Katsuki never thought he’d be this weak for something so simple. But the moment your nails first grazed his skin, dragging slow and deliberate patterns over his arm, he was hooked.

He doesn’t ask for it outright—not at first. But you see the way he leans into it, the way his muscles tense when your nails ghost over his wrist, then relax like he’s melting under your touch. He’s always been explosive, all fire and fight, but when you trace lazy circles on his palm with the tips of your nails, he goes quiet, breathing just a little heavier.

It gets worse when you’re lounging together, his head resting in your lap. The second your fingers scratch at his scalp, he exhales sharply, his eyes slipping shut as if he’s trying to commit the feeling to memory. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to press into your touch, wordlessly begging for more. You don’t stop. Not when he’s so pliant like this. Your nails drag along his jaw, down his neck, and he shivers.

He doesn’t fight it when you shift, letting his legs drape over yours. He’s warm, all solid muscle, but he’s still as you run your nails along his thigh. Slow. Teasing. You know what you’re doing, and so does he. His hands grip your sleeve like he needs something to ground him, but he doesn’t stop you.

And when he’s lying on his stomach, shirt bunched up, you don’t hesitate to scratch his back. Deep, satisfying drags of your nails that leave pink streaks in their wake. His breath stutters. Then, a low, almost guttural sound escapes him, something raw and unguarded.

Yeah. He’s obsessed. And he’s all yours.