#(that’s a lie he always deserves more love)

[fan-maddson]

Fannie listened as Eddie spoke, doing her best to understand why he felt the way he did. Even all those years ago, when she gave birth without him knowing, she knew it was going to hurt him, even if that wasn’t her intent. Her only intention was to protect them from being pushed away as she had been. He wasn’t ready to be a father, especially given his health. And she wasn’t ready to speak to him. She was still hurting, even though she tried to hide it.

As she explained this to Eddie, she could only hope he would understand why she did what she did. “I didn’t know I was pregnant,” she breathed, eyes on him, even as she fidgeted. “I found out after I went back to school…when I sent my dad to talk to you, to get you to go back to the hospital, I asked him not to tell you; I didn’t want to upset you any more than I already had. I’d thought that by the time I was due, I’d be in a better place emotionally. I tried, Eddie,” she breathed, tears falling. “I tried to put aside my feelings, but every time I thought about seeing you…even talking to you…I froze. I was right back there, in that moment, and I didn’t want anyone to see me like that: begging you to love me, to take me back. I’m still so embarrassed I did that, for both of us. I couldn’t be that person again…they deserve better.”

When asked about her relationship with Jason, she felt cornered. It was a part of her life very few knew about, and that was never spoken of. At least to her knowledge. In interviews they’d both lied about how they met, more for her sake than anything. He didn’t want people to look at her any differently than he did. As he always had. With love, adoration, amazement. To be fair, it was only a partial lie, omitting parts of their relationship that could cause issues. But she knew that’s not what he was asking about. 

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she nodded, taking his hand. “The stuff people have seen in interviews is true, that I met him through his cousin, that I’ve known him since I was thirteen,” she started, biting her lip. “For a while, it was just that; we’d say hi whenever our paths crossed, I’d mess with his hair, that kind of dumb stuff. We were just kind of playful with each other…” Fannie went on to explain that they never dated, or even considered themselves a couple when they were younger. They were close friends, which led to them being friends with benefits one night after one of his shows. During the summers they would meet up while on the road, their bands usually traveling close to the same route. And while they’d never had sex, they’d done just about everything else. But when she met Eddie, everything changed. They went back to being friends, and just friends. They would still see each other occasionally, and they would hang out while he gave her relationship advice and she teased him about being forever single.

“Nothing happened between us after you dumped me,” she stated softly. “Not right away. He called, just like he always did before, and every call, he’d ask if I’d told you about the pregnancy, if we were back together yet; every time I said no, I could hear the disappointment in his voice,” she said with a soft smile. “The night I went into labor was the first time he kissed me. He took me home after spending Christmas and New Year with their family, as Amanda’s guest. I don’t know how it happened, it just did. But he was there with me when they were born, and when Billy and Steve came up, he asked where you were.”

Fannie blinked back tears, guilt filling her as she spoke, but she continued. “I told him you didn’t know, that I hadn’t even told you I was pregnant, and he looked so disappointed. More than Billy did last night when he told me why you passed out. That first video, those cds? Those were all him. He wanted you to see me the way he did, the way I really was. But now…I’m not sure I want you to see me for who I am…because I’m not perfect, and I’m not what people in this town think I am. What you think I am. And I’m afraid that when you do see me, for all my faults, my failures, you’ll reject me, just like you did before. I’ve stayed gone because of the what if’s, and I always tell the kids to be brave, face their fears. How can I ask them to do something I won’t do?”

She knew she’d glossed over the years after the twins were born, mostly, but what was there to say? That she’d spent the years working from either their tour bus or their home in San Francisco, sending Wayne, Billy, and Steve photos and videos of them and the kids when life was too crazy to visit, or when they couldn’t get him away long enough for them to come to the house.That living like that had been freeing, not having to worry about what people would think because of how they’d chosen to live their personal lives, because she didn’t have the weight of what she’d assumed were his expectations. To be a good girl, settle down, and quietly watch as he pissed away his chances like he had before. She loved him, despite her anger with him, despite the pain, she’d loved him all this time. 

“You know,” she smiled sadly, remembering the game he’d missed, the one and only one she’d asked him to go to, “he was there, waiting to meet you, Eddie. He was with me the countless times I called that day. He was the one who told me that you and me were gonna be okay as I sobbed in his arms, worried you were mad at me, or that you were in a ditch somewhere. And last night, after I rode with you in the ambulance, he was the one holding me together, telling me you were gonna be okay. I’m not telling you this to make you feel bad; I’m telling you this because I want you to know that he’s always been in your corner, Eddie, even before now. And what I want, more than anything, is a chance for us to be happy, together. But we have to be open, honest…and not pull away when it gets rough. Okay?”

Can’t Breathe

“You know,  you can use the front door,” Fannie called to Eddie from her bedroom window. “We’re not kids anymore…besides, you’re useless to me dead or injured.” She flashed him a sweet smile, excited to see him. The summer was winding down and she was getting ready to head back to classes. In fact, she should have left last week, but the idea of leaving him again was too much. They’d always been friendly during school, but when she ran into him over winter break her freshman year, something changed. 

Maybe it was being away from Hawkins, actually being able to be herself without feeling like she was constantly being compared to the other girls in town. Maybe it was getting out of her head, and getting the courage to say more than hi to him. Whatever “it” was, this thing between them had grown to be more for her. But she doubted he would ever see her as more than a friend with benefits, another notch on his belt. But gods, when she looked at him, he was all she could see. All it would take was him asking her to stay, and she would. Even if it only meant there was a slight chance there could be something more.

@stuffandthangsandangelwings

[missmaymay13]

dear god - q.hughes

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

q.hughes x fem! oc | 9k

summary: No matter how hard Quinn tried to push Vanessa away—out of fear, guilt, or the belief that he didn’t deserve her—she kept finding her way back to him. Even when he shattered her heart, even when he left her in the dark, she still showed up. And in the depths of his pain, when he was broken and terrified and finally honest about how much he loved her, it became painfully clear: she was the one constant he couldn’t live without, and no amount of distance or silence could ever truly keep her away. based off of the song 'dear god' by tate mcrae

a/n: alright guys i wont lie i had such a hard time finishing this story. i couldnt get the story to flow properly, i struggled filling the gaps between parts and i will probably rewrite this in the future. i think it honestly needed to be longer but i just didnt have the mental capacity for that rn lol. so sorry in advance if it seems like a rushed/ jumbled mess but also pls enjoy lol!

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The Hughes cabin was humming with life, the late June air thick with the warmth of summer and the buzz of celebration. The sharp scent of lakewater mingled with firewood and the stale tang of cheap beer soaked into the creaky deck boards—remnants of years of memories clinging to every surface. The night vibrated with energy: music, laughter, the crackle of a dying bonfire—but all of that faded now, giving way to something softer. Quieter.

The music had long since died down, replaced by the occasional drunken laugh echoing from inside. Most of the lights were out, save for the dim porch bulb casting an amber halo across the dock—a lone beacon in the dark. Overhead, the stars stretched wide, scattered and bright, as if the universe itself had spilled over Michigan.

Vanessa Calder—Nessa to the Hughes family—tipped her nearly-empty beer bottle back, letting the last warm drops slide down her throat. She sat curled into the corner of a docked boat, knees hugged to her chest, a flannel wrapped around her like armor. It smelled faintly of lake air and sunscreen and teenage boy—probably Luke’s. She didn’t care. It was familiar.

She didn’t even know why she came out here. One minute she was in the crowd, laughing, dancing, swaying under string lights—and the next, she was seeking stillness. The cabin felt loud in more ways than just sound. It always did. And when things got too much, she slipped away.

She thought about senior year. College. The looming unknown. And the ache that came when she thought about not having Jack beside her through it all.

So she came out here. To the dock. To the lake. To the silence.

She didn’t hear the soft steps until the boat dipped slightly.

Her heart jumped—and then she saw him.

Quinn Hughes.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just eased himself down across from her, beer in hand, unopened. He moved like he always did—carefully, deliberately, like he was carrying something fragile inside him and couldn’t afford to let it spill out.

His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends like he’d just showered or taken a swim. He wore a hoodie, sleeves shoved to his forearms, and basketball shorts that hung loose on his frame. The moonlight caught on the sharp lines of his face—his cheekbones, his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. He looked like a secret. Something sacred.

Nessa swallowed hard.

“Didn’t think anyone else was awake,” she said, her voice soft, like she didn’t want to disturb the quiet.

Quinn glanced at her. “Couldn’t sleep.”

And that was it.

Silence again. But not uncomfortable. Just… new.

She had known Quinn for years, but always from a distance. Jack’s older brother. The one who’d already made it. The one who slipped in and out of their lives like a breeze through an open window. He was kind, always, but there was a distance to him. Like he lived just slightly out of reach.

And maybe that’s why she never tried to close the gap.

But Quinn? Quinn had noticed her. Always had.

She didn’t know that, of course. That when she first came over to the cabin at thirteen—cast on her wrist, big pink backpack slung over one shoulder—he’d noticed how easily she made Jack laugh. That she never tried to impress anyone, never tried to belong. She just... was. Loud and opinionated and loyal as hell. She told Jack he was a baby for being scared of bugs and then squashed one with her cast like it was nothing. He’d never forgotten it.

He’d told himself, back then, she was just Jack’s friend. That was the rule. But rules got harder to follow as she got older. As he did.

Now, sitting here across from her in the boat, her hair tangled in soft waves, her arms curled around her knees, her eyes lit only by moonlight—it felt dangerous. How easy it was to notice her. To see her. Not as Jack’s best friend. But as her.

She broke the silence again.

“I’m scared.”

Quinn’s head tilted slightly. “Of what?”

“Everything,” she said with a soft laugh. “Senior year. Leaving. I know what I want to study but it doesn’t make it easier. Everything I know is slipping away, and I’m pretending I’m fine with it.”

He nodded slowly. Thoughtfully. “It’ll shift. It always does. But you’ll adjust. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.”

She turned to him, brow raised. “You don’t even really know me.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I know you more than you think.”

Something flickered across her face.

“Jack talks about you. All the time,” he said, voice low. “You’re part of this family. I remember the first time you came here. You had that cast. That backpack. You told Jack to stop whining and dared him to jump in the lake. You’ve always been... unshakable.”

Nessa laughed, surprised. “I forgot about that.”

“I didn’t,” he said simply.

And he hadn’t. Not a single second.

She leaned back, her fingers absently playing with the edge of the flannel. “I think I’m just afraid of losing everything I know. Jack’s been my constant. My reset button. We’ve never crossed that line—we’re just... us.”

Quinn’s voice was quiet. “That kind of bond’s rare.”

She nodded. “Yeah. But even rare things change.”

He looked down at his beer, turning it in his hand like he was weighing something unspoken.

“I miss them all the time,” he said suddenly. “My family. Vancouver’s... a lot. People think once you hit the NHL, you’re set. But it’s isolating. I miss birthdays. Holidays. Luke’s entire high school career. I try to stay grounded, but sometimes it feels like I’m just... drifting.”

Nessa looked at him—really looked. The weight of his words made him seem less like the polished pro everyone else saw, and more like a person. A boy far from home, doing his best to keep from unraveling.

“I always thought you had everything figured out,” she whispered.

He let out a breath. “I don’t think anyone really does.”

Their eyes met again—and something shifted.

The air between them crackled. Like a string pulled tight, waiting to snap.

He leaned in first. Slowly. Giving her time to pull away.

But she didn’t.

Her breath caught as she closed the distance, their lips brushing—tentative, testing. Then deepening. Natural. Hungry in the softest way.

His hand found her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. Her fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie, grounding herself in the heat of him.

And then it all unraveled—quietly, beautifully. Clothes slipped away. Fingers trembled. The boat rocked beneath the weight of bodies learning each other with reverence.

They didn’t speak. Words would’ve shattered the moment.

After, they lay tangled together, skin damp with sweat and lake air. Her head against his chest, his fingers tracing circles on her back. Hearts racing.

Then, laughter. Uncontrollable. Breathless.

Nessa rolled away, grinning. Dropped the blanket.

And jumped.

The splash echoed across the lake.

Quinn blinked, stunned. Then—without thinking—he followed.

She was waiting, slick hair clinging to her neck, eyes wild with moonlight. She looked like a painting. Untouchable.

He found her easily, pulled her close. Kissed her again. And again. Water between them. Limbs tangled. Everything suspended in that moment of stolen bliss.

It felt like freedom. Like everything he’d been running from had finally caught up.

If the world had frozen then, maybe it would’ve stayed simple.

But nothing ever stayed simple.

Not when desire ran this deep. Not when fear clawed just as hard.

Because Quinn Hughes—who spent years keeping his walls up, who spent years pretending he didn’t see her—couldn’t stop now.

He couldn’t get enough of her.

And he knew, deep down—

She was going to be the one thing he couldn’t hold onto.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Vanessa Calder graduated from the University of Michigan with a degree in broadcasting and a résumé that screamed work ethic—internships, sideline reporting, hours behind and in front of a camera. It hadn’t been easy—nothing ever was—but she made it. She crossed the stage in heels, shook hands, hugged Jack Hughes afterward while he cried harder than her parents, and looked toward the future with a cautiously optimistic heart.

Her friendship with Jack never wavered. If anything, it grew stronger. He flew her out to games when he could, always with a plus-one ticket and a “just say yes.” And when Luke was still at UMich, she was basically his emergency contact. Luke called her more than his RA. Whether it was late-night study cramming, dragging him to his first flu shot, or teaching him how to do laundry without shrinking his socks, Nessa had become part of the Hughes family.

They were her family.

And then—she landed the job.

Her first real offer. The kind you dream about when you’re up at 3 a.m. with caffeine jitters and too many browser tabs open. A rinkside reporting position with an NHL team, straight out of college.

The Canucks.

Vancouver.

The adrenaline had barely settled when the email arrived. She accepted within minutes. No hesitation.

But when the rush wore off, her hands were shaking.

Because she knew what that meant.

Quinn.

The last time they’d really spoken, it was that summer. The party. The dock. The kiss. The lake. Her legs tangled in his. His hands tracing her spine.

And then?

Nothing.

No texts. No calls. Just distance.

And not the obvious kind.

Quinn hadn’t ghosted her like a normal guy. He did it with surgical precision. A subtle, practiced avoidance that hurt more than silence ever could. When she was around, he wasn’t. When she texted, he replied with one word. When she laughed at a joke, he looked away.

She could still feel the ache of it. The humiliation. The confusion. The sharp sting of not knowing why.

And Jack? Jack never suspected a thing. Because why would he?

As far as he knew, nothing ever happened.

She could never tell him.

“Hey, Jack, by the way—your brother and I had sex on your family boat and then he ghosted me. Hope that’s cool.”

Yeah. No.

And the kicker?

When Jack found out she’d accepted the job in Vancouver, he FaceTimed Quinn right in front of her. Put him on speaker.

“Yo, Q—you gotta keep an eye on Nessa now that she’s out there. She’s gonna kill it. But still—watch her back, alright?”

Her entire body went still. She wanted to crawl into the couch cushions.

A) She didn’t need watching.

B) Quinn Hughes was the last person she wanted watching over her.

But the Hughes family? Overjoyed. Jim called her their “West Coast daughter.” Ellen cried happy tears. The idea of their sons having family in every NHL city made them beam.

So she packed up. Signed a lease on a too-small apartment near the arena. Hung up her Michigan memories on the walls. She told herself she’d be fine. She always was.

But that ache?

It hadn’t gone anywhere.

Not when she still didn’t understand why Quinn had left her behind like she never mattered.

The first day was a blur. Nervous excitement. Curled hair. Light makeup. Blazer pressed. She wore the gold ‘H’ necklace Jack gave her before he left for Jersey. A good luck charm.

Her smile was practiced. Her handshake steady. But by hour two, her confidence began to slip. Names blurred. Faces blended. The weight of the newness settled on her shoulders like a storm cloud.

And then—just as the tour was ending—

“Let’s swing by the players’ side,” her guide said cheerfully. “Oh—and here comes our captain now. Huggy! Come say hi!”

She turned.

Quinn Hughes stepped out of the locker room like some kind of sick cosmic joke.

Hair damp. Stubble along his jaw. Canucks shirt clinging to his frame in a way that should be illegal.

Her stomach dropped.

His eyes locked with hers.

He froze for a fraction of a second.

But only a fraction.

Then the mask slipped into place. Calm. Professional.

Their tour guide smiled. “I’m told you two know each other well!”

Her heart lurched.

Quinn’s face didn’t flinch. “Welcome to the team.”

His voice was polite. Empty.

Like she hadn’t once slept wrapped in his hoodie, skin against skin, lips tangled in his name.

She smiled, tight and polite. “Good to see you again.”

Liar.

Because it wasn’t good. It was a punch to the gut. It was confusion and pain and unresolved anger all wrapped in a perfectly-tailored Canucks shirt.

Then came the second blow.

The guide grinned. “He’s been talking you up, by the way. Said you were the perfect fit when we were discussing new hires.”

Her mind blanked.

She blinked.

What?

He recommended her? After avoiding her for years?

After acting like she was invisible?

Quinn’s expression remained unreadable. A flicker, maybe, behind his eyes—but it vanished.

The rest of the day was a blur.

Nessa went through the motions. But her thoughts were chaos.

Why would he do that? Why pretend she didn’t exist for years and then tell his team she was the “perfect fit”? Was it guilt? Was it... something else?

She didn’t sleep that night. Just stared at the ceiling of her new apartment, listening to the hum of the fridge and the quiet tick of betrayal that had never fully gone silent.

And Quinn?

Quinn had been holding his breath since the second he saw her name on that hire list.

When the media team asked for input, he should’ve said nothing. Should’ve kept his distance like he always did.

But he didn’t.

Because she was brilliant. She was the perfect fit. And because some pathetic, aching part of him wanted her near. Even if she hated him. Even if she never looked at him again.

It was selfish.

He knew that.

But Quinn Hughes had spent years trying to forget the feel of her skin under his palms, her breath in his ear, the sound of her laughter echoing off Michigan lake water.

He couldn’t.

He told himself the distance was for her. That he was protecting Jack. Protecting her. That if he stepped back, she’d be spared the chaos of his life.

But that was a lie.

He’d been protecting himself.

Because when she looked at him like she saw him—really saw him—it scared the shit out of him.

So he buried it.

Built a wall.

Pretended the summer night that changed everything was just a memory, not a turning point.

But now, with her walking the halls of his arena, wearing that little gold ‘H’ on her neck—

He felt it all again.

And worse?

He knew he didn’t deserve to feel anything at all.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The Canucks had a home game, and something felt off from the first shift.

Quinn was tense. Off-balance. His passes weren’t sharp, his zone entries sloppy. He second-guessed himself in ways he never did. It showed in every shift, every rotation. By the third period, the frustration was radiating off him like heat. A cheap hit along the boards triggered him—he shoved back, exchanged words, nearly dropped gloves. The refs stepped in before it escalated further, but the damage was done.

He was ejected. Just like that.

The crowd buzzed with confusion. It wasn’t like him. He didn’t snap. He didn’t get emotional.

Until now.

Vanessa watched it all unfold from her position rinkside, heart in her throat. She barely registered the commentators murmuring beside her or the producer in her earpiece asking for updates. Her eyes tracked Quinn’s retreating back as he disappeared down the tunnel, jaw clenched, helmet under his arm. He didn’t look back.

She didn’t expect to see him again that night.

But when she returned to her office after postgame interviews—shoulders tight, heels aching—he was there.

Leaning against the wall across from her door.

His hair was still damp from the shower, curling at the ends. He’d thrown on a suit jacket but hadn’t bothered to button it. His tie was gone. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes were dark. Stormy. Like something was building beneath the surface and he didn’t know where to put it.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t say anything.

“Let’s go,” he said.

It wasn’t a request. It was quiet, but certain.

She stared at him, frozen in the doorway, her hand still on the knob.

He didn’t explain.

She didn’t ask.

She just grabbed her coat, slipped her bag over her shoulder, and followed.

They didn’t speak as they walked through the quiet back halls of the arena. No words. No explanation. His hand came to rest lightly at the small of her back—not possessive, but grounding. Familiar. Her skin buzzed under the touch.

Outside, he opened the passenger door of his car for her.

She slid in.

The drive was silent.

No music. No talking. Just the soft hum of the engine, the glow of city lights, the occasional flicker of his knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.

She didn’t ask where they were going.

She didn’t need to.

When he pulled into the underground garage of his apartment building, her stomach twisted. The last time she’d been here... she didn’t let herself think about it.

They took the elevator up in silence. He unlocked the door. She stepped inside.

It was quiet. Lived-in. A little messy. Blankets askew on the couch. A half-empty water bottle on the counter. His duffel bag in the corner, unzipped and spilling gear.

She stood in the entryway, unsure, while he paced a few feet away—silent, tense, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Why am I here?” she asked, her voice low.

He turned to her slowly.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

He looked wrecked. Not in the way athletes did after games—but in the way people did when they were unraveling and had nowhere left to hide.

And still—he was beautiful. Soft stubble, eyes heavy with something he wasn’t saying, shoulders bowed under the weight of too much held in for too long.

Her heart hurt.

He stepped closer.

She didn’t move.

He stopped only when she was within reach—close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. He planted his hands on the doorframe behind her, not touching her, but caging her in. Not threatening. Just... overwhelmed.

He was breathing like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

She looked up at him. “Quinn…”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t kiss her.

Just stared at her like she was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

So she leaned in first.

And when their lips met, it was nothing like last time.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative.

It was messy. Desperate. Loaded with every word they hadn’t said.

He kissed her like he’d lost control of something he’d been keeping locked away. Like if he didn’t kiss her, he’d fall apart.

She matched him—fingers tugging at his shirt, pulling him closer, like this was the only way to understand each other.

They found the couch without trying. Her bag hit the floor. His jacket slipped off his shoulders. Their hands were everywhere—rushed, frantic, but still careful in the way only people who had once been everything to each other could be.

It wasn’t about sex.

Not really.

It was about needing.

It was about not knowing how else to say, I’m still here.

When they collapsed together, tangled in blankets, sweat cooling on their skin, he buried his face in her neck. Said nothing. Just breathed.

And for the first time in a long time—

She let him stay.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It happened again the next week.

Another loss. Another late night. Another knock on her door just past midnight.

He didn’t say much. Just stood there, hoodie pulled over his head, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes shadowed and tired. And she let him in.

No questions. No rules. No promises.

It became a rhythm. A quiet agreement that neither of them ever spoke aloud. After a bad game, he’d show up. And she’d let him.

Some nights they barely spoke. Others, he’d collapse onto her couch, bury his face in her lap, and let her run her fingers through his hair while the silence pressed in heavy around them. He never cried. Not once. But there were nights when the weight of him—his body, his breathing, the way he held on—felt like he was barely holding it together.

They slept tangled up in each other, skin against skin, limbs draped like safety nets. Some mornings he was gone before the sun came up. Other times he made coffee, handed her a mug like they were just any other couple starting their day. And for a few fleeting moments, it felt normal. It felt real.

But then the door would click shut behind him, and she’d be alone again.

And the ache would return.

Because she was falling back into him.

Willingly. Stupidly. Softly.

She knew it wasn’t sustainable. She knew she couldn’t keep letting him in without him ever really staying. But the quiet after he left felt worse than the hollow before he came.

So she took what she could get.

Until, one night, it wasn’t him who showed up.

It was her.

She knocked on his door after a particularly brutal game—one where he didn’t just play badly, but looked lost. Like he didn’t even recognize himself on the ice. The kind of game that would’ve eaten him alive. The kind of night she knew he’d be spiraling.

He opened the door, and for a second, he looked surprised. Then he stepped aside.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom. She kissed him hard, fast, pushed his jacket off his shoulders, and he let her. Let her take control. Let her pour every word she didn’t know how to say into the way she touched him.

Afterward, she lay in his bed, heart thudding, staring at the ceiling. He was beside her, silent. Awake. Breathing steady.

“This isn’t nothing,” she said, quietly.

He didn’t respond at first. Just turned his head, looked at her like she’d pulled the floor out from under him.

“I know,” he said eventually. “It never was.”

But that was all he gave her.

And she wasn’t sure it was enough.

But then he started showing up after wins.

Not just the hard nights—the ones where his frustration clung to him like a second skin—but the good ones too. The ones where he played well. Where the team pulled off a comeback. Where the locker room was loud and buzzing with adrenaline.

And still, he came to her.

She opened the door to find him smiling. Not broken. Not unraveling. Just Quinn.

At first, it caught her off guard. She didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know what part of him was reaching for her when he wasn’t hurting. But he came inside like he belonged there. Like she was the only place he wanted to be, whether the night had gone to hell or not.

It drove her crazy.

Because it felt like something. Like progress. Like maybe this wasn’t just a pattern built on pain and need. Maybe he wanted her even when he wasn’t falling apart.

But he still didn’t talk about it. Didn’t give it a name.

He’d kiss her like she was his favorite secret. Slide his hands under her shirt and hold her like he couldn’t bear to let go—but when morning came, it was still the same routine. Coffee. A quiet goodbye. The soft click of the door.

No conversation. No clarity. Just the weight of everything left unsaid.

And it ate at her.

Because if he wanted her when he was hurting, and he wanted her when he was happy—

Then what the hell were they doing?

She couldn’t ask. Not yet.

But she was starting to wonder how much longer she could keep pretending it didn’t matter.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no explosion. No screaming match in the middle of the night. No door slamming, no shattered glass. Just a slow, quiet unraveling. A steady erosion of the pieces of herself that had been holding onto hope—hope that maybe, eventually, he would be ready. That maybe, if she just stayed soft and patient and open, he’d reach for her the same way she kept reaching for him.

She kept waiting for him to say something. To name it. To acknowledge the weight of what they were doing. To admit that the line between comfort and love had long since blurred. She waited for a look. A moment. A shift. Anything to tell her that he saw it, too—that he felt it the way she did.

But he never did.

And it hollowed her out.

The nights blurred together. Her apartment no longer felt like hers—it felt like theirs, in all the ways that hurt. The ghost of him was in every room. A hoodie slung over the kitchen chair. A pair of socks left under her bed. A coffee mug that always seemed to reappear in the sink. A toothbrush in the medicine cabinet he never acknowledged, but always used.

He was everywhere. But not really hers.

Not in the way that mattered.

She started noticing things she used to excuse. The way he’d kiss her so softly, but then retreat—pulling back like it scared him. The way his eyes would lower whenever she asked a question that came too close to the truth. How he’d murmur her name in the dark with reverence, but never once in the daylight. Never when anyone else could hear.

It made her feel like a secret. Like a refuge. Like a place he came to hide when the world became too much. And she loved being that safe space for him. But she was also tired of being temporary. Tired of being the in-between. Tired of being the thing he needed, but wouldn’t claim.

She tried to be okay with it.

She tried to tell herself that what they had—this quiet, aching almost—was enough. That even if he never called it love, even if he never gave it a name, she could still hold onto the pieces of it that felt real. His hands on her hips. His head on her chest. The way he’d whisper things into her skin like prayers.

But slowly, quietly, it began to chip away at her.

Until the night it finally cracked open.

It was a Thursday. The air was heavy with impending rain, the kind that hadn’t started yet but clung to everything. He came over late, like he always did. Smelled like clean laundry and the faint sting of post-game sweat. A fresh bruise bloomed beneath his cheekbone—he didn’t mention it, and she didn’t ask. That was their unspoken rule. Don’t ask. Don’t push. Just exist in the space between.

She let him in. Because she always did.

He kissed her like he missed her. Like she was the only thing tethering him to the ground. They didn’t talk. Just touched. Undressed in the dark. Fell into each other like a pattern they knew by heart.

After, he lay sprawled across her bed, scrolling idly through his phone like he wasn’t unraveling her with every second he didn’t speak. She sat at the edge, wrapped in one of his T-shirts, staring out the window. The city lights blinked back at her, soft and indifferent.

She didn’t speak for a long time.

When she did, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Are you ever going to tell me what this is?”

Quinn froze. His thumb paused mid-scroll. Slowly, he turned to look at her. Something in his face shifted, tightened.

“Ness…”

“No,” she said, still quiet but firmer now. “I need you to tell me. Because I’m going insane. You come here. You sleep in my bed. You hold me like I matter. And then you leave like none of it means anything.”

He sat up, legs over the edge of the bed. Hands clasped together between his knees.

“You know it means something,” he said.

“Then say it,” she pushed. Her voice cracked around the words. “Say what it means.”

He was silent.

She let out a broken laugh—bitter, exhausted. “Exactly.”

“Nessa, this isn’t simple—”

“No,” she snapped, standing. “It’s not. But it could be. If you just let it. If you just chose me. If you stopped hiding behind excuses and fear and whatever this is.”

She was shaking now. Her chest tight with the weight of every unspoken word she’d carried.

He looked up at her like she was breaking his heart. But still—he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t fight.

Still.

Tears stung behind her eyes, hot and sharp. But she didn’t let them fall.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I can’t keep giving you all these pieces of me if you’re never going to take them.”

He stood then. Reached for her like it was instinct.

She stepped back. One foot. That was all.

“No,” she whispered. “You don’t get to touch me if you’re not going to stay.”

The room went still.

He looked at her, completely gutted.

And then he nodded. Just once. Small. Devastated.

She turned before he could see her cry.

This time, she was the one who left.

And for the first time since this all began—

He didn’t follow.

He didn’t move for a long time after she left.

He just sat there, still half-dressed, the sheet tangled around his waist, staring at the door like it might swing open again. Like maybe she’d come back. Like maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. Like if he stayed still long enough, the ache in his chest would dull, or maybe vanish entirely.

