. Proof. Evidence.
He scowled at his reflection.
“The cook,” Katsuki snapped as Shoto appeared in the doorway. “Tell her to cut the cream sauces. No more marbled beef. I want fish. Greens. I’m getting soft.” His jaw clenched. “I’m hitting the gym today.”
Shoto didn’t answer immediately.
He leaned against the frame, gaze slow, unhurried—taking Katsuki in like a landscape he knew by heart. The way the light traced the curve of his waist. The way his body looked held together now. Alive.
To Shoto, it was breathtaking.
“The doctor said heavy lifting would strain your heart,” Shoto said at last, voice even. “And the nutrition plan is intentional. Fat supports nerve repair. Skip it, and you’ll end up right back where you started.”
“I can handle a light circuit,” Katsuki growled, already reaching for his gym bag.
Shoto moved before Katsuki could step past him.
Not abruptly. Not aggressively. He simply occupied the space.
His fingers lifted, brushing the side of Katsuki’s throat—just enough for his thumb to find the steady pulse there. A touch that lingered longer than necessary. One that Katsuki felt everywhere.
“Walk with me through the gardens instead,” Shoto murmured. “The sun will do you good. I’ll have tea brought out.” A pause. “And the honey cakes.”
“I didn’t say I liked those,” Katsuki snapped—though his feet had stopped moving.
“You ate three.”
Silence stretched between them, taut.
“Stay,” Shoto added quietly. “The gym will still be there when you’re strong enough. Right now…” His thumb pressed once, deliberately. “You’re recovering.”
“I am not delicate,” Katsuki shot back, the word landing like an insult he couldn’t shake.
“I know.”
The breaking point came later—over something stupid. A protein shake Shoto placed in his hand without asking.
Katsuki snapped.
“You’re doing it again!” he shouted, shoving Shoto’s chest as they stood in the open living space. “You keep managing me. Feeding me. Redirecting me like I’m something you own!”
Shoto barely moved.
“I’m a hero,” Katsuki continued, voice raw. “Not a doll. Not a pet. You just want me weak so I don’t leave your pathetic ass!”
That did it.
“I want you alive,” Shoto said, his control finally fracturing. Heat edged into his voice as he stepped closer. “The only pathetic thing here is that I watched you waste yourself away and did nothing to stop it—because I thought he would make you happier.”
Katsuki, speechless, still huffed and muttered, “I don’t regret it.”
“And you shouldn’t,” Shoto replied. “But he shouldn’t have let it happen for so long.”
Shoto’s hands slid to Katsuki’s waist—firm, certain—pulling him in until there was no space left to argue in.
“You are not a replacement,” Bakugou muttered, more to himself than anyone.
“I know.”
“I can’t feel the same for you the way I did for Izuku.”
“I don’t want you to,” Shoto said, patience thinning.
“Then leave,” Shoto said softly. “Push me away.”
The air between them crackled.
Katsuki tried. He did. But Shoto didn’t yield—not an inch. His grip was unyielding, possessive without apology. Not trapping him.
Holding him.
Something broke loose in Katsuki’s chest. A sharp, frustrated sound tore out of him before he could stop it.
He slammed his mouth against Shoto’s.
Not gentle. Not clean. All teeth and heat and desperation—like he was daring Shoto to stop him.
Shoto didn’t.
He tightened his hold instead.
This wasn’t a rebound. Katsuki knew that much. This wasn’t pity, wasn’t a placeholder, wasn’t something meant to be survived and discarded. There was no neat ending waiting on the other side of this—no clean exit, no safe retreat. Just the unbearable weight of being wanted exactly where he stood, of being held so thoroughly it felt like escape was no longer an option. And worse—he didn’t want one. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something he was meant to outrun. It pressed him down, anchored him, made him feel seen in a way that stripped him bare. Like if Shoto ever let go, Katsuki wouldn’t move at all.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision of teeth and tongues, a battle for dominance that Shoto won the moment he backed Katsuki into the heavy mahogany table.
Shoto’s hands were everywhere, kneading the new softness of Katsuki’s thighs, his palms sliding up under the hem of Katsuki’s shirt. He focused on Katsuki’s chest, his thumbs circling the nipples until Katsuki was arching his back, a high, broken moan escaping his throat.
"So soft," Shoto whispered against his skin, his voice thick with a dark sort of pride. He cupped the flesh of Katsuki’s chest at the sides pushing up a cleavage, immediately biting small sections of his pecs, watching the way it flushed a deep, bruised red. "You're filling out so well for me, Katsuki. Look at you."
"Shut... up..." Katsuki gasped, his fingers digging into Shoto’s hair, trying to pull him back up, trying to regain some semblance of control, but his legs were shaking.
