#AND LIKE ANGST... sometimes there are weeks when things just don't line up and they can't call and its so hard.

[harrysredroom]

Playing With Fire

word count: 4.5k

summary: 18+ content! basically just smut with loads of angst. enemies? lovers? who knows. they sure don’t. dominant/switch harry, submissive/switch y/n…they don’t discriminate. Harry and Y/N just can't seem to decide if it's love, hate, or lust.

a/n: hiiii, this is my first time posting something i’ve written. It’s not something i ever thought i’d do, so go easy on me lmao. let me know if you want to see more! 

"Hello?"

"We're doing pleasantries now? I'm here."

"I'm home."

"Then buzz me in."

"I'm watching a new episode of Criminal Minds."

"Jesus. You can watch it while I fuck you from behind. Buzz me in, Y/N. Now. I don't have the time -or the patience- for your attitude tonight."

That's about as long as their phone calls ever got. The pair sighed in unison before the call ended, the tension bubbling beneath the surface from the second Y/N saw Harry's name pop up on her phone screen. She hadn't seen him or heard from him for the past three months. 

Her and Harry had a complicated, long-standing situationship…and that was putting it lightly. A friend of a friend, a few drinks, a few months of connecting, heartbreak, and a mess of blurred lines. They were the kind of almost-couple that never quite got the timing right. 

Every goodbye was temporary, every reunion accidental but inevitable. The inability to stay away from each other? That was the real reason things never worked. Too much chemistry, not enough clarity. It was passion tangled with pain, affection mixed with avoidance, like trying to hold onto smoke.

Incompatible. 

Harry was consistently gone on tour and afraid of commitment. Y/N never left her tiny bubble of life and was emotionally unavailable. 

They didn't see eye to eye on most things. 

But...their sexual tension? 

It buzzed consistently like a live wire, twisting, crackling, and sparking to life. 

Harry was a constant thrum beneath her skin, rooted deep in her veins like a heartbeat she couldn't quiet. He had this way of making her feel like she mattered even if it only lasted a second. When he'd breathe into the curve of her neck, voice low and ragged, whispering how she was his, her walls would crack just enough to let him in. In those moments, she wasn't cold or closed off. She wasn’t numb. She could feel—really feel—something other than the dull ache that usually lived inside her. It was fleeting, sure, but it was real. And sometimes, that was enough to pull her back under.

Y/N was like a drug to Harry. He was always twitching, in desperate need of a fix. Being inside of her was addictive, his head in the clouds and far away from everything. But the comedown from the high? Brutal. The crash after they were done, after the kisses cooled, after the silence settled in, always hit harder than he expected. Each time left him hollow, questioning everything. Why had he stumbled back into her life again? What part of him kept confusing chaos for comfort, or her bed for safety? He’d lie there, heart still racing, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. But it never did. Just the same ache, the same regret, curling up beside him like a second skin.

Y/N adjusted the sleeves of her oversized jumper, fingers fidgeting for a moment before she stood from the couch. Padding toward the front door, she hesitated for just a second before pressing the buzzer to let Harry in.

The soft buzz echoed down the stairwell, but to her, it felt like a warning siren.

She had to stand her ground this time.

She couldn’t keep letting him drift in and out of her life like a tide she had no control over, especially not after this long. Usually, it was a few weeks, a handful of texts, and a night that bled into morning. But three months? That was different. That was silence she’d almost started to believe in.

Almost.

Harry’s lips curved into that familiar devilish smirk the second he heard the mechanical whirl of the front gate unlocking. That soft hum, the one that granted him access, always felt like the first drop on a rollercoaster. He pushed the door open once the metal gate slid back into place behind him, shutting it with a click that echoed in the empty hallway.

He practically jogged up the two flights to her flat, his pulse quickening with each step, a boyish eagerness he never could quite shake when it came to her. But when he reached her door, any fantasy he’d built on the way up hit a wall. Literally.

She was already there, standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, hips tilted, gaze unimpressed. No soft smile. No warm welcome. Just that unreadable expression he’d seen too many times before.

His grin only widened.

Of course she wasn’t amused. He couldn’t blame her.

But he was already in too deep.

“Aww, s’my sweet Bunny girl angry?” Harry crooned, voice dripping with mock concern as he looked down at her, eyes glinting with mischief.

Without waiting for a response, he brushed his shoulder past hers, slipping into her flat like he owned the place. The scent of her hit him instantly, intoxicating, wrapping around him as easily as her silence did.

"No." Y/N's tone was sharp and low, giving her away.

Harry clicked his tongue as he slipped off his shoes and hung his coat on the rack. Y/N followed him inside, closing and locking the door behind them. 

"Now, now, now...s'that what we're doing? Lying to each other? Thought we both agreed it’s just easier to be honest, did we not?" He tutted as he turned to face her. 

Before she could protest, his hands were grasping at the plushy flesh of her hips with rough vigor, tugging her frame flush against his own. Harry hummed, the sound gravelly and guttural as it rumbled through him. Y/N let loose a shaky breath, her lashes fluttering against her cheekbones.

A simple touch.

Just one very simple touch. 

That's all it took for them to fall back in head first. 

That’s all it took for their resolve to crumble.

Harry leaned in slowly, his movements unhurried and deliberate. His nose brushed against hers, a featherlight touch that sent a shiver down her spine. He breathed her in, sweet and familiar. That scent always did something to him, settled low in his gut and curled around his ribs. He could feel her heartbeat, rapid and erratic, thudding so hard in her chest it might as well have been echoing in his own. The corner of his mouth twitched. "There's my little Bunny, so nervous and jittery around me. S'addicting, y'know that? God, three months without you has been fucking torture."

His voice held the kind of yearning that made her lips itch to feel his own. 

His words were a plea, needy and desperate. 

Her hands moved up to hold the sleeves of his t-shirt, curling around the fabric, trying to ground herself.

"Need you t'use your words for me, love. S'that what's the matter, hmm? Been too long without me?” 

His thumb and forefinger came up to gently grip her chin, tilting up her head. “C'mon, sweet girl. Y'know I can tell if you lie. You wanna be good for me, don't you? Bad girls don't get what m'about to give you." 

Her entire body felt like hot molten lava, and she looked up into his eyes. 

Harry blew out a breath. Those big doe eyes of hers were going to kill him someday and he was certain it would be a happy death. “Fucking hell. I missed you. There. I said it.” 

Now it was her turn to tsk and chuckle, her cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink. “I don’t even have to speak and you’re a sputtering mess for me, Harry. It’s pretty desperate, don’t you think?” 

She watched the way his jaw clenched, felt the way his fingers dug into her sides, and how his pupils blew out, his eyes darkening. “You’re playing with fucking fire, Y/N.” He growled, low and primal, before driving her backward until her spine hit the front door with a quiet thud. In one fluid motion, his hands gripped her hips and lifted her, catching her beneath the thighs. She gasped as he pinned her there, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

His body pressed hard into hers, firm and unrelenting, holding her in place like he had every right to. The force of it stole the breath from her lungs, but it wasn’t just the impact. 

It was him.

It was always him.

Their breaths tangled in the charged space between them, shallow and uneven, like they’d both run miles only to stop just short of the finish. Their lips hovered, barely apart, neither willing to surrender first, both waiting, daring the other.

“Good thing I’m not afraid to get burnt,” she whispered, her voice low and velvet-soft, brushing against his mouth with every word. “I missed you too, by the way.”

That was all it took.

Harry closed the distance, crashing into her like a wave pulled too long by the tide. His mouth found hers with a heat that trickled through her system and she met him there, fingers threading through his hair, the other hand locking around the back of his neck to hold him close.

A quiet whimper slipped from her as his tongue slithered past her lips, insistent and hungry, tasting the sugary remnants of the candy she’d had in front of the tv before he arrived. He groaned low in his throat at the sweetness, and the sound of it unravelled her, hips moving instinctively against him.

They acted with fluid precision, like two pieces made to fall into place. Her fingers tightened in his curls, pulling just enough to draw another sound from him, and before she knew it, she was back on her feet with Harry pressed against her and his hands grasping the dip of her waist to lead her.

