⚚ when higuruma’s boss called him late notice, and told him he had a case that would last twelve days, he nearly ripped his own hair out. how the hell would he survive being away from you for that long? he didn’t even like taking too long using the bathroom for fucks sake, always afraid of missing any word you said.
at some point he started a habit of taking you in there with him, making you sit on the sink and continue your yap sessions while he did what he needed to. part of him seriously thought about stuffing you in his briefcase to come along whenever work called.
many of your friends were concerned with how clingy he was.. and the amount of aggression he’d show when he couldn’t be, but you quickly waved them off. higuruma just loved you so much! maybe a lot more than the average person should, but you didn’t mind it, which is why you always rushed to his defense.
higuruma was flattered you were so protective of him, but your friends really weren’t wrong to be worried, he was downright obsessed with you. everyone could see it but you.
guilt washed over him constantly— here you were thinking he was the best boyfriend in the world, but mostly the guy was just a selfish over thinker. what if someone tried taking his place beside you while it was empty?
oh helllll no.
“aht keep your hands off baby,” his low voice was soothing but it had a slight sternness to it. your legs wrapped around his waist while you were pinned in a mating press, forced to feel every inch of him.
“if you push me again, ‘m gonna have to spank my princess. y’want that angel? hmm?”
you started drooling when your eyes locked on his droopy ones, he hadn’t stopped staring and it was driving you quite insane. you couldn’t stop your hands that instinctively started pushing him again, “ngh- hiro! n..need you s’bad!”
the smack that followed was loud, and your clit was stinging before you could even process what had happened. “cmonn pretty don’t be bad please, i leave soon. please?”
something about his begging had your walls squeezing him even more. higuruma leaned down, tucking his head into your neck to the point his lips grazed your ear.
you were babbling a bunch of nonsense but it sounded damn near poetic to him. he could listen to you for hours.
“daddy’s gonna miss you soo much princess. s..so much-” his whispers slowly turned into whimpers, every sound only pushed you further over the edge. “w..will you miss me? tell me please, need to hear you..”
“im g..gonna- mm- miss you too! always miss youuu!” you couldn’t believe you were slurring out words like this. and it was even harder to believe that he actually understood them.
his free hand crept down your thigh— only stopping once it got to your foot, kissing the heel before putting your white toes to his lips.
he was silent aside from a few grunts, and when higuruma got quiet it never meant anything good. it meant he was up to something.
the man started thinking about not pulling out. the thought came on a whim and it kept growing the more he looked at your fucked out face.
would you be mad? maybe try to leave him? well, its not like he’d ever let you do a silly thing like that.
he couldn’t have you going anywhere, or ever try to walk out on him. you’d already agreed to be his forever, what’s the harm in a little extra precaution? you did always love nanami’s kids..
“need to m..make you a mama, yeah? get you all filled with my babies, walking ‘round with that belly, showing everybody you’re mine- shit shit.” you nearly cut the circulation off in his shaft when you heard his words.
he chuckled low and rubbed your pudge, imagining all the ways your body would fill in while carrying part of him. “i see my pretty pussy likes the idea… now 'm just waiting on my pretty girl.”
when he slapped your thigh you knew he wanted an answer. in an instant you nodded mindlessly— not caring much about anything besides his tip that brushed against your womb. or the fat thumb that circled your clit with purpose. “ohhh my goshh yes! i want it, want my baby, pleasee!”
Summary: Being the partner of this big, handsome guy who's a softie on the inside.
Type: Romantic, Headcanon, Very soft
Warning: Nothing more than risk of putting yourself in danger, fear
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You feel like you have two husbands in one.
In public, as All Might, he's protective, chivalrous, and always tries to make grand and heroic gestures to impress you or take care of you.
In private, with Toshinori, the dynamic is tender, calm, and full of quiet care. He prefers small details: making you tea, tucking you in if you're cold, or listening attentively.
Very few people know about your relationship, mainly Principal Nezu, Deku, and a few trusted heroes like Best Jeanist. Maintaining privacy is crucial for both your safety and his, so most dates are at home or in very discreet locations.
He will always try to project strength and optimism to be your support, repeating his classic "Everything's alright now!" However, you're one of the few people who sees how fragile Toshinori can be. Sometimes, after a hard day, he'll need you to remind him that it's okay to be vulnerable, and your hugs are his safe haven.
Because of his fame and his health, your "dates" are usually movie nights, cooking together (even though he's terrible in the kitchen), or simply reading quietly on the sofa. You cherish these moments of normal peace.
In his heroic form, he is VERY large.
Hugging him is like hugging a living marble statue, and in small spaces, he'll inadvertently bump his elbows into everything.
In his true form, he is VERY tall and thin. Sharing a coat or a sofa becomes a comical limb puzzle.
You are part of his care routine. You help him remember to take his medication, you make him nutritious smoothies (with plenty of ginger for his stomach!), and you don't panic when he coughs up blood; you just calmly hand him a tissue and ask if he needs anything. Your nonchalance is a great comfort to him.
You have learned to distinguish his public hero smile from his real smile—small, tired, but genuine—which he reserves only for you. Seeing it is your greatest reward.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he will wake up startled by nightmares of his past battles or by the fear that he failed to protect someone. Your presence by his side is what calms him.
He LOVES talking about Deku and his students with you. He gets excited sharing their progress and asks for your opinion on how to guide them. He makes you feel part of his role as a teacher.
Deku and Bakugo are the first students to find out. Deku cries tears of joy (Kacchan, they're so cute!), while Bakugo grunts something like, "Was the old man that desperate? Take good care of him or I'll blow you up," which is his weird way of giving his blessing.
Dinner at the Heroes' Residence is adorable chaos. Kaminari and Ashido ask you awkward dating questions, Iida gives you a lecture on the responsibility of love between a teacher and a civilian, and Uraraka and Tsuyu just want to know if you're romantic. Toshinori spends half the dinner blushing, but smiling.