But the silence settled in heavy. And it stayed. It crept into the corners of the room, coiling around the spaces where her presence used to live. It seeped into the air, into his bones, until the entire apartment felt like a museum of what used to be.

The next few days passed in a haze. He didn’t sleep much. Didn’t eat. His routines dulled into muscle memory. Wake up. Practice. Skate. Shower. Pretend. He played like a shadow—still there, but not fully. He hit his marks but lacked his edge. His passes were sharp, his skates fast, but there was no fire in him.

The guys noticed. JT asked once if he was good. Hughes nodded, offered a quick "Yeah, all good," and slipped out before anyone could press. But everyone knew. Something was off. Everyone saw it.

He kept thinking about her standing by that window. Her voice when she said, "You don’t get to touch me if you’re not going to stay." It echoed louder than anything else in his life. Louder than the skates on ice, louder than the crowd after a win, louder than the silence that followed her leaving.

He remembered her face, the way her eyes looked tired but hopeful. The way her voice didn’t shake until the very end. She hadn’t been angry. That was the worst part. She’d been done.

The apartment felt hollow now. Too clean, too quiet. Her hoodie still hung behind the bathroom door. Her scent lingered on his pillow, faint but present, clinging like a ghost that refused to let go. The extra toothbrush sat untouched in the medicine cabinet. Her favorite blanket—the one she always pulled around her shoulders like armor—was still folded in the corner of the couch.

He kept replaying everything he hadn’t said.

He thought about her hands, always cold. How she’d tuck them under his hoodie. The way she would narrate random things out loud while brushing her teeth. The sound of her laugh when she was tired, how it cracked like she didn’t have the energy to fully hold it in.

He thought about texting her. Calling. Driving to her place and standing at her door the way she had so many times for him. But fear rooted him in place.

What if she didn’t want him back?

What if he said everything he should’ve said months ago, and she just looked at him the way she did that night—calm, tired, and done?

He told himself she needed space. That she deserved that. That he was giving her time to breathe.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He was still scared. Scared to be enough. Scared to fail at something that meant more to him than any game ever had. Scared to admit that he loved her, and had for longer than he ever let himself believe.

And worst of all—he was scared that now it was too late.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Vanessa didn’t see him for two weeks.

Not at the rink. Not after games. Not in the tunnels, not in warmups, not even in passing. It was as if he’d rearranged his entire existence to avoid her, and she hated how much it hurt. How much it still felt like rejection.

She told herself it was a blessing. She needed space. Needed distance. But her chest still clenched every time she walked into the arena and didn’t see him. Every time she opened the team group text and saw his name without a reply. Every time she passed the visitors’ bench and caught herself scanning for his profile.

The silence gutted her at first.

It made everything feel louder—her thoughts, her doubts, her heartbeat echoing in the silence of her apartment. She’d grown used to his presence, to his steady breathing beside her, to the way he always pulled her in close even when he was half-asleep. Now, it was just her and the quiet.

But then the silence hardened her.

She buried herself in work. Took every available assignment. Said yes to back-to-backs, to feature shoots, to sideline interviews she used to avoid. Anything to fill the time, to keep her from sitting in the stillness long enough for the ache to take over. She got good at pretending.

She was professional. Polished. Composed.

But under it all, she was unraveling.

Nights were the worst. When the world slowed down. When the distractions stopped. When she lay in bed with her phone pressed to her chest, staring at the ceiling. Thumb hovering over his name, always wondering—if she messaged him, would he answer? Would it even matter?

She never sent it.

She couldn’t be the one to reach out.

Not again.

She saw glimpses of him through the lens of her job. In highlight reels. In locker room interviews she had to edit. He was composed, focused. A professional.

But she saw through it. She knew what his real smile looked like. And it wasn’t that.

And still—he said nothing. Reached for nothing.

She held her silence like a shield. A fragile kind of pride. But it didn’t protect her from the ache. From the way her body still curled toward the space he used to fill. From the echo of his voice in the back of her mind, whispering her name like it was something sacred.

She missed him.

God, she missed him.

But she couldn’t go back to what they were.

She couldn’t keep playing the safe space if he wasn’t ever going to make her his home.

So she waited.

Not with hope—hope had burned out weeks ago, flickering away with every unsaid word and closed door.

She waited with dignity. With clarity. With the kind of quiet strength that came from choosing herself for the first time in a long time.

If he came back, he’d have to do it on his own.

He’d have to mean it.

He’d have to fight.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It all came to a head near the end of her first season.

The pressure of making it to the playoffs was on everyone's mind—media, staff, fans—but for Quinn, it wasn't just about points and standings. He was injured. Had been for most of the season. A nagging, persistent issue he'd pushed aside for too long had finally caught up to him.

And when the scan came back, when the team doctor looked him in the eyes with that grim expression and said the words he already feared, it hit him like a freight train.

"You’re out for the rest of the season."

It felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. His stomach dropped. His throat closed. For a moment, he couldn’t hear anything but the pounding in his ears.

He sat there, silent, numb. Hands clenched into fists so tight that his injured knuckles turned white. Every word that followed blurred. Something about rehab, recovery time, timelines. None of it mattered.

Because it was over.

He was supposed to be their leader. Their captain. The one who stood tall when the team needed him. And now, at the most critical time of the year, he was benched. Useless. Broken.

He thanked the staff with a quiet nod and left the facility without saying a word. He barely made it to his car before the first sob ripped out of his chest. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly he thought it might snap in half. And for the first time in years, Quinn Hughes cried like a kid.

Not the silent, stoic kind of tears he’d trained himself to shed in private. But the full-body, breathless kind. The kind that left his throat raw and his face flushed. The kind that emptied something deep inside.

He didn’t go home right away. He drove around for hours, circling the city with no destination. At one point, he parked in an empty lot overlooking the water and stared out, trying to breathe. But nothing felt real.

His body ached. His pride burned. And worst of all, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Vanessa.

She should’ve been the first person he called. The one he leaned on. The one who would sit next to him, not saying a word, just being there.

But he’d destroyed that. Torn it apart with his silence. With his fear.

He remembered the night they crossed that line. The boat. The stars. The way her laugh had echoed over the water. The way she looked at him like he was more than just a hockey player. Like he was Quinn.

And he remembered the morning after, the way the light hit her bare shoulder as she stirred in his bed. The quiet peace of it. The way he panicked.

Instead of telling her he loved her—because God, he did—he shut her out. Put up walls. Pretended it was nothing.

He hurt her. Repeatedly. And she pulled away.

So now, here he was. Alone. Broken in every way. And the only person who could truly reach him had every reason to walk away.

His family noticed. Ellen noticed.

And eventually, she called Vanessa.

Ellen, who had always been like a second mom. Who’d helped her through college stress and lonely holidays. Who made her tea and let her curl up on the Hughes' couch like she belonged there. Who’d always referred to her as “our girl” in group texts and had slipped her a bracelet for good luck before her first day with the Canucks.

Ellen sounded tired. Worried.

“Can you check on him, Nessa? He’s not letting us in. But maybe... maybe he’ll let you.”

How could she say no?

How could she explain to Ellen that her son had dangled her heart like a puck in a shootout—teasing, drawing her in, only to leave her flailing when he skated right past? That he made her feel like first-line material behind closed doors, and a healthy scratch in public?

So she didn’t. She sucked it up. Bit down the resentment. Swallowed the ache. And she found herself standing in front of a door she knew too well. The paint chipped near the bottom where his hockey bag always hit it. The doormat crooked like always.

She knocked softly, half-hoping he wouldn’t hear. Half-hoping she could turn around and leave and say she tried.

But he did.

And when the door opened, her breath caught.

Quinn looked... broken.

There were bags under his eyes, dark and heavy. His cheeks had thinned out. His hair stuck up in uneven waves, like he hadn’t brushed it in days. He wore an old hoodie—one she remembered from college—and sweatpants that sagged at the waist. And his eyes, those warm hazel eyes, were dull.

Her heart clenched.

Of course she knew he was injured. She worked for the team. She’d spent the last few weeks asking players about his absence in press conferences. But this? This wasn’t just about being off the ice. This was something deeper. Something heavier.

Suddenly, she felt a pang of guilt. For shutting him out. For assuming he was fine. But then she reminded herself—no. Her feelings were valid. He’d hurt her, too. He’d left her hanging in the worst kind of emotional limbo. That didn’t go away just because he looked like a ghost now.

When he opened the door that evening and saw Vanessa standing there, arms crossed, eyes guarded but filled with something he couldn’t name, it nearly undid him.

Her presence brought both relief and devastation. Relief because she was there. Devastation because he didn’t deserve it.

it was like walking into a stranger’s apartment.

Coffee rings stained the counter. Dishes sat crusted in the sink. A blanket was tossed haphazardly on the couch, and empty Gatorade bottles were stacked near the recycling bin but hadn’t made it in. Takeout bags crowded the trash. The TV remote was on the floor.

It looked like a college dorm. Like Luke’s old place in Michigan, not the home of a 25-year-old NHL captain.

She looked at him.

“Shower. Now.”

Her voice left no room for argument. It wasn’t a request—it was a command.

Quinn blinked, almost confused, but nodded slowly. His shoulders slumped like he was back in Michigan and Ellen had just scolded him for leaving wet towels on the floor. Without another word, he shuffled toward the bathroom.

The second the water started running, Vanessa got to work.

She moved through the kitchen first, tossing the trash, scraping old food into the bin, loading the dishwasher. She wiped down the counters with a damp cloth she found under the sink, fluffed the couch pillows, folded the blankets. She paused when she found his book on the floor—spine bent, pages warped. She placed it gently on the side table.

Then she opened the fridge.

And sighed.

It was practically empty. A few sauces. Half a bottle of orange juice. Old takeout containers that had long passed the acceptable window of consumption. She checked the expiration dates. Grimaced. Closed the fridge.

She pulled out her phone and opened a grocery delivery app.

She ordered the basics. Eggs. Bread. Chicken breasts. Pasta. Fruit. Soup. Snacks. A case of water. Some of his favorites—salt and vinegar chips, the protein yogurt she used to catch him eating in the middle of the night when they shared hotel rooms.

And when the order was placed, she moved back to the living room.

The sound of the shower was still running, but something about the apartment already felt... less heavy.

It was the first time in weeks that she’d felt like herself around him again. Like she could do something. Like she wasn’t powerless.

Like maybe—just maybe—he was finally ready to let her in.

But that didn’t mean she’d make it easy for him.

Still, when the shower kept running and the minutes ticked on, something inside her shifted. It was just a little too long for someone to be in there, even someone as emotionally clogged as Quinn Hughes. Vanessa stood by the kitchen island, arms crossed, fingers tapping against her bicep. The buzz from the refrigerator was the only sound in the apartment besides the steady stream of water behind the bathroom door.

She told herself it was fine. He probably just needed a few extra minutes. Maybe the water was helping his sore muscles. Maybe he was just letting the steam do its thing. But a sliver of worry pushed its way under her skin. She knew Quinn. And something about the silence behind that door felt wrong.

Curiosity, concern, and a little guilt warred in her chest. Finally, she padded toward the bathroom, feet quiet against the hardwood. She paused in front of the door, knocking gently.

"Quinn?"

No answer.

The doorknob was warm in her hand. She hesitated—counted to five—then turned it.

Steam spilled out in thick waves, fogging her glasses and curling around her legs. The bathroom smelled like eucalyptus and soap and something faintly metallic. Her eyes scanned through the haze, finally landing on him.

He stood under the water, unmoving. Shoulders slumped forward, head slightly bowed, eyes wide and startled like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. It was a look she recognized, one she hadn’t seen since he was nineteen and she found him stress-baking banana bread at two in the morning during finals week.

Only this wasn’t funny. It wasn’t charming. It was heartbreaking.

"You okay?" she asked, voice quiet but cutting through the fog like a blade.

His face crumpled in frustration, embarrassment flashing across his features.

"No," he muttered. "I—I can’t open anything. Shampoo. Soap. My grip’s shit right now."

He lifted his hand like proof, fingers barely curling around the empty air.

Her stomach twisted.

There was a long pause where she didn’t say anything. Just watched him. Watched the water cascade over his tense shoulders, watched how small and worn down he looked. Her throat burned.

Then she sighed. A soft, tired sound.

She stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind her.

He turned, confused, blinking at her through the mist. "Nessa, what are you—"

But she was already moving. Unbuttoning her shirt, slipping it off with slow precision. Then her jeans. Her bra. Underwear. She folded each item carefully, placing them on the closed toilet lid like she’d done this a hundred times before. Because she had. 

Quinn’s eyes didn’t leave her, not for a second. He looked stunned—still as stone, mouth parted slightly.

"What are you doing?" he asked again, softer this time.

She stepped into the shower without hesitation, water hitting her skin with a familiar heat.

"Just be quiet and turn around," she said, voice calm, steady.

He obeyed without argument.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent. Heavy with everything they hadn’t said, with everything they’d avoided. She reached for the shampoo, popped the lid, and poured a small amount into her hand.

Then her fingers were in his hair, massaging the soap into his scalp with slow, deliberate care.

It was the kind of touch that unraveled him.

His eyes fluttered shut, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his shoulders dropped. Really dropped. Not just a sigh or a stretch—but a full-bodied exhale, like the tension he’d been carrying for months was finally dissolving beneath her hands.

She worked the lather in gently, tracing the shape of his skull, letting the pads of her fingers press into him in a way that felt grounding. Healing.

When she rinsed the shampoo out, her hands slid down to his back, lathering soap, moving in circles over tight muscles, down his spine, across his shoulder blades. He twitched slightly under her touch.

"Don’t get any ideas," she warned, lips curving slightly.

A dark chuckle escaped him, low and tired. "Too late."

But he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t cross a line.

He just let her take care of him.

And when she was done, she reached for the towel on the hook outside the glass door.

"Rinse off," she said softly, stepping out, steam swirling around her. "I’ve got dinner for you out there."

She didn’t wait for a reply.

He turned, still silent, watching her disappear behind the closing door.

Alone again in the shower, Quinn leaned against the cool tile, water still rushing over his skin, and let his forehead rest against the wall.

It was weird.

Weird because it was nice.

Nice in a way that made Quinn’s chest ache.

Nice in a way that made him feel like shit.

As the water soaked into his hair again, he let the guilt rise. Let it sit heavy and choking in his throat.

Because he thought about all the ways he’d failed her.

About how long he’d been drawn to her—how Jack brought her around and she was sunshine wrapped in sarcasm, and he had to dig his nails into the inside of his palms to keep himself in check. She was off-limits. Always had been. And then she wasn’t. And then she was, but he’d already tasted what it felt like to have her.

That night on the boat changed everything.

It broke his rules. Broke him.

And instead of facing it, he shut down. Pretended it didn’t happen. Pulled away because it scared him.

He saw the pain in her eyes when he did. And he still kept going. Kept taking from her when it suited him. And when she finally gave him a taste of his own medicine—when she closed the door on him—he realized just how badly he’d fucked up.

Because the ache he felt in her absence wasn’t just about sex. It was about her. Her laugh. Her sarcasm. Her voice calling his name across the rink. Her presence.

He felt disposable. Rejected.

And that’s probably how she had felt every time he used her and left.

It wasn’t a good feeling.

Not even close.

And now? He was terrified he’d realized it too late.

When Quinn emerged from the bathroom, his skin still warm and flushed from the shower, he padded quietly into the living room wearing nothing but a pair of sweats and a fresh hoodie. Steam clung to his damp curls, and he rubbed the towel once more over the back of his neck before tossing it into the laundry hamper.

He froze.

There she was. Vanessa.

Standing in his kitchen, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, scooping steaming soup into a ceramic bowl. She moved easily through the space, grabbing a spoon, setting it on a folded napkin, pouring water into a glass beside it. She looked like she belonged there—like she’d done it a hundred times before. The sight of her in his kitchen sent a ripple through his chest, something tight and unfamiliar. Something that felt suspiciously like longing.

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the doorway of his bedroom, watching her.

What if this was every night? he wondered.

What if he hadn’t messed it all up?

"It’s chicken noodle," she said, not looking up. "Figured it’d be easy on your stomach."

He took a shaky breath. "Why are you doing this?"

She paused. Then set the ladle down with a quiet clink. "Because Ellen asked me to."

His chest caved. Of course. "So this is pity."

Her eyes snapped to his, fire flickering behind them. "Don’t do that. Don’t twist this. You’re the one who pushed me away, remember? You’re the one who couldn’t even look at me in public after making me feel like I was the only person in the world behind closed doors."

His hands balled into fists. "I didn’t know how to handle it!"

"Then you shouldn't have touched me!" she shouted, the sound of her voice splitting the quiet. "You shouldn't have looked at me like I was yours and then acted like I was nothing."

His voice cracked. "I was scared."

"So was I!" Her eyes brimmed with tears. "But I stayed. I gave you everything. And you made me feel like I was begging for scraps. Like I wasn’t worth being seen."

He stepped forward, jaw clenched. "I never meant to hurt you."

"But you did! You broke me, Quinn. And now I’m here, cleaning your kitchen, feeding you, and I don’t even know why!"

He dropped into a chair, face in his hands, shaking. "Because I love you."

The words hung in the air, trembling and raw.

She froze.

"What?"

He looked up, eyes shining, voice barely holding together. "I love you. I am so goddamn in love with you that it physically hurts. I think about you constantly. I miss you even when you're standing in front of me. I know I don’t deserve to say it—not after everything—but it’s the truth. And I promised myself I wouldn’t hurt you. That I’d protect you. That I’d never cross that line with Jack’s best friend. But I did the opposite."

He stood slowly, inching closer. "I used you when I was hurting. I treated you like a secret because I was terrified. Terrified of what it meant. Terrified that I’d ruin it, ruin you. And I did."

She blinked fast, trying to hold it together, arms hugging her ribs like she was trying to contain everything that wanted to spill out.

"You did ruin it," she whispered. Her voice was soft but sharp. "You made me feel like I was disposable. Like I was your escape, not your choice."

He nodded, pain flickering across his face. "I know. I know I don’t deserve your help."

She swallowed hard. "You don’t."

He sucked in a breath that rattled in his chest. "Then why are you here?"

She stepped closer, stopping just in front of him. She tilted her head up, eyes locking with his, and for a second, it felt like time paused.

"Because I can’t stand seeing you like this. Because no matter how much you hurt me, I still care. And I hate that I do. But I do."

His breath hitched. "You shouldn’t."

Her hand lifted, trembling slightly as she ghosted her fingers over his cheek. "Let me help."

His head dropped, forehead pressing against hers like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"I’m scared," he whispered. The words trembled on his tongue.

She didn’t flinch.

"Scared to let myself go. Scared to fall for you completely and not know how to stop. Scared of needing you. Scared that if I let myself have this—have you—I’ll ruin it like I always do."

His voice cracked open. "Scared of a future with you. Because what if I break it? What if I lose you? What if I lose myself?"

And he looked so small in that moment. So vulnerable. His hands hung at his sides, twitching like they wanted to hold her but didn’t believe they were allowed.

She reached for him instead. Wrapped her arms around him and gently lowered them both to the kitchen floor. They sank down together, a tangle of limbs and trembling hearts, backs against the cabinet, knees folded, breathing ragged.

He collapsed into her, head buried in her shoulder, his entire body shaking like he couldn’t hold in the weight of everything anymore. Her fingers found his curls, threading through them gently, grounding him.

"I’m so scared," he said again, his voice barely audible. "Because of how much I love you. Because of how much I need you. I can’t function without you. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror without thinking about what I did to you. The thought of you being gone? It fucking terrifies me."

Her chest clenched. She pressed her lips to his temple, a soft, lingering kiss that said everything her words couldn’t yet.

"Please, Quinn," she whispered against his skin. "Let me help. Let me be there for you. Let me love you out loud. You don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore."

He lifted his head slowly, eyes meeting hers. Red-rimmed, exhausted, but open. Searching. The kind of look that begged for forgiveness even when he didn’t think he deserved it.

And something in him cracked wide open.

He nodded.

Not because he thought he was worthy.

But because he believed her.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself be held. Let the walls fall. Let the fear speak. Let the love in.

Let himself fall.

Let himself love her.

Not in secret. Not in fear.

But in the quiet, honest way they both needed.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to start healing.

[kiame-sama]

Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 42

(Sam is a Shadow Person and as a Shadow Person, he cannot handle UV rays of high intensity- such as sunlight and moonlight- where even the UV from a flame can bother him horribly. He is almost always enshrouded by shadows which he can create with his magic. The level of how enshrouded he is, is determined by the level of UV rays. He HATES when it storms due to the cloud cover trapping UV rays more so than cloudless weather. Whenever Malleus throws a fit, Sam is mostly trapped inside as even his shadows can only handle so much.)