She didn’t remember the walk to her bedroom.

Maybe it was because her frame never left the wall of his chest, or maybe because Harry’s mouth never once left her body—trailing down her jaw, along the curve of her throat, kissing and nipping at the skin until her legs turned jelly. She walked backwards, trusting Harry to lead her in the right direction. The door creaked open behind her, and the next thing she knew, her back was pressed to her velvet comforter and Harry was hovering above, his eyes hooded and stormy with want. Her jumper rose up to her midriff, just a pair of plain pink cotton panties with a bow on beneath. She wasn’t expecting company, not that she’d have dressed differently even if she knew he was coming.

“Look at you…” he murmured, more to himself than to her, tracing the outline of her collarbone with a calloused fingertip. “Laid out all pretty for me, like some dream I haven’t earned the right to wake up from.”

She arched towards his touch, her breath hitching when he leaned in and pressed a slow, reverent kiss just beneath her ear. “Maybe you haven’t,” she whispered, breathless but teasing, her voice trembling with the effort not to beg. She said she wouldn’t crack, yet here she was.

Harry’s grin was all sharp teeth and wonderment, but his gaze softened as it swept over her face. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick, “I’d spend the rest of my life tryin’.”

Then he kissed her again, slower now, deeper. It wasn’t just need anymore. It was months of silence, of missing glances, unanswered calls, aching spaces where the other used to be. It was apology and forgiveness, grief and hunger all tangled into one breathless moment. His hands moved with purpose, mapping out the skin he’d gone too long without, relearning every dip, every scar, every shiver he could draw from her with just the brush of his thumb.

“I can’t wait, I need you right now, Y/N, can you feel my cock? It’s fucking aching.” Harry grunted out, pressing his hips down against her core to prove his point. She could feel the outline of him, rock solid for her, straining against his jeans. 

She whimpered at the friction, a damp spot already present against the fabric of her panties from the second he walked through her front door and looked at her with those eyes of his. 

“I’m going to indulge in you properly later, take my time, bury my head between your thighs like your pretty pussy deserves after bein’ so neglected. But right now? I just need to fuck you.”

Harry’s hand slid beneath the back of her thigh, pulling her leg around his waist and tugging her panties to the side as he breathed heavily into her neck, his lips trailing hungry, greedy kisses along her skin. 

“Then fuck me already.” Y/N bratted through deep breaths, her hands finding the hem of his shirt and tugging, needing him unclothed and fast.

Harry’s jaw clenched as he sat up just enough to look down at her. She was absolutely sinful like this, her pussy glistening with arousal, her eyes hazy with that smug, lustful expression. He scoffed out a breath as he ripped his shirt off from over his head, tossing it across the room as his fingers nimbly found his belt buckle. “Get it all out now, Bunny. S’not gonna be so funny when I’m pounding into you so hard you can’t breathe, and you know it.” He growled, his eyes meeting hers with stern warning. 

The metal clinking sound of his belt coming undone echoed in the small space, and he pulled it from the loops of his jeans with one smooth tug. He looked into her eyes as he looped the leather in half before snapping it together, the sound crackling the room. “Behave,” he warned.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her mind flashing back to the time that Harry had tied her wrists behind her back with that exact same belt. She gulped, a glimmer in her eyes as she nodded, deciding this was her time to be quiet if she wanted to get her way.

A devilish smirk coated Harry’s lips, the dimple in his cheek protruding. “That’s my girl.” He murmured as he tugged down his boxers, his hard cock now resting heavy in his palm. He leaned down, the head pressing against her entrance. He slicked through her folds, each of them sighing in relief at the feeling. Without warning, he thrust in, hard and deep. She cried out, her back arching, her head tipping back against the mattress as he tore through her without remorse.

“That’s my fucking girl.” He growled as his body rocked into hers. The pace was unhurried but purposeful, like he was trying to relearn her from the inside out. Their sweat-slicked skin was sticking where they touched, their breaths loud and shallow in the dim light of her bedroom.

Every move he made felt like a question. Are you still mine? Do I still fit here?

And every answer came from the way she held him, close and needy, her nails dragging angry red lines down his spine, her hips rolling to meet his like she was trying to etch the shape of him into her bones. She wanted him to remember. Each time he caught a glimpse in the mirror, or the hot water of his shower cascaded over his back, he’d remember her and the marks she’d left him with.

It was messy. A little unsteady. Every shift, every gasp, threaded with the weight of what they were too stubborn to say out loud. She whimpered when his mouth found that sensitive spot beneath her ear again, the one that always made her body quake.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dragging his teeth across her jaw. “You feel the same. Still so tight f’me. Still so fuckin’ perfect.” Harry thrusts his hips forward, burying his cock deep within her. Each movement had her bed creaking, the sound of her arousal gushing around the base of his cock obscene and lewd in the best possible way. It coated his pubic bone and thighs, sticky and wet.

Y/N bit her lip, her head lolling back against the pillow, exposing the long line of her throat. “You think saying shit like that makes this less complicated?”

Harry didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “No,” he admitted, voice rough and low, “but maybe it’ll make it easier when I leave.”

Her chest hitched, a shiver rolling through her—not from his words, but from the ache in them. That aching little crack in his voice that sounded like regret finally catching up to him.

She shouldn’t have answered. She knew she shouldn’t have. But her voice came anyway, soft and breathless. “You’re the one who always comes back.”

That struck somewhere deep within him. His rhythm faltered for half a second, just long enough for the truth to land. But then his mouth crashed into hers again, hungry, silencing the sting with his tongue. He kissed her like he could steal her words, bury them inside his lungs so they wouldn’t echo back at him later.

And she let him.

Because she needed to feel something that wasn’t heartbreak. Something real. Something alive.

Her legs tightened around his waist, and her back arched into him, her body shaking under his touch as her release crept closer, hot and consuming. Y/N’s moans were nothing short of pornographic, breathy and sultry whines. 

Harry cursed under his breath, the sounds she made unraveling his restraint thread by thread. He reached his hand between them, two fingers finding her clit with ease, puffy and swollen for him. He hissed at the way her jaw dropped open, immediately moving his fingers in fast, tight circles around the bundle of nerves. He knew how sensitive she was, her thighs trembling in their position around his hips. His thrusts never stopped, the sound of wet skin slapping wet skin echoed her bedroom as he fucked into her. Harry watched the way her tits bounced beneath her jumper, each of them still half clothed, having been too caught up in the moment to worry about undressing fully. He didn’t need her nude to know how her body looked, how she felt. Her soft, blissed out features and the warm squeeze of her cunt around his cock would be plenty for him.

“C’mon, Bunny,” he murmured, voice shaking, forehead pressed to hers. “Wanna feel you. Let go f’me.”

The weight of him pressed down, grounding her, anchoring her to the moment, where nothing else outside the walls of her flat existed. Just Harry, just Y/N, and the quiet crackle of something neither of them dared name.

She could feel every inch of him, his breath against her collarbone, his fingers rolling over her clit with eagerness, the slow, torturous grind of his hips as he buried himself deeper, like he belonged there.

Maybe he did.

Maybe he always had.

“Say it again,” she whispered, her voice a velvet thread in the darkness.

Harry blinked, chest rising and falling against hers, lips ghosting over the curve of her jaw.

“Say what?”

“That you missed me.”

His throat bobbed with the swallow. His voice, when it came, was rough with more than just lust. “I did. I do.” His forehead pressed to hers. “Every fucking day I miss you, Y/N.”

That admission cracked something open inside her. Not all the way, just enough to let the ache bleed out, soft and messy. Just enough to let him in again.

She arched into him, her arms circling around his back as if she could pull him beneath her skin, as if she could memorize the weight of him and keep it when he left again. Because he would. That much she knew.

Everything about Harry was too much yet perfectly enough. His teeth nipped at the column of her throat before his tongue soothed the ache, his panted breaths hot and heavy against her neck as he fucked into her. 

Y/N was practically mewling, whimpering and trembling as she got closer and closer. Her stomach coiled up tight with each deep thrust, the head of his cock punching through her walls, rough and gentle all at once as if he couldn’t decide which half of himself to give into. Harry’s cock twitched inside of her, a telltale sign he was close. 