Present Mic christens you with a ridiculous couple name and shouts out your anniversary over the radio. Eraser Head threatens to expel you both from school if your relationship affects work, but then sneaks you an extra coffee when he sees how tired Toshinori is.
His time is limited and unpredictable. Heroic emergencies or problems at U.A. can cancel plans at the last second. You learn to be flexible and cherish every moment you have together.
Toshinori insists on taking you to a restaurant like a normal couple. He disguises himself with a trench coat, hat, and glasses, but his enormous height and heroic posture give him away in seconds.
Before the first course arrives, a group of fans (and a third-rate villain seeking fame) surround you. The date ends up being a practical evacuation lesson and tea at home.
You discover that Toshinori, in his slim form, loves gardening. He is meticulous and patient with plants. It is his most peaceful time.
You are fascinated by his large, bony hands, capable of demolishing buildings yet so delicate with a flower. Your hobby becomes photographing his quiet moments, creating a secret album he cherishes.
Sometimes it can be difficult to discern whether he is protecting you as your partner or as the "Symbol of Peace." Openly discussing this is key to your relationship.
There is always the underlying fear that his enemies, past or present, might use you to harm him. This requires you to be aware of your surroundings and to fully trust in his ability (and that of other heroes) to protect you.
Bi-Han turned, narrowly dodging the assassin’s blade. In a single motion he conjured an ice dagger and buried it in his attacker’s throat. The body hit the ground before the frost had time to fade. He spun to help you, only to find you had already dispatched your opponent with equal efficiency.
A quick scan of the clearing told him there were only a few enemies left.
Liu Kang had tasked Bi-Han with recovering a set of sacred scrolls stolen from one of the temple archives by a group of rogue assassins. Normally, he would have sent Kuai Liang or Tomas—but both were already on their own missions. The Grandmaster accepted the mission with his usual brand of silent resentment.
The last assassin collapsed with a wet gasp. You wiped your blade clean and glanced at Bi-Han. His expression didn’t change—of course it didn’t—but the faint rise and fall of his chest betrayed the effort.
“That all of them?” you asked, still high on adrenaline.
Bi-Han nodded once, scanning the treeline. “For now. Let’s make camp.”
You snorted. “Camp? There’s a village half a mile from here with actual beds. Unless you plan to spoon a snowdrift?”
His glare could have frozen time itself. “Very well,” he said, clipped and cool. “But do not expect comfort.”
The forest grew meaner with every mile. Wind slipped through the branches in thin, icy threads, and even Bi-Han’s breath began to frost in the air. You kept talking—about the mission, about how Liu Kang definitely owed you both hazard pay—but most of what you got in return were low grunts and the occasional sideways glance that counted as acknowledgment from the Grandmaster.
The cold bit harder the deeper you went. Snow gathered on your shoulders; your fingers stiffened around your weapon. Bi-Han noticed, of course he did. He didn’t comment, just lengthened his stride enough that you had to jog to keep up.
By the time the village appeared through the flurries, the wind had turned feral. Streets buzzed with townsfolk hammering shutters and hauling carts under cover. Lanterns swung wildly above half-frozen merchants shouting last-minute prices.
You trailed Bi-Han to the only inn with smoke curling from its chimney. The air inside smelled of damp wood and cheap ale. The clerk looked up, saw the Lin Kuei armor, and immediately stopped smiling.
“One room.” Bi-Han said, voice flat as sleet.
The poor man nodded so fast his hat nearly flew off. “O-of course, sir. The finest room we have.”
You didn’t think much of it until the door upstairs clicked open to reveal exactly one bed.
Silence stretched thin.
“…Huh.”
“…”
“I’ll just ask if—”
“It will suffice.”
You bit back a laugh and began unpacking. “You know, most people would say something about the mistake.”
He set his gear beside the wall, perfectly aligned, as if order itself could compensate for the lack of a second bed. “Most people are not Grandmaster.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your towel. “Fine, Grandmaster. I’ll take the right side. Try not to freeze the room while I’m in the shower, hmm?”
He didn’t respond, but the faint twitch near his eye betrayed some internal commentary.
When the bathroom door shut and water began to run, Bi-Han sat at the desk and unrolled a parchment. Ink bled steadily beneath his gloved hand as he recorded the mission’s details—routes, kills, artifacts recovered—but his focus kept slipping.
The rhythm of water against tile, the occasional soft hum from your voice—it was too steady, too human, too distracting.
He told himself it was irritation. Distraction was weakness. Yet the truth settled in his chest like thawing ice: warm, unfamiliar, and impossible to ignore.
When it came to you, everything was distracting. And that, he decided, was unacceptable.
He dipped the quill again, jaw tight. “..Tch.” he tsked, forcing himself back to the page.
Bi-Han wrote until his hand cramped. The final lines of the report blurred in the lamplight, his mind wandering against his will. The sound of your humming filled the room again, light and aimless, and for reasons he couldn’t name it eased something in him. It was unfamiliar—peace, maybe. Dangerous either way.
When the ink dried, he cleaned the quill with deliberate precision, set the parchment aside, and extinguished half the candles. The storm outside had grown heavier, pressing cold against the shutters. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying back, hands folded over his chest, eyes shut as if pretending to rest would help him stop thinking.
At first it was harmless: the cadence of your voice, the way you’d laughed at the inn clerk’s nervous stammer. Then his thoughts shifted, unbidden, to the curve of your smile, the warmth of your skin when your hand had brushed his in the forest. He couldn’t help but think how your hand would feel in his. The heat that followed was sudden and traitorous.
He forced a slow breath through his nose, every muscle locking in refusal. Control. He was in control.
The bathroom door opened with a soft click. Steam rolled into the room, carrying the faint scent of soap and something floral.
You stepped out, towel wrapped around you, skin still dewy from the heat. “Bathroom’s all yours.” you said, sweetly, unaware of his inner turmoil.
Bi-Han didn’t move for a full second too long. Then he sat up sharply, eyes fixed anywhere but on you. “Understood.” His voice sounded rougher than intended.