Shoto stripped him with a focused intensity. He didn't care about the hero suit he usually wore before, or the pride; he cared about the body he had spent weeks carefully rebuilding. He pushed Katsuki’s legs wide, forcing him to stay open, to stay vulnerable.
He caressed down his legs and softer sides, taking in the view, still some hard lines, but overall he looked like the best meal on earth.
Katsuki moaned as Shoto played with his rim in a slow punishing rhythm, tugging and entering him in an almost torturing pace, he opened him up slowly while placing his mouth on the expanse of the perfect body beneath him, around the neck, the mouth and mouthing small nicks on the inner side of Katsuki’s thighs.
When Shoto entered him, he did it slowly, wanting Katsuki to feel every inch of the fullness. Katsuki’s head fell back, his eyes blowing wide as he tried to find his rhythm, tried to take the lead, but Shoto pinned his wrists to the table.
"Stay still," Shoto commanded, his thrusts becoming deep and punishing. "Just take it."
Shoto praised the curve of his hips, the way he handled Katsuki’s chest like it was something meant solely for his pleasure, and the way Katsuki eventually stopped fighting and simply clung to Shoto, his body vibrating with every heavy hit.
Shoto had Katsuki pinned, his large hands buried in the soft, plush meat of Katsuki’s thighs, dragging them back until Katsuki’s knees were practically touching his ears.
"F-fuck, Shoto—" Katsuki gasped, his head tossed back, his throat a long, vulnerable line. "Too much... you're too... deep..."
"Hnnn... no, it’s not," Shoto growled, his voice a low, vibrating hum that Katsuki felt in his very marrow. Shoto’s dual-colored eyes were blown wide, dark with a primal sort of greed. He withdrew almost entirely before slamming back in, the sound of the impact—a loud, meaty slap—filling the silence.
"Shoto—nnnh!—please..."
"Humm... please what, Katsuki? Want me to stop?" Shoto leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of Katsuki’s shoulder while his hips never faltered, driving a relentless, punishing pace. "Mmmm, I don't think so. Your body is screaming for it. You’re so greedy now. You just want to be filled, don't you?"
Shoto’s thrusts became shorter, faster, his movements more frantic as he felt the internal walls of Katsuki’s pink, puffy hole begin to quiver and clench. The friction was incredible
"Ah, ah, fuck—!" Katsuki’s voice broke into a high, keening moan as his climax shattered through him. He shook violently, his thighs jiggling with the force of his release splattering across his own stomach.
Shoto didn't let up. He let out a long, gutteral groan—"Nnnnngh..."—as he delivered three final, bone-deep thrusts. He buried his face in the crook of Katsuki’s neck, his body going rigid as he poured a staggering amount of heat into the man beneath him.
He stayed there for a long moment, his heavy chest heaving against Katsuki’s, their heartbeats trying to find a shared rhythm. When Shoto finally, slowly pulled out, the wet, squelching sound was loud in the quiet room.
Hiis gaze dropped to the view he had created. Katsuki lay there, legs still trembling and spread wide. His entrance was bright red and gaping, a soft, ruined circle that couldn't quite close.
Shoto’s eyes darkened with pride as he watched his thick, white seed begin to drip out, coating the pink tissue and running down the curve of Katsuki's heavier, sweat-slicked thighs.
"Look at that," Shoto whispered, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating in his chest. "Mmmm. Open and dripping for me. I’m going to make sure you stay exactly this wide, Katsuki. I’m going to keep filling you up until you can’t remember what it felt like to be empty."
Katsuki could only let out a faint, exhausted "nnnh..."—a sound that was half-protest, half-surrender.
The morning light was too bright, reflecting off the polished floors of the Todoroki estate with an intrusive cheerfulness. Katsuki sat at the long dining table, his body aching in places he hadn't felt in months. His thighs ached. His back did, too. And there was a warmth low in his gut that hadn’t fully faded, a reminder he couldn’t quite shake.heavy—not just from the sleep, but from the lingering weight of Shoto’s touch.
"I’m not eating all of this," Katsuki snapped, gesturing to the spread before him: thick-cut bacon, soft-scrambled eggs with chives, toasted sourdough dripping with salted butter, and a bowl of Greek yogurt topped with honey and nuts.
Across from him, Shoto was infuriatingly serene. Freshly showered. Hair still damp at the nape. He sipped his black coffee like the morning hadn’t rearranged Katsuki from the inside out.
“Your body needs fuel,” Shoto said evenly. “You were… active yesterday.”
Katsuki’s ears burned. “Active?” He shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You pinned me to a table!.”