“Fucking hell…this pussy was made for me, wasn’t it, Bunny? C’mon, tell me who’s pussy this is and I’ll let you cum.” His voice was shattered, deep and sultry as his fingers slowed against her clit to a barely there pressure.

Y/N whimpered, the noise near pathetic as she tried to roll her hips upwards, desperately chasing her high. “It’s yours, Harry. I belong to you.”

Harry puffed out a breath as if her words were too much to handle. 

“Good fucking girl. My girl.” He whispered against the shell of her ear, his tongue flicking out to lick a strip against her jaw before, without warning, he sat up, his hands gripping the backs of her calves and pushing her legs up towards her head for an entirely new angle. 

She gasped, feeling his cock slip out to the tip in their shift. Harry smirked down at her, his grin devilish. He knew how much she loved this position, how perfectly it let his cock hit that spongy, sensitive spot inside of her. He didn’t waste a second before he tightened his grip and pulled back his hips before slamming them forward. 

Y/N cried out his name as he rocked into her with fervent need, groaning at the way her walls clamped down around his cock, desperate to milk him dry. He let one of her legs fall from his grasp, only to slip his hand between their bodies, his thumb rubbing messy, relentless circles over her clit. He drove into her again and again, burying himself to the hilt, never letting her forget exactly how perfectly she took him. His breaths were mixed with shattered low groans as he watched the way her chest rose and fell, how her cheeks had pinkened and her lips hung parted in a perfect, petal pink pout of pleasure. The headboard slammed against the wall in a frantic rhythm, just barely drowning out the filthy wet sounds of his cock plunging through her slick, stretching her open and claiming her in every way. He found his home deep inside her pussy—exactly where he belonged, exactly where he was meant to be.

His Bunny let out a string of whined moans, her thighs quaking, and he knew she was right on edge. “That’s it, sweet girl. Cum all over my cock, show me how much you missed me.” He panted.

Between the desperation in his voice and the way he slammed into her, it only took seconds for Y/N to come crashing down. Her pussy pulsated around Harry’s cock as she let out a low, breathless moan, the sound like music to his ears. The way her walls clenched around him had him thrusting in as deep as he could possibly go, his body surging forward to capture her lips in a hungry kiss. His orgasm hit him hard, pouring into her in long, hot spurts that left him whimpering against her mouth. Sounds of raw yearning and need spilled from him, muffled by their kiss, as her nails dug into the muscles of his lower back. His hips stuttered against her, his body desperate to stay as close to hers as possible, every last drop of him filling her completely. He rolled forward, pushing his cum impossibly deeper as if it would keep it there, keep him there.

Harry stayed buried inside of her, his forehead dropping to press against hers again as they both struggled to catch their breath. Their chests heaved together, sticky skin sliding, the heat between them nearing unbearable. He pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the hollow just beneath her ear, murmuring sweet nothings too soft and slurred for either of them to really understand.

“Fuck, Bunny,” he panted, voice rough and wrecked with pleasure. “Missed you. Missed this. Missed being inside you.”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, still feeling every delicious throb of him, every aftershock rippling through her sensitive body. She tilted her head back just enough to meet his blown, dazed gaze, smirking despite the lingering tremors in her thighs. She’d missed it too, but she wasn’t about to say it, not now, not when she hadn’t gotten her chance to have the upper hand and remind him why he kept coming back here, back to her.

“You better catch your breath, pretty boy,” she whispered against his damp temple, her voice a low, teasing purr. “Because it’s my turn.”

Harry blinked slowly, still half drunk off the high she had just pulled him into. “Your turn?” he repeated, the lazy smile that tugged at his mouth making her want to kiss it clean off.

Y/N grinned, sliding her hands down the damp, muscular plane of his back before giving his hip a playful little squeeze that made him grunt against her. “Mhm,” she hummed, shifting her hips beneath him just enough to make him hiss, his sensitive cock twitching inside her pussy. “You think you can just come in here, fuck me like that after three months, and not deal with the consequences of your actions?”

He let out a rough chuckle, his body still twitching with sensitivity, but his hands found her hips again on instinct, holding on like he already knew she was about to wreck him.

“You’re playing with fucking fire.” She murmured in a mock of his earlier words against his jaw, nipping at his scruff with her teeth, loving the low growl it dragged from his chest.

“Is that right?” Harry rasped, the words barely a thread of sound. “Well…It’s a good thing m’not afraid to get burnt.” He mused, humming out her own response to the same question. 

“Mmhm,” Y/N purred, and before he could say anything else, she rolled her hips up into his with a slow, devastating grind. His whole body jerked, a broken moan escaping his throat. “And you, Mr. Styles, are about to find out exactly what happens to bad boys who don’t think they can be outmatched.”

She tightened her legs around his hips, flipping them with a surprising surge of strength and adrenaline that made him grunt out a startled, breathless laugh. He fell back against the mattress, wide-eyed and grinning even as he tried to process the shift.

Y/N straddled him now, hands splayed on his chest, hair wild around her flushed face, a gleam in her eye that promised nothing short of absolute, blissful ruin.

“You think you can handle it?” she teased, rolling her hips again, slow and purposeful, making him gasp and clench the sheets beneath him from the overstimulation.

Harry let his head fall back, the cords in his neck straining as he fought for control. “Fuck, Bunny,” he groaned, voice breaking on the nickname. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She leaned down, brushing her nose against his before catching his bottom lip between her teeth and tugging gently, making him groan again.

“Good,” she whispered against his mouth. “That’s the idea."

[monstrsball]

it's thinking about iwaoisuga long distance and being kinda sad hours. they are playing on hard mode!! imagining them trying to navigate the timezones, it's such a headache but also worth it. they're staying up way too late or waking up earlier than they really need to, squeezing calls in between classes, etc...

[piastrisun]

love me not.

pairings: lando norris + female reader.

summary: it started with one kiss. it kept happening. now you don’t know what hurts more — the way he holds you at night or the way he leaves you in the morning.

genre: angst.⠀word count: 7.7k. ⠀ warning: mentions of sex.

notes: inspired by ‘love me not’ by ravyn lenae. i feel this could’ve been more angsty but i’m happy with the result. hope you enjoy it a lot!!

you were best friends.

the kind of best friends who could sit in silence for hours and still feel like you were saying everything. you knew the passcode to his phone. he kept a spare hoodie at your place. you made playlists for each other and had a standing friday night tradition: pizza, films, and sharing one blanket on your sofa. it was always that way.

safe. easy. solid.

you’d grown up side by side, gone through break-ups, new jobs, bad days — all of it. you were the first person he called when he did well at a race. he was the one who held your hand when you failed your final exam. you were home to each other.

then it changed.

it was after a party. one of those nights that didn’t feel like it was supposed to matter. you were drunk, barefoot on his sofa in one of his old t-shirts. he was sitting on the floor, head leaning against your knee, telling you about some girl he wasn’t sure about.

“i just wish i liked her,” he’d said. “wish it felt like something.”

you laughed — tired, tipsy, warm — and said, “maybe you’re just waiting for the wrong person to feel like the right one.”

he looked up at you. eyes hazy. tired. quiet. and then he kissed you, not rushed. not hungry. just… gentle. curious, even. and you kissed him back.

the first time wasn’t planned.

you didn’t talk about it afterwards. you fell asleep in his bed, wearing the same t-shirt, pretending everything still felt the same.

and it didn’t.

the next morning, you made pancakes like you always did. he kissed your temple when he left. like it meant nothing. like you hadn’t just crossed a line neither of you could uncross.

you told yourself it was a one-time thing. a weird moment. something that didn’t need a label.

but a week later, it happened again.

and again. and again.

you told yourselves it was casual. just two best friends who slept together sometimes. nothing had to change. nothing would change.

except it did.

he stopped texting you good morning. you stopped telling him about the guy you’d matched with on hinge. the friday night film marathons got shorter. more skin. less talking.

you only saw each other late now. and even then, only when one of you was lonely enough to press send on a “you up?” text.

you used to talk until 4 a.m. now he leaves before sunrise. and now the friendship is gone. no more dumb inside jokes. no more teasing. no more comfort. just late-night sheets and fading laughter.

you still know how he takes his coffee. he still notices when you change your nail colour. but you don’t say those things anymore. you don’t talk unless someone needs a body. not a friend. not a heart.

just a body.