He crossed the room in clipped strides, grabbing his own towel like a man on a mission. The door shut behind him harder than necessary.
You blinked after him, towel shifting in your hands, and just shrugged his behaviour off.
Left alone with the sound of the storm, you dressed in comfortable clothes, combed through your hair, and began your nightly routine. The mirror above the desk caught your reflection—soft lighting, faintly flushed cheeks—and you tried not to think about how strange it felt to share a room with the most unreadable man alive.
Behind the bathroom door, the water ran cold enough to bite. Leftover steam clung to the mirrors and tiles, blurring Bi-Han’s reflection into a pale ghost. He dragged a wet hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, cold air leaving his lungs in a faint mist.
He tried to empty his mind, to focus on the rhythm of water striking skin, but discipline refused to take hold. Images crept in anyway—flushed skin, the faint peeking of cleavage still touched by steam, the glint of water trailing down a throat. They flickered and vanished, only to return harder, sharper.
A low sound escaped him, equal parts irritation and disbelief. He scrubbed at his arms as if effort alone could scour the thoughts away, lowering his body temperature until the chill stung. ‘Control’, he reminded himself, the word more command than comfort.
At the desk outside, you were still humming, pen scratching steadily across parchment as you drafted your own mission report. The sound of the storm grew heavier against the windows; snow pressed white against the glass until the world beyond disappeared entirely.
You glanced up, sighing. “Perfect,” you muttered to no one. The wind howled in answer.
It was obvious the storm wouldn’t let up soon. The streets had emptied, shutters sealed tight, and a thin layer of frost was already creeping over the window frame. The thought of being trapped here with the ever-pleasant cryomancer for days made you groan softly.
“Elder Gods, if you have any mercy,” you whispered, “keep the lights on.”
The wind howled and beat harshly against the window in response.
You sank back in the chair, tapping your pen against the page. Somewhere behind the bathroom door, water still ran. Bemused, you wondered briefly what could possibly take Bi-Han so long—then decided you probably didn’t want to know.
You finished your notes and stacked everything neatly on the desk, finally allowing yourself to sink into the bed with a book in hand. The satin fabric of your sleep set—pastel blue fading into lilac—caught the lamplight as you pulled the blankets over your legs.
The room felt a little colder than before. A faint draft brushed your left side, and you shivered just as the bathroom door opened.
Bi-Han stepped out, hair still damp, a thin ribbon of mist curling behind him. He wore plain dark sweats and nothing else—no armor, no layers, just unguarded skin and muscle carved by years of discipline. For a second, you forgot how to breathe.
He muttered under his breath as he toweled his hair dry, grumbling about the “inefficiency of inns” and how he would much rather be at the Lin Kuei temple. The sound of his voice—low, irritated—snapped you out of your staring. You dropped your gaze back to your book before he could notice.
“The shower decent?” you asked lightly, trying for casual.
He answered with a grunt, rummaging through his pack before setting it down by the wall. A moment later, the mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the far side of the bed.
You smiled faintly, eyes still on the page. “You might as well get comfortable. We’ll probably be here longer than a night.”
He turned his head, frowning. “Explain.”
You tilted your chin toward the window. The glass was already fogging over; outside, snow came down in sheets, thick and unbroken. The wind howled around the eaves like something alive.
“The storm’s only getting worse,” you said. “If it keeps up, we’ll be snowed in by morning.”
Bi-Han’s expression darkened. “Unacceptable.”
“Not much you can do about it, Bi-Han. Unless you plan on freezing a tunnel out.”
He didn’t bother responding, but his gaze followed yours to the window. The sky was an endless swirl of white, and even he could admit defeat against nature. He exhaled, the faintest wisp of cold curling from his breath.
“The power might go out if the winds pick up,” you added quietly.
That, at least, earned a flicker of concern. He scanned the room quickly—walls, ceiling, the dim light trembling against the shadows—until his eyes landed on the stone hearth tucked beside the desk. Good. There would be firewood if the heat failed.
He gave a silent nod to the Elder Gods, a rare concession to luck.
For now, the only sound was the storm hammering at the windows and the slow, even rustle of pages turning between your fingers.
Bi-Han studied you quietly from his side of the bed. The lamplight softened the edges of the room, catching the sheen of your satin clothes as you read. For a moment, his gaze traced the colors—the pale blue, the faint lilac—and how they set off the warmth of your skin. Beautiful, yes, but more than that, alive.
He told himself he was only checking for injuries. The assassins hadn’t been skilled, but they’d been many, and he’d seen you take a few hard blows. His eyes lingered at your shoulder, your wrist, cataloguing the faint marks he could see.
“Are you injured?” he asked, voice low.
You looked up from your book, smiling at his tone. “Worried about me, Grandmaster?”
“I see no reason for you to sound so amused.”
“I’m fine. Just a few bruises. They’ll be gone by morning.”
You let your gaze wander in return—part curiosity, part payback. His chest rose evenly, unmarred; his arms were a map of old battles, not fresh ones. “And you? No damage from the terrible, lowly assassins?”
He made a quiet sound that could have been a scoff. “If such rabble had harmed me, it would be unacceptable.”
You grinned. “Right. Forgive me, my ice princess.”
That earned you a sharp glare. “Watch your tongue. I am your Grandmaster.”
You laughed, bright and unbothered. “Yes, yes. My apologies, oh mighty one.”
For all his grumbling, you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth before he turned away.
The two of you drifted into easier talk—half-serious, half-sarcastic—until the fatigue from the day finally pulled at your limbs. When you set the book aside, you offered a soft, “Goodnight, Bi-Han.”
He grunted something noncommittal but didn’t move. You smiled to yourself and rolled over, each of you keeping to your own side of the bed.
Sometime in the night, the world went dark.
The hum of the lanterns faded, leaving only the roar of the storm beyond the walls. The temperature dropped fast; your breath puffed white in the dark.
“Fantastic,” you muttered, teeth chattering. The thin satin did little against the cold, and goosebumps chased up your arms. You slipped from the bed as quietly as you could, padding across the floor to the small hearth.