Warnings: platonic and non-platonic yanderes, multiple yanderes, semi fluff at the start, past issues, drama, attempt at being kind backfires on platonic yandere, entitled parent, hateful parent, Human gets no rest despite trying, hurt/comfort, Harpies, Shinigami, Dragon, Hellcat, Drider

~~~~~~~~

You woke to the feeling of warmth around you, wondering why it was so warm when Malleus was typically quite cool in comparison of body heat. Looking over your shoulder you realized the wing laying over you was feathered and not scaled or furred. The colors of the wings and the black striping along the flight feathers let you know that it was Vil holding you, still in a deep sleep as he looked more at peace than you had ever seen him.

Looking around, you saw that it must have been daylight for a while. Only you and Vil occupied the nest at the moment, not even little Grim or faithful Rook was present in the large bed. Perhaps you both had been left to sleep after the events of the night prior and only now were waking.

The peaceful room gave you a moment to roll over and look at Vil closely. His face was clean of the usual makeup and he was resting peacefully instead of pridefully flaunting. Even without makeup, Vil's face was clear of all blemishes and had several markings around his eyes that reminded you of a peacock. His hair was loose and his face was somewhat squished into the pillow below his head, almost giving him a gentle and innocent look.

Despite his many similarities to the birds his species evolved from, it would be a lie to say he was not a lovely creature to look at. Truthfully, he was beautiful.

As you continued to look at the lovely Harpy, he slowly began to rouse. His eyes seemed distant as if he were still somewhere between sleep and consciousness when he realized you were laying in his arms. This seemed to catch his interest as one of those lovely purple eyes focused on you, almost looking pink in the light of day.

"Good morning, (Y/n)..."

The Harpy murmured in a half asleep state, smiling as he gazed affectionately at you and pulling you close. Along with not being fully awake, Vil seemed to be in a trance-like state. A soft cooing escaping the lovely Harpy who nuzzled your forehead with a gentle touch.

"Good morning, Vil. We should probably be getting up soon."

He somewhat frowned at this and his gaze trailed over to fix on the window. After a moment of staring out he nodded and seemed to agree with your statement rather quickly.

"Alright. First, I have a question though. My memories of... of last night are hazy, but I do believe I remember feeling someone's lips against my own when that wretched potion was trying to consume me. Did that happen, or was I delusional from a severe lack of air?"

You hesitated, feeling like Vil deserved the truth but not knowing how he would actually take it if you told him flat out. If anything, you had been hoping he was too unaware to notice or really realize what you had done to save him. Again you scolded yourself for not finding another way but knowing it was likely still the best choice given how well Vil was recovering.

"That potion was trying to consume you, but it seemed drawn to me in a way. The only way I could think of to save you as quickly as possible was to allow it quick access to my own body. You can probably tell what I chose..."

Your hand absently came up to your lips, likely still stained by the blot potion just like your fingertips. Vil could feel his heart practically skipping a few beats as he stared at you in adoration. Though he had long given up on childish fantasy and tales of reviving others with a kiss, there was something almost poetic about how you had saved him. To be so willing to throw yourself to the mercy of the merciless and seal your own fate with a kiss of life in exchange for his own meant the world to the Harpy.

"Thank you, (Y/n)."

The Harpy's smile was warm and genuine, just like the warmth his body let off as you lay in his arms. He must have moved to cuddle you as you both slept and now he was laying with you under his wing and close to his chest. There was something incredibly comforting about laying in the arms of the Harpy that relaxed your heart just enough to let your guard down with him somewhat.

"Well, keep the memory to yourself for now, Vil. We both know how a certain someone would react even if the circumstances called for such actions."

Vil laughed at this, a soft and still somewhat sad tinge to his voice. Though it was a true sound of amusement from him, it was clear he was still grappling with whatever the blot potion had brought to the forefront of his mind. Part of you wanted to ask if he remembered anything or if any memories had come up, but you didn't want to upset the Harpy when he had finally calmed himself down somewhat.

"You truly don't belong here, do you?"

"What?"

"You are kind, (Y/n). Most of us would have abandoned anyone in the same position as me... I would have. You actually chose to help me when very few would have done the same. Though I could never bear the thought, you would fit in more at Royal Sword Academy."

"I don't want to go to Royal Sword Academy. I want to stay here. So don't worry, I'm not going anywhere, Vil."

This soothed the Harpy more than he cared to admit, happy to know that you were keen to stay. He was being honest though, he would have hesitated to do the same as you and actually choose to sacrifice himself for someone else. You were perhaps the only one he could confidently say he would choose to do that for. Maybe Rook, but absolutely for you.

"Let's get up. Who knows what type of testing Papa Hades wants to do today. Hopefully there is nothing too intense. I just really want to rest."

Vil allowed you to get up and prepare yourself for the day. Despite how desperately the Harpy wanted to be around you and hold you, he was trying his hardest to not push you away or make you uncomfortable. He was given a glorious gift that he would not trade anything for. The Harpy had been allowed to sleep in your nest with you and even got to cuddle you in that same nest.

Though the price for such an honor had been steeper than he could have ever anticipated, Vil was thrilled to have even a moment of holding you. When you left his side he felt like a crushing weight was squeezing the life out of him, and it only went away when you returned to his side and he could breathe again.

That isolation felt so much like when he was drowning and choking on the potion he created. His heart raced, his body shook with adrenaline, and his throat felt like it was closing up. Those feelings went away with you by his side and your affectionate smile directed at him, warming him inside and out. The screaming of his own mind and instincts quieted so drastically with your simple presence.

"Come on, Vil."

The Harpy was quick to scramble to get up, using his own magic to speed through his usual morning routine. He was almost sad to notice he didn't have his usual skincare products present, but he could always get them from his room when he next got the chance. Hopefully Pomefiore would be able to handle being without their Housewarden for the time it took the research to be completed. If needed, he could always go back and send Rook between the two dorms to keep the peace.

As you emerged from your room with the Harpy, an unknown voice met your ears. They sounded feminine and it piqued your interest enough to explore where the sound was coming from. Vil followed you closely as you reached the main lounge area of the dorm, feeling confusion and vague recognition wash over you.

Sitting with their legs crossed neatly and their wings tucked behind them was an effeminate Harpy. They wore a simple off the shoulder dress with long sleeves that covered up their hands. The Harpy was visibly mature and though they had a few lines that wore their face, they were fairly lovely with darker than expected colors.

Something about their coloration reminded you of male Violet Sabrewing Hummingbirds as the others and the Harpy seemed to take notice of your added presence.

As they turned to look at you, you felt Vil stiffen behind you, holding your shoulder with an almost vise grip. A quick glance at his face showed pure fear in the typically calm and proud Harpy's eyes, his silent terror speaking volumes to you.

Looking at the Harpy in front of you now registered to your brain why they looked so oddly familiar. Though the coloration was typically seen on males, the one in front of you was decidedly a female Harpy and you knew that for a fact. She had aged considerably since you last saw her screeching at her own son and attacking him viciously, but you knew this Harpy all too well.

"Ah, there you are, Villy. Took you long enough to come downstairs. I see you match your father more than ever in looks and laziness, but your purple will always be mine. Perhaps one of your best qualities, so of course it came from me, Dear. A good thing you grew into it too, you always were an ugly chick."

She approached the two of you as if trying to seem motherly even with her vinegar tainted words and you felt your entire body tense with anger. The last time you saw this woman she was screeching at a literal child and trying to kill him because she blamed him for something. Though her full reasoning was lost to you, the look of genuine horror in Vil's eyes as he shook behind you was not. His face was more stoic due to years of acting, but to you he looked like the same sobbing and frightened child that had clung to you for comfort while his parents fought in the adjacent room.

The Harpy Housewarden's body flinched and recoiled with her harsh words dripping in a honey sweet tone, seeming like he wanted to flee. Years of hearing the most hateful words that scarred his heart echoing in his head all screamed back at him as the female Harpy approached. He was stuck between wanting to escape the Harpy woman and seeking comfort from you as that suffocating sensation returned.

After what you've seen, you'd be damned before you let this awful woman anywhere near Vil.

"Get out."

Your voice was cold and steely, a sharp edge to your tone highlighting your anger and actually seeming to catch everyone off guard. None of them knew Vil's painful history, not even Rook had managed to coax the tale from the Harpy so none of them knew why you were so suddenly unhappy. The others had been under the impression that this was an unfairly estranged mother wanting to reconnect with her son, your tone told a different story.

Where you were usually friendly at best and coolly polite at worst with most upon first meeting them, your sudden change to smoldering rage was confusing and jarring to the others. Any time you had to bear your teeth in the past was shortly following provocation by others. From poor behavior to blatantly cruel acts, you always had reserved your genuine dislike for those who wronged you or those you cared for around you.

This Harpy- as far as they knew- showed no such disrespect towards you which only made your sudden distaste for her all the more confusing. Even Papa Hades felt a certain level of unrest as you placed yourself quite clearly between the Harpy woman and Vil.

"That's no way to speak to your elders, clearly manners are quite lax where you're from-"

"Get out now or you leave in a casket, Calliope."

There was something different about your tone that had everyone straightening up and feeling those echoes of your anger in their own hearts. Where confusion had once been, mistrust and dislike took its place. Your anger and hatred fueling their individual dislike for the woman.

Calliope was stunned that you knew her name, but even more stunned to see your sudden dislike towards her. She had only reached back out to that Feral brat that shared her genetics to meet you and it was certainly not going the way she had planned. It had been her belief that you would be sweet and cute towards her, having seen Vil in pictures with you. She had been so careful to keep her true intentions of spiriting you away with her quiet, so your anger ruffled her feathers.

"I'm just here to reconnect with-"

"GET OUT. You have hurt Vil enough, you wretched woman! Or did you forget what you did to your own child? Did you forget how you attacked him in cold blood? Did you forget how you screamed at him for simply existing? Did you forget that he was just a chick when you tried to kill him?"

Your last sentence made a look of disgust and anger take over her face as she hissed at you, her wings spreading behind her. It seemed she couldn't keep up the false affection with your direct accusations.

"He took everything from me! The least he can do is give me something of use and open the door for me to get my hands on you, even if you do act like a brat-!"

Your hands gripped the handle of the blade Idia had created for you, anger taking hold of you as she tried to grab at your shirt. Clearly, Clay's teachings were already proving useful as you moved your hand, the blade springing to life as you slashed the female Harpy's arm. She cried out in pain as she reeled back in surprise, hissing at you in rage as she tried to actually attack you now. She succeeded in slicing down your arm as you raised it to shield your face from her sudden attack.

Her violent behavior was enough to shock most of your guards out of their stupor, Rook's webbing restraining and pulling her down onto the floor before she could get to you again. Things were chaos for only a moment before a deep and thunderous sound rolled over the sky, filling it with darkness and electric green lightning. Everyone tensed at this and fell silent, instinctually shying away from the loud sounds of the storm outside.

Grim ran straight to your arms as a pair wings suddenly wrapped around you, shielding the both of you while the entire building groaned from the storm. The colorful feathers were familiar and it seemed Vil was hiding behind his wings as well, his face pressed into your shoulder and body tensed almost painfully. There was no mistaking who was so furiously guarding you, the simple act of aggression towards you being enough to trigger the Dragon into a rage.

You felt silence suddenly fall over everything and looked up to see the elder Shinigami had joined your small group, an odd shield of magic surrounding the four of you as the Shinigami looked down at you with concern. You couldn't see or hear anything outside of that bubble of influence. It was oddly calming compared to the near hurricane sounding storm outside.

"Papa Hades?"

He just shook his head and you figured it was for Vil's benefit. His nightmare and personal monster returned to his life, and he was forced to confront her and her cruelty. Who knows what Malleus had decided to do, but it was beyond your influence now.

If the Dragon torched the Harpy woman, you would not weep for her.

The elder Shinigami picked up your arm, a low glow coming from his hand as the burn of the cut soothed. He seemed to use a white bandage to wrap your arm, ensuring it didn't bleed anymore.

"How did you know what she had done, Little One?"

"... The same thing that happened with Alistair's Overblot happened with that potion... Like I saw the deepest and most painful parts of their soul that blot feeds on and exploits."

Vil curled closer to you, his breathing strained as he shook and gasped. He seemed like he was having a panic attack of some kind after seeing his mother again and all you could do was hold him. The lovely Harpy was shaking and seemed to only have enough awareness left in his mind to cling to you.

To Vil, it felt like his world was ending. His entire body struggling to stay calm as he panicked and tried to suck down every breath. The struggle of inflating his lungs only panicked him further as he tried to cuddle close to you. Every painful memory and time spent longingly wishing his mother loved him as much as his father did washing over the Harpy in drowning waves.

Grim also seemed to understand the stress the Harpy was feeling as he tried to purr and rub his cheeks against the upset Housewarden. Vil took to the affectionate behavior readily and you were quick to join in petting his hair. Even Papa Hades decided to show the frightened Harpy his gentle support while the four of you waited in the bubble of silence.

"Little One, when this is all over, I need to have a conversation with you about something important. I swear to you it is nothing bad, but we do need to talk privately."

You nodded and let Vil continue to lay against you, his eyes closed as he calmed down. His breathing slowing and relaxing as he no longer seemed to be fighting for air like he had been. When he got a deep breath, his eyes slowly slid open, his voice so soft.

"Don't let her get me, please. I... I know it's childish, but I could never bring myself to face her again. I don't care if she falls off the ends of this world..! I just want her to leave me alone."

You pet Vil's back, noticing how the Harpy leaned into your touch and closed his eyes. He seemed more than relaxed with your kindness as Grim nuzzled his cheek and feathered neck. Despite his discomfort with his wrapped wings, the kit was eager to soothe Vil.

"It's okay, Papa Birdy! I think you're pretty!"

This actually made Vil smile, a warm and affectionate smile pulling onto his lips as he looked at the kit. Vil had seemed indifferent to Grim when he had interacted with him prior but now seemed to be genuinely fond of the kit you cared for.

Grim clearly believed adding 'Papa' to names meant he respected and trusted them, having already added it to Malleus and Vil's nicknames. Perhaps- depending on how long it took for the Human ghosts to find you an escape- you should trust Grim's intuition regarding the others. Thus far, Vil, Papa Hades, and Malleus had earned the affection of your kit.

Maybe you should put more stock in his intuition. For now, you chose to comfort Vil and hoped that everything else would be dealt with before and that you would actually get a chance to rest.

[drfleetflower]

HG Scenario: Love Languages

~Requested~

Pairings: Coriolanus Snow, Tigris Snow, Sejanus Plinth, Casca Highbottom, Peeta Mellark, Finnick Odair, Gale Hawthorne, Haymitch Abernathy x Reader

Warnings: Angst, fluff, addiction, trauma

WC: 2.1k

Coriolanus Snow:

Coriolanus Snow is not a very affectionate man, but he shows his love in subtle ways. His love language is ‘acts of service’. So, of course he’s very gentlemanly. Afterall, he was nicknamed ‘Gent’ a while back. He opens doors for you, gives you his arm when walking up stairs, your meals are always prepared for you, your bed is always made, really anything you need done is done for you. Maybe these things aren’t always done by him, but he orchestrates them without you having to lift a finger. That is, unless you have a task you want to do. 

So, a moment like this is rare. Coriolanus is sitting in a royal red, tall and embroidered chair. He holds a book in his hands, reading aloud to you as you stand behind him. Your hands rest on his shoulders, massaging out the stress after a long day. A deep warmth bathes the two of you, emitting from the crackling fire in the fireplace. He occasionally pauses to sigh or take one of your hands, kissing it softly. 

Coriolanus is scarcely away from his office or the public, so this intimate instance is one you don’t take for granted. You listen intently to his smooth, controlled voice and rest your cheek against your intertwined hands. After each chapter he asks you questions and the two of you discuss different aspects of the story. He often just gives you his opinions and you agree, although when you do weigh in with your own ideas, he brightens and challenges you whether or not he agrees. You can’t help but be enraptured by him when he gets deep into a discussion and feels secure enough to share his feelings with you. 

Tigris Snow:

Tigris Snow is constantly giving. Whether that means giving time, attention, and care to her loved ones, or physical things like gifts, it doesn’t matter. She gives and gives. Especially to you; her most loved one. She spends most of her time hunched over a sewing machine and design book. And, a lot of that effort goes into making special things for you. 

You take every stitch to heart, and can’t help but be blown away by how she spoils you. Constantly Tigris suddenly showers you with new clothes, clothes she could easily sell for a pretty penny. Instead, she’s made them especially for you and it’s hard for you to figure out how to repay the kindness, how to show her that she means just as much to you and you do to her. So, you hone in on your craft. You take time and care to make her something just as special as the magic she has crafted for you. 

When you find the right time, you set a fine occasion and gift it to her. The act, so simple and so underwhelming in your eyes, brings tears to hers. She embraces you and thanks you perhaps too many times, making you wish you thanked her more. You embrace her right back and share a tender kiss. You feel grateful, fulfilled that you had done your job. You made her feel seen and special and appreciated, the way she deserves to feel. And so, you spend the evening in each other's arms admiring each other. 

Sejanus Plinth:

Sejanus Plinth is burdened. He tends to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, worrying about the state of the districts and constantly wracking his brain for ways to fix what is tremendously broken. So, you’ve adopted the job of consoling him. Many nights he lies awake ranting about the injustices that run rampant across Panem and you lie next to him and stroke his head, running your fingers through his curly hair. You coo words of encouragement and try your best to settle him down by acknowledging the hard work he’s already done. Still, the cycle continues.

There is some improvement though. You can tell that Sejanus has become happier, at least, as happy as one can be under the conditions. And, once you realize just how much he lights up when you compliment him, you make it a point to motivate him even outside of those late nights. He returns the gesture. 

You didn’t notice it at the start of your relationship, but Sejanus is big on complimenting you, too. It doesn’t matter the time or occasion, Sejanus finds a way to weave in a ‘you look wonderful today, my love’ or ‘what a great idea, you’re amazing’, and the like. Clearly, he’s a ‘words of affirmation’ type. So, you tend to his love language and the two of you sometimes have mini competitions of who can compliment the other the most.

Casca Highbottom:

Casca Highbottom doesn’t ask for much. He is content as long as you are near, present with him. Why you would waste your time on him, a depressed addict, he doesn’t know. But, he refuses to question it, and selfishly he chalks it up to luck so you’ll stick around. You don’t have to do anything together, really. Usually, the two of you just sit around doing absolutely nothing, simply being with each other. Other times, the two of you talk for hours about everything and nothing. 

He will share his worries with you, his guilt about his role in the Hunger Games. Most of the time though, he avoids the subject, preferring to spend the coveted time he has with you discussing more pleasant matters. 

Some days, Casca might be at his desk grading papers while you sit in a leather chair by the fire, telling him about your day. He hums in response, laughing at your quips, and chimes in with a remark when he has one. You always ask about his day in return, and he’ll sigh and usually give the same old, same old, his red pen making slashes on test questions. You wait up for him to finish his grading, and when he’s done, he’ll come over and give your shoulders a light squeeze before the two of you curl up in bed together.

Peeta Mellark:

Peeta Mellark is a very affectionate person. He has no trouble expressing his feelings to you, but prefers to do so without words. Words can get complicated, and when it comes to you, sometimes he can’t decipher the cues you’re giving him. So, physical cues are a safer bet. 

When the two of you got together, Peeta hadn’t the slightest clue that you reciprocated feelings for him until you kissed him. It surprised the both of you. But, from then on you knew you’d have to be more direct in your approach to romance and such. For example, you don’t shy away from holding his hand, or cuddling with him, or kissing his cheek. He won’t always make the first move, so you just take the initiative when you want to instead of waiting for him to get the hint. 

The moments that the two of you cherish the most are when you’re wrapped up in each other's arms. You lie on the couch or your bed, holding each other, Peeta kissing your head. You can watch television or read a book, or sometimes just do nothing. You could take the time to talk about your days but a lot of the time, the two of you like the silence, simply focusing on the feeling of each other being so close and warm. Obviously, this time together is best in the cold months.

Finnick Odair:

Finnick Odair exudes love and affection. He truly understands and appreciates every language of love, but he is inclined toward gift giving. He makes knots almost all day, everyday, so he’s bound to make a few things for you. And, practically anything you give him he automatically treasures. He is honestly a bit of a hoarder with how many keepsakes and sentimental items he has displayed. There’s overlap that he has to keep in storage too. 

What he likes about physical pieces, is he can keep them with him when you can’t be near. He can weave a shell you gave him into a necklace or bracelet and always have it on his person. And Finnick loves it when you wear the things he gives you, it’s as if you’re showing him off and tying yourself to him. He also appreciates the time, care, and effort that are put into the gifts you give each other. Although weaving comes easy to him, it can still be tedious and time consuming. And, you are simply astonished by what he can do with nothing but a strand. Even if you have so many pieces of braided jewelry you couldn’t possibly name each one. 

Sometimes, Finnick even adds a little note. A one-liner usually, something like ‘I love you more than the moon loves the ocean.’ You can’t help but make him read each one to you, too. His voice is always so calming when he’s telling you how much he loves you. Also, in general, but especially then. 

Gale Hawthorne:

Gale Hawthorne isn’t great at expressing himself. Not in the sense that he won’t talk to you about his emotions, but more so on how he goes about it. Of course, when you first met, he wasn’t much of a talker at all. Now that the two of you are close though, he doesn’t shy away from sharing his feelings. You love this about him, that he has become unashamed around you, that he feels so safe with you he will tell you any thought that pops into his head. Unfortunately, in the midst of being so honest with you, he can get blinded by what is perhaps too honest. Or, let his emotions get the better of him. 

This is why his love language is physical touch. First of all, the two of you have kind of evolved to communicate without words anyway. Secondly, it makes so much more sense to him to put his hand over yours than say ‘it’s alright’. Because sometimes it isn’t. And thirdly, Gale gets much more satisfaction from a kiss than anything else. He would happily live as an Avoxe if your tender touch was on line. Although, some kisses would be less exciting without his tongue.

He is big on quality time too, but he does request to have his hands on you in one way or another. Gale wants a family some day, so when the two of you are in the Meadow, his hand subconsciously rubbing your back as you tell his younger siblings a story that finally starts to settle them down… He swears his heart beats a mile a minute. 

Haymitch Abernathy:

Haymitch Abernathy is still in shock by the simple fact that you like him. Let alone love. And perhaps even more shocking than that is: he loves you too. He’s tortured by guilt though. Tortured in general, really, so he pushes you away. He refuses to admit anything but disdain for you until you break down crying, screaming at him that you love him. He lets you hug him and he comforts you, realizing you are not giving up and if he continues hurting you it might just kill him too. 

So, when he reluctantly accepts your love and affection, he goes along with whatever you want. You kind of have to force him to help you help him and tell you what it is he wants. You learn that Haymitch wants security. Not a security system, although it’s doubtful he’d be opposed, but a feeling of calm. A guarantee that everything will turn out right. That guarantee doesn’t exist, but you try your best. You learn that he goes crazy when he doesn’t know where you are, so you tend to stay close to him and when you aren’t, he always knows where you are. Also, you make sure that he’s somewhat distracted, like having Katniss, Peeta, and the kids come over when you’re away. 

Everyday can come as a challenge, a welcome one of course, but still a challenge. Trauma like Haymitch went through is no easy feat. But, little by little, it gets easier. And you start to have more good days than bad. He lets you help take care of his geese, he’s protective of them but he is of you, too. Maybe the little birds picked up on that, because they follow you too now. 

[softtdaisy]

Congrats on 2k it is very much deserved!! Could i request spencer x bau!reader with "that way" by tate mcrae (coworkers to lovers kind of thing)

summary. one kiss is enough to question your friendship with Spencer and wonder if you're not more than just friends

words count. 1 913

song. that way by tate mcrae

a/n. I won't lie, I'm not sure everything makes perfect sense in this story lol but I love it and I love Spencer and I hope you will appreciate it too! 🫶

2K CELEBRATION MASTERLIST

criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist| request

Sweet, soft, and tender.

You woke up again with the memory of Spencer’s lips on yours.

But friends shouldn’t wake up with the memory of a kiss that wasn’t true in the first place.

“You two,” Hotch said, pointing at you and Spencer in the meeting room. “You will go undercover.”

This was how it all started.

You weren’t surprised he chose you. Ever since you joined the BAU, it made perfect sense for him and you to be one of the greatest duos. You had the patience to listen and walk beside him in everything he did. You found comfort in all his stories and silly facts. And Spencer felt at ease with you, like he never had to pretend to be someone he wasn’t—even if he didn’t know how to do that. 

Everything was just so natural between you. And it had an impact on your work. How you didn’t need many words to understand each other, how he always had your back when you went first, and how you always looked up for him when he was alone on the field. How one look was enough for you to get how the other felt or what they needed.

Derek loved to call you “lovebirds,” and you caught Emily’s notes one day and noticed she gave you the “soulmates” surname. 

You didn’t know about love, but you felt like Spencer Reid might be your soulmate.

It wasn’t hard to pretend you were a couple. Without the loving part, it all looked like it. From the private jokes nobody got to the subtle touch that you only allowed the other to give; when you and Spencer were together, you were in your little world together.

When you closed your hotel room door, ready for the undercover night, you weren’t met by his reaction. But by Derek’s not-so-surprising whistle. “Look at you, baby girl; you are stunning.”

His words didn’t make you blush.

Spencer’s look on you did.

You had chosen a very classic little black dress that fit you so perfectly it seemed like it was made for you. You had put on just a little makeup to put away the professional stature. You loved getting dressed, especially going out with friends. You didn’t have many dates these past months, but you always made sure to have the greatest look. If the person didn’t fall in love with you, at least you felt confident.

But you felt a little pressure being put together with Spencer this time.

Then you saw his eyes falling on you. The way they got a bit bigger at every millimeter of your body they scanned. How his mouth opened so slightly, like he wanted to speak but no words could be formed—something more than unusual for him. How his tongue ran through his lips, unbeknownst to you if it was because of the thoughts running through his head. And his hands, clenching and losing up again and again.

“Are you ok, genius?” Derek finally asked, giving him a nudge with a smirk that kept growing. Because he certainly didn’t miss what happened.

But it seemed to wake Spencer from his contemplation. He chose to ignore him, and Derke walked to you, offering you his arm. “You’re ready?”

You followed Spencer outside and in the car after he opened the door for you. “What a gentleman, Dr. Spencer Reid,” you laughed when you got up. You noticed how he bit the inside of his cheek before joining you.

“Did you know that the term ‘gentleman actually comes from…” he started to say once the car started moving. And you looked at him the whole way, even holding his hand as he spoke. You knew this was Spencer’s way to put away the stress of being undercover, something he wasn’t the biggest fan of. And you actually loved his little story.

And while he told you about his knowledge, you took the time to admire his look. How it was all Spencer with his messy hair, his bitten lips, or even the vest he added that you saw him wear more than once. But there was something else: how the shirt fit him differently than usual and the watch on his wrist wasn’t one of his—probably lended by Rossi—and gave him a more elegant look. It was Spencer, but in a different font.

The thing was, this undercover evening was getting longer and longer, and Spencer couldn’t start rambling about anything without looking too suspect. 

You were leading most discussions, and he was following you, trusting you enough to accept not being the one managing the whole situation. Especially since he could analyze every one in the room in peace.

You were the mouth—all smiley and charming; he was the eyes and ears.

And at some point, he heard someone in the back talking about the two of you. Saying there was something suspect.

He didn’t think long; maybe he should have. But at the thought that anyone could doubt your cover, the first idea that came to his mind seemed to be the right one.

So, he brought you closer to him, your back right against his chest, with a hand on your stomach to keep you against him. You turned your face to look at him, questioning him in silence. And then he answered.

Without a single word, no.

With his lips slowly but softly falling on yours. Spencer gave you the sweetest kiss you’ve ever received. It didn’t last long. But long enough for you to feel like his mouth was perfectly fitting with yours. You never thought you would learn one day that your best friend loved to give one small kiss after the long one. Two kisses that belonged together.

“You’re so adorable,” you heard the woman you were talking with before saying. 

Did you? Maybe. Probably. You didn’t know.

And that stayed on your mind for the rest of the night that, hopefully, went smoothly and ended not long after that. The unsub was caught by the team right after your kiss. 

After the case, Hotch gave you and Spencer some days off. 

Days when you didn’t hear about your best friend. 

Days when you kept thinking about the feelings of his lips on yours.

Days when you wondered why he did that.

But you didn’t get any answer. Not during your break. Not when you came back to the bureau and Spencer acted like nothing happened. Not when he ignored Derek and Penelope teasing him about his actions.

Nothing.

“I’m done.”

You and Spencer were in the car, doing the tailing for an unsub. It was close to midnight, and you had replaced Derek and Emily just an hour ago.

A whole hour of barely hearing Spencer’s voice.

It has been two weeks since the kiss, and not once did he ever mention it. Even now, hearing you, he turned to you with confusion. Like it wasn’t obvious.

“Why did you kiss me, Spencer?” you asked, after making sure the radio was off. You clearly didn’t need anyone from the team hearing this conversation. No matter the outcome.

“You know why,” he replied, frowning. “I mean, we were undercover; we needed to make sure our cover was great and…”

You sighed, turning to face him, your knee falling on his thigh. “You didn’t have to kiss me. But you did. Why?”

You saw his brain working in his eyes, how he was looking for his words. And you knew Spencer. He never had to find his words, especially not for you.

And the most frustrating part was when he looked away without giving you an answer. Again. 

“Friends don’t kiss each other like that, Spencer!” You hit his shoulder. 

That was what you kept repeating to yourself these past days. Friends don’t do that. But mostly, friends don’t dream about doing it again. 

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how it felt like the logical consequence to your relationship. Getting more of Spencer. 

You really thought he wasn’t going to answer you. Not when he kept looking at the road, playing with his hands, and biting his lip like he was trying his best to keep his words to himself. And you almost gave up, turning around with a big sigh. Right when you brought your hand to the radio, ready to put it on again, you felt his fingers closing on yours.

“Maybe…” he started. “Maybe I don’t see you as a friend anymore.” 

In the corner of your eyes, you saw Spencer wasn’t looking at you. And so, out of respect, you didn’t either. You kept your eyes on your hands, thinking about how beautiful this looked. So natural. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Kissing you. But it didn’t feel right to do it out of nowhere, not when I had no idea what you were thinking about this. So I kept it to myself. For my late-night thoughts. And not late-night ones too,” he said with a sad laugh. “But that night…it was the perfect occasion to do it. To see if my brain had just imagined how good it would feel because you’re the person I love the most. I needed to know if I had imagined it or if…” 