Shoto’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to make Katsuki’s stomach flip.
“And you didn’t object,” Shoto replied. Calm. Certain. “Eat.”
Katsuki bristled, folding his arms over his chest. “I told you, I’m cutting back. My hero suit’s already snug. If I keep this up—”
"Then we’ll get you a new one," Shoto said simply. He had already spoken to the cook. Mixed into the yogurt and the fresh-pressed juice were subtle appetite stimulants—high-grade, tasteless supplements designed to trigger the hunger cues Katsuki had suppressed for so long.
“I’d rather you be fed,” Shoto continued, voice low, “than sharp enough to disappear again.”
He rolled his eyes at the blond"Just eat the eggs. For your muscles."
They bickered through the meal, a sharp, familiar rhythm that lacked the true venom of the past. Katsuki finished the eggs, then the toast, and surprisingly, found himself scraping the bottom of the yogurt bowl. He didn't notice Shoto’s eyes tracking every swallow, a dark flash of triumph hidden behind the rim of his cup.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Katsuki muttered, already reaching for another bite.
“I’m not,” Shoto said, which was a lie. He watched everything—the way Katsuki slowed after the second slice of toast, the way he exhaled when he leaned back, palm briefly pressing to his stomach like he was grounding himself.
“You’re full,” Shoto observed softly.
Katsuki glared. “I’m fine.”
“Mm.” Shoto slid the yogurt closer anyway. “Just a few spoonfuls.”
Katsuki hesitated. Then ate. Honey clung to his lip; he wiped it away with the back of his hand, unaware of the way Shoto’s gaze darkened at the small, unguarded gesture.
By the time the bowl was empty, Katsuki felt it—weight settling, real and undeniable. His movements slower. His body warmer.
He dropped the spoon with a quiet clink. “You did this on purpose,” he accused.
Shoto stood, coming to his side. One hand rested on the back of Katsuki’s chair—not touching him, but close enough to feel like a claim.
“I took care of you,” Shoto corrected. “You stayed.”
Katsuki swallowed, pulse kicking hard in his throat.
“…Don’t get used to it,” he muttered.
Shoto leaned in, voice brushing his ear. “I already have.” and he left.
As the weeks bled into another, the old version of Katsuki Bakugo began to fade into a chubbier one, It started with small things. Katsuki began to wander into the kitchen at midnight, his body demanding the calories Shoto was secretly priming him for. He’d find himself reaching for the spicy jerky Shoto left on the counter, or the dense protein bars tucked into the pantry.
He started running errands and going out of the house more often, small trips to the market or the hero equipment store. He’d cook for himself occasionally, making spicy mapo tofu that filled the house with a scent of heat. When Kirishima saw him at a local cafe, he did a double-take.
"Bakugo! Man, you look... healthy. Like, really healthy. You’re filling out that hoodie, bro!"
Katsuki grunted, but he didn't snap. He didn’t love to be scrutinized and judged based on his appearance, but kirishima had good intentions, and he didn’t dislike his new weight . He felt present. The tension with Shoto remained, but it had morphed into a comfortable, simmering heat. They didn't talk about "us" or "feelings." Instead, they existed in a series of domestic collisions.
One evening, it happened on the couch.
Katsuki had been watching a hero news segment, and Shoto had simply sat next to him—closer than usual. Gradually, Katsuki’s head found Shoto’s shoulder. Then, his legs draped across Shoto’s lap. Shoto’s hand began to move, a slow, possessive rhythm against Katsuki’s thigh.
The news droned on in the background, a distant buzz compared to the heavy, territorial tension vibrating on the sofa. Katsuki had slowly drifted into Shoto’s space, his head eventually dropping onto Shoto’s shoulder, his legs draped over Shoto’s lap. Shoto’s hand moved in a slow, possessive rhythm, his palm dragging heavily over the denim of Katsuki’s thigh.
The sweater Katsuki wore—one that used to hang off him—was now stretched tight over his chest, the fabric straining against the new, natural fullness of his rounder pecs. Shoto’s hand wandered upward, his fingers hooking under the hem and sliding against the skin of Katsuki's ribcage. He felt it immediately: the muscle was now cushioned by a thin, new layer of healthy fat. He was so much softer to the touch, no longer a collection of sharp, defensive angles.
"This is getting a little tight on you," Shoto murmured, his voice a low, dark vibration against Katsuki's ear.
He pulled Katsuki down, shifting him until he was sprawled on the cushions. Shoto moved between his legs, his larger frame casting a heavy shadow. He stripped Katsuki from the waist down, and as the clothes came away, Katsuki’s cock sprang free—already hard and weeping a line of pre-cum. It was a solid, masculine weight against his stomach, smaller than Shoto’s thick length, but firm and functional, a stark contrast to the new softness developing around his hips.