After a few stubborn sparks and a whispered curse, flames caught. The orange light painted the room in flickers and shadows, the chill easing just enough to breathe.
You wrapped a blanket around your shoulders and settled on the rug, book in hand, the fire’s warmth brushing your face. Sleep could wait. Outside, the storm still howled; inside, it was only you, the fire, and the soft rhythm of Bi-Han’s breathing behind you.
The fire crackled softly as you turned another page, the storm outside a steady hiss against the windows. Somewhere behind you, a low sound broke the rhythm—a faint rumble, rough and uneven.
You looked back over your shoulder. Nothing seemed out of place at first. Then your eyes landed on Bi-Han. He’d shifted in his sleep, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped over the pillow. The sound came again, and you realized it wasn’t thunder at all. He was the source.
A quiet laugh slipped from you. “Even asleep, you’re complaining,” you murmured, shaking your head.
You turned back to your book, letting the pages pull you in again, but the next sound wasn’t a grumble. It was lower, drawn out—something that made the fire’s warmth feel suddenly different. You froze, heart thudding once, twice. Maybe you’d imagined it.
Then it happened again. A low, rough and gravely moan.
Heat crept up your neck. You tried to focus on the words in front of you, but they blurred. You’d spent years with this man—fighting beside him, arguing with him, watching him command the Lin Kuei with all the grace of a winter storm—and somewhere along the way you’d fallen for the rare moments when he wasn’t a storm at all. When he was simply… human.
That’s what you told yourself, anyway, as you set the book aside and rose to your feet. Concern. That was all it was.
He lay on his stomach, the blankets pushed low around his waist, the firelight tracing the sharp lines of muscle and scar across his back. You took a hesitant step closer. His breathing was heavy but uneven, a soft sound escaping that might have been pain.
“Bi-Han?” you whispered.
He didn’t stir. You frowned, scanning his side for any sign of injury he might have hidden earlier. The next breath he took came out in a faint cloud of frost, his brow creasing as if caught in some uneasy dream.
Before you could decide whether to wake him, he shifted, rolling onto his back. The movement startled you; your breath caught as you froze in place. But his eyes stayed closed.
He was still asleep.
You exhaled slowly, pulse racing for reasons you didn’t care to name, and let the fire’s glow soften the edges of the room once more.
You stood there longer than you meant to, eyes tracing the lines of his body where the light from the fire met the cool tone of his skin. Years of discipline had carved strength into every movement; even in sleep, he looked like a weapon sheathed.
You’d always known he was handsome, but seeing him this unguarded made something twist deep inside you—admiration, affection, something harder to name. It was the first time you’d really seen the cost of all that control etched into him: the scars, the stillness, the weight of command.
Then the sound came again—low, rough—and as you dared looked even further down, you suddenly understood the tension knotted through his frame. Heat flooded your face before the thought had fully formed. You turned away sharply, pressing a hand to your mouth, heart hammering against your ribs.
This was dangerous territory. Whatever storm he was caught in, waking him now would only make things worse—for him or for you.
You took a steadying breath, trying to will your pulse back to normal. The sensible thing would be to sit back down, pretend you’d seen nothing, and wait for morning.
But curiosity was a trait you’d never learned to tame.
You took a slow breath and stepped closer, the sound of the storm muffled under the steady rhythm of his breathing. Carefully, you set a hand against his chest, meaning only to wake him gently. For an instant your fingers moved of its own accord, tracing a small circle over the steady pulse beneath your palm. Then you froze, realizing what you were doing.
“Bi-Han,” you whispered. “Wake up.”
His reaction was instant. His hand shot up, closing around your wrist with a force that startled you—not painful, just a reflex born of years of battle. He sat up in one smooth motion, eyes sharp, scanning the shadows.
“What happened?” His voice was low and rough, still half caught in whatever dream he’d been fighting. “Are you hurt?”
You shook your head quickly. “No, no. Everything’s fine. I just… you were making noises in your sleep. I thought maybe you were hurt.”
The tension in his grip eased, but he didn’t immediately let go. His gaze finally settled on your face, searching for something in it. The silence stretched. You could feel the coolness of his skin under your palm, the faint tremor of his breathing.
Then something flickered behind his eyes—realization, maybe. His hand dropped away as if burned. He turned his face from you, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.
“I’m fine,” he said, voice clipped. “It was nothing.”
You hesitated, still close enough to feel the cold radiating from him where the heat had been a moment before.
“If you say so,” you murmured, stepping back to give him space.
He only grunted in reply, the sound rough with embarrassment, and the two of you sat there with the fire crackling quietly between you—neither willing to name what had just passed.
You walked to your side and slipped back under the covers, the mattress dipping softly beneath your weight. Bi-Han hadn’t moved much; he sat with his back slightly to you, shoulders rigid, every line of him carved tight.
You hesitated, then reached out, letting your fingers rest lightly on his shoulder. “Bi-Han… are you sure you’re all right? Is there anything I can do?”
He went even stiller. You felt a faint shiver run through him—not from cold this time, but from something that thickened the air between you, electric and dangerous.
In the dim firelight, his breath came uneven, and for a moment you wondered what ghosts his dreams had left behind.
He stood suddenly, every motion too sharp. His hand raked through his hair, leaving it more disordered than before. A low sound escaped him, half sigh, half growl of frustration.
“Yes,” he said at last, the word ground out between his teeth.
Before you could answer, he turned on his heel and crossed the room, disappearing into the bathroom without another word.
The door clicked shut, leaving you alone with the crackle of the fire and the echo of everything unspoken.
Bi-Han breathed harshly as the door shut behind him. He gripped the edges of the sink, bowing his head, utterly stunned by the disaster he’d just lived through. Never—not once in all his carefully disciplined life—had he imagined he would lose control in front of you of all people.
His father had carved restraint into him like scripture. Kuai Liang would have looked away out of respect… before laughing later. Tomas would have laughed immediately.