─────⠀ SCENE #1.

“don't loosen your grip, got a hold on me / now, forever, let's get back together.”

it’s sometime after 2 a.m. the city outside your window hums softly, distant and unbothered. the kind of quiet that only exists in the middle of the night, when even the streetlights seem tired. your flat is dim, lit only by the faint orange glow slipping through the blinds. your phone is in your hand. you’ve typed and deleted the same message three times.

you finally send it.

“you up?”

you don’t expect him to answer. not really. but when there’s a knock at your door ten minutes later, your heart trips over itself anyway. three soft raps, the kind only he does. and before you can even think about changing your mind, you’re opening it.

lando stands there, shirt half on, eyes tired but wide when they meet yours. his curls are messy, like he’d been tossing in bed or maybe hadn’t slept at all. he doesn’t say anything. neither do you. you just step back, and he walks in like he always does like this is still his place too.

the flat is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of the streetlights bleeding through the curtains. the silence between you crackles, thick and heavy with everything unsaid. you both know why he’s here. why he always comes back.

soon, you’re lying in bed, backs pressed against the mattress, shoulders just barely touching. the sheets are tangled, the air between you damp with something that isn’t quite love but feels too much like it.

he breathes steady beside you, like he’s already slipping away and something about that makes your chest tighten. you stare up at the ceiling, your fingers absently brushing against your own collarbone, grounding yourself. then your voice breaks the silence, low and soft like it might crack if you’re too loud.

“do you ever miss it?”

lando shifts a little, but he doesn’t turn to look at you. you see his jaw tighten just slightly in the dim light. he keeps his eyes on the ceiling like it’s safer that way.

“miss what?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

a small, bitter laugh escapes, but it isn’t really funny. you turn your head toward him. “us. before this,” your voice cracks a little. “when we could talk about stupid shit for hours and it didn’t end with you zipping up your jeans.”

the silence that follows is different this time, heavier. you swear you can feel it pressing down on your chest.

he exhales, long and slow, and finally turns his head toward you. you don’t look at him. you’re afraid if you do, the ache in your throat might spill out.

“i do,” he says eventually. quiet, but clear. “i miss it more than i say.”

you close your eyes. that should mean something. that should feel like enough. but it’s not. because you also know what comes next, the part where he pulls you close, kisses you like he means it, and then leaves before the sun comes up. the part where he pretends it’s nothing again.

“then why do we keep doing this?” your voice cracks despite you trying not to let it.

he doesn’t answer right away. he swallows hard, and you can see it, the way his throat bobs, the way his fingers curl against the sheets like he’s trying to hold himself still.

“because i don’t know how to not want you,” he says. “but i don’t know how to keep you either.”

your chest burns. that stupid mix of relief and heartbreak, like his honesty is a knife you asked him to twist. and in a way, you did

you finally turn to face him, and for the first time in weeks, your eyes meet in the dark.

“i don’t need you like that,” you whisper. “but i miss you. every time you go.”

he doesn’t say anything. just reaches out and brushes his fingers against your hand like he’s asking for permission to stay a little longer. and even though you know it’s going to hurt, you let him.

because you’re both already in too deep.

because you both lie.

and it’s all starting to crack.

his fingers graze yours, and your heart stutters, not because it’s new, but because it isn’t. because he’s touched you a hundred times like this, maybe more. but it never feels casual, no matter how much you both pretend it is.

you don’t pull away. not yet. even though you probably should.

you shift slightly on the bed, turning toward him, your knees brushing under the sheets. the air smells like him, faint cologne and something familiar, something that always clings to your pillow when he leaves.

“do you ever think we ruined it?” you ask, barely more than a whisper.

lando doesn’t hesitate this time. “yeah. all the time.”

that hurts. but what hurts more is how easily he says it, like it’s a fact he’s made peace with. like it’s something you’re both supposed to carry now, quiet and heavy and constant.

“i miss knowing you,” you say, and the words feel naked. “not just… this version of you. the one who only shows up when it’s late and no one’s looking.”

lando flinches, just a little. like the truth surprises him even though he knows it’s true.

“you still know me,” he says, soft but urgent. “more than anyone.”

“that doesn’t feel like enough anymore.” you don’t mean to sound bitter. but maybe you are, maybe that’s fair.

─────⠀ SCENE #2.

“it's hard to see you, but i wish you were right here / it's hard to leave you when i get you everywhere / all this time i'm thinkin' we could never be a pair.”

it starts in his car.

the windows are fogged from the inside, soft with condensation and blurred city lights that bleed through like bruises — purples and reds smudging across the glass. rain taps steadily against the roof, rhythmic and gentle, like a heartbeat. not yours, though. yours is lodged somewhere in your throat, pounding too hard, too fast. the air is thick with the scent of leather, the chill of the night air slipping through the cracks, and him, always him.

you hadn’t planned this. of course you hadn’t. you were supposed to just talk. to sit here, say a few things, maybe pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it does. maybe say goodbye, if either of you were brave enough to say the word out loud.

but then his hand brushed yours across the centre console — just a soft touch, nothing dramatic — and neither of you moved away.

you’re sat in the passenger seat, knees pulled up to your chest like they can protect you. your eyes are fixed on the streetlamp outside the car, watching the way the light flickers in the rain. like if you stare long enough, it’ll anchor you. keep you steady. because looking at him would ruin you. because looking at him means remembering everything you’re trying not to feel.

and then he says your name, quietly. like it’s fragile. like it might break if he says it too loud. “you okay?”

you nod. your throat is tight, but you lie anyway. “i’m fine.”

you’re not fine. not even close. because he’s sitting right there, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, close enough that you could just reach out and… touch him. and all you can think about is how much you miss him. how even when he’s this close, it still feels like he’s slipping away.

you finally turn to look at him, and your lips part, maybe to tell him to go. maybe to ask him to stay. maybe to scream. maybe to confess. you don’t know what you’re going to say.

but you don’t get the chance. because he leans in first, and, as usual, you let him.

it’s soft at first. barely even a kiss. like he’s asking a question. like he’s giving you a chance to stop this before it begins. but you don’t. you lean in too.

your fingers slide into his hair before you can think better of it, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. like you’ve done this before. like your body remembers him better than your heart does. the kiss deepens quickly, too quickly. all tongue and teeth and aching desperation. you move across the console like your bones were made for this, like you’ve always known how to get to him, how to reach him. like there’s never been any space between you at all.

his hands find their way under your shirt before you can catch your breath, and yours are tugging at his belt like it’s the only way you know how to speak now, through skin, through touch, through the kind of silence that says too much.

you end up in the backseat.

clothes half-on, half-off. limbs tangled. your breathing messy, mouths greedy, movements clumsy but real. it’s not perfect, it’s rushed, uneven, aching. but it’s honest. it’s desperate. you breathe him in like air, like you’ve been holding your breath for days, waiting for this exact moment to come undone.

you never tell him to stop.

not when the cold window presses against your back. not when his breath hits your ear, hot and shaky, and your name leaves his lips like a vow he doesn’t know he’s breaking.

because you don’t need him.

but oh god, you want him.

and in this moment, that feels like the same thing.

somehow, later, you end up back at your place.

he drives like nothing happened. his grip on the steering wheel steady, eyes forward, the silence between you thick with everything left unsaid. like your lipstick isn’t smeared down his throat. like your hand on his thigh isn’t enough to make him hard again. like neither of you are pretending that this is normal.

the door clicks shut behind you, and you’re on him again. it’s instant, automatic, like the moment you crossed the threshold, everything else disappeared. your backs hit walls. his mouth finds your neck. your blouse comes off, buttons lost somewhere on the floor. his shirt doesn’t even get a chance to drop, it stays crumpled in your fists like you’re afraid letting go of the fabric means letting go of him.

you don’t speak. you don’t have to.

this time, he takes you in the hallway. then the kitchen table. then finally, the bed, the one place you’ve never let him this far in, or at least you try to avoid.

he moans into your neck, murmurs your name like it’s a prayer, like it means something. and for a second — just one second — you let yourself believe it. you let yourself pretend this is love. pretend it’s real. pretend it isn’t just another night of pretending.

because loves you not, he loves you.

he holds you tight, then let you go.

he holds your waist like you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

and you ride that lie all the way through. every kiss. every sigh. every time you whimper “don’t stop” when what you should’ve said was “don’t come back.”

later, you lie on your side, facing the window. his arm is draped around your hip. your bodies still pressed together, skin still burning. the room is quiet, but your mind is anything but.

your thoughts scream, you don’t need him like that. you’re better off without him. you’ll be fine in the morning. but right now?

you reach back. find his hand in the dark. your fingers wrap around his without thinking. you hold on. just for tonight.

because sometimes, want wins.

even when it will hurt like hell.