You heard the scratch of his hair against the headrest and felt his eyes on you. And so you turned your head too. He looked so shy, something he never ever was next to you. You wanted to hold him so badly, telling him everything was ok. But mostly, you had to let him talk. And accept how long it would take him to put the right words on his thoughts.

“But it was perfect. Even better than I thought it would be. And… I don’t know. It scared me because I couldn’t express my feelings to you. And at the same time, knowing I could have it was so… I don’t know. I don’t know what to say.”

You didn’t know either. All you could do was bring a hand to his face, slowly. You caressed his cheek the whole time you brought your face closer to his, close enough that you could brush his lips. You waited to be sure he wouldn’t back off.

But Spencer didn’t. Instead, he closed the little gap between you two to have the kiss that haunted his mind these past days too. To feel your lips again and make sure he remembered it well. But he was Spencer; of course he did remember it. 

“Maybe you’re right,” he whispered against your lips. “Maybe friends don’t kiss like that.”

“Or maybe,” you added, brushing your nose against his. “They do when they love each other like we do.” 

You noticed the smile growing on his face, so subtle because he still had to get used to the idea that your love had evolved like that.

But that didn’t last long before you got a text on your phone.

“Lovebirds, it’s time to put the radio on instead of kissing each other’s faces.”

“It seems like we will have to continue this conversation later.” You laughed, showing him in the text. His hand was still on yours when you put the radio on, and there was something sweet in knowing you were doing this together. 

And even sweeter when Spencer didn’t let go of your hand. Holding it for most of the night. Naturally. 

[pocket-vvardvark]

Ty for tagging me @skyrim-forever !!

I'd like to tag: @fangsandsoftgrass @sanzas-reverie @sulphuricgrin @hircines-hunter @changelingsandothernonsense @scholarlyhermit @mavariel @madamefluffnstuff

Which NPCs in TES (all games included!) do you crush on, and why? They don't have to be marriage candidates (in vanilla), just people you find yourself blushing around. Hell, it could be a Deadric Prince if that's what you're into. Name them and say what about them you find appealing! Then feel free to tag a friend or two!

These r mostly gonna be ESO bc I haven't played Skyrim in a gazillion years lol, soooo:

1. Fennorian Ravenwatch!!!

Literally the main reason why i actually continued playing ESO lol. I just love his shyness, and how much he cares about the vestige (they fumbled in the newest chapter I stfg 🙄🙄🙄) I would date him irl idec I'm only straight for pookie <333333 I used to tweak so bad, I couldn't look at his face or hear his voice 🥴

2. Verandis Ravenwatch

Listen, he's hot and he's a dilf sooo perfect combo fr fr. Also, there's something I really like about the 'fatherly' characters, something like mentors just tickles my brain in the right way.

3. Vanus Galerion

Ok, so I'm not gonna lie, at first!! I didn't like him!! But then my brain chemistry changed when he was low key degrading us 🤤 ok ignore that, but I love that underneath all his grumpiness, is someone who's vulnerable. Also I want him to bend me over his desk :) I need more Vanus loreee, let me love pookie right

4. Abnur Tharn

When I was done with his DLC, I fucking scoured ao3 and Tumblr to lick at the crumbs left for me :)) The first time he shows up in the main quest?? Liked him but wasn't feral yet. Elsewyr?? Omfg, I love how he's changing!!! C'mere pookie 😍😍 ok, also I'm ngl but I blushed when he called us a pretty face <33

5. Iachesis

He's a hot, old, Altmer with good hair what else is there to say?? When he first showed up I was like damn, this is Vanus's dad figure?? Sign me UP!!!

6. Revus Demnevanni

He's so endearing. I love how clumsy he is, but ALSO!! He's always trying to right his mistakes which is hot ASF. Really miss him :/

7. Ayrenn

Ok, first off--HER VOICE. Her voice is sooooooo nice like OUGH, I could listen to her for hours. She's so caring, too, and I love that she's really willing to stuff for all the races in the Altmer alliance. FCK the veiled heritance fr fr.

8. Darien Gautier

I miss this man sm, guys I fucking cried during the Summerset DLC. He fucking BROKE ME. I didn't care for him that much in the beginning, but the dlc absolutely wrecked me :((. I felt like there was a real relationship there, and Darien really cared about everyone around him. I miss my knight 😭

9. Gabrielle Benele

Gabby is so cute, I love how crazy she is sometimes. But, also she cares SO MUCH. I just wanna hug her(maybe a smooch also), she's been thru sm and deserves sum loveeee

10. Divayth Fyr

Yeah, this got developed when I did cw city dlc, but um...he calls us a distraction after the trial and it fucked me UP. HELL YA I WANNA BE UR DISTRACTION DADDY FYR

11. Marcurio

Guys, this was my FIRST LOVE, NOT EVEN KIDDING. I love his stupid sassy attitude and want to break his back (or have him break mine idc). ALSO, he has this one line when you go through caves that's, like just reminding you that he's here if you're scared <33

12. Hieronymus lex

Listen, man, I didn't expect it either. I love love love him sooooo much. Playing the thieves guild quest line in high school got me so crunked up. I just love this like forbidden love between a guard and a thief like 😍😍

13. Martin Septim

I'm a Martin truther y'all, can't stop myself. I just know he's kinky ASF, ANYWAYS. He really changes throughout the whole quest line and I love that, but alsoooo Martin is so sweet. Esp when he yells at you to put the mysterium xarxes down bc he's worried <33 yes king, I am but ur humble servant 🥴 I also love knight x king type of romance yum

14. Sotha Sil

I blushed. I fucking blushed when his tall ass stepped into the psijic order. He's looking for me? FOR ME??? I was like standing there brain.exe stopped working. Also his voice is straight up butter like omggg

15. Clavicus vile

Shoot me. Do it. Skyrim version AND ESO version. I'm insane, Ik, but the deal aspect has me thinking bad thoughts 🥴 ALSO HIS VOICE SKSKSKSKWMW

16. Caius Cosades

Yup. You heard right. Listen, he's kinda brusque or whatever in the beginning, but I feel like he rlly helps you thru shit tbh. I'm dumb, so I can't see any deeper, BUT he's kinda caring and I genuinely felt so sad and lost once he peaces out 💀

[magentakat]

Moon in his blanket pile/cocoon wouldn’t leave my head, sooooo I gave drawing it a go. :3

Doll!Moon is from As long as we are loved by @shirajellyfish ! :]

[235uranium]

a source of angst, drama, and character study that ime is sorely underexplored is haru's willingness to forgive her Objectively Horrific father but not akechi. I have takes on it.

[snap-my-kneecaps]

Rewatched the force awakens yesterday and I will not be apologising for the return of my Poe Dameron obsession

I just fucking love this silly man okay??

[the-cooler-king]

Oh yeah..... midnight gospel be hitting.... sitting in my bed fuckin. Crying. Get a grip girl

[missdynamighttt]

↳ ❝ FAT ASS LIKE HERS NEEDS A REAL MAN TO FUCK IT. ❞

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ synopsis: in which, you get tangled up with your boyfriend's arrogant, infuriating, and devastatingly hot rival, katsuki bakugou and ended up fucking... one too many times.

starring: pro hero! katsuki bakugou x enemy's girlfriend! reader ⍣ ೋ

disclaimers!: cheating on yo shindo, cheating with katsuki bakugo, body worship, implied mentions of anal sex, oral sex (f! receiving, face riding), manhandling, penetrative / p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie

note: usage of "sweetheart", "pretty", "pretty girl", "sweets", fem reader, implied plus size! reader, mean! katsuki, katsuki calls reader fat but not really (specifically, reader's ass), (hopefully) promoting body positivity. really thought this song gave katsuki vibes and havent seen a fic based off of it yet. reminds me of that montoya guy watching his girl fuck someone on camera lmao😭. time to give back to my community, hope you guys enjoy💜

╰┈➤ [katsuki bakugo was an asshole.] everyone knew that. and when it came to shindo yo, he was even worse. the two had never gotten along—never would. 

which was exactly why, when katsuki walked into the bar and spotted you, nursing a drink, frustration etched across your face, he couldn’t help but smirk.

it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. probably your boyfriend getting a little too damn close to another "friend" again. just like always. this wasn’t the first time, and knowing him, it wouldn’t be the last.

this was the kind of moment he lived for, a rare opportunity to get under shindo’s skin. sure, maybe katsuki didn’t hate shindo that much, but you? you were a different story.

he sauntered over, leaning an arm against the counter, eyes never leaving you. "rough night?"

you glanced up, instantly recognizing the pro hero standing beside you. with a sigh, you swirled your drink in its glass. “you could say that.”

“lemme guess... your idiot boyfriend givin’ you trouble again?”

“…something like that.”

“don’t know why you put up with him, honestly," he chuckled, the sound low and knowing. he tipped his drink toward you, watching your reaction carefully. "you deserve better than some asshole who doesn’t know how to appreciate you.”

your lips quirked, a mix of amusement and exasperation. “and you think you can appreciate me?”

katsuki had no shame, never did. so he grinned, a flicker of something dangerous in his crimson gaze.

"want me to show you, sweetheart?"

one thing led to another and soon enough— you were in his bed, limbs tangled, gasping his name, making sure you see the stars in the sky as he fucked the frustration right out of you.

and after that night, fucking you became katsuki's favorite way to piss shindo off.

you weren’t stupid. you knew exactly what this was. but did you care? not one damn bit. he had you in his bed more than your shitty boyfriend ever did. and yeah, maybe it started as a way to get under shindo’s skin, but somewhere along the way, it became something neither of you wanted to stop.

because katsuki? he was fucking obsessed with you.  

some nights, he’d pull you into his lap, hands splayed over your hips as he buried his face in your neck, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.

“fuck, i missed you,” he groaned, voice thick with something dangerously close to vulnerability. his grip tighten, fingers digging into the softness of your thighs. “shouldn’t let you leave my bed, y’know that?”

you chuckled, tilting your head back as his lips trailed lower. “you’re never satisfied, huh?”

“so what?” he nipped at your skin, making you squeak. “i like my woman soft. more of you for me to grab.”

and grab he did. he was clingy in the worst way—always needing to have a hand on you, whether it was squeezing your ass, gripping your waist, or just absentmindedly tracing patterns on your thigh while you laid in bed together.

katsuki just loved how you felt in his hands.

then there are the nights when he'd lie with his head on your lap, letting you comb your fingers through his hair, one arm thrown lazily over his chest.

his eyes were shut, his expression relaxed, but every so often, his brows furrowed as he grumbled about his day.

like now.

“dumbass intern nearly blew up my whole damn office,” he muttered, eyes closed. “and kirishima kept laughin’ like it was the funniest shit he’d ever seen.”

you hummed, dragging your nails lightly over his scalp. “i mean… you do blow things up all the time. bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

his eyes cracked open, leveling you with a glare. “tch. ain’t funny.”

you bit back a smile. “a little funny.”

he exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t argue. he never really did when you played with his hair. it was his weakness, and he hated that you knew it.

your fingers trailed down to his jaw, tracing the sharp edge. he leaned into your touch instinctively, like it was second nature. and maybe it was.

“you’re really pretty, you know that?” you murmured.

his eyes flickered open again, red irises locking onto yours. there was something unreadable in his gaze—something so raw and vulnerable.

“oi,” he muttered, shifting slightly, ears turning pink. “quit it.”

you grinned. “quit what?”

“saying dumb shit like that.”

“but it’s true.”

katsuki scowled, but the way he pressed his cheek into your palm gave him away. he huffed, eyes slipping shut again.

“…whatever.”

and he loved it. the times he's spent with you, whether he was fucking you or just talking about each other's day, he loved all of it. not just because it was a middle finger to shindo, but because katsuki got to have you all to himself. 

honestly? it stopped being about shindo a long time ago. but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t rub it in the bastard’s face.

"she was beggin’ me to keep goin’ last night," katsuki bragged, arm slung lazily around your waist, knowing full well that shindō was fuming. his hand drifted lower, fingers trailing over the curve of your ass. “bet you don’t even know how to handle all this ass, huh? shame. guess that’s why she keeps crawlin’ back to me.”

shindo clenched his jaw, knowing exactly what katsuki was implying. he knew. knew there was truth in katsuki’s words. knew that every time he and you argued, you’d disappear for a while, only to return looking a little too satisfied. "you really think you're some upgrade?"  

"she does. especially when she’s whining my name into the sheets.”  

"shut the fuck up, bakugo."  

katsuki barked a laugh, shameless and sharp. he was pissed, good. that was the reaction he wanted. but he wasn’t done yet.

“she’s a greedy lil’ thing, too. always wantin’ more," he grinned, eyes flicking over to him before locking back at yours. "but look at her. how could i say no? she looks so fuckin’ perfect under me."

your face burns, heat creeping up your neck before he scoffs and turns back to grilling your ex, like you weren’t just standing there, completely flustered.

"did she ever tell you how much she loves it when i grab these—" his fingers trailed down your side, giving a firm squeeze and earning a small yelp from you. "—and i slam my dick into her? fuck her real nice and deep? moans so pretty for me, too. you ever heard it?"

and if shindo so much as opened his mouth, katsuki would throw in another dig.

"nah. probably not. bet she asked you if it was in yet.”  

"well, she's all yours," shindo said, fists clenching, clearly seconds away from punching him. and katsuki lived for it.  

"yeah, figured you’d say that," katsuki taunted. "she’s been stress eatin’ too much to deal with a weak-ass like you."  

and then, just because he was an absolute bastard, he'd go in for the kill.

"fat ass like hers needs a real man to fuck it."  

shindo looked about ready to swing, but you pulled katsuki away before things got too messy.  you could still feel the heat of shindo’s rage burning through the air. it thrilled you more than it should have. 

but behind closed doors? the same man who ran his mouth would spend hours pressed against you, whispering things he’d never admit to anyone else.

"c’mere," katsuki grumbled, tugging you onto the bed after another long day of antagonizing your ex. his arms wrapped around your waist, face immediately pressing into your soft stomach.

he worshipped you—every inch, every soft curve, but nothing captivated him more than your stomach.

he was obsessed, utterly entranced. he’d bury his face against it, his hands kneaded your sides, gripping, squeezing—memorizing, pressing lazy kisses to every dip and curve. he held your body with a reverence that bordered on possessive, like he was terrified you’d slip away.

"fuck, baby," he groaned, nuzzling into you like he wanted to disappear into your skin. “love your body so goddamn much. s’perfect.”

you chuckled, threading your fingers through his hair. "thought you said i was stress-eating."  

"yeah, stress-eatin’ on my dick," he muttered, pressing kisses against your tummy. "he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you."

“then why do you still do it, hmm?”

he looked up at you, red eyes dark with something almost desperate as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach.

"tch, you know why i do that. pisses him off. makes him realize he ain't shit. ‘cause he ain't."  

you shivered at the heat of his lips against your skin, biting back a smile as you run your fingers through his hair. so that’s what this was about. "you sure you’re not just obsessed with him at this point?”

he scoffed against your stomach, his grip on your waist tightening. “the hell i am. only thing i’m obsessed with is you.”

it was the side of him no one else got to see— the way he nuzzled into you, the way he pressed his lips to your skin over and over, like he couldn’t get enough. he'd grumble if you tried to move, holding you tighter to keep you in bed, murmuring "stay here. wanna hold ya."  

he loved how soft you were, how warm—how no matter how much he grabbed, squeezed, or traced his fingers over you, it was never enough. he needed you. it was like he was drunk on the feel of you, the scent of you. and truthfully, he was.

"love this shit,” he admitted lowly, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. he nuzzled into your tummy again, letting out a deep, satisfied sigh. "could live here."

you raised a brow, fighting back a grin as you looked down at him. “oh? you wanna live on my stomach now?”

“yes, baby,” he muttered almost desperately, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction while pressing another lingering kiss to your skin. “soft. warm. smells like you.”

you laughed, dragging your fingers through his hair. “so what, you’re gonna quit being a hero and move in here?”

he let out a gruff chuckle, turning his head to rest his cheek against you. “tch. would if i could. wouldn’t need a bed, a couch, nothin’. just this perfect spot.”

“oh yeah?” you hummed, tilting your head. “should i start charging you rent?”

he huffed against your skin. “tch. smartass.”

you giggled, brushing a thumb over the shell of his ear. “i mean, if you’re gonna move in, might as well contribute. utilities, groceries… maybe even a tummy tax.”

his red eyes flicked up at you, narrowing. “the fuck is a tummy tax?”

you grinned. “unlimited kisses. daily.”

he snorts, pressing another slow, open-mouthed kiss to your skin. “already payin’ for that, pretty."

and you laughed, because for all his big talk, katsuki bakugo adored you. as long as he had you, nothing else mattered.

and despite the way he ran his mouth, he never let you feel insecure. if he ever caught you looking at yourself too long in the mirror, he’d grab you and pull you onto the bed, hovering over you with that intense, fiery gaze.  

"the fuck are you thinkin’ about?" he’d demand, hands gripping your thighs, squeezing, leaving marks. "you’re mine. this body? all mine. and i fuckin’ love every inch of you. don’t ever fuckin’ doubt how much i want you."

and god, did he prove it.

he didn't just tolerate your body—he adored it. and thats why you found yourself looking down at him lying comfortably on his back, eyes dark with anticipation. he was waiting—no, expecting—you to sit on his face.

you shake your head, heat creeping up your neck. "i can just lay down, 'suki..."

katsuki scoffs, sitting up slightly, his hands already reaching for your thighs, clearly impatient. "tch. and deny me a great view? cut the crap and get up here, sweets."

you shake your head again. "i just- what if i’m too heavy?"

he lets out a sharp, exasperated scoff. "for who? me? well that’s rude."

"it’s not..." you hesitate for half a second, but that’s all the time he gives you. 

he yanks you down onto his face with a low growl, his mouth immediately sealing over your cunt. "stop stallin’ and just give me what i want..."

you hesitate, subtly hovering just above him instead of lowering yourself onto his face, holding onto the headboard for support. his eyes flick up to yours, and the second he realizes what you're doing, his expression darkens.

"the fuck do you think you’re doin’?" his grip on your thighs tightens, his voice a low, dangerous growl. 

“i don’t want to crush you—”

“are you fuckin’ serious?” his voice drips with pure offense, like you just insulted his entire existence. "you really think i can't handle you? think you're doin’ me a favor by holdin’ back?"

you try to protest, but he’s already yanking you down on his face, forcing you to sit properly. his growl vibrates against you as he buries his face between your thighs. the way he looked up at you—pissed off and starving—sent a shiver down your spine.

your face burned, heart pounding in your chest. "i just— i don't wanna make you uncomfortable."

katsuki let out a sharp laugh, the sound vibrating against your folds, lifting you by your hips to give him room to speak from time to time. 

"uncomfortable? sweetheart, the only thing makin’ me uncomfortable right now is you not sittin’ on my goddamn face like i told you to."

your lips parted in protest, but a startled moan escapes you as his tongue flicks over your clit, sharp and demanding. his grip on your thighs is punishing, locking you in place as he devours you with obscene hunger.

"katsuki—" you try to lift yourself, but his hands hold you firm.

"nah. shut up," he murmurs burying his tongue between your thighs without warning. a moan escapes you as he groans against your heat, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you firmly in place. 

"fuckin’ ridiculous," he mutters between licks, voice muffled. "ain’t takin’ this disrespect. you ain't doin’ me no favors by holdin’ back. told ya before— i want you—every fuckin’ inch of you." 

your breath hitches, and katsuki smirks like he knows he’s got you. his crimson eyes flicked up at you, glinting with mischief as he devoured the fuck out of your pretty little cunt, tongue glazed with his spit and your slick. 

"so don't you ever pull that hoverin’ shit again,” he warns, his tongue licking a broad stripe through your folds "or i swear to god, i'll make you sit here all fuckin' night—"

his words were cut off by the way he devoured you, lips and tongue working so hungrily that your legs nearly gave out then and there. his crimson eyes burned into you, daring you to try that shit again.

you whimper, thighs trembling, and he doubles down, tongue curling inside you before dragging back up to your clit, sucking just to hear you whine.

"fuck, baby," he groans against you, his voice thick with need. "taste so fuckin’ good."

your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging on the soft strands, but it only spurs him on. his hands slide to your ass, forcing you to take everything he gave you. he’s lost in it, completely drowning in you, and he likes it. loves it. wants more. 

"you drive me fuckin’ insane," he murmured, sucking your clit into his mouth with a filthy slurp. "you’re too damn perfect, and it pisses me off."  

your fingers tightened around the headboard, thighs trembling around his head. “how is that my fault? you're the one who—"

katsuki let out a frustrated growl against your cunt, cutting you off before you could finish. without warning, he flattened his tongue and dragged a slow, deliberate lick through your folds, making you gasp.

"its your fucking fault," he went on like he couldn’t believe you had the audacity to act so damn innocent.

his lips brush against your pussy as your legs threatened to close around his head, but his grip was firm, keeping you spread open for him. "prancin’ around, bein’ so goddamn pretty. takin’ up space in my head. gettin’ under my fuckin' skin and you expect me to act normal?"

you tried to answer, but he didn’t give you the chance. a sharp suck on your clit had your head tipping back, a needy whine escaping before you could stop it. his tongue slid through your folds again, swirling around your clit, and the sudden sensation made you choke on your words.

"katsuki—"

"nah. told you to shut up." he cut you off, voice muffled against your dripping cunt. "if you're gonna talk, you can fuckin’ moan."

your noises only spurred him on. your fingers found their way into his hair, gripping tightly as pleasure pooled in your stomach. his tongue worked you over with precision, switching between sucking and licking until your hips were rolling into his face, chasing more. 

"that's it," he muttered, sucking your clit into his mouth again, hard, and the moan that tore from your throat was anything but coherent, fucking you with his tongue. "you wanna run your mouth? do it like this." 

you could barely form a response, your mind going blank as he sucked hard on your clit, his tongue relentless. the only thing that left your lips was a desperate, broken moan.

"fuckin' knew it," he groaned, his voice sending another wave of heat through your body. "knew you’d sound so fuckin' pretty when you just shut the fuck up while riding my face. could watch you like this all fuckin’ day."

you let out a shaky breath, barely able to focus as his tongue flicked over your clit again. katsuki pulled back just enough to suck in a breath, his lips slick and glistening with your arousal. his crimson eyes burned into you, half-lidded and desperate, but still sharp with command.

“fuck,” he groaned, voice thick with hunger. “touch yourself, pretty girl. play with those pretty tits for me.”

your breath caught in your throat, and you hesitated, already feeling overwhelmed by the way he was devouring you. but his grip tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh in warning.

“c’mon, sweets,” he rasped, his tongue flicking out to tease your clit before pulling back again. his eyes dragged up your body, the heat in them making you dizzy. “be a good girl and gimme a show, yeah?"

with trembling hands, you reached up, cupping your tits, teasing your own nipples the way you knew he liked. you kneaded them softly at first, rolling your thumbs over your nipples, but the second you pinched them, katsuki groaned, his eyes locked onto you like you were the only thing in existence.

“fuck yeah,” he muttered, running his tongue through your folds before sucking your clit into his mouth again. “just like that, baby. play with those tits— keep puttin’ on a show for me while i eat this pretty little pussy.”

his tongue worked you over with hungry, unrelenting strokes, the obscene slurps and groans vibrating against you as he devoured you like a man starved.

you tugged at your nipples, your head falling back as pleasure rippled through you. your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around your nipples as the combination of your own hands on your body and his mouth wrecking you from below had your head spinning.

“katsuki—” you gasped, thighs trembling around his head. “i’m— i’m close.”

that was all it took. katsuki groaned deep in his throat, the sound vibrating against your cunt as his grip on your thighs tightened. his tongue worked even faster, flicking and circling your clit with devastating precision, like he needed you to fall apart for him or he'd die.

"yeah?" he rasped between licks, his voice thick and wrecked. "then fuckin’ give it to me, sweets. wanna feel you cum on my face."

he didn’t slow down, didn’t let up for even a second. his hands urged you down harder, forcing you to really sit on his face, and the pressure—his tongue, his mouth, the way he sucked on your clit—sent you careening straight into your orgasm.

your back arched, a broken moan spilling from your lips as pleasure crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming. katsuki groaned against you like he felt it, like he was the one cumming, and he didn’t stop licking, didn’t stop devouring you, even as you trembled above him.

he finally pulled away, his lips and chin glistening with your slick as he sucked in a breath, eyes dark with hunger. he gave your thighs one last squeeze before gripping your waist.

“get up."

you blinked down at him, still trying to catch your breath. “what?”

“i said, get up,” he growled. "need to be inside you. now.”

you whined, shaking your head weakly. “katsuki, i just— i just came…”

“and?” he scoffed, sitting up slightly. “the fuck that got to do with me?”

before you could protest again, his strong arms moved, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. a surprised yelp left your lips, but katsuki was already on top of you, pressing you into the mattress, his body burning hot against yours with his lips on yours.

"don't care if you just came," he muttered against your lips, biting down on your bottom one before sucking it into his mouth. "wanna feel you squeeze the cum outta me this time."

your head spun as he hovered over you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress. his hands were everywhere—gripping, kneading—like he couldn’t stand being apart from you for even a second.

"katsuki—"

"shut up," he growled, shoving your legs open with his knee. "you think i’m lettin’ you off that easy? nah. you got one, and now i’m gettin’ mine.”

you gasped as his hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled between them, his cock already hard and leaking against your folds. he positioned himself at your pussy, the tip of his cock pressing insistently against you.

"look at you," he murmured, rubbing his throbbing tip through your slick folds. "all fuckin’ messy for me already."

you gasped, legs twitching from overstimulation. “i— i need a second—”

“the fuck you do,” he muttered, lining himself up with your entrance. “you’re fuckin’ soaked. you’re fine.”

and before you could say another word, he thrusted into you, stretching you open in one slow, deep stroke.

"don't care what the fuck you say," he rasps. "bein’ so fuckin’ sweet, it makes me wanna ruin you."

your hands scrambled against his shoulders, nails digging in as you let out a choked sob, overwhelmed, tears pricking at your eyes as he kept moving, his cock dragging against your already-sensitive walls. “k-katsuki—'s too much—”

he didn't stop. didn't even hesitate. he knew better. knew you. if it was really too much, if you truly couldn’t take it, you would’ve said the safe word. and since you hadn’t? that meant you loved this—loved how he was using you, pushing you past your limits, making you take every inch of him.

“yeah? then why’s this pussy still fuckin’ suckin’ me in, huh?” he leaned down, his mouth brushing against your ear. “you know what to say if you really wanted me to stop, sweets.”

you whimpered, blinking up at him, your face hot and damp with tears. your breath hitched when he rolled his hips deeper, making your back arch off the bed.

“you like it, don’t you?” he murmured, dragging his lips along your cheek, tasting the tears running down your face. his hands pinned your wrists down beside your head, locking you in place beneath him. “fuckin’ cryin’ and takin’ my dick so good anyway. knew you’d let me use this sweet little pussy however the fuck i wanted.”

your body shook with every thrust, overstimulated and overwhelmed, but the pleasure was so sharp and dizzying, that all you could do was moan through the tears. you sobbed, back arching, hands clutching at the sheets. it was too much, but it felt too good. 

 his thumb swiped at your tear-streaked cheek, his other hand pressing down on your lower stomach, feeling the way he stretched you open. 

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice husky as he fucked into you harder, deeper, making sure you felt every inch. “be good for me. just take it. let me use you, yeah?”

you could barely think, barely breathe, and yet you nodded. and that was all he needed before his grip on your hips tightened, his cock stretching you wide, and he really started fucking you.

his hips snapped forward, burying himself deeper inside you, groaning as your walls clenched around him, still fluttering. his hand came up to grip your jaw, tilting your head to make you look at him.

“look at you,” he murmured, taking in the sight of you, tears spilling down your cheeks, the way your lips trembled. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. cryin’ for me. takin’ me like a good fuckin’ girl, squeezin’ me so tight, shit—”

your body trembled beneath him, your sobs mixing with broken moans as he fucked into you relentlessly. your arms struggled against his grip, desperate to reach for him, but he only pressed you deeper into the mattress, keeping you pinned.

“k-katsuki—” you gasped, tears slipping down your cheeks. “please—kiss me—”

he should’ve been satisfied with how wrecked you already were, with the way your body clenched around him so tight—but fuck, hearing you beg for his kisses?

that only made him worse.

“tch. still so fuckin’ needy, even when i’m ruining you.” 

his grip on your wrists loosens just enough for you to reach up. the second your hands touched him, you yanked him down, crashing your lips against his, desperate for the closeness, for the warmth of his mouth against yours.

katsuki groaned into the kiss, deep and hungry, swallowing your cries as he kissed you hard. his tongue pushes past your lips, claiming you just as much as his cock did. his thrusts didn’t slow, didn’t soften—if anything, he fucked you harder, like he wanted to ruin you completely.

“that what you needed, pretty girl?” he murmured against your lips, his breath heavy, your sobs melting into whimpers. “that why you’re cryin’? ‘cause you needed me to kiss you while i fuck you?”

you nodded frantically, another broken whimper slipping past your lips. “y-yeah—needed you—”

“yeah?” he smirked against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip before kissing you again—sloppier, deeper, making sure you’d never forget exactly who you belonged to.

his rhythm starts to stutter, hips snapping into you harder, sloppier, and you felt the way his body tensed, the way his grip on your hips turned bruising. he forced another helpless cry from you, and he groaned against your lips, drinking in every sound.

"fuck—fuck," katsuki whined, voice raw and desperate as he buried himself deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged, his lips brushing against your own as he lost himself in you. "you feel so goddamn good—s'fuckin’ tight, baby—"

you knew that tone—knew the way his voice cracked when he felt needy, when he was so fucking close to cumming. you loved when he got like this, when all his control slipped away and he was nothing but whiny, desperate need.

"katsuki—" you gasped, nails digging into his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "i'm—i'm close, i'm so close, wanna cum together—"

his grip tightened, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as he snapped his hips into you, his pace turning desperate chasing both of your highs. "fuck, yeah? c'mon, baby— wanna feel you cum, wanna fuckin' feel you all over my cock—"

his next thrust sent you over, body locking up as the heat coiled tight in your belly and snapped all at once. your moan shattered into a cry as your whole body trembled, clenching around him so hard its about to break him.

“oh, fuck—” katsuki choked, eyes rolling back as he lost it completely, slamming into you one last time before burying himself into your warm, wet pussy. his whole body shook, breath stuttering as he spilled inside you, groaning out your name like a prayer.

he kept thrusting—shallow, drawn-out rolls of his hips, like he never wanted to stop feeling you, even as he came down from his high. his forehead pressed against yours again, his breath heavy, his body spent.

for a moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths, your bodies still tangled, clinging to each other as you both came down from your highs. katsuki was still holding you, his grip tight but no longer desperate—just grounding. 

then, with a deep exhale, katsuki finally pulled out, rolling onto his side and gathering you against his chest. his arms wrapped around you securely, his large hand rubbing slow, lazy circles into your back. you felt his eyes scan over you with something softer than before—something almost tender.

“you alright, sweets?”

you nodded, still catching your breath, but the way your body trembled slightly didn’t escape him. he scoffs, sitting up just enough to lean over and press soft kisses to your damp forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

“liar,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. only warmth. “you cried, y’know.”

you let out a breathy laugh, snuggling closer. “you were relentless.”

he clicked his tongue, one of his hands finding the back of your head, his fingers slipping into your hair, the other resting on the small of your back, holding you close.

you melted into his chest, sighing against his skin. “you’re so warm…”

he smirked, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “duh. i’m literally made of explosions, dumbass.”

you lightly smacked his chest, making him chuckle. but his teasing quickly faded as he tilted your chin up, crimson eyes searching yours. his thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away the last remnants of your overstimulated tears.

“seriously, though,” he murmured, quieter now. “you okay?”

your heart squeezed at how gentle he was being. how, despite how rough he could be, how demanding, he never once forgot to take care of you afterward. you leaned into his touch, nuzzling his palm.

“i’m perfect,” you smiled sleepily. “because of you.”

“tch. sappy little shit," katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away. his ears definitely got redder.  “you sure, though? i didn’t—y’know… go too hard?”

you hummed, tilting your head to press a lazy kiss to his jaw. “i'm fine, katsuki. i promise." 