Bi-Han was mortified. Truly, painfully mortified.
Heat rushed through him again at the memory, and he cursed under his breath. He had the nerve to react like that in front of the one person he should always remain composed around. If the Elder Gods had a sense of humor, they were surely entertained at his expense.
You were probably amused too. How could you not be?
Another low groan tore from him. In his frustration, he hadn’t even noticed the frost spreading over the sink until it crackled beneath his palms. He forced himself to breathe, slowly thawing the surface. None of this helped the situation; the lingering desire coiled in him stubbornly refused to disappear.
He splashed his face with freezing water until the shock dulled the heat beneath his skin. After a moment, he straightened, meeting his own reflection. His hair was a mess, his expression strained—he barely recognized himself like this.
Enough. He would handle nothing tonight except his pride.
When he finally stepped back into the room, the fire had dwindled and you were already asleep, bundled under the blankets. The faint orange glow painted your face in soft, peaceful lines. Something in his chest tightened.
He knelt by the hearth, feeding the flames just enough to keep the cold at bay for you. Only after the warmth resumed did he return to the bed, slipping silently beneath the sheets.
For a moment, he simply looked at you.
You—his greatest irritation.
His sharpest thorn.
The only one whose presence unraveled him.
And the person he trusted more than anyone.
The most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes upon.
The one Kuai insisted he pursue.
The one Tomas teased him about endlessly.
The one he’d grown to love, quietly and without permission.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, control rebuilt brick by brick over the frantic beating of his own heart.
Sleep would not come easily—not tonight. But if losing control meant losing it because of you, he wasn’t entirely sure he minded.
The first rays of morning crept across your face, warm enough to coax you out of sleep. You frowned at the intrusion, groaning softly before your eyes finally fluttered open. For a moment, you simply lay there, letting your waking mind make sense of your surroundings.
The hearth had gone cold.
The power was back.
The air held a crisp winter bite…
And you couldn’t move.
A weight pressed across your stomach—solid, heavy, unmistakably human.
Your breath caught.
You looked down.
An arm. His arm. Draped over your waist, relaxed in a way you’d never seen from him while awake. Every muscle in your body locked, heat flooding your face as your brain pieced together the situation.
Bi-Han was holding you.
In his sleep.
Like it was natural.
A small, traitorous smile curved at your lips.
In a hazy moment of wishful thinking—or madness—you let yourself settle back against him. Just to savor it. Just for a second.
He made a low sound, something deep and instinctive, and tightened his hold around you. His body fit against yours with unintentional precision.
That’s when you felt it.
The heat blooming against you. The kind that had startled you the night before.
Your breath hitched. A tremor ran through you, unbidden, and you—heedless, reckless—eased closer. Barely an inch, just enough to—
Bi-Han inhaled sharply.
Before your mind could process the consequences, his body reacted. He shifted against you, slow, unconscious, driven by some lingering dream that refused to let go. The movement sent a shiver through him, a helpless sound caught low in his throat.
Your face burned. Your pulse thudded.
You should have pulled away.
But instead, you let yourself stay—caught between shock and rising heat, your own breath growing unsteady at the feel of him, the weight of him, the unmistakable want he hadn’t meant to reveal.
Tentatively, almost without thinking, you moved against him again. The situation was absurd, overwhelming, impossible—yet it set every nerve in your body alight. How many times had you dreamed of waking like this? Wrapped in his arms, feeling him pressed against you with no layers, no distance, no restraint?
It felt too vivid to be real.
Behind you, Bi-Han stirred.
At first, the shift was small—his breathing deepened, his hand tightening around you as if he feared you’d slip away. A soft sound escaped him, rough and dazed, and the chill of it brushed your ear.
He wasn’t fully awake, not yet. Whatever dream had hold of him blurred the edges of his consciousness, leaving him unguarded. The sensation of you against him drew a quiet, helpless sound from his throat, something that ran straight down your spine.
Then, all at once, he froze.
You felt it the instant it happened.
Every muscle locked.
His grip went rigid.
His breath hitched sharply.
Awareness crashed into him like a wave—sharp, cold, undeniable. He processed the warmth wrapped against him, the closeness, the tension still humming through his body, and the fact that he was holding you, not a dream.
You barely had time to panic before instinct betrayed you—you moved again, a small, needy grind born from heat and confusion, unaware he was already awake.
The reaction was immediate.
A low, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, brushing against your skin like a spark. Frost seemed to tingle in the air as his breath swept the back of your neck.
‘…interesting,’ he thought, the last remnants of sleep burning away as something sharper took their place. The initial shock faded quickly, replaced by a slow, coiling heat that curled at the edges of his restraint.
You really believed a move like that would go unnoticed?
Or unanswered?
A dark, wicked thrill flickered through him at the thought. You had no idea what kind of reaction you’d just woken—what kind of ideas you’d stirred loose in him.
Surely, you didn’t expect him to simply let that go. Not when you’d pressed yourself against him so sweetly.
Not when you’d sounded so desperate for more.
Your entire body went rigid.
You turned your head slowly, heart pounding out of rhythm, only to find his eyes still closed… but a faint, unmistakable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“…B–Bi-Han…?” you whispered, voice trembling.
He hummed lazily, arms tightening around your waist, his breath cool and warm all at once against your cheek.
“Morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something far heavier.
“M-morning…” you breathed.
His smirk deepened. “Feeling good, snowflake?” he asked, tone low and teasing, laced with a heat that made your pulse stutter.
“A-ah—I… I’m sorry, I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to— I just—”
Words failed you completely. Your brain scrambled for an excuse that didn’t exist.
Because no matter what you said, it absolutely looked like what it was.
“Mm…? Weren’t trying to what?” His voice curved around your ear, low and amused. “Move against me like that?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks so fast it nearly stung. You let out a soft, helpless sound, equal parts flustered and frustrated at how easily he could unravel you with a single sentence.
He chuckled against your skin. “Then what were you trying to do, hmm?”