─────⠀ SCENE #3.

“soon as you leave me, we always lose connection / it's gettin' messy, i favor your affection.”

you weren’t planning to go out that friday.

but your friends insisted, and you didn’t feel like being alone with your thoughts. so you let them drag you to that bar in the city centre — the one with the overpriced drinks and the red lighting that makes everything feel a little too intimate, like even glancing across the room could mean something.

you’re halfway through your second drink when you see him.

lando.

same half-tucked shirt. same slouched posture, like he couldn’t care less who’s watching — and yet, somehow, he’s always the one everyone watches. not because he’s trying. because he never has to.

he’s not alone.

beside him — her. the girl. she’s pretty. effortlessly so. the kind of pretty that doesn’t ask for attention, but gets it anyway, just like he does. she leans in when she laughs, head tilting just right, mouth parted like she’s rehearsed it. you see her fingers graze his arm. see the way he doesn’t flinch or step back.

she’s close. too close. laughing at something he said. her fingers brush his sleeve again like she’s done it before. like she belongs there.

and worst of all — he smiles. soft. familiar. not that smug grin he uses with strangers. no, this one’s different. it’s the real one. your one.

and it twists in your stomach like something sour.

you try to swallow it down. pretend it doesn’t bother you. pretend you’re better than this. but it does bother you. and you’re not better.

you stay long enough to let it sting. then you leave. like it doesn’t matter. like it didn’t crack something open in you. you make it home. sit on the edge of your bed. try to forget.

and fail.

later that night, your phone lights up.

“can i come over?”

you stare at the message, screen glowing in the dark. thumb hovering over the keyboard for a full minute. you could ignore it. should ignore it.

but you don’t.

“door’s open.”

you hate how fast you type it. hate that your heart jumps. hate that you’re already pulling on the sweater he left at yours three weeks ago — the one you swore you were going to wash and return. you hate that you glance in the mirror, just once, even though you tell yourself you don’t care.

it’s past midnight when he shows.

you don’t watch him enter, but you know the sounds of him — the soft click of the door, the quiet rustle of his jacket landing on the arm of the sofa like muscle memory. like he’s done this a hundred times before. because he has. because you’ve let him.

you stay where you are, perched on the kitchen counter. legs bare, sweater slipping off one shoulder like it always does. the glass of water next to you has gone warm and untouched. your heart, though — wide awake. pulsing in your chest like it’s been waiting.

you don’t look at him when you speak.

your voice is steady. cold. detached — at least on the surface. “she looked nice.”

a direct hit. you don’t give him the grace of subtlety tonight.

he exhales hard. like he was expecting it. like he deserves it. “it wasn’t like that,” he says, stepping toward you. you see the way his hands twitch, fingers flexing like they want to reach for you. but he doesn’t.

you finally turn to face him. your expression gives nothing away, but your chest aches. every beat hurts. “neither is this,” you reply. “but here you are.”

and that’s the truth. the raw, ugly kind. the kind that scrapes at your throat on the way out.

he looks at you, eyes darker than usual, jaw tight. like he’s searching for something he already knows is there. and hates that it is. there’s guilt in him. you can see it.

but it doesn’t change a thing. guilt never stopped him before.

you slide off the counter slowly, deliberately. your bare feet hit the cold tile. you walk past him without a word. like he’s just another ghost in your hallway. like the heat between you hasn’t already begun to suffocate.

he follows. of course he does.

when the door clicks shut behind him, everything changes. like someone flipped a switch. emotion blurs into impulse. silence into heat.

your mouth is on his before he can speak. and he kisses you back like he’s been starving. like she didn’t exist. like you’re the only real thing he’s ever known. but you aren’t sure if that comforts you anymore. it just makes you want to break something.

your hands clutch at his shirt like you’re trying to rip her off him. erase the memory of her skin. take her name off his lips. you don’t care if it hurts him.

you hope it does. and he lets you. he always does.

clothes fall like lies — fast, careless. his shirt hits the floor in the hallway. your underwear ends up somewhere by the front door. you don’t even make it to the bedroom straight away. it starts in the kitchen, your breath fogging against the fridge. then the hallway wall. then, finally, the bed.

it isn’t tender. it’s desperate. messy. wordless.

you give him everything. let him take everything. because if this is all he wants from you, fine. let it be this.

he kisses you like he’s trying to forget. and you let him. even when your heart begs for something more.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling harder than you should. he groans into your neck, the sound raw, like pain and want all tangled up. his name falls from your lips like it’s a habit you can’t shake. and you hate that it still feels holy.

when it’s over, you’re twisted in the sheets. your back pressed to his chest. his arm draped around your waist like it means something. like he still belongs here.

like he’s not going to disappear before the sun comes up.

the silence is heavy. thick with everything you didn’t say. you should ask him why. why he keeps doing this. why he picks you at night but forgets you in the daylight. why it hurts more every time he leaves. but you don’t ask. because you already know the answer. and maybe hearing it out loud would hurt more than this.

so you just lie there. pretending the ache is enough. pretending the weight of his arm is more than just routine. pretending you’re not just a placeholder for something he hasn’t figured out he’s looking for.

because this is what it is now. not love. not friendship.

just him.

just you.

and all the ways you don’t belong to each other but still can’t seem to walk away.

─────⠀ SCENE #4.

“you gotta say that you're sorry at the end of the night / wake up in the mornin', everything's alright.”

the sun leaks through half-closed blinds, casting soft, golden lines across the tangled sheets. it’s the kind of light that should feel warm — gentle, even — the kind that belongs to slow mornings and shared breakfasts. but all it does is highlight the distance between you. it stretches across the bed like a quiet, golden reminder of how far apart you really are now. the dust in the air glows like ghosts, dancing in the silence, haunting the space you once called safe. there’s a stillness to the room now, like the aftermath of a storm, when everything has been said or broken or swallowed. and in a way, that’s exactly what this is. the quiet that comes after something violent. something real.

you sit on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you, arms wrapped tight around your own body like it’s the only thing holding you together. your hoodie’s still on, sleeves tugged down over your hands, like maybe the fabric can shield you from the ache in your chest. it can’t. your hair’s stuck to the back of your neck, tangled and damp with sweat you didn’t bother to wash away. your skin smells like him. it always does after nights like this. nights where desire drowns out sense, where you let him in even though he never really stays.

and that scent, that ache, it clings. it always lingers longer than he ever does.

behind you, he’s getting dressed. you don’t need to look. you know the sound by now. the soft shuffle of denim, the faint metal hiss of a zip, the familiar clink of his belt. then that quiet sigh, the one you could recognise with your eyes closed. it’s the sound he makes when he’s trying not to feel. like he’s gently, deliberately peeling himself away from you, slipping back into the person he is when he’s not here. when he’s not yours.

and somehow, that hurts more than it should. more than you ever let on.

the silence between you thickens, stretching long and heavy, not just awkward — no, this is denser. fuller. it carries everything you haven’t said, everything you’re both too afraid to touch. but it pulses under your skin, louder than his heartbeat had been against your back only hours ago.

you break the silence first. you always do.

but this time, your voice isn’t soft. you don’t cushion the fall. you don’t offer him an easy out. “say something.”

your words drop into the room like stones. heavy. deliberate.

he pauses. long enough for your stomach to twist. long enough to make it feel like maybe he won’t respond at all. you know this version of him, the one that shuts down when things get too close, too real. the one that dodges truth with silence, always hoping it’ll be enough.

then he speaks, barely above a whisper, like he wants to say it without it counting.