he just huffed, shifting to grab a towel from the nightstand. “yeah, well, you better be. was holdin’ back just for you.”

you snorted. “that was you holding back?”

katsuki shot you a look but didn’t argue. instead, he started cleaning you up, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. he was quiet as he worked, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“…was it really okay?” his voice was quieter now, hesitant in a way he rarely was.

you cupped his cheek, running your thumb over the sharp line of his jaw. “yes. i’d tell you if it wasn’t, katsuki.”

his crimson eyes searched yours for a long moment before he finally exhaled, tension melting from his shoulders. “good.”

he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then finally your lips, lingering there as if he never wanted to pull away.

“cause next time, i’m makin’ you cry even harder.”

you groaned, shoving his face away as he laughed, the sound deep and full of warmth. 

katsuki didn’t say anything for a moment after—just stared at you, his expression completely unguarded. no sharp smirks, no cocky grins—just raw, unfiltered devotion.

he stared at you like you’d just hung the damn moon. like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.  

you reached up to brush a few stray strands of hair from his forehead, and he caught your wrist midair, holding it for just a second before bringing it to his lips. the kiss he pressed against your palm was barely there, but it sent warmth blooming in your chest.

“you’re lookin’ at me funny,” you murmured, voice drowsy.

katsuki huffed a quiet laugh, but he didn’t look away. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you smiled lazily back at him. “like i just saved a bunch of kids from a burning building or something."

his smirk was faint, more of a ghost of amusement than anything. he pressing lazy kisses along your wrist, trailing them down to the inside of your palm. “you didn’t save a bunch of kids. you’re just—you. and i dunno what the hell i’d do without that."

your chest ached at the raw honesty in his voice, but before you could say anything, katsuki pulled you in even closer, pressing his face against your shoulder, like he was trying to hide.

“go to sleep,” he grumbled, voice muffled against your skin. “say any dumb shit about it, and i’ll smother you.”

you couldn’t help but smile as you curled against him, feeling the way his arms locked around you just a little tighter. “mhm. goodnight, katsuki.”

and then you smiled—sleepy, content, completely at ease in his arms.

katsuki stiffened. just for a second. just enough for you to feel the way his breath hitched, the way his hold on you tightened like he was trying to keep himself together.

fuck.

that damn smile. that look on your face. like he was your whole world. like you trusted him. like you loved him.

he clenched his jaw, exhaling slowly through his nose, like that would do anything to calm the way his heart was fucking pounding.

"goodnight." 

he was fucked. absolutely, completely, and hopelessly fucked.

because thats when katsuki bakugo realized he was in love with you. and he couldn't do anything about it.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ tags: ˚⋆ @kalulakunundrum @ch3rryjampi3 @lotusstarr @aranikai @emmab3mma @yannvi @gabby-ha @twoplayergaymers @xanneeeyyyy @akiii143 @ceeriusly-dumb @beabamboo @butlereyepatchbunny @qyuin @ocharavitys @dragonscribble @jimabbenamara @g0dawnlita @sourgrapesthings @seraphiicallyy @aawwq @kaybug88

[mononijikayu]

wildflower— nanami kento.

Your breath caught in your throat. “I—” “Do you have any idea how brilliant you are?” His voice was trembling now, thick with emotion. “You were always the smartest person in the room. You deserved to get out of here….to have everything you ever dreamed of. And instead… you stayed. You gave it all up. Why?” Tears burned the back of your eyes. “Because I didn’t have a choice, Kento.” “Yes, you did.” His voice cracked. “You could have told me. You could have called me. I would’ve—” “You would’ve what, Kento?” you choked. “Fixed my life for me? Paid my bills? Dragged me to Tokyo and pretended like I belonged in your world?” His jaw clenched. “You do belong in my world.”

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, romance, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, long-term relationship, marriage, loss, emotional distress, hatred, resentment, domestic, confessions, getting together, friends, slice of life, childhood friends, distress, cheating, falling out of love, toxic relationship, drama, depression, bitterness, grief, trauma, pregnancy, explicit birthing scene, illness, post-partum depression, bodily fluids, children, therapy, explicit depiction of birthing, depiction of bodily fluids, depiction of post-partum depression, mention of blood, mention of birthing, mention of bodily fluids, mention of depression, actor! nanami, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 18k words

NOTE: this took a while and im a bit sick all the sudden but i realized i have to put this out so i just decided to go on and post this. anyway, i hope you enjoy this. ready the tissue for this, its a crier. i love you all so much <3

masterlist

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the good life ― masterlist.

IT WAS HARD NOT TO KNOW WHAT EVERYTHING MEANS AFTER TWENTY YEARS OF MARRIAGE. After all that time, wouldn’t you know much about the person you were married to? This moment was not an exemption, of course. You were his wife, you knew everything about him. You just had to know.

So, as you stood there, looking at him, you knew that look. That look in Kento's caramel eyes as he’s putting on his suit. The quiet resignation. The practiced ease of sliding the tie around his neck, smoothing down his shirt, adjusting the cufflinks. Like a man preparing to go to war — except it isn’t war. It’s something worse. You knew that much.

You hum softly, curled up on the couch, and watch him from across the room. He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on making himself presentable. Like it matters. Like any of it matters. You know where he’s going. You’ve always known.

It’s something you never said out loud, not in the past twenty years, not when the nights stretched long and lonely, not when his touch began to feel like an apology instead of love. You haven’t said a word, and he hasn’t either.

But you know all about it already.

There was no need for such words.

There was no need for anything else.

You know because when he turns around, there’s that smile all over again. That smile you fell in love with all those years ago. It was that loving, gentle smile. Strained by the weariness, the tired, and the painfully distant bitterness that dwelled over time on his face. 

And then besides that, he lies. 

He always has to know how to lie.

He was an actor by trade, after all.

"I’ll be home late, baby." he says like it means nothing, like it’s any other day. His voice doesn’t crack. His eyes don’t betray him. But you see it. You always do. And it kills you a little more each time. 

You know he loves you. It’s never been a question of love. It’s always been a question of truth. And the truth is, love doesn’t stop him from leaving. The truth is, love doesn’t make him stay. The truth is, he’s already gone before he’s out the door.

And sometimes you want to kill him for it. Even if you don’t want to, you think about it often. You think about wanting to just be angry and let yourself loose into the madness of it all. You wanted to go and have something for yourself. Even if that was a life, even if it was his life. After all that you had suffered and endured, don’t you deserve it? Don’t you deserve to take his life?

For the silence. For the way he pretends. For the way you let him. For the way you can’t bring yourself to break it all apart because maybe —just maybe— if you keep pretending, too, it’ll hurt less.

You don’t say a word when he leans down to kiss your temple as gently as he could, as lovingly as he could. You don’t flinch, you don’t cling. You don’t beg him to stay. You just hum again, quieter this time, and watch him leave like you have a hundred times before. 

And when the door closes behind him, the sound is deafening.

You stare at the door long after he's gone. Like if you watch long enough, he'll come back. Like if you sit still enough, you'll hear his footsteps retreating down the hallway. But silence is all that answers you. Silence, and the faint hum of the clock that ticks louder with every passing second.

Your hands twitch against your lap, curling into fists before releasing again. You wonder if tonight it'll be different, if he'll come home and tell you the truth. If he'll break, just once, and tell you what you already know. That there’s someone else. That his heart no longer belongs here, with you.

But it never happens. It’s never happened.

You get up after a while, wandering through the house like a ghost. You pass by the photos on the walls. The framed moments of happiness frozen in time. His smile in those pictures looks real. Like he didn’t know back then what would become of you both. You touch one of the frames, trailing your finger down his face. It feels cruel now, looking at those captured memories.

The bed feels colder when you climb in alone. You face his side, the sheets still perfectly made, undisturbed by the weight of his body. You press your face into his pillow, breathing him in. You think, for a fleeting second, that if you cry hard enough, he might feel it from wherever he is and come home.

But you don’t cry. You’ve already wasted too many nights crying. Instead, you just wait. 

Because that's all you know how to do now. Wait. And love him. And hate him a little, too.

THE STORY STARTS EVEN BEFORE THAT. You and Nanami Kento grew up together. Two kids from two very different worlds — he is filled with wealth and privilege, you were with struggle and scarcity. His parents lived in a grand, pristine house, while you lived in a cramped apartment that barely stayed warm in the winter.

His clothes were always crisp and clean, and yours were worn out and patched up. From the moment you realized just how different your lives were, you knew people like you didn’t belong in his world.

And the world didn’t hesitate to remind you of that. The neighborhood kids who ran in the same circles as Nanami never let you forget it. They whispered when you came around, made faces when you approached, and laughed when you walked away. 

“Why do you let her hang around you?” they’d ask him. “She doesn't fit in with us.” 

But Nanami Kento never wavered. Not once. Not ever.

“She’s my friend.” he’d say, firm and unwavering.

And that was all it took.

It didn’t matter if your shoes had holes or if your hands were rough from helping your family with chores. It didn’t matter that you didn’t have expensive toys or that you couldn’t bring lunch to school some days. 

Kento always shared this with you. He always liked making sure you were as full as him. So he would go and split his neatly packed bento in half and hand you the bigger portion without a second thought. 

You’d protest, of course, but he’d only shrug and say, “I wasn’t that hungry anyway.” 

You knew it was a lie.

Even back then, he always lied.

And he smiles all the same.

He always did that, giving without asking for anything in return, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you valued him more than anything because of it. But what you didn’t realize was how deeply it had settled in your bones. The way you looked at him, the way you cherished him, the way you loved him.

It wasn’t like one day you just woke up and decided to love Nanami Kento. No, it was a gradual thing. Like the warmth of the sun slowly rising over the horizon. It happened on the days he’d sneak away from his house to find you playing in the dirt, unbothered by the stares of his so-called friends. 

It happened when he’d walk you home after school, insisting it was just on the way when it wasn’t. It happened when you were crying after your father came home drunk again, and Nanami held your hand quietly, letting you cry into his shoulder without a word.

It happened every time he chose you.

And because of that, because he never treated you like you were less than him, because he never made you feel like you didn’t belong — you fell in love with him. Quietly. Deeply. Hopelessly. Truthfully. 

But you never said a word about it. How could you?

You were still just you. You were unimportant, rough around the edges, struggling to keep your life from falling apart. And he was Nanami Kento, brighter than the sun itself. He was polished, brilliant, and destined for a life far better than the one you could ever give him. 

Loving him felt like holding sunlight in your hands. 

It was beautiful, but impossible to keep.

And so you stifled it, you swallowed it down. 

You smiled when he spoke of his future. Of traveling abroad, of making something of himself — and you ignored the ache in your chest. You told yourself it was enough to simply have him in your life, even if you could never have his heart. But deep down, you knew.

One day, he’d leave. 

He’d outgrow this town. 

He’d outgrow you. 

You’d be left where you always were. You would be standing in the shadow of his light, loving him from a distance. You knew that even if he leaves, even if he doesn’t stay. You would love him all the same.

WHEN THAT DAY CAME, YOU HADN’T EXPECTED IT. You were sixteen when Nanami Kento told you he was leaving. He had gotten accepted into a prestigious school overseas. One that would guarantee him a promising future. His parents were thrilled. His friends envied him. 

Everyone around him kept saying to him — You’ll do great things, Nanami. You’re destined for success.

But all you could hear was the sound of your own heart breaking. Yet you didn’t want it to be broken down out loud.  So, you decided to go and smile all about it. It was better this way, you think to yourself. He, after all, deserved better than you.

He found you later that evening, sitting on the rusted swing set in the small park where you two always met. You already knew what he was going to say. You could see it in his eyes — a mixture of excitement and guilt.

“I’m leaving.” he finally said, voice quiet. “I got accepted into a school in Denmark.”

You forced a smile, ignoring the lump in your throat. “That’s… that’s amazing, Kento. Really. I’m happy for you.”

But you weren’t. 

God, you weren’t.

“I’ll only be gone for a couple of years, you know.” he tried to reassure you. “I’ll visit during the holidays. And we can write letters—”

“Yeah, I know.” you cut him off, still smiling. “We’ll stay in touch. Like we used to.”

But deep down, you knew better. People like you didn’t get to stay in the lives of people like him. Nanami Kento was destined for bigger and better things, all these things that didn’t include you. And you hated yourself for thinking that way.

So instead of breaking down, instead of begging him to stay, you spent your remaining days together trying to memorize everything about him. The way his blond hair would fall over his forehead when he was deep in thought. 

The sound of his laugh when you said something ridiculous. The warmth of his hand whenever it brushed against yours. You burned it all into your memory, knowing it was the closest you’d ever get to having him. 

And then like the wind, that day came in a sudden push.

You didn’t cry when you said goodbye to him at the train station. 

You didn’t flinch when he pulled you into a tight hug and whispered, “I’ll see you soon.” 

You didn’t break down when you watched the train pull away, carrying him farther and farther from you. But that night, when you were alone in your bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling — you sobbed until your throat was raw. Because you knew.

You knew that he’s not coming back.

Maybe not intentionally, maybe he would write you a few letters, maybe he would visit during the holidays but eventually, the distance would settle in. He’d meet new people, make new friends, build a new life. 

And you? You’d still be here, stuck in the same town, living the same hard life you always had. You didn’t blame him. How could you? He deserved better. Yet you told yourself that you’d get over him. That the ache in your chest would eventually fade. That you’d move on.

But you never did.

The letters came at first. Handwritten, neat, and always signed, Kento. 

He’d tell you about the classes he was taking, the places he was visiting, the new friends he was making. And you’d read every word, trying to picture him in that new world of his — a world you didn’t belong to. You always write back, of course. But your letters were never as exciting. What were you supposed to say? 

Hey, I’m still working two part-time jobs to help my mom make rent. Our fridge broke again last week, but it’s fine. I’ve gotten used to eating once a day. 

No. Instead, you lied. You told him you were doing fine, that life was okay, that you were just happy to hear from him. But as the months went on, the letters became less frequent. And then, eventually, they stopped altogether. And that was it.

Nanami Kento became a part of your past.

He was just another thing you had to let go of.

Yet you think about it now, you should have let go.

You should have let it all be.

IT WAS QUITE A SURPRISE, NOT ONE WHICH YOU HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT. You didn’t know he became an actor. The Nanami Kento standing in front of you now. He was still quite as polished, poised, and impossibly handsome as he was.

And yet, he was a far cry from the boy you used to know. But it was still him, he was all the same. Same deep voice. Same gentle gaze. Same presence that made the world feel a little less heavy.

And yet, there was something else too. A distance. 

Like he didn’t quite belong here anymore.

It was like he had outgrown this town, just as you always knew he would.

“Kento, oh wow….” you managed, trying not to let your voice shake. “I… I didn’t know you were back.”

His smile faltered slightly, like he was trying to keep his composure. “Just for a few days. I had some… time off.”

You didn’t miss the way his caramel eyes swept over you. From your wrinkled convenience store uniform to the worn-out shoes on your feet. It was subtle, but you saw it. And it made your stomach twist in shame.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, carefully. Like he was afraid of the answer.

You forced a small laugh, waving a hand. “You know… same old, same old. Nothing much has changed.”

Lie. Everything had changed. You were still here, yes. You were still in the same town, still in the same life — but it felt different now. Colder. Like the weight of the world had settled heavier on your shoulders after he left. And it didn’t escape Kento’s notice.

You were supposed to be somewhere else. He knew that. Out of everyone he’d ever known, you were the smartest. You were the sharpest, the most capable, the one who always dreamed bigger than the town could ever hold. 

You used to talk about it all the time — the places you wanted to go, the life you wanted to build. You were supposed to go to college. You were supposed to do great things. And yet here you were. Stuck. In this town. Wearing a faded uniform and a name tag, working a dead-end job.

Why? Why are you still here, suffering like this?

“So, uh….” you cleared your throat, forcing a smile. “How’s Denmark? Or… wait. Are you still there?”

“No, no. I don’t live there.” he answered, his voice quieter now. “I, uh… I moved to Tokyo. For work.”

“Work?” you tilted your head.

And that’s when you saw it. The subtle shift in his stance. 

Like he was bracing himself for something.

“...I’m an actor now,” he admitted, almost sheepishly.

You blinked. “Wait — like… on TV?”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking a little uncomfortable. “Film, mostly. I’ve done a few series too.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. “You’re kidding.”

He chuckled, though there was no real humor in it. “I’m not. It just… happened, I guess.”

Of course it did, you thought bitterly. Because that’s what people like him did. They left, they made something of themselves, and they became untouchable. Meanwhile, people like you stayed exactly where they were rooted in place, forgotten, ordinary.

“That’s… amazing, Kento. Really.” You smiled, even though it burned your throat. “I’m happy for you.”

But Nanami Kento couldn’t find it in himself to smile back. 

Because all he could think about was how wrong this felt.

You’re supposed to be the one out there, he thought. You were always the brilliant one. You were supposed to leave this town — not me. You were supposed to make something of yourself.

Instead, you were still here in this wretched place. In a store that smelled faintly of stale bread and cleaning supplies. Ringing up snacks for high schoolers who would eventually leave you behind just like everyone else did.

“You’re still working here?” he asked softly, his voice careful.

“Yeah. Been here for a couple of years now.” You shrugged like it was nothing. “Pays the bills.”

His stomach twisted at your words all the sudden. “What about school?” he asked. “You… you were supposed to go to college, right? Didn’t you get accepted somewhere?”

You froze. For a brief moment, the smile cracked on your face. But you stitched it back together quickly. “Ah, yeah… I did. But, you know. Life happens.”

Lie, again, huh?

The truth was that you did get accepted. To a top university in Tokyo, actually. But your mom lost her job the same week you got the acceptance letter. Rent fell behind. Bills piled up. And you did what you always did — you stayed. 

You got a job, dropped out before you even started, and spent the next few years trying to keep your family afloat. You did everything you could to help your family to survive. You abandoned everything to survive. But you didn’t tell Kento that. You couldn’t.

“Anyway, uh….” you deflected, forcing some cheer into your voice, “I’m sure you’ve got somewhere to be. Don’t let me keep you.”

But Nanami Kento didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because he couldn’t stop staring at you. He couldn’t stop thinking about how wrong this was. The person he loved most in this world, the one who deserved everything was still here, stuck, while he was out there living a dream he never even wanted in the first place.

And he hated it. 

God, he hated it.

“…Have dinner with me, at least.” he blurted out suddenly.

Your head snapped up. “What?”

“Dinner. Tonight.” His voice was steadier now. “I want to catch up.”

You hesitated. “Kento, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His gaze softened. “Please.”

And maybe it was because you were too tired to argue. Or maybe it was because, despite everything, you still loved him. So you gave in. “…Okay. Yeah. Dinner sounds nice.”

And for the first time since he left, Kento felt like he could breathe again.

That night, he picked you up from your small apartment. You tried to dress nicer, but you didn’t have much to work with. It was just a worn-out dress you hadn’t touched in years. When you opened the door and saw him standing there in a tailored coat and polished shoes, you almost told him to forget it.

But Kento only smiled and said, “You look beautiful.”

And God, you hated how much you still loved him.

Dinner was… nostalgic. You talked about old memories, laughed about stupid things you did as kids. But Kento couldn’t stop noticing how guarded you were. How carefully you danced around your life now.

Never mentioning anything too personal, never hinting at how hard things really were. And when the night was over, when he walked you back to your door, he couldn’t help himself.

“…Why did you stay?” he finally asked.

You froze, your hand on the doorknob. “…What?”

“You were supposed to leave this town, you know.” he said, voice cracking slightly. “You were supposed to go to college. Travel. Do everything you always talked about. So… why didn’t you?”

You hesitated. But then you smiled soft and hollow. “Someone had to stay and take care of things.”

And before he could ask what you meant, you gave him one last smile and said. “Goodnight, Kento.”

Then you closed the door. And Kento stood there, staring at the chipped paint on your doorframe, his heart breaking all over again. Because the person he loved most in this world was still stuck in a place she was never meant to stay.

And he didn’t know how to fix it.

NOT A WINK OF SLEEP THAT NIGHT ONCE AGAIN. After you closed the door on Kento, you leaned against it, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst out of your chest.

You could still feel the warmth of his gaze, still hear the tenderness in his voice when he said you looked beautiful. It was like he still saw you the way he did when you were kids. Like time and distance hadn’t changed a thing.

But it had.  You weren’t the same girl you used to be. And he wasn’t the same boy who once shared his lunch with you. He was Nanami Kento now, an actor, a star, someone the world adored. And you? You were still here. Working a dead-end job, carrying the weight of your family’s survival on your back, and holding onto the ghost of a love you never confessed.

So why did it feel like he was still yours?

Why did it still hurt like hell to let him go?

On the other side of that door, Kento didn’t move for a long time. He just stood there, still staring at the door you closed between you two and felt his throat tighten with a kind of pain he hadn’t experienced in years. 

Because no matter how much you smiled that night, no matter how light you tried to make your voice sound, he saw it. The exhaustion in your eyes. The tension in your shoulders. The carefully crafted responses designed to keep him from knowing the truth. You were struggling. And it killed him.

Because you were the smartest person he knew. You were supposed to be miles away from this town, pursuing the future you always dreamed of. You were supposed to be untouchable, unstoppable, radiant. But instead… you were here. Tired. Small. Dimming under the weight of a life that never stopped asking more from you.

And Kento couldn’t stand it. The thought of going back to Tokyo, of returning to his world of flashing cameras, scripts, and fame while you were stuck here, surviving day by day, made him physically ill.

I should have taken you with me, he thought bitterly. I never should have left you here.

And that’s when he decided — he wasn’t leaving without you this time.

He didn’t care what it took. He didn’t care if you pushed him away. He didn’t care if you convinced yourself you didn’t belong in his world anymore. He would break down every wall you built around yourself if it meant pulling you out of this life.

Because the truth was he never stopped loving you.

And he’d be damned if he lost you a second time. The next day, you were working your usual shift when the doorbell chimed and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. You felt it before you even saw him. 

“…Kento.” You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “What are you doing here?”

He looked painfully out of place in the small convenience store. He was dressed in a dark coat, hair perfectly styled, standing taller and broader than you remembered. It was almost laughable. This man who graced movie screens and magazine covers standing in the middle of your dusty workplace like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Thought I’d stop by today.” he said simply. “I was hoping to see you.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. Don’t do this, Kento.

“I, uh… I’m working on the floor.” you stammered. “Can’t really chat right now.”

“I’ll wait.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“I’ll wait until your shift is over.” he said, completely serious. “Then we’ll grab dinner. My treat.”

“Kento—”

“Don’t say no.” His voice was soft, but firm. “Please.”

And God, you almost did. You almost told him no. You almost told him to leave you alone, that you didn’t want him to see you like this anymore, that you couldn’t handle standing next to him and being reminded of how far apart your lives had become.

But you didn’t. Because deep down, you still craved him.

You craved his voice, his touch, his presence. 

Even if it hurts you just do it all over again.

“…Okay.”

The night air was cold, but his coat was warm. Somewhere between dinner and walking you home, Kento had shrugged off his expensive wool coat and draped it around your shoulders without hesitation. You tried to protest, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“Don’t argue with me about this, please.” he murmured, his hand lingering against your arm a little too long.

It was dangerous being this close to him again. 

But you couldn’t pull away from him.

“So….” you forced lightness into your voice. “What’s it like being famous?”

He scoffed. “Overrated.”

You laughed softly. “Oh, come on. You’re on billboards now. You can’t tell me it’s not a little amazing.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” His voice was distant. “Not if you’re not there to see it.”

Your steps faltered. “…What?”

Kento stopped walking — turning to face you, his expression unreadable. “I thought about you every day.” he confessed, his voice raw. 

“Kento—”

“The entire time I was gone. I kept wondering what you were doing, if you were okay, if you were happy.” His throat bobbed. “And every time I came back home, I hoped I’d see you, but you were always gone. I… I didn’t know if you wanted to see me again.”

You felt your heart crack open. “Kento…”

“Why didn’t you tell me you stayed?” His voice broke slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me you never went to college?”

Your breath caught in your throat. “I—”

“Do you have any idea how brilliant you are?” His voice was trembling now, thick with emotion. “You were always the smartest person in the room. You deserved to get out of here….to have everything you ever dreamed of. And instead… you stayed. You gave it all up. Why?”

Tears burned the back of your eyes. “Because I didn’t have a choice, Kento.”

“Yes, you did.” His voice cracked. “You could have told me. You could have called me. I would’ve—”

“You would’ve what, Kento?” you choked. “Fixed my life for me? Paid my bills? Dragged me to Tokyo and pretended like I belonged in your world?”

His jaw clenched. “You do belong in my world.”

“No, I don’t.” you snapped, tears finally spilling over. “Look at me. I’ve been stuck in the same place since you left. I’m still living paycheck to paycheck. I didn’t finish school. I’ve done nothing with my life. And you—” your voice cracked painfully. “You’ve become everything you were meant to be.”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

“I didn’t want any of it.” His voice was barely a whisper.

You froze. “…What?”

Kento swallowed hard. “I didn’t want fame. The career. The spotlight. I didn’t want any of it. The only thing I ever wanted was you—and I thought… I thought if I made something of myself, you’d still be here when I came back.” His voice cracked. “But you weren’t. And I hated myself for leaving you behind.”

Your knees almost buckled.

“And now that I’m here, with you.” his voice broke. "I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

Tears poured freely down your face. “Kento, don’t—”

“Come with me.” He took a step closer, his hands trembling as they cradled your face. “Come to Tokyo. Stay with me. I’ll pay for your school, I’ll—”

“No!” you sobbed, pulling away. “I’m not your responsibility, Kento—”

“You’re not a responsibility, nor a liability.” his voice cracked. “You’re the love of my life.”

Your heart shattered. And before you could protest again, his mouth was on yours. Desperate, burning, like he was trying to make up for every single day he spent without you. His hands cradled your face, his kiss messy and filled with heartbreak. When he finally pulled away, his forehead pressed against yours.

“Please.” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Let me take you away from here. Let me love you the way I always should have.”

For the first time in years, you let yourself sob in his arms.

Because despite everything, you loved him more than anything in this world.

Despite the distance, the pain, and the time lost, you never stopped loving him either.

And maybe… just maybe… he could still save you.

YOU COULD REMEMBER THE WAY IT RAINED WHEN YOU GOT MARRIED. Not a heavy storm — just a soft, steady drizzle, as if the sky itself was quietly weeping with joy. You stood in a small, intimate venue with that beautiful smile on your face.

Both of you of you surrounded by only a few close friends and family, wearing the simplest white dress you could afford because despite Kento’s insistence that he’d buy you the most extravagant gown in Tokyo, you refused.

“I don’t need anything fancy, you know.” you told him. “I just need you.”

And so there you stood with your fingers trembling, heart racing as Kento watched you walk down the aisle like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. His jaw was tight, his caramel eyes glassy with unshed tears, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. Like he couldn’t believe, after all those years apart, you were finally becoming his wife.

When you finally reached him, his hand grasped yours like a lifeline. 

His thumb trembled as it brushed against your skin, and when he whispered, “You’re beautiful.” his voice cracked.

And when the officiant asked if he took you as his wife, Kento didn’t hesitate one bit as he looked at you with the warmest gazes. “I do.” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I always have.”

Kento never let you go after that.

You moved into his apartment in Tokyo. It was a spacious, light-filled place with floor-to-ceiling windows and a breathtaking view of the city. It was bigger than anything you’d ever lived in, and it almost made you uncomfortable at first.

But Kento never let you feel like you didn’t belong.

“This is our home now, hm?” he told you softly one night as you stood by the window, still struggling to wrap your head around it all. “Not just mine. Ours.”

And you believed him. Because every time he came home from a shoot, tired, disheveled, and smelling like expensive cologne — the first thing he did was find you. 

\Whether you were in the kitchen, the bedroom, or curled up in the living room studying, he always sought you out, kissing you like it was the first time every time.

“My wife.” he’d murmur against your lips, as if the words themselves tasted sweet. “My beautiful wife.”

And every time, your heart would ache with disbelief. Because this was real. You were really married to him. You really woke up to him every morning. His arm draped around your waist, his face buried in your neck and he really loved you like you were the most precious thing in the world. But Kento wasn’t done giving you the life you deserved.

“Tokyo University.” he said one night, casually, like it wasn’t the single most outrageous thing you’d ever heard.

You froze mid-bite. “…What?”

“I want you to apply, like you did a long time ago.” he said simply, sitting across from you at the dinner table. “You always wanted to study chemistry. Now’s your chance.”

Your throat tightened. “Kento… I can’t. I haven’t been in school for years. I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice was firm but gentle. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever known. Don’t tell me you can’t do it.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. “But the tuition—”

“I’ll pay for it.”

Your head snapped up. “Kento, no—”

“Yes.” His gaze was unwavering. “I’ll pay for every single yen. I’ll cover your tuition, your textbooks, your lab fees. Everything. You won’t have to worry about anything.” His voice softened. “Please. Let me do this for you.”

Tears burned your eyes. “I don’t want to feel like a burden to you, Kento.”

“You’re not a burden, never will be.” he said fiercely, already pushing his chair back so he could kneel in front of you. His large hands cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “You’re my wife. Everything I have is yours. My money, my time, my life. It’s all yours. And if it means giving you the future you always dreamed of, then I’ll do it a thousand times over.”

And with that, you broke down. You sobbed into his chest, clutching him like your life depended on it, because you realized Kento meant it. Every word. Every promise. He was going to build you a life so beautiful, so far removed from the pain you endured, that you’d never have to feel unworthy again.

So the next day, you applied. And Kento wrote the check without blinking an eye. 

You could still remember months later, the day you got accepted into Tokyo University, you burst into tears. You were in the kitchen when the letter arrived, your hands trembling as you tore it open and the second you saw “Congratulations, you’ve been accepted!”

You collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

“Kento, Kento!” you choked, clutching the letter like it was your lifeline. “I got in! Oh god…. I got in!”

Kento was on you in seconds, kneeling beside you, his face crumpling with pride. “I told you. I told you, baby!” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “I told you you could do it.”

And that night, he took you out to dinner, something extravagant, something you never would have been able to afford on your own. When the waiter congratulated you, Kento beamed like he was the one who got accepted.

“Her, it was her who got in.” he told the waiter proudly. “That’s my wife. She’s going to Tokyo University for chemistry. Smartest woman I’ve ever met.”

And when you glanced at him, with those eyes glassy, heart full, you realized he wasn’t just proud. He was in awe of you. Like he always had been. 

And for a while, it was perfect.

Life slipped into something sweet and steady. You were a university student again, just like you’d always dreamed. You spent your days attending lectures, taking meticulous notes, and spending long afternoons in the library surrounded by textbooks and the faint smell of old paper. You were learning again. Living again. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you.