His lips brushed your shoulder—barely a kiss, more like a promise. The touch sent a tremor spiraling through you. You instinctively tilted your head, baring more of your neck as he traced a slow line upward. Every ghosting kiss made your breath hitch, your pulse quicken.
“…just wanted to… help you…” you whispered, the words spilling out in a dazed tumble. You grinded against him again, instinct guiding you more than thought, wordlessly showing him what you meant.
Bi-Han’s breath caught. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding you closer, drawing a low sound from deep in his chest.
“How considerate,” he murmured, voice thick with heat and control. “My snowflake… always eager to please her Grandmaster.”
A shiver raced down your spine at the praise, at the way he said mine without even trying to hide it. His hands swept along your sides, tracing the lines of your body with slow, deliberate reverence. You felt the contrast—his rough, calloused palms against your warm, sensitive skin.
In one smooth motion, he shifted his weight and flipped you onto your back, bracing himself above you. The room spun for a heartbeat before you stilled beneath him, caught in the intensity of his gaze.
Your face burned, breath unsteady, and he drank in every inch of it.
Bi-Han leaned down, his lips brushing yours—soft, fleeting, infuriating. A tease. A test.
You whimpered, trying to chase his mouth, but he pulled back just enough to make you feel the loss. His smirk was slow and devastating.
He wasn’t going to make this easy for you.
You squirmed beneath him—half anticipation, half frustration—until the need simmering in your belly snapped. Your fingers slid into his messy hair, gripping tight as you pulled him down to you.
He groaned against your mouth, biting lightly at your lower lip as if punishing you for your impatience. You didn’t care. Not when you finally had him close enough to taste.
His lips were cool, a shock of winter heat against your own, and you melted into the kiss with a soft, desperate sound. One arm wrapped around his neck, the other tugging at his hair again—enough to make him inhale sharply and roll his hips into yours with a low, helpless moan.
Bi-Han caught your legs and guided them around his waist, lowering himself over you until your bodies aligned in a way that made your breath break.
You whispered his name—half plea, half praise—as he deepened the kiss, slowly overwhelming every thought you had left.
When the need to breathe forced you apart, you both stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling in the heated quiet.
Bi-Han’s gaze darkened. Then he lowered his mouth to your throat, kissing slowly, possessively. Each touch grew hungrier, traveling down the curve of your neck and tracing the edge of your collarbone. His mouth left heated trails that would absolutely turn into marks later—evidence of exactly how much he wanted you.
He paused only to look up at you, drinking in the sight of your flushed face, your parted lips, the way you watched him like you’d fall apart without his touch.
“…May I?” he asked, voice a deep, low rumble. “Remove this?”
Your breath stuttered. “Y-yes… please.”
A satisfied hum vibrated in his chest as he slipped your top away with smooth, practiced care. He bent to your skin again, kissing the newly exposed warmth with slow, reverent attention—each brush of his mouth sending shivers through you, each touch making your back arch for more.
His cool hand slid along your side, shaping itself to you, exploring with a firm gentleness that stole your breath.
“So beautiful,” he murmured against you, voice thick with awe… and hunger.
You let out a broken moan, clutching at him, trying to pull him closer, deeper.
“Bi-Han…” you breathed. “Please… don’t tease.”
A soft, wicked chuckle ghosted over your skin as he nuzzled closer, lips brushing your nipple, making heat bloom all through you.
“I have no intention of teasing you,” he whispered, tightening his hold on your waist. “Not when you ask so sweetly.”
Bi-Han’s mouth trailed lower, tracing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your torso. Every brush of his lips sent sparks skittering across your skin. By the time he reached the edge of your shorts, you were already trembling.
He glanced up at you—silent question, smoldering eyes.
You nodded, breath caught in your throat.
He slid the fabric down with deliberate care and the sudden exposure sent a rush of shyness through you. Instinct overtook desire for a moment, and you drew your legs together, hands covering what you could.
Bi-Han halted.
A low, displeased growl vibrated from his chest—not anger, but something intensely possessive.
“Do not hide from me, àirén,” he murmured, voice rough with wanting. “I want to see you.”
Your face burned, embarrassment warring with need, but the softness in his eyes steadied you. Slowly, you let your legs part again, revealing yourself to him.
His breath hitched.
Then he leaned in and began to kiss a slow path along your thigh. His lips were cool at first, warming with each press, each lingering nip. He worshiped the skin there, marking a trail inward—closer, closer—until your entire body trembled beneath him.
When his mouth finally brushed your core, the shock of sensation ripped a gasp from your throat.
You weren’t prepared. Not for the coolness of his mouth, not for the intensity of his hunger, not for the way he devoted himself to you without hesitation or restraint. His movements were deliberate yet greedy, as if he’d been waiting far too long for this moment.
Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling, body arching helplessly as you moaned his name again and again. The pleasure built faster than you could handle, rising sharp and bright through your core.
“B-Bi-Han—please… slow down…” you gasped, voice high and wavering as your legs threatened to close around him.
The sounds he made against you—raw, hungry, almost desperate—only pushed you further toward the edge. Every breath, every touch, every bit of devotion he poured into you sent your mind spiraling into white-hot static.
He wasn’t letting up.
He wasn’t holding back.
He was devouring you with the same intensity he brought to battle… except this time, every ounce of that power was focused entirely on you.
Your legs quivered helplessly around him as the pleasure built faster, tighter, threatening to snap.
You were already trembling when you grabbed his hair, tugging hard enough to pull a sharp groan from him.
“Bi-Han… please— I need you… I want you,” you gasped, voice cracking with desperation.
The words hit him like a physical blow.
But he didn’t stop.
If anything, the tension in his body sharpened, his grip tightening at your waist as he focused every bit of himself on pushing you over the brink. The way you tightened, the way your voice trembled—he wasn’t letting you go until he felt you unravel completely beneath him.
His own body reacted uncontrollably—restless, needy, grinding against the sheets as if he couldn’t help it—but he ignored all of it. Every thought, every bit of restraint, every ounce of his discipline was poured into you.