“i don’t know what you want me to say.”

your jaw tightens. of course he doesn’t. of course he hides behind that. because to say the truth would mean facing it — facing you. it would mean admitting that this, whatever this is, matters. that you matter.

you turn to him slowly, carefully. your eyes sting, but you won’t cry. not here. not in front of him. he’s sitting at the edge of the bed now too, his back turned, bare shoulders hunched slightly, the curve of his spine rising and falling with every breath. and god, you hate how much you love the way he looks. you hate how familiar he still feels. how much of you still wants him.

your voice is thin, shaking at the edges. but you say it anyway.

“say you miss me.”

he doesn’t move.

“say this fucks you up too.”

still nothing.

“say i’m not the only one who can’t sleep after you leave.”

your voice cracks on that last line, and it feels like failure. it feels like breaking in front of the very person who made you feel like you had to be unbreakable in the first place. you didn’t mean to fall apart, not again. but you’re so tired. tired of pretending. tired of swallowing your feelings. tired of being something soft when he needs it, and nothing when he doesn’t.

the silence that follows is different this time.

you hear the way he swallows. you notice the tiny hitch in his breath. and when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. raw.

“you think i sleep at all?”

and just like that, it steals the air from your lungs.

because it’s the first thing that’s felt honest in weeks. and no, it’s not enough. not nearly. but it’s something. something real in a mess of half-truths, vague touches, and midnight lies.

you look down at your hands. they’re trembling now, gripping the hem of your hoodie like you can physically stop yourself from falling apart if you just hold on tight enough.

“then why do you keep leaving?” your voice barely makes it out. “if it hurts so much, why do you always walk away?”

you don’t turn to face him when you say it. you can’t. not when the answer might ruin you. and again, he doesn’t respond.

you think maybe it’s because he truly doesn’t know. or maybe he does. maybe the truth is too heavy. maybe it’s that he’s scared. scared of what it means to love you more than just friends. scared of what he becomes when he does. scared of staying — and scared of what might happen if he doesn’t. but what if it’s not like that?

for neither of you and the desire is the one talking. the ego trying to make sense of why he doesn’t want you like that.

you blink hard, trying to stop the tears from coming, but one escapes. a single drop, hot and slow, sliding down your cheek before you can stop it. you wipe it away quickly, almost angrily.

he stands. quietly. pulls his shirt on like it’s just another morning. like this is just another ending. you feel the shift in the room as he moves, and even though you don’t look, you know he’s watching you. maybe he wants to say something. maybe he almost does.

but he doesn’t. he walks to the door, it clicks shut behind him. and just like that, it’s over. again.

until the next time.

until you miss him too much to fight it.

until he needs something he doesn’t know how to name.

until one of you breaks and sends that same old message.

“you up?” “can i come over?” “door’s open.”

but for now, it’s just you.

in a bed that still smells like him. in a room that feels hollow. in silence that sounds more like goodbye every single time. and all the words he didn’t say are louder than the ones he did.

you lie back down, pulling the sheets over your chest even though they offer no warmth, no comfort.

and you try. god, you try, to breathe through the part of you that still hopes he’ll turn back. but he doesn’t. and deep down, you knew he wouldn’t.

─────⠀ SCENE #5.

“lord, take it so far away / i pray that, god, we don't break / i want you to take me up and down / and 'round and 'round again.”

it’s been a week.

seven whole days without a single word from you. not a text, not a late-night call, not even one of those dumb memes you always used to send when you were bored or trying to dodge something heavier. his last message? left on read. the one after that? you didn’t even open it.

because if silence is the only weapon you’ve got left, then you’re going to learn how to wield it properly. it’s your armour now. your boundary. your final stand. but now it’s 11:37 p.m., and there’s a knock at your door. and you already know who it is, you knew from the second your phone didn’t light up but your heartbeat did.

you don’t move at first. you just stare at the door like maybe, if you’re still enough, if you wish hard enough, he’ll vanish. maybe the knocking will stop. maybe he’ll get the hint. but it doesn’t. and your chest is tight, the kind of tight that makes it hard to breathe, and the air feels like it’s been holding its breath with you. so you open the door.

lando’s standing there, like he always does when it’s too late and he’s run out of places to go. his hair’s a mess, his jacket’s half-zipped, and his eyes—god, his eyes look like they haven’t seen sleep in days. he speaks, low and careful, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. “hey.”

you don’t say a word. just step aside. he walks in like he’s done it a thousand times before, because he has. like your home is still his home, like he still belongs here. “was starting to think you’d really shut me out this time,” he says, trying to keep it light, but it lands heavy.

you shut the door behind him, leaning against it like it might keep you upright. arms crossed. walls up. “i did too,” you reply, and there’s no softness in it. no invitation.

he exhales, and it’s almost a wince. like the truth winded him. like he expected a door slammed in his face, not honesty dropped at his feet.

then your voice breaks. just slightly. “i can’t do this.” the words fall out like they’ve been sitting on your tongue for days. like they’ve been aching to be heard. you say them like you mean them. like this is the line you’ve drawn. the point of no return. you want him to hear it and feel it and finally, finally understand. you want it to be closure.

but you don’t move. your feet stay planted. your arms don’t push him away. you don’t walk him to the door. you don’t ask him to go.

you never really do.

because every time he comes back, your mouth says leave but your body says stay, please stay. every time his hand finds yours, your resolve melts. not because you’re weak. not because you don’t have boundaries. but because they never stood a chance with him. because you never knew where to draw them. maybe it should’ve started the first time he kissed you like you were everything. maybe it should’ve started the first time he left without saying goodbye. maybe somewhere in the middle of all the things you never said about what this was… and what it never became.

you should tell him to go. you should mean it. but instead, you just stand there. breathing him in. and he steps closer — slow, tentative, eyes locked on yours, like he’s waiting. waiting for you to flinch, to speak, to push him away. but you don’t. you let him get close enough for the air between you to go warm, thick with history.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers, like a dare. but he already knows you won’t. because you never have.

and you hate yourself for it. for the way your skin still hums for him. for how your body still reaches for something that’s always broken you. for the way he fits into you like he’s lived there. like he was made for it. and it’s you who leans in first. or maybe he does. maybe it’s both of you, meeting halfway like always. like inevitability.

your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. his hands are already under your shirt, like this is muscle memory. like you’ve both been here a thousand times and still haven’t learned. the sofa’s too far. the bedroom feels like a decision. so it happens right there. on the floor. on the same old carpet where you used to laugh until your ribs hurt. where you used to fall asleep in the middle of a film, limbs tangled, hearts calm.

now you’re tangled for different reasons. desperate. breathless. hungry for something neither of you dares name.

and when it’s done — when the world quiets — your head is on his chest, your legs still looped with his, and you let yourself pretend. just for a second. pretend that it’s safe here. that maybe, this time, he’ll stay.

but you already know how this goes. you’ve lived this story on repeat. because you never made the rules. because he never asked for them. and because you never thought you’d need them.

and maybe that’s the worst part, not that he crossed a line. but that you never drew one. not really. not where it counted. because you didn’t want to lose him. because wanting him always roared louder than protecting yourself from him.

and now he’s lying beside you on the floor, shirtless and soft, warm in all the places that still ache from him. your skin’s buzzing. your heart’s already breaking. because it’s never just physical. not with him. it never has been. and you knew that. and you let it happen anyway.

because at 2 a.m., when he’s right there, saying he’s worried you didn’t texted back with his hands instead of his mouth, it’s too easy to forget that he always leaves. and too hard to remember how to tell him not to come back.

then, out of nowhere, you laugh. quiet. unexpected. because you’re tired. because he’s still him. and for one second, it’s like it used to be.

he grins. soft and barely there. you both collapse back onto the carpet, side by side. legs tangled without thought, like instinct.

he nudges your knee with his. “remember when we slept on this floor after too much tequila and you made me rank every spice girls song?”

you smile, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “you said sporty carried the group.”