Shoto pulled those increasingly heavy legs over his shoulders. As the light hit Katsuki’s skin, he saw them—the first little stretch marks, faint, silvery lines tracing the new fullness of Katsuki’s outer thighs. Shoto traced one with his thumb, a secret, possessive thrill spiking in his chest. He wanted them to keep coming.
He leaned in, his tongue finding Katsuki’s center. He was meticulous, eating him out with a slow, agonizing focus. He watched the way Katsuki’s hole, pink and puffy from his recovering health, twitched and pulsed.
Katsuki’s hands buried deep in Shoto’s hair, his hips bucking weakly. "Sh-Shoto... stop, I can't—"
"You can," Shoto growled, looking up. He reached up, his large hands gripping Katsuki’s chest, kneading the new fullness there, his thumbs rolling over puffy nipples that stood out hard against the healthy flush of Katsuki's skin.
The couch wasn't enough. Shoto stood, manhandling Katsuki with an easy, terrifying strength, hoisting the heavier blond into his arms. He threw him onto the mattress, and Shoto’s blood boiled at the sight of Katsuki’s softer thighs and belly jiggling from the impact.
He entered him with one heavy, singular thrust that bottomed out instantly. He pinned Katsuki’s arms above his head, the contrast staggering: Shoto, tall lean and with a boxier frame, and Katsuki, shorter, and his filling waist that was becoming softer, heavier, and entirely dependent on Shoto's wants.
Shoto began to hammer into him as soon as he prepped him.
"F-fuck, Shoto—" Katsuki gasped, his head tossed back, his throat a long, vulnerable line.
Shoto growled, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "Mmmm, you’re just getting soft enough to take all of me now. Look at how you're shaking."
Shoto’s thrusts were punishing, his weight pressing Katsuki into the mattress. Shoto’s much larger cock stretched Katsuki to his absolute limit, filling him so completely there wasn't room for air.
"Nnngh... you’re so wide for me, Katsuki. Hnngh... you feel so much better with this extra weight on you. Mph... so much more to hold."
"Shoto—ah!—stop talking... nnnh!"
"Humm... no. I want you to hear it," Shoto rasped, his breath hot against Katsuki’s ear as his hips slapped against the new, lush curve of Katsuki’s seat. "Mmmm, you’re mine. I’ve fed you, I’ve seen you stretch... and now I’m going to fill you."
The friction was overwhelming. Katsuki’s smaller cock thrashed against his deeper belly button, now no longer a flat small indent, but a much deeper and horizontal shape.
sensitive and overstimulated as he approached the edge. Shoto’s pace became frantic, a desperate, wet sound echoing in the room until he finally came, filling Katsuki to the absolute brink. He stayed deep, pinning him down until he was sure not a drop would be wasted.
When Shoto finally pulled out, the sound was wet and heavy. He moved back to look at his work. Katsuki lay there, legs trembling and spread wide. His entrance was gaping and red, a soft, circle that stayed open.
Shoto watched with a predatory satisfaction as his thick, white seed began to drip out, coating the pink tissue and running down the curve of Katsuki’s heavy, sweat-slicked thighs.
"Look at you," Shoto whispered, a low hum of satisfaction in his chest. "Open and ready. I like you like this, Katsuki. I’m going to keep you so full you’ll never be able to close for anyone else."
Katsuki could only let out a broken, breathless "nnnh..." as he surrendered to the weight of it all.
He leaned down, kissing Katsuki’s sweat-soaked temple. "If it were up to me, I’d keep you exactly like this. Open, soft, and waiting for me to come home and fill you up again."
Katsuki couldn't even find the words to argue. He just lay there in the ruins of the bedsheets, his body feeling heavy, sated, and undeniably his.
The quiet of the morning was shattered by the sound of a zipper straining—a sharp, metallic protest followed by the dull thwack of a button flying off and hitting the mahogany wardrobe.
Katsuki stood in front of the full-length mirror, his face a mask of pure, frantic horror. He was trying to force himself into a pair of his old compression training pants, but the fabric was screaming. His thighs, now thick and plush, spilled over the waistband, and his stomach—no longer a flat, hard plane—pressed forward in a soft, undeniable curve that refused to be contained.
"No," Katsuki whispered, his breath hitching. "No, no, no..."
He twisted to the side, trying to see the damage, and that’s when he saw them. Along the flare of his hips and the lower curve of his belly, the faint silvery lines had turned into tiny vivid red streaks. They were fresh, deep, and hot to the touch—bright "stripes" that proved his skin couldn't keep up with the pace Shoto was setting.