“Bi-Han—!” you cried out, your voice breaking as your back arched.
A wave of pleasure tore through you, fierce and blinding. You called his name again and again, your fingers digging into his hair, your thighs trembling around him as you shattered.
He groaned—low, reverent—holding you through every pulse of it, as if he wanted to memorize the way your body responded to him.
Only when the tremors eased did he finally ease his pace, kissing his way back up your body with slow, deliberate devotion. He gave you time to breathe, time to come back to yourself, each kiss grounding you again.
When your eyes fluttered open, he was hovering over you—eyes dark, expression undone. The sight of him like that, your slick dripping down his chin, made heat bloom in your chest all over again.
You reached up, threaded your fingers into his damp hair, and pulled him into a hungry kiss. The moment his body pressed against yours, you felt the hard line of need he’d been denying himself, and a soft moan spilled from your lips.
Your hands fumbled at the waistband of his pants, your desire rising all over again at the feel of him so close and so unrestrained.
Bi-Han groaned against your mouth, finally giving in. In one fluid motion, he pushed the fabric away, desperate for the closeness he’d been starving for. When he settled back against you, skin to skin, the heat where your bodies met made him hiss through his teeth.
He kissed you fiercely, breath ragged, as he moved against you—slow, deliberate, savoring every second of that intimate friction. It was enough to make both of you gasp, enough to make your body arch into his without thinking, enough to draw a curse from his lips as he pressed his forehead to yours.
He wasn’t inside you—not yet.
But he was close enough that both of you were shaking.
Bi-Han’s hands slid down your legs, gripping your thighs with a claim that made your breath stutter. He guided you open beneath him, the movement slow, deliberate, intimate. His body aligned with yours in a way that left no doubt about what he wanted—what both of you wanted.
Your heart thudded painfully hard.
He pressed forward, easing you closer, letting you feel the weight and heat of him against you. The anticipation alone tore a helpless moan from your lips.
“Y/N…” he breathed, voice breaking on your name.
You clung to him—one hand digging into his shoulder, the other fisting the sheets behind you—as your body trembled under the intensity of the moment. Every inch of him crowding over you, surrounding you, claiming space you’d secretly saved for him alone.
The burn of pressure, of closeness, of being opened so slowly under his weight, made your eyes flutter shut. A needy sound spilled from your throat before you could stop it.
Bi-Han groaned—a low, ruined sound that vibrated through your bones.
“So warm,” he murmured against your ear, words rough, voice shaking with restraint. “So eager for me.”
Your face flushed hot at his tone, at the praise that felt like it melted straight into your core.
When he finally pressed flush against you, a wave of dizzying fullness washed through you—overwhelming, perfect, almost too much. You gasped his name, fingers clutching at him as your back arched helplessly.
He paused—just for a moment—to look at you. Really look. Eyes dark, jaw tight, pulling air through his teeth like he was fighting not to lose control entirely.
“You alright, snowflake?” he whispered, voice low.
“Y-yes…” you breathed, barely holding yourself together. “Please… Bi-Han… move…”
His restraint snapped.
He pulled back just enough to draw a sharp gasp from you, then rolled his hips into yours with a deep, controlled push that tore a moan straight from your chest.
Your body reacted instantly—clenching, trembling, clinging to him—so intensely that he choked on a curse.
He started slowly at first, feeling out every shiver, every arch of your back, every breathless sound you made… then gradually gave you more. More depth, more intensity, more of him. His rhythm grew stronger, harder to contain, his body moving with a hunger he could no longer hide.
You were falling apart—words tangled, thoughts shattered, everything dissolving under the sensation of him and the heat of his breath on your throat.
Bi-Han’s smirk ghosted against your skin.
“Listen to you…” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “Already losing yourself?”
You whined, grip tightening on his shoulder.
His chuckle was low and devastating.
“Has my snowflake gone a little mindless for me?” he teased, brushing his lips over yours without kissing you fully. “Is that what you wanted?”
You could only gasp his name—again, again, again—each one pulling another sound out of him in return.
“Yes—yes!” you cried, the word torn from you without thought.
Your hands flew to his back, nails dragging along his skin as you clung to him. Each scratch pulled a low, hungry hum from his throat, his body shuddering above yours as he took in every detail of your pleasure.
He shifted—slow, intentional—and found a place inside you that made your entire body seize with pure electricity. Your breath caught, your vision blurred, your spine arching helplessly beneath him.
Bi-Han watched all of it with dark, reverent hunger.
“Look at you…” he murmured, voice a deep rumble against your lips. “Falling apart so easily.”
He angled his hips again, grinding deeper into that perfect spot, his teasing words brushing against your ear like silk and fire. Your thoughts crumbled, your voice reduced to broken fragments.
“Bi-Han—please, I’m— I’m—” Your words dissolved into a helpless moan as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, locking him against you.
The sudden pressure made him choke on a curse, his control splintering.
He pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaking, trying—failing—to keep himself steady.
“Don’t do that…” he growled softly. “You’ll tempt me to make you completely mine.”
Your back arched, a needy cry tearing from your throat.
“Please… make me yours… just yours…”
The sound he made was nothing human—low, guttural, possessive. His hands tightened on your hips, anchoring you beneath him.
“You want that?” he breathed, his voice trembling with restraint and want. “You want to belong to me?”
“Yes—ah—just you—only you, Grandmaster!” you gasped, the words ripped straight from your soul.
Something inside him snapped.
He buried his face in your neck, a harsh, desperate growl vibrating against your skin as his body moved with sudden, overwhelming intensity. His control shattered completely—every breath, every motion, every sound filled with raw, consuming hunger for you.
“Mine,” he snarled against your throat, the word reverent and feral all at once. “You’re mine—no one else touches you.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair as he held you firmly beneath him, his voice a low hiss against your ear.
“I’ll mark you so thoroughly…” he breathed, shivering as you tightened around him again, “everyone will know who you belong to.”
Your release hit you like a tidal wave.