“she did,” he replies, mock offended.

a beat. you both laugh. and for a second… it’s easy. it always is, just before it hurts.

then he turns his head to look at you. his voice cracks a little now, like the joke chipped away something deeper. “i—i miss you.”

it’s quiet. honest. like something unraveling between you. like thread slipping loose.

you don’t look at him. just keep your eyes on the ceiling. “no,” you whisper. “you miss the part of me that lets you in at 2 a.m. and pretends it doesn’t hurt.”

he sits up suddenly. brows pulled in, hands through his hair — that move you know too well. “that’s not fair.”

and before you can stop yourself, your body follows his. now you’re both sat across from each other, legs crossed like kids. but your expression is sharp now. and your voice? even sharper.

“no,” you snap. “what’s not fair is holding me like i’m everything, just to let me go like i’m nothing. what’s not fair is the way you kiss me like you mean it, then disappear like you never did.”

his mouth opens. then shuts. his jaw tightens.

“that’s not how it is,” he says, quiet.

“then tell me what it is, lando. tell me what this is.”

silence.

he doesn’t answer. because he doesn’t know. because he’s scared. because giving it a name means risking it all.

“you always show up when you’re lonely,” you say, voice breaking now. “not when you miss me. not when you want me. just when being alone feels worse.”

“that’s not true,” he says quickly, defensive. “i come because i—i don’t know where else to go.”

you laugh again. but it’s empty now. “wow. that’s so romantic.”

he winces. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

you stand, grabbing the blanket from the sofa, wrapping it around yourself like it might protect you from this ache. “you never do. and that’s the problem.”

he watches you. like he’s waiting for the shift. for you to fold. for you to leave the door open, like always.

but this time… you don’t.

lando stands slowly. his jeans are only half-zipped. his t-shirt’s bunched in his hand — the same one you’d pulled off earlier. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is still pink. and he looks like every version of the boy you’ve ever loved.

but he doesn’t say anything.

not please, not don’t, not i love you. just silence. then he turns, walks to the door, opens it. you don’t stop him. he leaves.

and this time, you don’t cry. not until the door clicks shut. not until it’s real.

─────⠀ SCENE #6.

“oh no, i don't need you, but i miss you, come here / and oh, it’s so hard to see you, but i wish you were here.”

it’s been months. long enough that the sting of him has mostly faded, or at least, you’ve gotten good at pretending it has. you’ve stopped waiting for those texts at 2 a.m., the ones that always came too late and said too little. you’ve stopped pretending they didn’t break you. stopped staring at your phone like it might suddenly light up with his name and a miracle, some kind of answer to the mess you two made.

you’ve found a rhythm now. a way of living that doesn’t ache quite as much. a way of laughing that doesn’t feel like a betrayal. smiling no longer costs you something. you’ve learned how to lift your chin again without feeling like the weight of his ghost is pulling your shoulders down.

and for the most part, it’s fine. manageable. survivable.

the party is loud — too loud — with too many people, too many voices blurring into one constant hum against the bass of the music. you’re standing with friends, drink in hand, half-listening, half-smiling. trying. but then your eyes catch on someone across the room, and it’s him.

lando.

and just like that, the rest of the room fades. the noise quiets. his presence pulls you in like gravity, like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

his eyes meet yours. there’s no smile, no wave. just that look. the one that used to undo you. and even now, months later, it still finds its way into your chest, that familiar ache, sharp and bittersweet. you can almost hear his voice in your head, low and close, like it used to be when he leaned in just to say your name.

his lips twitch, like he’s about to smile. that same crooked grin that used to make you feel like you were the only one in the world.

but you don’t smile back. not this time.

instead, you turn your attention to the conversation around you. you laugh at your friend’s joke — louder than you need to — and take a sip of your drink you don’t really want. your fingers wrap tighter around the glass. you stand a little taller, a little stronger, trying to create distance between yourself and the ghost of him still lingering in your bones.

you won’t let him slip back in. not again. not now. not when it’s taken everything just to feel like you can breathe without him.

and then — your phone buzzes. you don’t have to check to know who it is, you already know, but you do anyway.

“come here.”

it’s just two words. harmless, almost. but they knock the air out of you.

you read it once. then again. and again. staring at his name like it’s something sacred and cursed all at once.

your chest tightens. your throat burns. because you can hear it: his voice, soft and quiet, like he’s standing right beside you. like he’s saying it not just through text, but through the silence between you, the memories, the weight of everything that still hasn’t been said.

you want to reply. god, you want to. but you don’t.

you slide your phone back into your bag. your hands shake slightly, but you steady yourself. because this time, you’re not doing it. not going to be the girl who folds for a late-night message again.

and somehow, that decision — that silence — feels like the bravest thing you’ve done in months.

you turn back to your friends. the music is too loud, and someone is laughing too hard, and it all feels like a blur. but you lean into it. you let it drown out the noise in your head.

you don’t look back.

the night carries on in flashes, lights, drinks, words that drift in and out. you smile and nod and dance and breathe. and when you finally get home, your heels kicked off, makeup smudged and hair still carrying the scent of smoke and too many people. the silence wraps around you like a blanket.

except it’s not comforting. it presses in on you, heavy and unforgiving.

you sit on the edge of your bed, the message still unopened on your screen, glowing faintly like it’s waiting for you to break.

come here.

you still get him everywhere. in the spaces between dreams. in the lyrics of songs you weren’t expecting. in the way your hand reaches for your phone just before sleep, even though you already know exactly what’s there. but this time, you won’t open the door.

because you’ve learned what his love feels like, all shadows and silence. he only comes when the night is quiet and the world is still, when the loneliness creeps in and he remembers you were once warm and easy to find. but you need more than that.

and he’s never been that person.

you can’t keep being the girl who waits for someone to mean it. who takes scraps and calls them love. and that realisation, it hurts more than you’ll ever admit aloud. it tears through your chest in the dead of night when no one is looking.

you press your fingers to the side of your phone, wishing it could erase the part of you that still aches for him. that still wants to believe the words he sends when he’s lonely. but you can’t stay there. not anymore.

and across the room at that same party, lando stands near the door, phone still in hand, the message sent and left on read.

he stares at the screen. rereads it. wonders if maybe you just didn’t see it. but he knows.

he knows that silence.

it isn’t distance — it’s a choice.

he’s done this too many times. come crawling back when it’s dark and empty and he can’t pretend anymore. he’s always shown up when it’s too late. when you’ve already put the pieces of yourself back together.

and now, watching you from afar, he feels it. the weight of what he’s broken. what he never gave you.

you don’t look back. you don’t seek him out. and god, he deserves it. but it still cuts.

you were the one thing that felt like home, and now you’re just a stranger in the same room.

he sends another message — i miss you — but even as he types it, he knows it’s not enough.

he’s sorry. he is. but he also knows that sorry isn’t love. sorry isn’t showing up when it matters. sorry doesn’t fix the way he only ever came to you when he was empty.

and maybe that’s why you finally stopped waiting.

he looks down at his phone, your silence louder than any answer you could’ve given.

because now he knows what it really means. you won’t come back — not unless he learns to want you in the light. not unless he learns how to stay.

and the worst part is… he’s not sure he ever will.

the space between you is wide and echoing. and he’s left standing there with nothing but a quiet screen and the realisation that he let you go.

one of you was falling harder every time, the other pretended they weren’t feeling a thing. who was who?

and the truth: you were both lying. and now it’s over.

there’s only ache and the strings are attached forever. either you are want it or not.

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.

[farfromstrange]

One Soul | Matt Murdock x Reader

Matt Murdock Masterlist

Summary: Matt gets hurt, badly, so you have to do the one thing you promised him you wouldn't: take him to a hospital.

Warnings: Angst, life-threatening injury, blood, temporary Major Character Death (he comes back, don't worry), mentions of CPR, religious imagery, conflicted relationship with religion, Reader is described as an atheist but Mad At God, prayer, hurt/comfort

A/n: This is a little angst piece I came up with yesterday. For me, personally, my atheism isn't always black and white. I know I don't believe in God, but I have found myself cursing him in the past because it was easier than cursing something I did not understand (like the death of a loved one). And I just know that being with Matt, chances are he will get himself hurt badly enough one day to the point he has to be brought to the hospital.