"I’m a pig," Katsuki hissed, his eyes stinging. "I’m losing it. I need to run... I need to fast... no more fucking rice, no more—"
"You aren't going anywhere."
Shoto’s voice was like a velvet anchor. He had been standing in the doorway, watching the struggle with a dark, simmering look of triumph. He walked forward, his shadow swallowing Katsuki’s reflection.
Before Katsuki could scramble for a shirt, Shoto’s large, cool hands reached around from behind. He didn't pull Katsuki into a hug; he went straight for the new weight. His palms splayed over Katsuki’s stomach, fingers digging into the soft, doughy flesh that spilled over the ruined waistband.
"Get off me!" Katsuki barked, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "Look at me, Shoto! I’m getting fat! I’ve got... these fucking red marks everywhere. I’m a mess."
"You're perfect," Shoto murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum against Katsuki’s ear.
To prove it, Shoto hooked his fingers under the soft underside of Katsuki's belly and gave it a firm, proprietary jiggle. The sound—a soft, meaty thlap—echoed in the quiet room. Katsuki let out a choked, humiliated sound, his face turning a deep crimson.
"Stop it! It’s gross," Katsuki whimpered, his head falling back against Shoto’s shoulder.
"It’s beautiful," Shoto corrected. He began to massage the new weight, his thumbs tracing the angry red stretch marks with a terrifyingly slow focus. "I love these stripes, Katsuki. They’re proof that you’re finally mine to keep. Every one of them means you're further away from the version of yourself that wanted to disappear."
Shoto turned Katsuki around, forcing him to face him. He cupped Katsuki’s face, but his eyes stayed dropped to the way Katsuki’s chest—his "tits," as Katsuki would angrily call them—were carrying a new, heavy fullness that bounced slightly with his frantic breathing.
"I’m going on a diet. Starting now," Katsuki insisted, his hands trembling as they rested on Shoto’s chest.
Shoto’s eyes darkened. "No. You’re not. In fact, we’re increasing the intake."
"Shoto—"
"I’ve already ordered the new supplements," Shoto interrupted, his voice brooks no argument. "High-calorie, nutrient-dense shakes. One every night before bed, while you're in my arms. I want to see your arms get softer, Katsuki. I want to see this belly get so heavy you can't even see those training pants anymore."
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Katsuki’s ear. "I want my chubby lil pet well-fed and complacent. I want you so soft and weighted down with me”
Katsuki’s heart hammered against his ribs—ribs that were now safely hidden under a layer of plush, warm fat. The shame was there, but beneath it was a sickening, sweet sense of relief. He didn't have to be a hero right now. He just had to be Shoto's.
"You're... you're crazy," Katsuki breathed.
"I'm dedicated," Shoto whispered, his hand sliding back down to squeeze the soft roll of Katsuki's waist, his fingers sinking deep into the flesh. "Now, come to the kitchen. The cook made crepes. And tonight, you start your first shake. I want to see more of those cute red stripes by the end of the week."
Katsuki didn't fight as Shoto led him away. He just felt the new slight rhythmic jiggle of his own body with every step, a constant reminder that he was being remade to the liking of his keeper.
The high-end boutique was quiet, the air smelling of expensive leather and cedar. Shoto had cleared the store for the hour, ensuring they wouldn't be disturbed. Katsuki stood in the middle of the plush carpet, staring at a stack of clothes with a mixture of disbelief and simmering resentment.
"Size Large?" Katsuki hissed, holding up a pair of tailored trousers. "I was a Small six months ago, Shoto. This is—this is for someone twice my size."
"It fits slightly large for now," Shoto said, his voice smooth and unapologetic as he leaned against a display case. "But do not fret. It won't be for long. In no time, you’ll fill those out perfectly."
Katsuki’s jaw dropped, but Shoto didn't give him time to argue. He reached over and picked up a pair of Size Medium pants—stiff, dark denim with no stretch. "Try these on if you want” “we’ll take them if you want them”
The fitting room was spacious, lined with three-way mirrors that forced Katsuki to see himself from every humiliating, beautiful angle. He struggled with the Mediums. The denim caught on his thighs—thighs that were now thick, solid, and plush. He had to hop slightly to get them up, his face turning a deep scarlet as he realized he could barely even get the button to work.
The curtain swished open. Shoto stepped in, his presence immediately making the small space feel sweltering.
"They're too small," Katsuki panted, his hands resting on his hips as his belly spilled over the top of the stiff denim in a heavy, soft roll. "I told you."