“Bi-Han!” you cried, voice breaking as your entire body arched off the bed. Pleasure ripped through you so fiercely you could barely breathe. Your nails dragged down his back, marking him as instinctively as he’d marked you—proof etched into his skin that he was yours too.
He groaned at the feeling of you shuddering beneath him, continuing his movements just long enough to draw every last tremor from your body. Then, with a low, breathless sound—your name on his tongue—he tightened his grip on your waist and buried himself against you, shuddering through his own release.
You felt him tremble, his breath stuttering against your throat as he held you through the last waves of it.
Slowly—so slowly—his grip softened. He hovered over you, eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The wildness from moments ago ebbed into something softer—warmer—something he didn’t show to anyone else.
When he finally leaned down to kiss you, it was nothing like before.
No hunger.
No dominance.
Just quiet apology and reverence.
Your fingers threaded gently into his hair, pulling him closer, returning his kiss with shaky tenderness. When you finally separated, both of you were panting, faces flushed, hearts racing in sync.
Bi-Han sat back on his heels, steadying himself before carefully pulling away from you. The moment he did, he paused—eyes roaming over the marks left on your skin and his release dripping from your core. His lips curled upward in a rare, quiet smirk at the sight.
Without a word, he rose from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, he returned with a warm, damp cloth. He knelt beside you on the mattress, tending to you with a gentleness that made your chest ache.
You let out a soft moan—part soreness, part exhaustion—as he touched you. You closed your eyes, letting him care for you in silence, the intimacy of it somehow deeper than anything that came before.
And that’s when reality slammed back into you.
Now that the haze of desire had faded… your mind finally caught up.
Oh gods.
Oh gods.
You had just slept with your Grandmaster.
The man you’d been secretly in love with for years.
The same man you had—very clearly—begged to claim you.
Out loud.
Multiple times.
Heat rushed to your face in a violent wave.
You wanted the earth to open beneath the bed and swallow you whole.
What.
Had.
You.
Done.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clinging to the childish logic that if you didn’t look at him, maybe he couldn’t look back at you. Mortification curled tight in your stomach. You were absolutely, positively not ready to face the consequences of your actions.
You heard him move away from the bed—quiet steps, the soft clink of glass—and then return. A gentle tap on your arm made you flinch.
“Open your eyes,” he said—soft, not commanding.
You obeyed, hesitantly.
He sat beside you, a glass of water in hand, expression unreadable.
“Drink,” he murmured.
Your face burned. You took it, holding it with both hands, sipping carefully to avoid choking and humiliating yourself further. When you were done, you offered the empty glass back, throat tight.
“…Thank you,” you whispered. “For the water. And… for taking care of me.”
Your voice was still rough, worn thin from the amount of moaning you had done. Bi-Han’s eyes flicked over your face, lingering at the sound of it.
He didn’t speak immediately, just watched—too intensely, too deeply—until you squirmed under the weight of his silence. After a moment, he exhaled, a low, gravelly sound.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.
You nodded quickly, gaze locked on the blanket instead of him.
He didn’t look convinced.
The silence between you thickened until he finally broke it, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t name.
“Are you regretting your decision?”
Your head snapped up. “…What?”
His jaw clenched, eyes hooded. “Do you regret sleeping with me?” he repeated bluntly. “Are you already taking back the words you said earlier?”
Your breath caught.
And suddenly every desperate plea rushed back like a punch to the chest.
Please… make me yours… just yours…
Yes—ah—just you—only you, Grandmaster!
You wanted to crawl under the blankets and never emerge again.
But you forced the truth out anyway.
“…No. I don’t.”
You swallowed, staring at anything but him. “I don’t regret it.”
But the words hurt to say, because you knew what came next—knew how this story usually ended.
You looked away, heart sinking as the truth pressed down on you.
“But I know you don’t feel the same,” you whispered, ashamed. “It was just… stress relief. I helped you out. That’s all.”
You braced yourself for agreement.
For coldness.
For distance.
Because what else would a Grandmaster want from someone like you?
A heavy silence settled between you, more suffocating than any storm outside.
You refused to cry — you refused — even as your vision blurred and your throat tightened painfully. You would not fall apart in front of him. Not now. Not over this.
Bi-Han exhaled sharply, the sound low and frustrated.
“Such a foolish woman…” he muttered under his breath.
Before you could react, his hands were on you — firm but careful — lifting you and settling you in his lap as if you weighed nothing. His arms wrapped around your waist, caging you in, leaving absolutely no room to run from him or from the truth.
You stared at him wide-eyed as he tilted your chin up between two fingers, guiding your gaze to meet his.
“Do not think such foolishness again,” he said, voice firm but soft at the edges. “This was not a simple… release of stress for me. I do not act on such things lightly.”
Your breath stilled.
“And do not think,” he continued, gaze darkening, “that this was a one-time occurrence.”
You blinked, dazed, brain stuttering.
You couldn’t quite process the implication.
Not until his grip softened, fingers brushing along your cheek with surprising gentleness before returning to rest at your waist, holding you securely against him.
“I care for you far too deeply to allow that,” he said quietly.
The world stopped.
You searched his eyes — desperately — for a hint of deception, of pity, of anything that would confirm your fear.
You found none.
Only truth.
And something warm.
Something terrifyingly close to love.
“So…” your voice trembled, barely above a whisper, “does that mean you… like me back?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“You are mine,” he said simply. “As I am yours.”
The breath you’d been holding escaped in a shaky rush. Heat washed over your face as you ducked your head into his neck, hiding the smile you couldn’t stop. His scent wrapped around you — cold air, steel, and the faintest warmth he only ever showed you.
Your arms circled his shoulders, clinging to him with a relief so deep it ached.
“Understood?” he asked softly.
You nodded against his skin, melting completely into his hold.
“Good,” he murmured, pressing a quiet kiss to your temple.
He held you for another long moment before rising to his feet with you still in his arms, carrying you toward the bathroom with steady, confident steps.
You smiled against his throat, heart full, warm, and impossibly content.
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