And Kento? God, he was your biggest cheerleader.

Every morning before you left for class, he kissed you on the forehead and said, “Knock ‘em dead, love.” 

Every night when you came home, exhausted but fulfilled, he had dinner ready and waiting. When you showed him your test scores, perfect marks, one after another. Your husband would beam with pride like he was the one who’d aced the exam. 

When you complained about a difficult professor or a tedious lab experiment, he’d listen intently, rubbing circles into your back, and say, “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

And every night, when you fell asleep beside him, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope. But then —slowly, quietly— the loneliness crept in. Because Kento wasn’t home most of the time.

At first, you didn’t notice. You were busy, after all. You were drowning in lab reports, study sessions, and back-to-back classes. But then you started realizing how quiet the apartment felt when you got home. You’d unlock the door, expecting to hear the hum of the television or Kento’s soft humming in the kitchen but it was always silent. Always empty.

You told yourself it was fine. That was just how it was going to be sometimes. Your Kento was working hard, just like you were. It was only temporary. But weeks passed. Then months. And Kento started coming home later and later.

At first, it was 8 PM. Then 9. Then 10. And soon, there were nights where he didn’t come home at all, just a brief, apologetic text. “Late meeting. Don’t wait for me. Love you.”

And you tried to be understanding. You tried. After all, Kento was the one supporting you. He was paying your tuition, your textbooks, your transportation — everything. He was shouldering the entire financial weight of your dream without a single complaint. The least you could do was be patient.

But good god, it was so lonely.

You’d eat dinner alone most nights, your plate growing cold as you stared at the empty seat across from you. You’d do your assignments at the kitchen table, hoping to hear the jingle of his keys at the door  but it never came. You started sleeping alone more often than not, his side of the bed cold and untouched.

And worst of all you missed him.

You missed Kento. You missed the man who used to laugh with you until your stomach hurt. 

The man who used to kiss you breathless in the middle of the kitchen just because he could. 

The man who used to touch your belly every night and whisper. “I can’t wait to meet our baby.” 

The man who promised you. “I’ll always put you first.”

But now? You were starting to feel like you’d lost him. And then came the night that broke you.

It was well past midnight, and you were curled up on the couch, your textbooks sprawled around you. You told yourself you wouldn’t wait up for him, but you did. You always did. Hours passed, and still — no sign of him. Finally, at 1:27 AM, you heard the door unlock.

“Kento?” you called, your voice cracking.

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally stepped into the living room, his tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled, and the exhaustion in his eyes was so deep it made your chest ache.

“Hey.” he murmured, already walking past you toward the bedroom.

And something in you snapped.

“Seriously?” you blurted. “That’s all you have to say?”

Kento froze, his hand still on the doorframe. “…What?”

You stood, your heart pounding. “You’ve been gone all day again. And you just walk in like I don’t even exist?”

He turned to you, confused. “I—I’m sorry. Work ran late—”

“It always runs late, Kento!” your voice cracked, hot tears stinging your eyes. “Every night, I sit here alone. I eat alone. I sleep alone. Do you even realize how lonely it is to come home to an empty apartment every single day?”

Pain flickered across his face. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m doing this for you, love. I’m working so you can go to school—”

“I never asked you to do that!” you shouted, and the second the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

Kento blinked, stunned. “…What?”

Your chest heaved. “I never asked you to throw your entire life away for me, Kento! I never asked you to quit your project, or work insane hours, or pay for everything. You just did it. And now it’s like I don’t even have a husband anymore. I just have this… ghost who comes home at 2 AM and leaves before I wake up!”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Kento’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. “…You think I want this?”

You froze. “…What?”

“You think I like working sixteen-hour days?” his voice cracked, raw and strained. “You think I enjoy being away from you? Missing dinner, missing sleep, missing everything…..you think any of this is what I wanted?”

Your throat tightened. “Kento—”

“I did it for you, you know that.” he said bitterly. “I did it so you wouldn’t have to worry about money. I did it so you could chase your dream without worrying about bills or tuition. I did it because I thought it would make you happy.” His voice cracked. “But you’re not, are you?”

Tears blurred your vision. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” he laughed hollowly, running a hand down his face. “I work until I can’t see straight just to keep everything together and you still think I’m not doing enough.”

“That’s not true at all!”

“Then what do you want from me, love?” his voice finally broke, desperate and shattered. “Tell me. Please. What do you want?”

And the answer was so painfully simple, it tore you apart.

I just want you.

But you couldn’t say it. Because how could you ask that of him when he’d already given you everything? When he was breaking his back just to keep you afloat? When he’d already sacrificed his career, his sleep, his time, his life for you?

So instead, you just cried and cried.

And for the first time in your marriage, Kento didn’t comfort you.

He just turned away, defeated, and said, “I’m going to bed.”

And you realized somewhere along the way, you and Kento had become strangers for the first time.

And it hurts like hell to live with that thought.

But of course, it wouldn’t be the last time.

THINGS DID NOT GET BETTER.  If anything, they got worse. You were pregnant. And everything was hurting. It was a different kind of pain now, not just the crushing weight of your depression, but something more physical, more suffocating. 

Your body aches constantly. Your back screamed from the weight of your growing belly. Your feet were perpetually swollen. Your nights were restless, spent tossing and turning as the baby kicked relentlessly inside you, reminding you always reminding you — that there was no way out of this life you didn’t want. And it was killing you.

You thought hitting rock bottom would come with some kind of clarity. Like one day, you’d cry hard enough or sleep long enough or starve yourself numb enough that your body would finally break through the darkness. You thought there would be some moment, some visceral breaking point that would force you to finally start healing.

But it never came.

Instead, you just… sank.

Deeper and deeper, like trying to breathe underwater with lungs already half-filled. Every day you woke up was a fresh kind of misery. You couldn’t get out of bed without feeling like your bones were made of lead. 

You couldn’t stomach food without wanting to throw it all up later. You couldn’t look in the mirror without despising the reflection. You see a bloated, pale, hollowed out, a shell of the woman you used to be.

And the baby never stopped kicking.

You hated it.

God, you hated it.

You hated the way it never let you sleep. You hated the way your body no longer felt like yours. You hated the constant, suffocating reminder that soon, almost all too soon, you would be responsible for a life you never asked for. A life you were already failing before it even arrived.

But the worst part?

You hated yourself for hating it.

Because what kind of mother resented her own baby before it was even born? What kind of woman laid in bed, day after day, clutching her belly and wishing god, please just make this stop  instead of feeling love? What kind of wife watched her husband sacrifice everything for her and still felt nothing but numb, bitter emptiness?

And Kento.

God, Kento.

You couldn’t even look at him anymore without feeling like the most wretched person alive. He was still trying — still holding everything together, still waking up every morning and kissing your forehead, still whispering, “I love you. I’m here.” 

But you could see it now — the slow, painful unraveling of the man you loved. The exhaustion in his eyes, no longer just from work but from you. The hesitation in his touch, like he was afraid you’d pull away — and sometimes, you did.

The way his voice cracked when he said, “How are you feeling today, love?” and your answer was always “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t fine.

And Kento knew it.

You could see it every night when he crawled into bed beside you and held you close. The way his hand cradles your stomach, his thumb tracing soft circles over your skin. You could feel it in the way his touch, once so warm and electric, now felt like a desperate attempt to keep you here. Like if he let go for even a second, you’d slip through his fingers entirely.

And you hated that too.

Because you knew you were killing him. Slowly. Quietly. Without even trying. You could see it in his slumped shoulders, in the way his voice grew quieter, in the way he looked at you like he was losing you and didn’t know how to stop it.

And you wanted to scream — Stop loving me. Stop trying to save me. I’m already gone.

But you didn’t.

Because how could you say that to the man who dropped his entire career for you? The man who worked twenty-hour days just to pay for your tuition, your food, your life? The man who still kissed you goodbye every morning and told you, “I love you, always.”

So you did the only thing you could.

You kept shrinking.

You stopped eating. Barely touched your dinner when Kento brought it to you. The smell made you nauseous anyway, and even when it didn’t, you could barely stomach the idea of keeping yourself alive, let alone another human growing inside you.

You stopped leaving the house. Your classes had already been dropped; you told Kento it was temporary, just until you felt better. But deep down, you knew you weren’t going back. Tokyo University had suddenly become a distant dream once again, like a life that belonged to someone else entirely. And you were too far gone now to reach for it again.

You stopped responding to your friends. They texted you constantly, trying to check on you. You know they mean well. You know they just want to be there for you. And that they were excited. But you were having a hard time accepting their well wishes.

“How’s the baby? How’s school? We miss you!” 

But the thought of replying made your stomach churn. What were you supposed to say, that wouldn’t come out as a horrible thing? 

“I’m miserable. I don’t want this baby. I don’t want this life.” 

Would have that gotten you some mercy?

So you ignored them. Deleted their messages. Let your phone die and don't bother charging it. And then you stopped talking to Kento. Not entirely. But enough.

Later on, Kento halted the work on his upcoming project the day after you broke down. No warning. No hesitation. One phone call to his manager, another to his agency, and it was done. His voice was steady, almost unnervingly calm when he said: “I’m taking a break for now. My wife needs me.” 

And that was it. He dropped it all like it meant nothing. A project he had poured months of his life into, had gone in seconds. You tried to protest when you found out, but he wouldn’t hear it. His mind was made up before you could even form the words —“Don’t do this for me.”

And then he stayed.

Every single day, he stayed. Morning turned to night, and there he was. Bringing you water when you couldn’t stomach food. Sitting on the edge of the bed while you stared blankly at the ceiling. Holding you through the nights when your body trembled from crying, or worse, the nights when you didn’t cry at all, just lay there like a ghost in your own skin.

He was patient. Devoted. Unwavering.

But it didn’t fix anything.

Because the damage was already done.

You could feel it in the way his touch, once so warm and electric, now felt like a desperate attempt to tether you to the earth. In the way his voice,  soft, pleading, loving had seemed to echo against the walls of your hollowed-out chest, never quite reaching you. 

In this way you could still feel the crushing weight of your own failure suffocating you, no matter how many times he whispered “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

And the worst part?

You wanted him to leave.

Because it hurt too much to see him like this. Abandoning his career, his life, his future, for someone who couldn’t even muster the strength to get out of bed. You resented the way he sacrificed everything for you. 

You hated how the look in his eyes shifted from affection to concern, from admiration to pity. You despised yourself for being the reason his world was crumbling alongside yours. And deep down, you knew. Kento could stay forever, and it still wouldn’t fix what was already broken.

And after that, you stopped going to school.

At first, you told Kento it was temporary,  just a leave of absence until you felt better. But weeks turned into months, and soon your professors were emailing you: “If you do not return, you will have to re-enroll next semester.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the truth was, you didn’t care anymore.

Your stomach was huge now. You could barely walk up the stairs without losing your breath. Your back ached. Your feet were swollen. You couldn’t sleep through the night because the baby was always kicking, and every morning you woke up with the same suffocating thought.

"I don’t want this life."

And the guilt ate you alive.

Because you loved Kento. You loved your baby. But you hated your life. You hated what it had become. You hated the fact that you were no longer a student at Tokyo University. You were just a pregnant woman, a pregnant housewife. You hated the fact that you no longer had a future — you just had motherhood. You just had this house, his status as a wife.

And Kento saw it. He saw how you’d spend hours just sitting in the nursery, staring at the crib with dead eyes. He saw how you stopped studying, stopped watching TV, stopped doing anything. It was like you were fading away.

And it killed him.

You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged a little more each day, as if the weight of watching you deteriorate was slowly crushing him. In the way he tried to hide the bags under his eyes from sleepless nights spent worrying about you. 

In this way his voice would crack, just barely, when he’d sit next to you and say, “Talk to me, love. Please.”

But you had nothing to say. What were you supposed to tell him? That you hated the life you were about to bring into the world? That you regretted everything — the pregnancy, the wedding, the choices that led you here? That sometimes, when you laid in bed at night, you imagined what it would be like if you just… didn’t wake up?

So you said nothing. Nothing at all.

And Kento tried to be strong for both of you. God, he tried.

He started cooking your favorite meals, hoping that if he made something delicious enough, you’d actually eat. He read parenting books late into the night, convinced that if he just learned enough, he could do this whole thing for the both of you, carry the weight, make up for the pieces of you that were falling apart. He took you on walks when he could get you out of bed, holding your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to hope.

But it was never enough.

It was never going to be enough.

Because the truth was — you weren’t just sad. 

You were grieving everything that had come to pass.

You were grieving the life you lost, the person you used to be. You were grieving the dreams you once held so fiercely. Finishing university, traveling, building a career as a chemist on the international level. All of it now reduced to a hazy memory of a different girl. A girl you didn’t even recognize anymore. A girl you resented for being so foolish, for thinking she could have it all.

And you were grieving the love between you and Kento — or rather, the version of it that existed before the pregnancy. Before everything became tainted by your guilt, your depression, your ever-growing resentment for the life you didn’t want.

You knew that Kento saw it too.

He saw how you flinched when he touched your stomach,  not out of pain, but because it reminded you of what you were trapped in. He saw how your kisses grew colder, how you turned your head when he tried to kiss you goodnight. He saw how you stopped saying your i love yous first — how sometimes, you didn’t say it at all.

And still, he stayed by your side. But it was breaking him whole. 

You could hear it in the way his voice cracked one night when he thought you were asleep.

He sat beside you in bed, his hand resting gently on your belly, and you heard him whisper back to you. “I don’t know how to fix this.” His voice trembled. “I don’t know how to help you.”

And that was when you realized — you weren’t the only one grieving. Kento was grieving too. He was grieving the wife he used to know. The one who laughed too loud at his jokes, who kissed him in the morning just because, who fell asleep on the couch with a textbook still in her lap. 

He was grieving the life you both dreamed of late nights studying, early mornings rushing to class, careers that would take you far. He was grieving the love that used to be effortless, the kind that didn’t require whispered prayers in the middle of the night, hoping that tomorrow would hurt less than today.

And the worst part?

You were the one who did this to him.

At least that’s how you saw it all now.

You were the one who dragged him down into this suffocating darkness with you. You were the one who made him abandon his project, his career, his life. All for a woman who could barely look at herself in the mirror without breaking. 

And every day he stayed, every day he kissed your forehead and said “I’m here”, you hated yourself a little more.

You hated yourself so much that you started to wonder if maybe — just maybe — Kento would be better off without you.

And that thought never really left.

Even when he painted the nursery walls soft yellow and smiled like he wasn’t dying inside.

Even when he held your hand in the middle of the night and promised, “We’ll get through this. I swear we will.”

Even when he looked at you with a love so devastatingly pure, it only made you ache more.

Because you couldn’t shake the feeling. That Kento deserved a better wife. And your baby deserved a better mother. And you? You didn’t deserve them at all. Around your seventh month, you completely broke.

Kento found you in the bathroom at 3 AM all alone as you were sitting in the empty bathtub, knees pulled to your chest, sobbing silently. You looked miserable with your hair disheveled and your face contorted into this look, full of grief and suffering.

“Baby?” His voice cracked. “Oh my god, baby, what’s wrong?”

And you just shook your head. “I hate this so much.” you gasped through your tears. “I hate my life. I hate my body. I hate everything. I don’t want to do this anymore, Kento. I can’t…..I can’t breathe.”

And Kento completely fell apart at the sight of your tears, falling over and over again.  “Baby, no— no, no, no.” he dropped to his knees beside the tub, his hands shaking. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I’m here now. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it better, so—”

“You can’t!” you screamed, your voice raw and cracked. “You can’t fix this, Kento! I’m already ruined! My life is already ruined!”

And Kento? Kento completely broke. Because he realized you weren’t talking about the pregnancy. You were talking about yourself. And you were gone. All there was left now was the shell, that shell he didn’t recognize.

“I should’ve never gotten pregnant, Kento.” you sobbed, your body shaking. “I should’ve never gotten married. I should’ve stayed in school. I should’ve never left the countryside. I should’ve……I should’ve never let this happen.”

And Kento completely lost it. “Don’t say that.” he begged, his voice cracking. 

He climbed into the bathtub with you, fully clothed, and wrapped his arms around you. “Don’t say that, baby, please— please don’t say that. You’re not ruined. I swear to god, I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything. Just don’t give up on me. Please don’t give up on me.”

And you just sobbed.

Because deep down, you already had.

You were right to feel that way.

It was only a matter of time when the labor came early.

You had never expected it — not this soon, not like this.

It was just around thirty-five weeks then. The baby wasn’t supposed to come yet. You still had time. Weeks. You weren’t ready. Your hospital bag wasn’t packed. The nursery still smelled like fresh paint. You hadn’t even washed the baby’s clothes yet. You weren’t supposed to go into labor yet.

But the universe didn’t care.

Your water broke in the middle of the night — and you knew instantly that something was wrong. The pain hit fast and hard, unlike anything you’d ever felt. Sharp, blinding contractions ripped through your abdomen, so intense that it stole the breath from your lungs. 

You barely managed to shake Kento awake, your voice cracked and choked, “Kento — my water……it broke—”

And the moment he saw the panic in your eyes, he moved. Kento didn’t even ask questions. He sprang out of bed, grabbing his phone with one hand and you with the other, already calling for an ambulance. 

His voice was low, controlled, but you could hear the terror behind it. “Yes, my wife is thirty-five weeks pregnant. Her water just broke — she’s in pain — please send someone—”

But the contractions were coming too fast. One after the other, barely a minute in between, and by the time Kento helped you into the back of the ambulance, you knew. The baby was coming now. And the baby would have no mercy on you.

“No, no, no!” you sobbed, clutching your belly as another contraction ripped through you, your body already beginning to push despite your desperate attempts to stop it. “It’s too soon — it’s too soon—”

Kento was right there beside you, his hand in yours, his voice cracked and desperate. “You’re okay, love. You’re gonna be okay. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.”

But you didn’t feel okay. You felt like you were dying. And by the time you reached the hospital, you were already fully dilated. The doctors barely had time to wheel you into labor and delivery before you were screaming through another contraction, your body forcing you to push despite your terror.

And Kento was there. The entire time — he was there. His hand never left yours, his voice never stopped murmuring reassurances in your ear. “You can do this, love. I know you can. Just a little longer. Just hold on for me.”

But you couldn’t.

Because something was wrong.

You could feel it in your bones. In the way your body fought itself with every push, in the way your vision kept blurring, in the way you couldn’t seem to catch your breath no matter how hard you tried. And then, in the middle of a push — you felt it.

A sudden, hot gush between your legs. But it wasn’t amniotic fluid this time. It was warm. And sticky. And you didn’t have to look down to know. You were bleeding. A lot. You could feel how it echoes down, heavy and brutish.

“Kento—” your voice cracked, raw with pain. “Something’s— something’s wrong—”

And then you heard it.

The doctor’s voice, sharp and urgent. 

“She’s hemorrhaging. We’re losing her.”

And that’s when Kento lost his fucking mind.

“What?” His voice snapped, pure, raw panic flooding his face. His grip on your hand tightened like a vice. “What do you mean you’re losing her?!”

“Her blood pressure is dropping! Massive uterine hemorrhage. Doctor,  she’s losing too much blood—”

“No — no, no, no—” Kento stumbled forward, his voice cracking as his hands shook. “Do something! Save her! Save them both!”

“We need to get the baby out now or we’re going to lose them both, Mr. Nanami!”

And suddenly it was chaos. Nurses shouting. Machines beeping. Someone calling for blood transfusions. And you — fading. You could feel it. Your body was giving out, your vision was growing dim, and the only thing you could focus on was Kento.

“Kento.” you rasped, your voice so faint, so weak. Your body felt like it was drifting. “I—I love you—”

“No!” Kento screamed. He screamed like something inside him was tearing apart. His hands clawed at the hospital bed, his body lunging toward you as the doctors tried to pull him away. “No, stay with me! Stay with me, love! Don’t you fucking do this—Don’t you dare leave me!”

But you were already slipping.

The last thing you heard was his voice, raw and broken.

“I can’t do this without you. Please! Please don’t leave me. Please—”

And then, darkness.

HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. Nanami Kento couldn’t do anything but collapse in the hallway. The moment they pulled him out of the delivery room. The moment the words the doctor said, all of that rang in his ears like a death sentence. He was sure that something inside him snapped.

And when the door slammed shut behind him, separating him from you, Kento’s knees buckled. He hit the floor hard. Hands splayed out against the cold tile, chest heaving, throat raw from screaming. He didn’t even realize he was still screaming until two nurses rushed toward him, trying to pull him up, trying to calm him down, but it was useless.

Because he could still hear it. The frantic shouts of the doctors. The horrifying words “Massive hemorrhage. We’re losing her.” The sound of your screams cutting off too abruptly. And worst of all — the unbearable silence that followed.

“No—” Kento howled, his voice breaking like glass. His hands clawed at his hair, his entire body wracked with violent, gut-wrenching sobs. “No, no, no— I killed her. I fucking killed her—”

“Sir, Mr. Nanami.” one of the nurses knelt beside him, reaching out. “You have to breathe, you’re hyperventilating—”

But Kento didn’t hear her.

He couldn’t hear anything.

He didn’t care to hear whatever that was.

All he could think about, all he could see was you. Your face twisted in pain. The absolute terror in your eyes when you realized something was wrong. The way you sobbed I don’t want this, Kento, I’m not ready. And he did this. He did this to you.

His body convulsed with the force of his grief, his head slamming against the tile as his sobs tore from his chest like a wounded animal. “I killed her. I killed her. I made her hate her life and now she’s gone. She’s gone—”

“Sir—” The nurse was trying to hold him down now, his entire body thrashing against the floor as he screamed. “Sir, please, you’re going to hurt yourself—”

“LET ME GO!” Kento roared, his voice so raw it barely sounded human. “She’s dying in there. Do you understand me?! She’s fucking dying in there and I……”

Another contraction of sobs wracked his chest, and his fists slammed into the floor so hard that his knuckles split. Blood smeared against the tile, but he didn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.

“I made her hate her life.” his voice cracked, his chest seizing with suffocating grief. His hands curled into his hair again, yanking hard as if trying to punish himself. “I did this to her. I made her want to die. And now she’s gone and I’m still here. ”

“Stop, please.” the nurse’s voice broke, her own eyes glassy as she tried to steady him. “She’s not gone. They’re trying to save her in there, with the baby.”

“No.” Kento’s head snapped up, his face twisted in a horrifying mix of rage and agony. His eyes were bloodshot, glassy, utterly devastated. “You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it.” His voice cracked so sharply it sounded like it physically hurt him to speak.

“She wanted to die, to be free of that misery. Don’t you see?” he choked. “She hated her life. And it’s my fault. It’s my fucking fault—”

And then his body gave out.

His chest collapsed onto the cold tile floor, his forehead pressed into it as his entire body shook. Choked, gasping sobs clawed from his throat, so violent that he could barely breathe. His lungs were burning, his vision was spinning, and he was sure, so fucking sure, that this was it. That they were going to come out and tell him you were dead.

And it was his fault. 

All of it was his fault.

Because he saw it. 

He saw it every single day. The way you sat in the nursery with dead eyes. The way you stopped smiling. The way you couldn’t even say I’m excited without your voice cracking. The way your love for him was slowly being choked out by the sheer weight of your depression.

And he didn’t stop any of it. Instead, he told you to keep going. He told you to hold on. He let you suffer in silence because he thought that’s what you needed but you didn’t. You needed help. You needed saving. And instead, he trapped you in a life you never wanted.

And now you are dying.

All because of him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Kento sobbed, his forehead slamming against the tile again, his blood smearing across the floor. “I’m so fucking sorry. Please….please, I’ll do anything. Just let her live. Please.”

And that was the first time in his life that Kento Nanami prayed. He prayed like a man possessed. Like a man who had nothing left to lose. His bloody fists clawed at the tile, his nails cracking against it as he begged.

“Take me,please.” he sobbed, his voice mutilated from screaming. “Please….just take me instead. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. Just…. Please don’t take her. Don’t take my wife. Don’t take my baby. I’ll do anything.”

But the silence stretched on.

And he was certain that you were already gone.

Hours continued to make mockery of him.

Agonizing, torturous hours passed — and Kento was still on the floor.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe right. Didn’t think. His body was stuck in that same position. Still face down, forehead pressed against the cold tile, hands trembling as he clenched them into bloody fists. His chest was heaving in short, sharp gasps, his entire body quaking as he sobbed.

He was certain you were dead. He felt it. He felt the moment your soul left the room. He felt the moment the light in his life snapped off like a switch. 

He was convinced that at any second, the doctor was going to come out, look him in the eyes, and say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Nanami. We couldn’t save her.”

And he would never forgive himself.

Because he killed you.

His fault. His fault. His fucking fault.

He was still gasping, still clawing at the ground, still praying like a desperate man when he finally heard the door open. Kento’s head snapped up. His bloodshot, swollen eyes immediately locked onto the doctor walking toward him, his scrubs covered in blood — your blood — and Kento’s entire body seized.

“Mr. Nanami—”

“Where is she?” Kento screamed. His voice cracked, broke, his entire body lunging toward the doctor like a caged animal. His hands fisted the man’s scrubs, yanking him forward. “Is my wife alive? Tell me, damn it? Is she alive?”

The doctor barely had a chance to respond before Kento screamed again. “Tell me you saved her, goddamn you!”

And the doctor’s mouth opened — and Kento swore the entire universe stopped spinning when he finally said,  “…She’s alive.”

Kento’s entire body collapsed. His legs gave out. His grip on the doctor’s scrubs slipped. And then he didn’t realize that he had hit the floor. A gasping, broken sob ripped from his throat. The kind of sob that came from a man who was seconds away from losing everything and his entire body convulsed as he wept.

“Oh my god…..” Kento choked, his hands flying to his face, clawing at his own skin like he was trying to ground himself. “Oh my god. She’s alive. She’s alive!”

“Her condition is critical, Mr. Nanami.” the doctor warned, his voice low but steady. “We had to perform an emergency c-section and a hysterectomy to stop the bleeding. She lost over forty percent of her blood volume. We had to resuscitate her twice on the table—”

“Resuscitate?” he gasped, his vision swimming. His stomach lurched. “You mean she….she died?”

“Clinically, yes. Twice.” The doctor’s face softened with pity. “But we got her back. She’s stable now — unconscious, but alive.”

And that was all Kento needed to hear.

He ran. He didn’t even think. His legs moved before his brain could catch up, his entire body sprinting down the hall, his bloody knuckles slamming into every door he passed until he finally found your room.

The second he stepped inside, he broke.

Because there you were.

Unconscious.

Your body was completely limp, hooked up to a ventilator, your skin so pale it looked blue. Tubes were coming out of everywhere. From your arm, your nose, your mouth and there were fresh surgical dressings covering your abdomen where they had cut you open to get the baby out.

Kento couldn’t breathe. A strangled, animalistic sound tore from his throat like something between a sob and a scream and then he collapsed beside your bed. His hand shot out, desperately clutching yours, his entire body wracked with gut-wrenching sobs as he shook.

“I’m so sorry…..oh my god, I’m so fucking sorry, baby.” Kento’s voice shattered, his head dropping onto your hand as his body convulsed. His chest was heaving so violently that he was on the verge of hyperventilating. “I did this. I did this to you and I….”

He couldn’t stop sobbing. His forehead pressed against your limp hand, his body rocking as he cried like a child. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry….” he choked. “I made you hate your life and I trapped you. I killed you…. oh my god, I killed you….”

And the guilt hit him like a sledgehammer. 

Because it was true. All of it.

He saw the way you suffered. The way you faded every single day. The way you stopped smiling. The way you stopped living. And instead of saving you, he kept telling you to hold on. Just a little longer, love. We’re almost there. Just a little longer.

But you weren’t okay. And Kento didn’t listen. And now you were lying there. Pale, lifeless, barely hanging on. All because of him. And the weight of it crushed him whole. He felt like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders.

And then finally, you woke up.

“…Kento?” your voice cracked.

“Baby.” he sobbed, grabbing your face, pressing desperate kisses all over your skin. “Oh my baby…..you’re awake. You’re awake. I thought I lost you. I thought….”

“…Where’s the baby?”

And Kento completely broke. “The baby’s fine, don’t worry.” he choked. “She’s perfect. She’s beautiful. But you….you scared the shit out of me, baby. Please don’t ever do that again.”

And when they finally brought your baby girl in and you held her for the first time — you did something you didn’t expect. You cried. And then you sobbed. Because for the first time in nine months — you finally felt something coherent. Something good.

“…She’s beautiful.” you gasped. “I didn’t think I’d love her. But I do. I love her so much.”

Kento just collapsed against your hospital bed, sobbing. “I knew you would. I knew you would.”

But things are like the weather.

They were bound to change.

You should have known.

THE FIRST MONTH WAS HARD, BUT AS TIME WENT ON, IT GOT WORSE. You came home from the hospital physically intact but mentally, you were gone. You still didn’t go back to school. You didn’t touch your textbooks. You didn’t even mention chemistry. The once-brilliant student who dreamed of working in a lab was now just… a mother. And you hated it.

Every single day felt like a fog. You were exhausted but it wasn’t the baby’s fault. You knew that much. It was you that was malfunctioning. You didn’t know how to connect with her. Every time she cried, you felt nothing.

Every time she smiled, you felt nothing. Every time Kento handed her to you and said something to praise your beautiful daughter, you didn’t know how to react. You just nodded and let it go.  And Kento noticed. God, he noticed.

Kento stayed home for a month. He refused to leave your side. He didn’t take calls, he didn’t attend meetings. He just stayed home. But his contract required him to go back to work eventually. And you… you told him to go.

“Go, you have to.” you whispered, your voice dead. “You have to work, Kento. We have bills. You already missed so much.”

But Kento didn’t want to.

“Baby— no. I don’t give a shit about work. I’m not leaving you like this.”

And you forced a smile. “I’m fine, Kento.”

But you weren’t.

You weren’t.

And Kento knew it.

But eventually, he had to go. He had no choice. His manager was calling nonstop. His agency was threatening breach of contract. He had a new film that needed him and Kento was the lead role. So he left. And the guilt burned a hole in his chest.

The first day he was back on set, he couldn’t focus. His co-stars were talking to him, the director was giving him instructions but all he could think about was you. Home. Alone. With a baby you didn’t love. Kento hated himself. 

He was filming a scene when his phone buzzed in his pocket — and when he saw your name pop up, he immediately froze. 

“CUT!” the director barked. “Kento, you okay?”

“…Yeah, director.” he croaked. “I just— I need five minutes.”

And then he ran.

He ran behind the trailer, shaking, and picked up the phone. “Baby?” he gasped, panic echoing in his voice. “What’s wrong? Is the baby okay? Are you okay?”

Silence. “…I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

And Kento’s heart completely shattered.