"Mmmm... no," Shoto hummed, stepping behind him. He didn't go for the button. Instead, he reached out and hooked his fingers into the belt loops on the sides of the pants. With a firm, easy tug, he lifted, pulling the waistband—and the weight it contained—upward.
Katsuki let out a soft "oh" as he felt his belly being hoisted. Then, Shoto suddenly let go.
The weight dropped. The soft, heavy mound of Katsuki’s stomach fell back over the denim, jiggling rhythmically against the rough fabric. Shoto watched the movement in the mirror with a dark, hungry pride.
"Look at that," Shoto whispered, his hands moving to the front. He didn't touch the button; he let his fingers wander to the center of Katsuki’s torso. "Look at your belly button, Katsuki."
Katsuki looked. It was different. It used to be a tiny, flat dot on a washboard stomach. Now, because of the way the fat had gathered and the skin had stretched, it was wide, deep, and horizontal—a soft slit buried in the center of his new fullness.
"It’s a different shape," Shoto murmured, his thumb dipping into the depth of it. "It’s much prettier now. I think it would be a great idea to get it pierced. A gold bar... something to accentuate exactly how deep you’re getting."
Shoto’s hands migrated upward, sliding under Katsuki’s loose shirt. He cupped the weight of Katsuki’s chest, his palms molding over the puffy, soft tits that had developed. Because of the rapid growth and the new padding of fat, Katsuki’s nipples had become inverted, sinking back into the soft, pale circles of his areolas.
"They've gone inside," Shoto noted, his voice a low, vibrating growl. He squeezed the flesh, his thumbs rolling over the spots where the nipples should have been. "Hnnn... you're so soft here. I think we’ll have to pierce these, too. Pull them back out so I can see them properly. Mark them as mine."
"Shoto... stop... we're in a store," Katsuki gasped, his head falling back against Shoto’s shoulder. The friction of the tight Size M denim against his groin, combined with Shoto’s heavy handling of his chest, was making him dizzy with overstimulation.
"Mmmm, no one is coming in," Shoto replied, his hips pressing into the back of Katsuki’s heavy seat. He reached back down, grabbing the belt loops again, giving the pants—and Katsuki’s jiggling middle—another firm, proprietary shake. "You're so beautiful, I’m going to keep buying you larger clothes, and I’m going to keep watching you outgrow them."
Katsuki looked at his reflection—the wide belly button, the puffy chest, the red stretch marks on his hips—and for the first time, he didn't see a failure. He saw a man who was being thoroughly, utterly consumed by someone who would never let him go hungry again.
"Large," Katsuki whispered, his voice shaking. "You think I'll really... fill an L?"
"I'll make sure of it," Shoto promised, his teeth grazing Katsuki's ear. "Starting with a hearty, you must be starving"
The piercing studio was private, high-end, and smelled of antiseptic and Shoto’s expensive cologne. Shoto had arranged for the best artist in the city, someone discreet who wouldn't blink at the sight of a top-ranking hero on leave looking so... different.
Katsuki sat on the edge of the leather reclining chair, feeling exposed. He was wearing the new Size Large joggers Shoto had insisted on; they were soft and draped loosely, but the waistband still sat low, pushed down by the weight of his stomach.
"Lie back, Katsuki," Shoto commanded softly, standing at the head of the chair.
Katsuki obeyed, the leather creaking under his increased weight. As he flattened out, his belly didn't disappear. It spread slightly to the sides, a soft, warm mound that remained prominent. The bright overhead light hit the vivid red stretch marks on his hips and illuminated the center of his torso—the deep, horizontal slit of his new belly button.
The piercer moved in, gloved hands prepping the area with a cold swab.
"The tissue is very soft," the piercer noted professionally. "There’s a good amount of depth here now, it'll hold the jewelry well."
Shoto reached down, his fingers tangling in Katsuki’s hair to keep him grounded, while his other hand rested firmly on the side of Katsuki’s waist, his thumb sinking deep into the plush flesh. "I told you it was a better shape now," Shoto murmured, watching the piercer mark two purple dots inside the deep fold.
Katsuki let out a shaky breath, his puffy chest rising and falling. His nipples, still inverted and tucked away in the soft circles of his areolas, twitched as the cold air hit them. Shoto’s gaze flickered to them, his eyes darkening. Those were next.
"Big breath in," the piercer said.
Katsuki squeezed Shoto's hand, his eyes flying open as the needle pierced through the thick, soft fold of his navel. He let out a choked "Hnnngh!"—the sound vibrating through his chest.
Because of the new weight, the piercer had to manipulate the flesh more than usual, pulling the soft mound of Katsuki's belly upward to thread the jewelry. Shoto watched with a predatory intensity. Seeing the needle disappear into the deep, wide well of Katsuki’s stomach felt like a physical brand.
Once the gold barbell was screwed into place, the piercer stepped back. The jewelry was heavy, a thick gold bar with two shimmering rubies that sat perfectly nestled within the horizontal fold.
"Look," Shoto whispered.
Katsuki lifted his head, peering down at his own midsection. The gold glinted against his pale, healthy skin. The weight of the jewelry seemed to emphasize the plushness of his stomach, making the soft curve look even more intentional and decadent.
"It... it makes it look bigger," Katsuki muttered, his face flushing.
"It makes it look full," Shoto corrected. He reached down and, with a slow, agonizing deliberation, flicked the gold bar.
The movement caused a heavy ripple to travel across Katsuki’s stomach, the soft flesh jiggling around the new piercing. Katsuki let out a soft, embarrassed moan, his hips bucking weakly against the chair.
"It's perfect," Shoto hummed, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Every time you move, you'll feel that gold pulling on you, reminding you of how much I've fed you. Reminding you that you're filling out exactly the way I want."
Shoto leaned over, his shadow falling over Katsuki’s face. He didn't let him sit up yet. He moved his hand from Katsuki’s waist to his chest, his palm flattening over one of the puffy mounds. He used his thumb and forefinger to squeeze, trying to coax the inverted nipple out, but it remained stubborn, buried in the soft fat.
"We'll do the nipples next week," Shoto decided, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We need to let this heal first. And you need to be a little... heavier. I want the skin even softer before we mark these."
Katsuki looked up into Shoto’s dual-colored eyes and saw the absolute devotion there—a dark, obsessive need to see him expanded and adorned. He felt the weight of the gold in his navel, the stretch of the skin on his hips, and the heavy throb of his pulse.
"You're making me into a trophy," Katsuki rasped.
"No," Shoto whispered, leaning down to kiss the heat of Katsuki’s neck. "I’m making you into a masterpiece that can never run away. Now, let’s go home. The cook is preparing a five-course dinner, and I want to see how that new gold looks when your belly is truly distended."
Two weeks had passed, and Shoto’s regime had been relentless. Katsuki was now five pounds heavier, a weight that didn't look apparent on the outside, but felt in small differences He was dressed in the Size Large trousers they’d bought at the boutique; they didn't quite "fill" them yet—the fabric was a bit baggy around his knees—but the waistband was no longer super loose.
They were back in the private studio. The air was thick with the same antiseptic scent, but the vibe was different. Katsuki felt heavier, slower, and much more resigned to the way Shoto’s eyes tracked every new curve.
"Take the shirt off, Katsuki," Shoto murmured.
Katsuki pulled the fabric over his head. As the shirt came away, the overhead lights caught the gold bar in his navel, which now sat deep in the horizontal fold of his belly.
But the real change was higher up.
Shoto stepped closer, his hands reaching out to cup the puffy, heavy mounds of Katsuki’s chest. They were undeniably soft now, drooping slightly with a weight that jiggled when he breathed. Shoto’s thumbs traced the outer edges, finding what he was looking for.
"Look," Shoto whispered, his voice dark with pride.
Katsuki looked down. There, tracing the pale, soft sides of his breasts where the tissue met his armpits, were tiny, fresh stretch marks. They were thin, spider-web lines of pinkish-red, proof that his chest was expanding too fast for his skin to keep up.
"They're starting here, too," Katsuki breathed, his heart thudding against his ribs.
"Because you're growing," Shoto said, his palms flattening over the puffy tissue, kneading it. "You're getting so soft for me, Katsuki. But these nipples... they're still hiding."
He looked down at the inverted tips, which remained tucked away like shy secrets in the center of the soft, swollen areolas.
The piercer approached with a specialized pair of clamps. "We’ll need to draw them out forcefully to set the bars," he explained.
Shoto moved to the head of the chair, his large hands coming down to grip Katsuki’s shoulders, pinning him back. "Don't move," he commanded.
Katsuki gasped as the cold metal clamps latched onto the soft tissue. The piercer pulled, and for the first time in weeks, Katsuki’s nipples were dragged out of their hiding spots, forced to stand proud and vulnerable. The skin was taut, flushed a dark, angry pink.
Click. Slide.
The first needle went through, followed immediately by a heavy, surgical steel barbell. Katsuki’s back arched, his softer belly jiggling with the sudden shock of the pain.
"Hnnngh! Shoto—!"
"Shhh. I’ve got you," Shoto hummed, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the tiny stretch marks on the sides of Katsuki’s breasts.