“Baby…..” his voice cracked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…..” you gasped, voice shaking. “I mean I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom. I don’t love her, Kento. I don’t—I don’t feel anything for her. I just feel empty. And I know she deserves better. I know you deserve better. I think….I….I just….”

Your voice cracked. “I think I ruined my life.”

Kento collapsed. “No, baby. No. Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.” He was crying now, gasping into the phone. “You didn’t ruin your life. You didn’t. I promise I’ll fix this. I’ll come home right now—”

“No, you won’t.”

Kento completely broke. “Baby, please.”

“No, Kento. You have to work. We need the money. We need—”

“I don’t care about the fucking money!” Kento sobbed, clutching his hair. “I care about you! I care about our family! Please don’t give up on me, baby. Please don’t give up on her.”

But you just hung up.

Kento completely lost it.

He didn’t go back on set. He stayed behind the trailer, sobbing into his hands, shaking, thinking: “I ruined her life. I did this to her. She was supposed to be in college — not stuck at home with a baby.”

And that thought ate him alive. The next few weeks were worse. Kento was dying. Not physically but mentally, emotionally and spiritually, he was. Every single day he walked onto set, it felt like he was leaving you behind. And it was killing him.

Because all he could think about was you. Alone. Depressed. Hollowed out. Not wanting the baby. And he wasn’t there. He was never there. Every single time he put on that suit, stepped in front of the cameras, smiled for his co-stars. He was dying.

Because he knew. He knew the second he came home, you would be worse. Every day it got worse. Every fucking day.

At first, it was subtle. You were tired. Distant. Quiet. But then the days started stretching into weeks, and suddenly you weren’t just tired, you were empty. Your smiles were forced. Your voice was flat. You didn’t ask about his day anymore. You didn’t kiss him when he got home.

And Kento tried to justify it. It’s just the hormones. She’s overwhelmed. She’ll come back to me soon. She’ll come back to me.

But you didn’t.

And Kento broke down again.

Because the more days that passed, the less of you he saw.

You stopped eating dinner with him. You stopped holding the baby. You stopped getting out of bed. You wouldn’t look at him. And the worst part? You didn’t even cry. You just… stared. Blank. Numb. And Kento couldn’t handle it.

He fucking hated himself. Every single day he drove to set, his stomach would turn. He’d clench his jaw the entire time, his hands shaking as he held the steering wheel because he knew. You were at home. Alone. With a baby you didn’t love. And he wasn’t there. And the guilt was going to fucking eat him alive.

One night, Kento came home early. He couldn’t do it anymore. He was on set, trying to read his lines, but his hands were shaking. His mouth felt dry. His mind kept screaming to him: She’s alone. She’s not okay. She’s not okay. She’s not okay. Go home right now.

So he left. He didn’t even tell his manager. He just ripped off his mic and drove home. And when he walked through the door….You were just… sitting there. On the couch. Completely catatonic. Your body was slumped forward. Your eyes were glazed over, completely hollow. You weren’t blinking. You weren’t moving. You weren’t alive.

Baby?” His voice shattered.

Nothing. Kento’s heart slammed into his throat. He dropped his keys, his coat, everything, and sprinted toward you, falling to his knees in front of the couch.

“Baby, please….” his voice cracked. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs trembling as they brushed over your cheeks. “Please talk to me. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

But you didn’t blink.

You didn’t look at him.

You just… stared at the wall.

Kento’s stomach lurched.

His throat closed.

And then you finally spoke.

In a voice so dead, so hollow, that it didn’t even sound like you anymore. “…I don’t want to be a mom anymore.”

“Baby,” his voice broke. He practically collapsed against you, his forehead pressing to your lap as his hands clutched yours. “Please don’t say that. Please, god—”

“I don’t.” you said flatly. Your voice didn’t even crack. It was just… dead. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want her. I don’t want anything.”

Kento’s entire body convulsed.

“Baby, no.” His voice split down the middle. His hands squeezed yours so tight his knuckles went white. “Please don’t talk like that. I know it’s hard. I know you feel alone. But I love you. I love our baby. We can fix this, baby. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.”

But you didn’t believe him.

Because the truth was — you didn’t want him to fix it.

You didn’t want help. You didn’t want therapy. You didn’t want him to stay home from work. You didn’t want him to coddle you or tell you it would get better.

You just wanted your old life back. You wanted school. You wanted chemistry. You wanted the future you spent years building. But instead, you were just Keiko’s mother. And you fucking hated yourself for it.

“I never wanted this.” you whispered numbly, your eyes glazed over. “I didn’t want to have a baby. I didn’t want to give up school. I didn’t want this life. And now it’s all I have.”

Kento couldn’t breathe. His chest split open. His hands shook violently as he tried to pull you closer, his head buried in your lap. “Please, baby….” his voice splintered. “Please don’t talk like that. I need you. Our baby needs you. We love you.”

But you didn’t respond.

You just kept staring.

Kento sobbed heavily.

His entire body convulsed. His shoulders shook. His throat ripped open as gut-wrenching sobs tore out of him. “I’m so sorry.” he gasped. His face buried into your lap, his tears soaking your clothes. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

And you didn’t comfort him. You didn’t hold him. You didn’t wipe his tears. You didn’t say anything. Because deep down, you hated him, too. You hated that he got to have a life. You hated that he still had his career. You hated that he still had a future.

And you, who you once knew?

You were just a mom.

You were trapped.

And you resented him for it.

YOU WENT AWAY FOR A LITTLE WHILE. It was a shut-in therapy. Somewhere far. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that felt detached from the life you had been drowning in. Kento made the arrangements. You didn’t ask him to but he just did it. One night, after finding you curled up in the corner of the nursery, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe, he made the decision himself. 

You don’t even remember how it happened — one moment you were screaming I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this life anymore, and the next, your husband Kento was quietly helping you with packing your bags.

“Baby….” his voice cracked, his hands trembling as he folded your clothes into a suitcase. “You need help. You need real help. And I can’t—” his throat choked up. “I can’t keep watching you like this. I can’t keep coming home to you like this. I need you to get better, baby. I need you.”

You didn’t fight him.

Because deep down, you knew.

You needed help.

And when you left, Kento didn’t cry. He didn’t break down. He didn’t beg you to stay. He just kissed your forehead, buckled you into the passenger seat, and drove you there himself. The drive was silent. But when you arrived and it came time for him to leave, you felt him break.

Kento clutched your hands so hard you thought he might shatter them. His forehead pressed to yours, his voice splintering as he begged. “Please come back to me. Please get better. Please..... I don’t care how long it takes, just please don’t give up on us.”

And then he left.

And you stayed.

And the first few weeks were hell.

You fought everything. The therapy. The group sessions. The self-reflection. The constant “how are you feeling?” The exposure therapy to bond with your baby. The “you’re not alone” pep talks from strangers who did not know you.

And every single night, you thought about calling Kento. You thought about screaming into the receiver I’m done, come get me, I can’t do this anymore, please just let me go home.

But you didn’t.

Because somewhere deep, deep, deep down, you wanted to get better. And slowly you did. It wasn’t linear. Some days were good. Some days were awful. Some days you held your baby in your arms and felt nothing. Some days you sobbed so hard that you thought you’d vomit. Some days you sat in the therapy circle, refusing to speak, refusing to participate, refusing to care.

But then some days, you looked at your baby and felt something. Not love. Not joy. But something. A tinge of warmth in your chest. A pang of protectiveness. And slowly, slowly, something began to grow. And then six months later, you came home. Kento was there, waiting for you.

The second you stepped through the door, his entire body crashed into you. His arms crushed you against him, his hands cradling the back of your head, his chest heaving as he sobbed harder than you had ever seen him cry.

“Baby!” he gasped into your hair, his voice cracking. “God, I missed you….I missed you so fucking much! I thought you’d never come back to me and Keiko.”

And you sobbed too.

Because you missed him. God, you missed him.

And that night, when you walked into the nursery and you saw your baby again for the first time in months. You cried harder than you ever had in your life. Because for the first time in a long while, you wanted her. And you didn’t hate her anymore.

But… the thing was, your relationship with Kento. It was never the same. You wanted it to be. You tried so hard. Kento tried, too. He was so patient. So gentle. So loving. But something between you both felt… off.

You had a hard time touching him. Being intimate with him. You couldn’t explain why but every time Kento kissed you, really kissed you, or ran his hands down your waist, or tried to pull you into his lap, your body would freeze.

Kento noticed. But he never pushed. He never said a word. He just waited. God, he waited. But the truth was you didn’t know how to give him that part of you anymore. It wasn’t that you didn’t love him. You did. You loved him so much. You adored him. You cherished him. You owed him your life.

But every time you tried to make love to him, it felt like you were reopening the wound. It felt like you were back there again. Heavily pregnant, crying yourself to sleep, suffocating in a life you didn’t want. And you hated it. You hated that your body betrayed you. You hated that you wanted to be with Kento, but the second he kissed you, you’d tense and apologize and turn away.

One night, he finally brought it up.

It was subtle. Careful.

“Baby…..” he murmured as you both laid in bed, his fingers brushing over your bare shoulder. “Do you… not want me anymore?”

And your heart dropped. “What?”

Kento swallowed thickly, his voice small. “You never touch me anymore. You never kiss me first. You… you flinch when I touch you sometimes. And I just…. I don’t know if it’s me or if you just… don’t want me anymore.”

“No — no, Kento, I do.” you sobbed, immediately turning to clutch his face in your hands. “I love you. I love you so much. I just…..I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to….. to be close to you. I want to. I really do. I just….”

Kento shook his head. “Baby, no.” his voice splintered. “It’s not your fault. God, it’s not your fault.”

But you still hated yourself for it.

Because every time Kento looked at you with that softness, that adoration, that undying love — all you could feel was guilt. Guilt for what you put him through. Guilt for resenting him. Guilt for pushing him away. And the fullness of the intimacy, it never really came back.

You tried.You forced yourself sometimes, letting him kiss you, letting him touch you — but it felt wrong. Not because of him. But because your body wouldn’t let you have it. Your body still remembers the trauma. Kento never blamed you.

But it killed him. Because every night he’d roll over in bed, aching for you but he wouldn’t touch you. He wouldn’t dare. He knew if he tried, you’d flinch. You’d shut down. And he couldn’t handle that. So, instead all he could do was just… love you from afar.

But how has that ever been enough?

THE FIRST TIME YOU FOUND OUT ABOUT KENTO’S CHEATING, IT WAS PURELY BY ACCIDENT. It must have been years later. After the therapy, after the recovery, after you slowly started piecing your life back together. Your daughter Keiko was already walking, already talking. You had gone back to school part-time, slowly finishing your chemistry degree. 

And your intimacy with Kento? It had started to come back. Well, not fully. Not like it used to be. But you were trying your hardest with everything. You wanted to make sure that you could do it again. Your husband was waiting, and he deserved it. He deserved your love so much more than anyone. 

You started off small. You started to hold hands and then you started kissing him again. You started letting him touch you again. You even started making love again. Though it still wasn’t what it once was. You didn’t initiate it. You didn’t crave it. You just… let it happen. Because you wanted to be close to him. You wanted to fix what was broken.

Yet, Kento was still distant. Not in the obvious way, no. Kento still loved you. Fiercely. Deeply. His hands were still gentle when he brushed your hair behind your ear. His voice was still soft when he murmured his devotions to you every morning. His kisses were still warm when he kissed you goodbye.

But in his eyes, you could see his eyes so clearly. His eyes always looked starved. Like he was still reaching for something you wouldn’t give him. Like no matter how hard you tried, it would never be enough. And deep down, you knew. You would never be able to give that to him ever again.

You saw it. Every night when he rolled over, half-hard in bed, but he wouldn’t touch you. Every morning when he’d linger in the shower, his back to you, his hand clenched into a fist. Every time you let him inside you, and you could feel the heartbreak in his touch, like he was still waiting for you to love him the way you used to.

And you hated yourself for it.

But you never thought…….

You never thought he’d cheat.

Until one day,  you saw the message.

You were on his phone. It wasn’t intentional. His phone was sitting on the coffee table while he was in the shower, and it buzzed. You didn’t think much of it at first — just a glance, a mindless reflex. But then you saw the notification. A text message. From a number you didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was married.”

And your blood ran cold instantly.

You froze as your pupils dilated.

Your hand shook as you unlocked his phone. His password was your anniversary, for fuck’s sake and when you opened the message thread… It was all there. The proof.

It was from months ago. At least half a year. Some random woman. The messages were fragmented. But clearly, Kento had deleted most of them. But there was enough. Enough to piece it together.

The first message was from her. “Hey, I had fun last night :) Let me know if you ever want to do it again.”

And then his response — curt. “I can’t continue on with this. I’m married. I love my wife. And….I have a daughter.”

Then her response. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again.”

And that was it. But it didn’t fucking matter. Because the implication was there. The truth was there. Kento had slept with her. He had fucked her. He had cheated on you. He decided to go on with this, swallowed by the need and by lust. 

And you just… You just sat there. Staring at the message. Feeling like the ground was ripped from beneath you. And the thing that destroyed you most was that you weren’t even surprised. Because you knew. You always knew.

You saw it in his eyes every single day. That hunger. That emptiness. That quiet, unspoken need for something you weren’t giving him. And you thought you were fixing it. You thought you were trying. But clearly… clearly it wasn’t enough. 

You didn’t confront him immediately. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You didn’t throw his phone at him the second he walked out of the bathroom. You didn’t do anything. You just… sat there. And thought about it.

And the longer you thought about it, the more it made sense.

Of course he cheated.

Of course he did.

You deprived him for years. You denied him your body. You made him watch you suffer, made him sleep beside you every night knowing he couldn’t touch you, made him ache for you in ways you never fulfilled. That’s the worst part. You understood. You understood why he did it. That was the part that made you nauseous.

Because the truth was you had already broken his heart long before he ever stepped out of your marriage. You had pushed him away for so long, turned cold for so long, denied him for so long — that at some point, he just stopped waiting.

And you didn’t blame him.

You hated him. God, you hated him.

But you understood.  And you still loved him.

What a foolish game for a wallflower to grow on.

And when he finally came out of the bathroom, his hair still damp, towel slung over his shoulder, flashing you that soft, tired smile. You didn’t say a word. You just kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Like you hadn’t just been crushed to death by your heartbreak.

You grabbed his face, pulled him down, crushed your mouth to his like you were trying to rewrite history. Trying to pretend like you didn’t know what you knew. Trying to convince yourself that he was still yours. Kento froze for half a second, shocked by your sudden affection but then his hands snapped around your waist and he melted into you.

“Baby….” he gasped against your mouth, his voice needy, aching. “Fuck….. what’s gotten into you?”

You don’t say a word to him. Instead, you just clung to him. Like if you held him tight enough, like you could somehow undo the fact that he had already been touched by someone else. You let him take you that night. Hard. Rough. Desperate.

You let him fuck you like he hadn’t been able to for years, you let him do as he pleased. You let him crumble into you. His mouth on your neck, his hands fisting your hair, his voice breaking as he gasped over and over —“I love you. God, I love you.”

And you let him. Because in some fucked up way, you felt like you owed it to him, after making him suffer for so long. You spent years starving him, depriving him of life. So it was only fair that he found his comfort somewhere else.…Right?

Yet you stayed up after all that love making, alone.

No, you knew the correct answer all along.

But you were just too much of a fool to say it out loud.

AND JUST LIKE THAT, IT HAPPENS ALL OVER AGAIN. Once again, you were pregnant with your second child.  It wasn’t planned. You never wanted any more children, after all that had happened. But it happened. Yet it wasn’t that surprising. In some ways, this was the only way you could find yourself taking revenge against him. To make him just as miserable as you again.

Just weeks after you found out about his cheating, after you spent night after night letting him have you in every way he wanted, desperately trying to reclaim him, trying to erase the touch of another woman from his skin. You found yourself standing in the bathroom again, clutching a positive pregnancy test. And your stomach dropped.

Because the second those two pink lines stared back at you, you knew. The cycle was about to repeat. The suffocating weight of motherhood. The slow erosion of your identity. The same cold distance that once consumed your marriage was about to happen all over again. And the worst part was that you couldn’t even blame anyone but yourself.

Because you let him touch you again. You wanted to feel wanted, and to take revenge. You wanted to erase every part of every other woman’s palm on his. You opened your legs for him, night after night, desperate to keep him anchored to you, desperate to make him forget about the other woman and now, you were paying the price.

And when you told Kento, he broke. But not in the same way he did the first time. Not with pure, unfiltered joy. Not with a beaming smile and hopeful eyes. No, this time, Kento’s face crumpled. Yet you know that look on his face. It was just like the first time.

“Baby—” his voice cracked. “You’re….. oh my god, you’re pregnant again?”

And the heartbreak in his voice killed you. Because you knew. You knew exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking we’re not ready. He was thinking not again. He was thinking I just got her back. And now, it is happening again. Yet, you just knew in the back of his mind, he was thinking this was his punishment. This is what he gets for being the worst man on the earth.

The sleepless nights. Postpartum depression. The intimacy issues. The slow unraveling of your marriage. And you could see it,  the fear in his eyes. Yet, your husband Kento pushed it down. Because he was Kento fucking Nanami. He was a husband. A father. A provider. And regardless of how horrified he was, he refused to let you see it.

So he smiled.

Or at least, he tried to.

Yet you both knew the truth.

That smile felt like the biggest lie.

“That’s amazing, baby.” he choked, his voice strained. “Another baby. That’s… that’s incredible.”

And then he kissed you, soft and hesitant, like he was forcing himself to be happy. And you felt it. You felt the hesitation. The dread. The underlying regret. But you didn’t say anything. Because you were the one who let it happen. And just like that, the cycle began again.

Kento started working more. He said it was to provide for the baby, but you knew better. You knew it was because he was terrified. Because he was already bracing himself for what was about to come for you to spiral again, for you to shut down again, for you to stop loving him again.

You tried not to fall into the same pit you did last time. You tried to stay upbeat. You tried to keep loving Kento — loving him hard enough to make up for the fact that he once touched another woman. You tried to be a good wife. You tried to be excited about the baby.

But slowly… it just happened again.

The nausea. The fatigue. The aching loneliness when Kento came home late. The bitterness when you saw happy women on campus who still had their futures. The slow, creeping resentment every time you looked at your growing belly and thought I didn’t want this.

And worst of all, you started pulling away from Kento again. Not on purpose. But your body remembered. Your body associated pregnancy with trauma, with pain, with suffering and so it shut down. You couldn’t help it. Every time Kento touched you, your skin crawled. Every time he kissed you, you flinched. Every time he tried to make love to you, you just froze.

Kento felt it.

He felt you slipping away.

He felt your body turning cold again.

He felt the weight of your touchless nights,

He felt your silent dinners, your empty stares again.

And you knew.

You knew it was happening all over again.

But this time — it was worse.

Now you couldn’t stop thinking about her. The woman he had slept with. The one he turned to when you couldn’t love him the way he needed. And every time Kento touched you, you couldn’t help but lay there and wonder over and over again.

Did she feel warmer than you?

Did she kiss him like she wanted him?

Did she make him feel loved in a way you never could?

Kento could see it.

He could see the way you recoiled when he reached for you. He could see the distance growing between you again. He could see the guilt burning you alive. And he hated himself. Because the truth was, he never stopped loving you.

Even when he cheated. Even when he fucked another woman. It was never about love. It was never about you. It was about the ache. The desperation. The years of feeling like he was losing you and just needing something to hold onto. Now he felt like he was losing you again.

And deep down, he knew.

You were never coming back to him.

Not fully. Not the way you used to.

And Kento was slowly breaking under the weight of it.

Because no matter how much he loved you, it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough to keep you from falling out of love with him.

This is the world you gave birth to Nanami Kenshin.

LIFE GOES ON AS THEY USED TO SAY. Twenty five years, two whole decades and a half of that since you and Kento had first stepped into this chaotic life together. And somehow, despite everything, you made it.

You had raised two kids, a boy and a girl. Your Keiko and your Kenshin. They were both smart, both stubborn, both carrying that unmistakable sharpness in their eyes that mirrored your husband as much as their compassion had been garnered from your heart.

In all that agony you had come to know in your life, the pair kept you busy with almost everything they could think of. Troublemaking, homework, soccer games, dance recitals, late-night fevers. Everything about it is the messy, beautiful chaos of parenting that somehow keeps you moving forward.

And then there was Kento’s career, near thirty years as a veteran in the industry. He had gone from being the promising newcomer to a household name. Red carpets. Magazine covers. Award ceremonies where his face shone on giant screens as he walked up to accept yet another trophy. The world adored him. Respected him. Envied him.

And you were right there beside him for all of it.

The photographers always wanted you in the frame. His beautiful wife, standing gracefully at his side, draped in sleek designer dresses and glittering jewelry. They loved the way you smiled for the cameras, how your hand always rested delicately on his arm, how you played the part of the elegant, unwavering woman who had supported her husband through it all.

And for a while, you convinced yourself that this was enough. 

That this life, this carefully curated image of family perfection, was what happiness was.

You learned to smile in interviews, to talk about Kento’s dedication as a father and how proud you were of him. You learned to navigate the world of high society — dinner parties with producers, mingling with other industry wives, slipping into that role of effortless charm and poise.

But behind all the glitz and glamour, it was lonely.

With two kids to raise, and a husband to care for, there was little for you.

There was no room for you to be the woman you are.

Kento was rarely home. Always on set, always in meetings, always flying across the country for some event or another. And when he was home, he was exhausted. Conversations grew shorter. His kisses felt rushed. The intimacy you’d once fought so hard to reclaim began to fade again — not because you didn’t want him, but because he was never there.

You kept yourself busy. Raising the kids. Managing the house. 

Smiling at galas, posing for cameras, over and over again. 

Playing the part of the perfect wife in a perfect marriage.

But sometimes, when the house was dark and the kids were asleep, you’d sit alone in the living room clutching an old photograph from years ago, back when Kento’s hair was still short and his smile still reached his eyes and wonder if this was all there was left.

And maybe it wasn’t enough.

But you told yourself it had to be.

Because you had already sacrificed too much to turn back now.

So, you didn’t think of anything when it broke out in the headlines.

Kento Nanami, the beloved actor, devoted husband, father of two had allegedly been caught cheating again after nearly twenty five years of marriage.

You sat at the kitchen table, having breakfast like normal. The morning sun spilled through the windows, the smell of eggs and coffee filling the air, and the faint sound of the television humming in the background.

“Sources say the woman in question is a production assistant from his latest drama series—”

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t look up.

You just kept stirring your coffee, like the words meant absolutely nothing to you. Kento, on the other hand, was frozen. Fork halfway to his mouth. Face pale. Chest rising and falling like he was trying not to hyperventilate. And then, slowly, ever so carefully,  he turned his head and looked at you.

“…Are you alright?” His voice cracked.

And that’s when you smiled.

You smiled, soft and easy. Like none of it mattered. Like you weren’t currently listening to the entire nation gossip about your husband’s infidelity. Like you weren’t being branded the foolish, pathetic wife who stayed after her husband cheated twice. Like you weren’t dying inside.

And with a voice far too calm, you said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kento’s entire face crumpled.

Because he knew.

He fucking knew.

That wasn’t real. That smile. 

That sweetness. That unbothered facade.

It was performative.

It was the same smile you gave him after your first child was born, when you were drowning in postpartum depression but still told him “I’m fine” over and over again.

It was the same smile you gave him one hundred times when he told you he was going to be late at home tonight, when he didn’t have to be. 

And now, now you are doing it all over again. Feigning nonchalance. Feigning strength. Feigning normalcy. And it destroyed him to bits beyond what he could stand.

“…Baby.” his voice cracked, his fork clattering against his plate. “You don’t have to…. I mean, we can talk about it if you want. I’ll….I’ll explain everything. I swear to god, it’s not what they’re saying—”

You laughed so heartily.

A soft, almost amused laugh.

And you took a sip of your coffee, still smiling. “I don’t need you to explain anything, Kento.”

His stomach dropped. “Wh–what?”

You met his gaze and your smile never wavered. “It’s not the first time, is it?”

And fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Kento’s mouth fell open. “Baby….no. It’s not like that….I swear I—”

“It’s alright.” You cut him off smoothly. Calmly. Almost too calmly. “Really. I don’t want an explanation.”

Kento visibly flinched. His heart was hammering so loud he swore you could hear it. “…You don’t?”

You shook your head, taking another bite of your eggs. “No. I’m just glad you had fun.”

And Kento lost it. 

“Baby….” His voice cracked violently, his chair scraping against the floor as he immediately dropped to his knees beside you, clutching your thigh like his life depended on it. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out again. Please, baby. Please yell at me. Cry. Scream. Break things. Just…. don’t act like you don’t care. Please. Please, baby, I know you care—”

You laughed again.

But this time — it was hollow.

“I don’t.” you said plainly, popping a piece of toast into your mouth.

And that broke Kento completely, you were sure.

“No, no, that’s not true.” his voice shattered, his grip on your thigh desperate. “You love me. I know you do. You still love me. Please don’t….don’t act like you don’t….. I’ll fix it, baby. I swear to god, I’ll fix it, I’ll—”

“Fix it?” you echoed, your voice soft. Curious. “Like you did the first time?”

Kento fucking froze. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Because you never talked about it. Ever. After his first affair, you never once brought it up. You forgave him in the silence. Or at least, you pretended to. You shoved it down, pretended it never happened, and let Kento crawl back into your arms without consequence.

Now you were smiling at him like he was nothing more than a pitiful stranger. “Your ears work fine, don’t they?”

“…I don’t know what to say.” he choked. His hands were shaking. His throat constricted. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please….please just tell me what to do. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything. Just please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” you asked softly, tilting your head.

The look in your eyes killed him.

“Don’t leave you?” you continued, your voice sickly sweet. “Don’t abandon you like you abandoned me when I needed you the most? Don’t make you feel like I loved someone else the way you made me feel for years?”

Tears burned his eyes. “Baby, please—”

“It’s fine, Kento.” You smiled again. “Really. I’m not mad.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” You sipped your coffee. “I’m not anything.”

And Kento completely unraveled.

Because he could see it.

The way you looked at him now. Like he was just a man. Not your husband. Not your Kento. Not the love of your life. Just a man who happened to share your bed, your house, and your children. And it killed him.

“Do you still love me?” he finally choked out, his voice so small.

And you froze.

Just for a second.

But then you smiled again. 

Just as soft, sweet, cold as before.

“Of course, I do.”

And that was the sick part, wasn’t it?

You did. You still loved him. You loved him with your entire fucking soul. You loved him so much that it hurt. You loved him and you hated him with equal intensity. It was two sides of the same coin and it was tearing you apart.

And yet even if you do love him, you know what should be.

Kento didn’t deserve that love anymore.

And even if you have to act like you don’t love him, so be it.

Let him suffer the amount of suffering you had over that time.

So you kissed his forehead, brushed his hair back, and whispered. “You should finish your breakfast. You have work later.”

And then you stood up from your seat, cigarette on your lips.

And left him sobbing on the kitchen floor, lamenting.

You had errands left to run, after all.

A wife has too much to do, you know?

[gamblersdoll]

divorced husband! katsuki who’s still in love with you— always breaking a potential relationship up. and it takes one simple thing: a text.

finally pressing through the woods of dating pools, apps and events, you thought you could get a break. a fucking deserved break! no more heroes, just civilians. theyd make more time and effort for the relationship! thats all you thought about, effort and time. it takes you a couple of times to finally emerge into the dating pools, but it was working.

was working, until that fuck decided to text you.

“hows your date going, baby? you know daddy misses you.”

your heart drops, how the actual fuck did he know that you were on a date?? you wanted to grind your teeth, your date sweaty now.

“so.. you used to date— dynamight?” he asks, hoping and praying that you didnt, because he knew hed be fucked up if you did. he had so many questions, for how long? when ? did you guys have kids?—

“we were married, but i divorced him.” you say, sighing when he quickly gathers his things to dine and dash out the semi fancy restaurant. another spoiled date, you thought. or maybe the date you chose was simply a bitch, obviously you wouldnt want that.

but he was the seventh spoiled date, for some reason— conveniently, katsuki was always aware.

“why do you make me do this, baby?” he whispered in your ear, hands in your panties copping a feel of your plump ass. he sucks in a breath, almost like he was resisting the temptation to get on his knees.. again. “what with all these dates ‘nd shit..? you really wanna move on from me?”

“we’re— fuck.. divorced, you perverted asshole.” you grit, trying your best to push him away. “get off and out.”

“jeez, you’re pickin’ up on my language.” he snickers, reminiscing on his art that littered your neck. “you vowed to me, ya know? that yer’ always mine.”

a irritation grew over you. “when you married me, and you werent always away from me.” you remind, putting salt in the wound. “maybe if you were around , we’d be married and you would have every right to do this.”

now he was irritated, flipping you onto your stomach on what used to be your dining table. he chuckled, pulling your head back by your hair and wagging his finger in your face. you somewhat missed when he did this, dominating you in the bedroom. “ah ah, i still have every right.” he coos, his fingers flicking at your entrance and slipping pass. “you havent gotten away from me, not at all.”

“katsuki—“

“uh uh, quiet.” he commands, pressing your face against the table as he hikes your leg up to crouch. “has this pretty little thing missed me?”

“no, i havent missed you.” that was a lie, a terrible one..

he leaves a slap on your ass, spitting on your clit. “meant this pretty pussy, girl.” he snarks, pulling you back by your hips to have a face full of your cunt. your breath hitches, him laughing vibrating against your skin. “still so fucking sweet.. bet you havent came in months, have you little slut?”

you nod, toes curling in embarrassment, pleasure, and sensitivity.

“you remember who yer daddy is, do ya?” he asks, tongue swirling around your clit. his hands press against the under cup of your ass, squeezing and jiggling. “i am, im yer daddy.” he reminds, licking up from your clit to your back to kiss. “how bad do you want me, baby? use your words.”

you couldnt , using your eyes. “please.”

“cmon’, dont tell me only months being separated you forget yer manners.” he raises an eyebrow, suddenly his tip was smearing pre up and down your slit. “do i need to remind you basics, baby?”

you shook your head frantic, he bitting his lip to bite back the urge to bite you.

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hi! I wanted to say I absolutely adore your art and headcannons! I wanted to ask if you would be interested in making a headcannon for our lovely harbingers where there is someone trying to sabotage their relationship with the reader like for example the person is saying that the reader is cheating or is saying mean things about the harbingers and that they have ,,proof" it is if course a lie. Don't force yourself to do anything you don't want to tho!

(Absolutely genius idea! Sorry to keep you waiting! I’m a slow writer…)

✦ When others try to sabotage your relationship with them

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe

(tw: general mentions of violence and blood. sfw) 