The second one followed. When the piercer finally stepped away, Katsuki was panting, his chest heaving. The results were immediate. The heavy steel bars acted as anchors, preventing the nipples from ever retreating again. They stood out prominently against the puffy, soft weight of his chest, glinting in the light.
Shoto leaned over him, his eyes blown wide as he took in the sight. He reached down and flicked one of the new bars.
Katsuki let out a high, broken moan. The vibration traveled through the soft fat of his chest, causing the puffy tissue to wobble enticingly. Between the gold in his deep navel and the steel in his chest, Katsuki looked like a prize—a piece of property that was being decorated and expanded for Shoto’s sole enjoyment.
"There they are," Shoto rasped, his voice thick. "Now I can see them. Now I can taste them. No more hiding under that soft skin."
He ran a hand down Katsuki’s torso, his fingers skipping over the steel, diving into the horizontal slit of his belly button, and finally resting on the waistband of the Large pants.
"You're five pounds heavier since the last time we were here," Shoto noted, his hand giving the soft meat of Katsuki’s waist a proprietary squeeze. "The Large pants are starting to fit. By the time these heal, I want you filling them out.”
Katsuki looked at the metal in his body and the new red lines on his skin. He felt heavy, marked, and utterly owned
back at the house;
The bedroom was sweltering, the air thick with the smell of sweat and the heavy, expensive oils Shoto had used to knead Katsuki’s flesh. Katsuki was pinned beneath him, his legs hoisted high over Shoto’s shoulders, a position that put the full, plush reality of his transformation on display.
Shoto entered him with a slow, deliberate slide, his thick length stretching the puffy, pink tissue of Katsuki’s entrance until it was white at the edges. Katsuki’s head thrashed, his fingers digging into the silk sheets.
"F-fuck, Shoto—" Katsuki gasped, his throat a long, vulnerable line. "Too deep... I can't... ah!"
"Hnnn... you can," Shoto growled, his voice a low, vibrating hum. He didn’t speed up; he wanted Katsuki to feel every inch of the fullness. As Shoto thrust, he looked down at the way Katsuki’s stomach—now a soft, heavy mound—rippled and jiggled.
"Look at you," Shoto whispered, his hand coming down to splay over the center of Katsuki’s belly, his fingers dipping into the deep, horizontal well of the navel piercing. "The way you’re carrying this weight... you look pregnant, Katsuki. You look like you're carrying a life I put inside you."
Katsuki’s eyes blew wide, a humiliated, needy whine escaping him. "I'm not—nnnh!—don't say that!"
"Mmmm, but you do," Shoto hummed, his pace becoming a relentless, meaty rhythm. Slap. Slap. Slap. Shoto’s hips hammered against the lush, heavy meat of Katsuki’s seat. "You’re stretching so beautifully for me. Just like a mother. You’re becoming so soft and wide... just wait and see. I’m going to keep filling you until you’re even rounder."
Shoto reached up, grabbing the steel bars in Katsuki’s puffy, heavy tits, using them to hoist Katsuki’s upper body closer. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the tiny, fresh stretch marks on the sides of Katsuki’s breasts.
"Look at these stripes," Shoto rasped against his skin. "Proof that you’re expanding. You’re getting so full here, Katsuki... I think it’s time we go shopping again. Not for shirts. For a bra. You need something to hold these tits, do you think they’re a C cup?”
"Sh-Shoto! Ah, fuck!" Katsuki’s voice broke as his climax crested. His smaller cock thrashed against his own soft, rounded belly, the friction sending him over the edge.
Shoto didn't stop. He drove in one last time, bottoming out so hard the bed groaned, and let out a gutteral, long-drawn groan—"Nnnnngh..."—as he emptied a massive, hot creampie deep into Katsuki’s core. He stayed buried there, his forehead pressed against Katsuki’s, feeling the internal spasms of the blond's release.
When Shoto finally, slowly pulled back, the sound was a loud, wet squelch. He stayed at the foot of the bed, his gaze dark with pride. Katsuki lay there, his belly jiggling as he tried to catch his breath, his legs trembling and spread wide.
His entrance was bright red and gaping, a soft, ruined circle that stayed open. Shoto watched as his thick, white seed began to drip out in a heavy stream, coating the pink tissue and running down the curve of Katsuki’s heavier, sweat-slicked thighs.
"So full," Shoto whispered, reaching out to trace a red stretch mark on Katsuki’s hip. "I’ve filled your belly with food and your womb with this... even your ass looks fatter and so cute with those small dimples.”
Katsuki could only let out a broken, exhausted "nnnh..." as he stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the creampie and the gold in his navel, completely surrendered to Shoto's vision.