Being intimate with a powerful Fatui Harbinger provides the illusory dream of having riches, power, and status. Some watch you with hushed murmurs as you accompany your beloved with linked arms, looking all elegant beside him. Perhaps some people cannot comprehend how such a ruthless Fatuus can even court someone like you. Others simply cannot comprehend that status and money is not a key factor in your relationship.

✧ To crossfire with Pierro is to go against every single Fatui Harbinger. The Director is known far and wide as a man of cold words and power beyond the seven nations. All valuable intel and actions are reported to him first and foremost, as even the top Harbingers bow before him. You, on the other hand, were not meant to bow before him. The Jester shall never let you lower your head, because it is he who shall stoop to worship you. 

However recently, a certain rumor reached his ears. His spies related to him info that certain Fatui soldiers, some lowly commoners at the bottom of the ranks, are spreading uncouth jabs about you and Pierro. Intel states that these fools think you infiltrated the Fatui and The Director’s inner circle by some intimate provocation and seduction; that you’re in it for the money and status.

Pierro’s gloved hands gripped the papers. Nevertheless, his expression is placid as always. 

Thus, the culprit now sat in Pierro’s office, trembling as the room oozed with murderous silence. The Jester never raised his voice, nor did he question the man who “joked” about you. The fellow kept spitting apologies, begging for mercy. He knew it was futile to lie or waste the Director's patience.

And the Jester? It took everything in his power not to get his gloved hands bloodied. To hear someone accuse you - his most cherished, as a shallow harlot? Consequences shall be faced. Calming his boiling turmoil, Pierro continued to conduct himself professionally:

He made sure the man and his entire generation met their oblivion. 

With the recruitment of his best spies, he ascertained that the culprit’s disappearance was not felt by a single soul, his entire family gone, and all traces of spread rumors eradicated. Above all, it was orchestrated so that you would remain unaware that anyone dared to tarnish your reputation.

You carried on with your life, blissfully unaware and undisturbed. Even now, you came in knocking on his office, asking: “Long day at work, honey? I can bring you some tea or coffee if you want.”

The Jester's smile returned, throwing away some crumbled documents into the trash can - “A tea break would be excellent, my divine.”

If it’s blood that needs to be spilled to protect you and his private affairs, then Pierro won’t think twice. 

✧ For Il Capitano, the way of the blade speaks more for its wielder than words. If you wish to prove your stance, you better be prepared to face the First Fatui Harbinger, as his might will test you in a relentless duel of strength. So what do you think happened when Capitano overheard someone calling you “weak”? That his beloved does not deserve an ounce of his attention, because you are a meek being compared to the Harbinger? 

His hand instantly found its place on the hilt of his claymore. He left no room for negotiation or doubt. He marched straight towards the culprit, unsheathed his weapon, and pointed the sharp point of his blade straight at the person.

“If you are so confident to spit such insolence about them, then you must be equally confident with your strength. Let your blade speak.”

The poor fool tried to defend himself with excuses. But his mocking meant nothing to the Captain’s weapon. Before you know it, there is an ongoing duel initiated by Il Capitano. The witnesses know that whoever is on the receiving end of his wrath has no chance of surviving. Not when a single swing of his weapon causes craters on the ground.

The man was about to collapse, accepting his violent demise. But just as Capitano was about to unleash his final lesson, your voice rang out amongst the crowd.

“Hey! Cease this commotion at once!” - you stepped up, your expression stern as you stood in front of your beloved. In a rare moment of vulnerability, the Captain’s already stoic body language shifted. His claymore was sheathed back to its place.

“My beloved, you shouldn’t have seen this…”

“And yet I did. It would’ve reached my ears anyway. What did I say about temperamental duels, Capitano? Morons are not worth it.” 

“He called you weak. I cannot allow it.”

For a minute, Capitano kept his head hung low in reverence. You stood with your arms on your hips, scolding him. Was it not for your intervention, that person who vocally mocked you would’ve been lying dead now. Instead, you spared the offender, and the man was allowed to flee in humiliation. 

The conflict was eradicated, and Capitano's imposing demeanor showed he didn't regret his actions. Considering how even Capitano bowed to your words, the accuser realized - you are not weak. Because if there was one person who made the First Harbinger go motionless then it was you. 

✧ Today was a good day for Il Dottore, but you weren't sure why. He was a tad clingy, his steps laced with a sense of giddiness. Giving you extra squeezes while hugging, smothering you with longer kisses on the cheek. Even as you sat idly in his lab, you watched him as he worked on some paperwork with a grin.

Thus you questioned him, lazily strolling around his lab and observing the countless tools or vials. But he waved off his excitement, tapping his pencil over some papers - “Nothing of major importance, but I did have something interesting happen recently.”

You raised an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue.

“An idiot made a pathetic attempt at spreading rumors about us.” - You stopped in your tracks, going still as you held some miscellaneous container with what seemed to be tissue samples. The Harbinger continued: “Some fool spoke behind your back; stating that anyone who is close with a heretical scholar is bound to be equally insane. They thought that if their words didn't reach you, then it's of no consequence.”

Your expression fell somber with each word Dottore spoke. He said it with such profound avidity, that his voice demonstrated threatening intent behind them. So he continued. “But you know me, dear. Nothing goes past me. Vile nicknames are nothing new to me. My work is not for the faint of heart, and those pesky cretins enjoy concealing their fear with profane titles. And they can call me whatever they want. However, I won't allow them to call you names. Not because of my work.”

You averted your gaze sadly onto the samples of veins and organs in vials. You pretended to inspect them, but your sorrow was more prominent. You suspected Dottore already did something, hence his unusual giddiness today. Thus, you inquired in a soft whisper - “So… what did you do?”

“I handled it, naturally.”

“...You did? What happened? To the person who said such things, I mean.”

“What happened? Dear, you're holding them in your hands right now.” - Il Dottore beamed, pointing at the vials of organs you held. 

✧ Today, Scaramouche was eerily silent. You were accompanying him during one of his work expeditions, aiding him with certain formalities regarding his Fatui subordinates. The 6th had soldiers working under him, and although he did not care for their training, he did not tolerate any incompetent weaklings.

Therefore, you decided to lend a hand. You helped conduct a training program for his underlings, making sure all standards were met. It’s not the first time you did so, since The Puppeteer often placed you as the second in command whenever he was absent. And the Fatui soldiers did not conceal their thrill - it’s like you were their favorite substitute teacher who was more cheerful and forgiving than their superior.

Either way, Scaramouche saw that the mission was going smoothly. But soon, lightning would strike. A certain Fatuus, an agent in training, was getting too charmful with you. It was during the usual training assigned by you, and this person was focusing more on his conversation with you than his training:

Telling you how you are a remarkably skilled person. How it’s a marvel to see someone so delightful as you working alongside the Balladeer. How you shouldn’t waste your time with someone as aggravating as Lord Harbinger Scaramouche. He’s even leaning closer towards you.

You smiled uncomfortably, your attempts at polite disagreement did not work with this agent. Yet now you felt the static in the air, and that’s when you realized - Your beloved heard all of it.

On this usual, unassuming morning, Scaramouche walked silently and struck a man with lightning. All eyes turned towards the commotion as you stood behind the Harbinger. His fists were clenched, sparks of electro crackling from them.

He may have been silent the whole day, but don’t mistake his silence for impassivity.

“Next time, know your place,” - he seethed, standing over the person who endeavored to sweet talk you. He permitted his subordinates too much leeway, now they dare charm you with empty flirts. Scaramouche would’ve stomped that man’s head if he wanted, but he wouldn’t create such a grotesque scene in your presence. Instead, he turned away, held your hand, and pulled you away.

He gave you a day off, his mind already conjuring plans to deal with his underlings later. At least he scoffed out an apology. Not for what he did; he does not lament that. Just a small ‘sorry’ for giving you a quick fright. The lightning strike was very loud, after all. 

✧ Pantalone often gets invited to luxurious meetings or extravagant galas. Any party that is attended by the richest man in Teyvat is a guarantee to make high-society elites turn heads. However, considering your prolonged relationship with your darling Pantalone, you know he secretly despises these social gatherings. Therefore, he takes you with him. Dressed in your finest, Pantalone proudly shows you off to the pompous aristocrats.

People would watch enviously, thinking to themselves: The Regrator’s sweetheart, spoiled by his riches. Your attire is as glorious as his expensive suit. His arm is tenderly linked with yours, always offering you his hand like a true gentleman whenever you two walk. Even as he conversed with various business partners, he always had to make sure his hand was around your waist or your hand.

This dotting behavior made certain ladies of Snezhnaya jealous. They could see you were not a noble-born, nor were you used to the attention during such gatherings. You just timidly accompanied him, and Pantalone kept rambling about you and your benign achievements. Childish, really. You’re probably someone who just ran after and clung to the Harbinger until he relented to keep you. Therefore, a group of ladies initiated the conversation: 

“It’s a pleasure to meet a man such as yourself, Lord Harbinger.” and “Why, a man of your status is probably seeking some interesting company. Oh? You are with someone? My, my, I did not notice them.” or “Surely you desire connections worthy of your status, sir.”

Pantalone had mastered the art of courteous smiling, yet even his act was about to crack. He noticed the way these ladies tried to stand too close to him, pretend you were not in the picture, or even passively mock you. Their insolence stenches, and noticing your silent discomfort caused his heart to sting. But he had a plan.

“Why yes, you are right,” - Pantalone smiled with his charming looks “I do value my time, and it’s important to not waste it on shallow conversationalists. Oh, but it’s such a shame that the people in front of us are just that. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Pantalone turned to you, his arms encircling your waist while speaking such backhanded comments with triumphant smiles. The ladies’ smiles fell instantly, and you tried everything to avert your gaze. “Um, Pantalone? Maybe we shouldn’t-”

“Shouldn’t bore ourselves with such lowly individuals? Hmm, I agree. There isn’t much to do here anyway, only the greedy will seek something in this superficial gathering. Oh well, let’s go so I can take you to dance, dear.” - Pantalone concluded in his usual enamoring tone “Ladies, if you would excuse yourself.”

In this world, the 9th of the Fatui Harbinger doesn’t excuse himself - others do. Therefore, he took you away, scoffing and checking up on you with hushed whispers. Pantalone was offended. Why do they assume it was you who desperately sought out the rich Harbinger? Little do they know it was Pantalone who used to run and seek your attention just to be yours. Honestly, they’re discrediting his neediness for you. 

✧ Should anyone meddle with Tartaglia’s personal life, they are picking up a brawl. Someone dares to flirt with you? His fists are ready. Someone said something unwelcoming about you? Anything in the vicinity can be used as a weapon. Someone endangers his relationship? Their life is now in danger.

Of course, you’re the one who consistently yanked him out of these fights. Usually, it’s nothing serious, as when you scold your boyfriend for such reckless behavior it ends with his heartfelt words and apologetic chuckles. He finds solace in embracing you from behind, gently enfolding his arms around your shoulders, reassuring himself that all is well.

However, Tartagia is still a Harbinger. Away from home, he’d personally search for intel on the culprit who dares to offend your relationship. Names, records, locations, anything to keep tabs on those who think they can drag his family into bloodshedding matters. Tracking is of no issue, after all, when he was still a young rookie, training as a Fatui agent was just the first step.

Once he determines the offender, he’ll pay a discreet visit to them. And this time, without you dragging him away from fights, there is no place for mercy or jests.

At night, Childe returned home, cheerful as the sight of you getting ready for bed welcomes him. Yet in the dim lights, you’d gasp and approach him with concern, catching traces of smeared blood on his face or hands.

Ajax would just smile; he didn’t need to explain. Instead, he would quietly approach you from behind and envelop his arms around your shoulders in quiet stillness.

[zyafics]

can you write about rafe x sarahs bestfriend and reader keeps trying to get with rafe and he rejects her until he finally agrees and teases her around Sarah making reader nervous .. if you find a story like this LMK

truly didn't expect to write today, but ended up doing... this. hope you like it!

SOMEONE NEW | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Blurb)

Pairing — Rafe x Sarah's BSF!Female Reader

Content — best friend's brother, fluff, she falls first/he falls harder

Word Count — 1.1K

Song — Someone New by Hozier

“What gives?”

Rafe surprises you. Sitting on a barstool at the Tannyhill estate, you assumed when Rafe returned home, he would ignore you the way he had done all his life. For the past couple of years, you’ve harbored an embarrassing crush on him that amounted to nothing. Sure, you never outright confessed, but you assumed he knew.

He had to.

The way you always strike up a flimsy conversation during late nights in the kitchen from your sleepovers with Sarah. The way you would always try to convince Sarah to join him and his friends at parties—only to be rejected of an invitation. The way you would always search for him to fill your cup, or take you home, whenever you and the Camerons end up at the same function.

You never told him but the signs were there.

Yet, nothing happened.

After spending a summer in the Bahamas, you decided it was time to put yourself first. You changed the way you dressed, the way you style your hair, the way you put on your makeup. It wasn’t for him, it wasn’t to impress him—it was for you. A new version deserved a new update, a new way to love, and you’re pulling out all the stops.

Now, back in Kildare, you’ve resumed your presence at the Tannyhill estate. Sarah invited you over for a sleepover, but she’s currently out getting some of the snacks. Leaving you to your own device, in her house, with the return of her brother.

Whom you didn’t even realize came home.

It fucks with him.

Because he’s used to you, his little sister’s best friend, always gawking at him from across the room. Always fetching him a beer from the fridge, or blushing whenever he comes into your proximity. Neither of that has happened since your return and Rafe can’t lie and say the loss of attention hasn’t bruised his ego.

But it’s something else. Something magnetizing about the air around you. He doesn’t know if it’s the change in styles or the sudden wave of confidence you’re exuding, but it’s different, and it’s intriguing him like never before.

“What?” You ask, lips parting and releasing the chewed-up plastic straw you were sipping on. His gaze drops to the fullness of your wetted lips, the new shade of lipgloss making them appear more delicious than ever before. His heart slightly patters—what the fuck? He thinks to himself. What is going on with me?

“What’s going on with you?” He asks, and your brows pull together. They’re shaped, manicured, threaded, the way he likes his women. But what remains is that subtle dip between your brows, that boasts the look of innocence from your features, reminding him of the same naivety and shy-natured he always adored.

“What do you mean?” You say with a quiet laugh.

“You’re different,” he observes, his eyes tracing the openness of your clothes. You’re wearing a stylistic top, one revealing your navel, and a piercing on your belly button. When the fuck did you get that?

You tilt your head to the side, your doe-shaped eyes blinking at him with pure curiosity. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Sort of, yeah,” he admits. You shrink under this proclamation, shoulders tightening, your legs crossing on the barstool, revealing the pretty anklet on your feet, dangling, in a way that makes him imagine what they would look like over his shoulders.

You frown, jutting out your bottom lip, and looking to the floor. “I’m sorry,” you apologize quietly.

“Not—” He pulls back, trying to find the right words. “Not in a bad way. You’re not… you.”

You blink up at him, “Like what?”

You don’t look for me anymore, he concludes, but he finds it pathetic to say. Instead, he settles with: “You’re just different.”

You scrunch your nose at his words, the way they wrinkle, it’s so adorable, he wants to cherish that sight. Rafe finds the courage to ask, “And you’re quiet. You always wanted to talk to me; did some other asshole catch your attention in the Bahamas?”

“Why do you assume they’re an asshole?”

“Most men are,”

“You included?” You ask, tilting your chin to look at him in a sort of challenge.

“Yeah,” he admits after a long silence. “I’m the worst kind.”

It makes you laugh again. In that same carefree, airy laugh that comes with ease. Something about that simple sound unwinds his shoulders, and Rafe takes in the moment as if he can stretch it on for an eternity. Fuck, he thought. What is it?

“What’s so funny?” Rafe asks, his throat suddenly dry. He needs a glass of water, but it’ll be hell before he tries to move from this spot.

“Nothing,” you say with a soft smile, “Just… Self-awareness is always a good first step.”

“So you think I’m an asshole?” He asks, stepping closer. His leg knocks at your feet, causing you to shift your position in a way that accommodates him. You still do that, Rafe recognizes, you’re still making room for him.

Good.

You bobble your head in contemplation, “I don’t think it’s a lie,”

“I can be better,” Rafe declares.

“Sure,” you drawl, unconvinced.

“I’ll be better for you,”

The words came tumbling out without a second thought, and all the presence of air is stolen from your lungs. Your eyes widen into this impossible size, filled with such valiant shock, that you’ve never demonstrated before. He almost wishes he can take back his confession.

But Sarah returns, coming into the room to break the tense air.

“Leave her alone, Rafe,” Sarah snaps, dropping two plastic bags of snacks onto the kitchen island. “Don’t you have some whore to entertain?”

Rafe drops his jaw playfully. “Don’t call your best friend that.”

”I—“ Sarah reddens from the accusation, sliding her gaze apologetically to you, but you laugh it off, gently pushing Rafe’s shoulder, and forcing a gap between you.

He hates it.

“I know,” you answer, smiling at your best friend and shaking your head softly. “He’s being an asshole."

You cut a look over to Rafe with a knowing smile like you’re sharing an inside joke, before returning your attention to your best friend. Rafe had half a mind to grab your chin and force your focus back on him—the other Cameron. “Do you need help carrying anything?”

“Nope,” Sarah shakes her head, grabbing the bags with one hand and using her other one to grab yours. “Let’s go.”

You beam, radiating the same contagious joy as before, but with a new set of layers that Rafe wants to strip down and uncover. Sarah pushes him to the side and moves to the stairs, and as you’re dragged up the steps, you do something you’ve never done before.

You don’t look back.

And in that moment, he realizes, fuck, he might’ve liked you more than he was willing to admit.

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

[reidrum]

glory of the snow

note: the return of insecure!reader my beloved <3 i had a bunch of requests to bring her back so i hope we like it! this is really just a gentle reminder from spencer that we should be kinder to ourselves. also i wanted to have them actually fuck but it didn't seem right to fit that in here so ,,, part 2 question mark who is to say. anyways my inbox is always open for any thoughts, comments, questions, musings all of it! love y'all mwah

summary: you freak out when spencer walks in on you accidentally, and he just loves you too much to let it go

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, fingering, masturbation (r, just mentions), heavy petting/kissing, comfort, talks of intimacy issues, self-deprecating reader

wc: 3k

“Oh, sweet girl.”

Three words, maybe two and one syllable, that in any other instance would have had you melting into a puddle at the softness it reared. Words that have so easily turned you into a preening cat but are now aimed at you, albeit no judgement from his end, with no room for escape.

Spencer had come home after a long day of paperwork when he first heard it. He would have brushed it off if it didn’t happen again moments later, and louder. Concerned, he walks toward the bedroom, a flush rushing to his face as he comes to recognize what it is. A small crack of the door allowed him the glorious sight of you in the center of the bed, hand between your legs, eyes shut in ecstasy. You’re mesmerizing to him and he really can’t bring himself to look away, and he doesn’t notice himself subconsciously leaning on the door causing a faint creak that alarmed you to his presence. In that moment, however, he’s less worried about scaring you, and more about the overwashing look of shame on your face.

The soft creak of the door pulled you out of your daze, screaming when you saw the figure behind the door. Your eyes are bulging out of their sockets nearly, heartbeat still racing with adrenaline from when you haphazardly threw the blanket over yourself. You were conflicted, but getting caught doing something that is a common and completely normal instance in relationships really shouldn’t make you feel this guilty. Although you do know the guilt was created by a previous version of you where you had told Spencer that you wanted to take the pace of your relationship slowly, and had little to no desire to engage in such activities for the time being. Or so you said.

He cautiously steps closer, careful not to startle you further, “I’m not upset, or anything.”

You’re not upset either, you’re mortified. “I lied to you.”

“You did…but I don’t think you meant to, right?”

There had been a time where you were tangled all up in him, and poor Spencer, his hands were in the wrong place at the wrong time to no fault of his own and entirely yours, and your shutdown was unavoidable. The blood in your veins seized up like crystallizing water turning into ice, paralyzing both the physical and mental before you could realize.

Intimacy for you was a complicated concept. While it wasn’t novel or unwanted, physical intimacy was something you struggled to accept with open arms. Call it a consequence of your self perception, but it was hard to accept the soft touch of love when you felt like you didn’t deserve it. Spencer never minded, although his heart ached to make you see yourself the way he saw you, he was always more than willing to meet you where you were.

It almost pains you with how understanding Spencer was of the whole situation because you knew any other person would be deeply upset. Every other person was upset.

Spencer never was just any other person, you suppose.

“I don’t know how to explain this.” Another lie, you could easily explain the reason.

It’s not that you weren’t ready, it’s that you didn’t feel like you looked ready. The thought of subjecting Spencer to the one dark cornerstone of your being in the early days of being together seemed illogical and burdensome, and so it was more simple to play it off as wanting to take a slow pace.

But, as biology would see it you have needs and your boyfriend just happens to be so detrimentally attractive that the simplest act has been sending you into a hot fit as of late. The culprit this time was an innocent mirror picture of him at the store trying on new trousers. You had no chance.

You had found that your intimacy issues lie within extending it to others, and less with yourself. The solution of you finding release on your own quickly became a habit when you realized there was no fear on your own. There’s no one to let down if you’re alone.

Spencer perches at the foot of the bed, flat hand outstretched on the blanket towards you but keeping a comfortable distance, “You don’t have to explain anything, honey.”

“No I know, but—fuck—I should.” you bury your face, choosing to only speak to him from behind your hands for now, maybe forever.

He takes a moment to take inventory of your physical being—you don’t look in pain. Clearly you didn’t sound in pain. Your face is flushed, and though he’s sitting a little far from you, the heat radiating from your body hits him like a space heater.

“Sweetheart…I’m not upset.” he repeats, in hopes a reminder might provide reassurance.

It doesn’t. “You’re never upset at me, it’s concerning.” you mumble.

“You make it kind of hard to be upset at you, ever really.” Spencer braves and lays a hand on your leg.

You take a deep breath, the cold of his hand grounding you more and more. Spencer senses the calm it’s bringing you and rubs circles into your calf.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling?” he asks gently.

What are you even feeling? You ponder for a moment—anxious, nervous, bad.

“Embarrassed.”

“Honey, there’s nothing embarrassing about masturbating. In fact, it’s more than healthy to do it to keep cortisol levels low,” he explains, “I just don’t know why you didn’t…want to tell me.”

The guilt swirls in your gut, hearing the twinge of hurt buried beneath the comfort he’s laid out for you. He just wants to help you, but you won’t let him in and that hurts him more.

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“How so?”

“It’s just…I…Look it’s…You’re just so hot—“ you slip out, clamping your hand over your mouth before leaking any more intrusive thoughts.

A faint smirk ghosts his face, “I’m…hot?”

“No—Well, yes. I just…ugh.”

“Okay, okay calm down,” he scoots closer and gently brings the hands covering your eyes to rest in your lap, “You don’t need to be all secretive, you know I’d never judge you.”

“I know,”

“I just thought you wanted to wait.”

“I do.”

“But, not with me? It’s okay if it's not with me.”

“Spence, I do. It’s not that.”

“Am I missing something?”

You gulp, “I just…it’s a personal problem. With me. Not you.”

His brows furrow, “Like what, baby? Do you need to see a doctor?”

“Yeah, if a doctor can fix my shoddy self esteem and make me like myself again.” you chuckle.

He doesn’t laugh. 

The pause he takes seems to be ages long before he speaks again, “Angel, how long have you been feeling like that?”

You’ve been caught red-handed, water filling up the tank faster than you can tread, “It’s nothing, I was just joking.”

“Hey,” he says with a rare firmness, “How. Long?”

You deflate under his hard gaze, “A…while…long enough… for it to feel like a…like a default setting, I guess.” you trail off.

Spencer couldn’t hide the hurt on his face if he tried. Not hurt from your lack of admission, hurt that you had felt like this for so long, dealt with this for so long on your own, and he didn’t even know.

All he ever hoped and wanted was for you to be happy, and if he could be the source of that he would ask for nothing more in life. So to hear about you struggling with this, that you felt like you had to keep it to yourself, was heartbreaking.

Spencer remains in his head a little too long as he’s broken out of it by your small voice, “Are you sure you’re not mad?”

He sighs and moves to sit next to you, making sure he stays above the blanket for your comfort. His back is against the headboard of the bed, and he raises his arm a little, gesturing for you to fill the you shaped crevice. You hesitantly move into the space, hating how you feel every move you’re making is calculated, but all of that goes away the second your head meets his chest and his hand comes up to comb through your hair, the other smoothing your arm down, and all you’re left with is him.

“I promise I’m not mad,” he whispers softly, “Just wish you told me. I would have helped you.” He’s intentional in his wording—would, and not could. Could implies he has a choice, a want to do or not do something. I could have helped you, or I could have not helped you. Would is finite, he is doing it because it is programmed in him that caring for you is a need. I would have helped you because it is the only thing I know to be certifiably true, that you deserve to be cared for.

“It sounds stupid out loud but I was afraid you wouldn’t like me the same if you saw me like…that. It seemed logical for me to remove that option altogether.”

His heart aches painfully, and he wishes he could take everyone who’s made you feel that way to target practice. “You are the most beautiful girl in the world. I would spend every day of my life proving that to you.” he utters with unequivocal resolve.

You sigh out shakily, “You’re too kind to me.”

“I’m always kind to you. You deserve kindness. You deserve a lot of things actually…” he trails off.

“Like what?” you ask.

“Well, did you um—” he trails. You look at him quizzically, he continues, “Like before I came in did you…finish?”

Oh. “Oh. I…I don’t think I did, actually. It’s okay though, no big deal.”

He stares at you intently, “Do you want to?”

Your eyes widen, “Spence oh, no it’s okay really you don’t have to do that.  

“You’re encouraged to say no if you feel even an ounce of doubt, but I’m offering because I love you and I want to show you that you can feel safe with me, even when you feel otherwise.”

The familiar sting returns to your eyes as the tears pool up. You’re not used to anyone putting this much effort and concern for your comfort, it’s a novel feeling but if Spencer is willing to handle you with as much care as he is, you’re ready to welcome that sentiment in with open arms.

“Yeah, yes.” you waver.

He grins and leans down, gingerly pressing his lips to yours. His hand ghosts from your calf to your knee, testing the water before moving more intent. An unwelcome yet familiar onset slowly rises, trying to break through to you, “Wait—“

He retracts his hand immediately, “You okay? We can stop if you need to.”

You shake your head. “No, no I’m fine. I just need a second.” you breath out, trying to self regulate. 

He pulls back his hand but you stop him, “No keep it there, it helps. I just…” You don’t know how to phrase it. You think it’s because you’re not in control. When you’re alone it’s only you at the helm calling the shots. But when it really comes down to it, the lack of control is nothing compared to the lack of predictability that comes with the former. Explaining that out loud was daunting to even think about.

Yet Spencer understands what you need, because he always knows what you need. His hand returns to your knee, giving it a soft squeeze, “You tell me to stop whenever you need to.”

He continues kissing you while smoothing his hand up your leg, making wide and sweeping motions across the plush of your thigh so you can feel where he is and where his hand is going. The gesture is comforting and makes you feel grounded, but your head is in a dreamy haze at how good Spencer’s hands feel on you.

The haze leaves through your lips as Spencer feels you sigh against him, feeling you relax more and more as the seconds go by. His hand reaches your upper thigh, fingers ghosting on the inside. “Is this okay?”

You nod, feeling your nerves idling like a distant wave in the ocean. But Spencer’s presence is a lighthouse shining through the fog and guiding you to his shores while the calm washes over you.

His fingers lightly trace the fabric of your panties, ones that you had slid back up your hips upon his entrance into the room. The motion causes you to jump and he pulls back to gauge your reaction. When he sees no fear in your eyes, more so stunned by your wide eyed gaze, his fingers move with more precision, adding more pressure to your clothed core.

A gentle gasp leaves you as he strokes up and down your slit. You’ve given up on continuing to kiss him, the feeling of his hands being too overwhelming to have both sensations at the same time. You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, your body involuntarily curving towards him as he draws symbols on you with his index. Your breathing gets heavier and faster the longer he goes, and soon small moans begin to escape you.

He drags his finger to the top of your panties and toys with the band, faintly asking, “You still with me, sweet girl?” You preen into the crevice of his neck as he keeps talking, “Want me to keep going?” 

He feels you nodding into him as you breathlessly whisper, “Please.”

His finger dips below the fabric and travels down to your entrance, gathering the slickness and spreading it all over you. “Fuck,” he curses softly, “Look how wet you are, baby.”

You whimper at his words and Spencer ascends to the heavens if there even is one, and if there is it’s the one where you sound like that for him. He circles back up to your clit, paying special attention to the bundle of nerves before sliding back your slit and repeating the whole sequence a few more times.

Your moans are coming out at a steady pace, and he’s been prodding around your entrance for some time now, teasing and edging you closer. “Gonna put a finger in now, okay? Doing so good for me, baby.” he murmurs.

The feeling of his finger entering you is satiating. But it’s not enough, and you need more. “Spence,” you manage to get out, “Can take another one, please.” His eyes shut tight as he revels in your desperation for him, and how cynical he must be to love having you at his mercy this much. He would confess the darkest of sins if you asked him in that tone, and he has no choice but to oblige. He stifles a groan at how easily the second finger slid in, his other hand moving up to play with your hair and cradle your head close to his chest as he works his ministrations.

The familar coil builds in your gut, but at an intensity you’ve never felt before. His fingers move in and out of you urgently, his thumb returning to your clit. He’s a man determined to get you there, and your moans and cries of his name only spur him on further. After a few minutes your moans and cries turn into whines and babbles, and he knows you’re close.

His head leans down to croon in your ear, “Shh, it’s okay. I got you, sweet girl. You can come, ‘m right here.”

It’s enough to push you over the edge and you come harder than you ever have on your own, the waves of your climax overtaking you completely. Spencer continues to pump his fingers through your orgasm, talking you the whole way down. Mutters of praises and kisses flow through your subconscious as the euphoria high takes its peak and you come back down to this realm.

His hand smoothes your hair back as you continue to pant against his chest, words unable to find you.

“You okay?”

You finally catch your breath, “That was—fuck—the most insane orgasm I have ever had.”

Spencer beams at this. For one, his obvious and impressive skills that have stunned you into oblivion. And two, because you look so relaxed. The stark difference of your anxiety filled face from when he first came into the room to the blissed out daze you have right now makes his heart swell five sizes up.

He hugs you closer and whispers, “I’m so proud of you, angel. Thank you for trusting me.”

Sleep is fighting you hard as you laugh airily and tuck yourself under his arm again, “I don’t know why I thought that would be scarier.”

He sighs, his smile faltering but still fond, “Past experiences and self perception complicate the anxiety around sex and intimacy. It’s a natural response based on your lived experiences.”

“Oh.” you mutter, slight deject in your tone.

“But we can work on it, if you want.” he adds, “It’s all up to you with what you’re comfortable with and how you want to do it. If you’ll allow me, I’d love to help you in any way I can, angel.”

You really don’t know how you got so lucky. Someone so kind, and patient, and willing to be with you as you navigate these things you normally would have kept to yourself. You feel grateful to be able to bare a piece of yourself to him, and know that he would receive it with open arms, wrapping it up and handling it with as much care as he can bear.

You cuddle closer, and mumble before your eyes succumb to sleep, “Love you. So much.”

Spencer looks down maybe two seconds later and you’re already out like a light. He chuckles softly to himself and whispers, “I love you more than you’ll ever know, sweet girl. Good night.”