Read Me On AO3!

The heart monitor beside the bed signals at a steady eighty beats per minute. You follow the many lines of tubing from the machines to his frail body, your eyes lingering on the purple bruises adorning his pale skin—deadly pale, it is. 

His cheeks, once so full of life, are hollow now. His eyes are swollen, his pretty lips cut, and there is blood stuck to his hair, still, soaking through the bandage they applied. You’ve never seen him so broken, so utterly weak and fragile that you wouldn’t dare touch him. The tears refuse to stop falling. 

Years ago, you made a promise. You promised never to take him to a hospital, to protect his identity and him. Hell, he survived the collapse of Midland Circle, albeit with a scattered mind. He had broken bones and a broken spirit, locked away at Clinton Church for weeks, and still, he survived.

Tonight though, for the first time, you felt his heart stop. It wasn’t one of those ghastly nightmares that have been plaguing you ever since you locked Fisk away and he finally came back to you. It wasn’t a product of your imagination; you felt his heart stop. Hands covered in blood, you watched as the life drained from his eyes and he breathed out without breathing in again. 

You swear you can still feel his ribs breaking underneath your fingertips. “Don’t do this to me,” you cried. “Don’t you dare do this to me, Matthew! I can’t lose you. Please, come back. Come back!”

And you prayed to a God you don’t believe in not to take him from you. You begged for a chance to hear his heartbeat again, just one last time even if it kills you. 

You looked to the sky and swore you’d make a deal with the devil if you had to. You’d do anything for this man; this reckless, stupid force of a man you are so in love with that it hurts sometimes. You would’ve let God crucify you for the whole world to see just to get a chance to look at your beloved Matthew one last time, to know he’s alive. And perhaps God did answer your prayers, or maybe the CPR you’d never done before did its trick for he suddenly took a breath, and his heart started beating again.

You cried over his body like Mary over Jesus. You shielded him as if that would heal him, and he clung to you when he realized what had happened. He coughed, and he was bleeding, and you were paralyzed with the fear of losing him again.

What else were you to do but take him to a place where he could be fixed? If you hadn’t brought him here, he would have died. You shouldn’t feel guilty. It wasn't selfish. Yet, the fire within you keeps burning, and your soul keeps hurting as you watch him like a hawk, wondering what he’ll think of you once he wakes up—if he wakes up. 

“I know I’m not… religious,” you murmur, eyes directed at the ceiling now. “I’m not a good Catholic, far from it. I’ve done things… well, you know. And I don’t pray. Matt prays. I don’t,” you say. “I just wanna understand why.”

Another tear rolls down your cheek. The coil in your throat is tight enough to strangle the air from your lungs. One of the shards of your broken heart is stuck, and now you’re bleeding. Your soul is laid bare for everyone to see. 

It’s pathetic, you think, for an atheist to pray. Because you don’t believe, you never have. Matt believes. He has faith. You’re just… angry? Yes, you are furious, and even more now than ever you feel like it’s all a lie. Where’s the hope? Where’s the faith now?

“Why do you keep letting bad things happen to him?” you ask, your voice breaking. “All he’s ever done is try to please you because he thinks you gave him some kind of purpose. That accident… he thinks it happened for a reason. Going blind, losing every one. After all the hardships and the trouble he got himself into, he thinks he’s some kind of soldier. Even when he was at his lowest and stopped believing, he eventually came back to you. Like a dog on a leash.” 

If Matt heard you, he’d be deeply offended. Religion is so important to him, but tonight, he almost died. He almost died before, but it never felt as real as it did tonight, and the thought haunts you like a restless ghost. 

“I want to be supportive, I do. I mean, everyone’s beliefs are valid, in a way, but it almost killed him tonight. If you’re up there—if you’re truly listening—how can you just let that happen to someone you claim to love, God? I don’t–” You shake your head. “I just don’t understand.”

The heart monitor keeps beeping. The lights keep flickering. His chest keeps rising. No answer. The disappointment cuts you deep. Is there perhaps a part of you that does want to believe? Or are you just looking for someone, something, to blame? Instead of the men who did this to him, instead of the men who quite literally took him apart, you’re turning to the one thing you can’t touch. But you know it’s not what Matt would want. He’d want you to have hope.

How does one go about that when everything seems to be going wrong? When your very heart is lying in a hospital bed? How does even an atheist not curse God out of pure and utter desperation? 

Matt lets out a soft groan, and your eyes flick to him. Your heartbeat accelerates at the same time as his. 

“Matt?” you ask, inching closer to the edge of the bed.

He stirs. Every muscle and bone in his body is filled with a dull ache. First dull, then sharp. The stitches in his abdomen pull at the tender flesh with every breath that fills his lungs, the oxygen so rich and concentrated it almost sets him alight. The plastic tubes weigh heavy on his nostrils. 

His eyes pulsate, and there is this obnoxiously loud beeping in his ear. It’s screaming, almost. Beep, beep, beep. Faster and faster, and faster. But his eyelids are so heavy he can’t open them. There’s nothing but fire, and for a moment he forgets that he hasn’t been able to see for decades. 

In his head, he’s eight years old again, his head wrapped with a bandage that itches his skin so terribly, and the world around him screaming. It’s the same room, it seems, cold and dark and terrifying. 

Matt reaches for his eyes, fingers brushing against the bruises that resemble the shape of a fist—no light. He can taste copper on his tongue. The beeping gets louder and his ears are ringing, and why is the blanket made of sandpaper? He wants to tear the skin off his weary bones.

“I can’t–” he breaks off at the foreign sound of his voice. Another trace of his fingertips against the bruised skin. “I can’t see,” he chokes out.

“Matt!” you say a little louder, your hand finally touching his, and it’s as if the bubble he’s in bursts. 

He recognizes your voice. He remembers he’s blind. He remembers going out last night and kissing you goodbye. He was in good spirits then. But something went wrong. Somehow, his opponent had weaponry that could easily break through the protective material of his suit. He stood no chance against the number of men coming at him. They sliced and they hit, and he thought he saw God, but it was just the swinging ceiling light inside the abandoned factory building. It smelled of mold and water. 

He fought until he couldn’t bear it anymore. Until the opportunity to flee presented itself, and so Matt crawled home to you. With every last ounce of strength, he honored his promise to always come back home to you. 

He doesn’t remember much more, only falling down the stairs to the rooftop access to the living room. The crash. Your gasp. Your heartbeat. And then, nothing. Nothing but the comfort of darkness. 

“Hey,” you smile through your tears, “It’s me. You’re okay.”

He whispers your name, and you squeeze his hand.

“I’m here. Try not to move,” you tell him. “You’re at Metro General.”

The word makes his breath stutter. “The hospital?” he inquires.

“Yes. You were hurt… badly. They had to take out your spleen. Fifty-something stitches. Some brain swelling. I don’t know, it’s a lot.” 

“I told you,” he grunts, “no hospitals.”

Matt Murdock is not an ungrateful man. However, his words cut deep. You can’t take much more.

“You promised, no–”

“You died!” you cry out. The echo bounces off the walls and resonates in his ears like the sound of a bomb going off. 

“You died in my arms and I had to–” You look at your hands, stained with blood, “I had to break your ribs to bring you back. Your bones… breaking,” you cry. “You died and I thought I was gonna lose you, for good. You can blame me for breaking a stupid promise, but if I hadn’t, I’d be preparing a funeral now!” 

His head tilts in his direction—you’re serious—and his defenses fall like an iron curtain, shattering like glass. The sound of your voice in such a state of disarray, death by a thousand cuts. 

He almost died. Or, he did die, and you brought him back, but the things you had to do for that… you brought him back, but it hurt you. He hurt you. He swore he would never do so again, only over his dead body, yet it was his dead body that almost broke you. 

Matt never wanted any of this to happen. The love of his life, traumatized. What kind of man does that? Surely the kind of man that no one but the one person he never deserved mourns when he’s gone. 

The silence drags on, suffocating you. “Do you get that?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Do you get that I’d die without you?”

“I’m so sorry,” Matt whispers. “I don’t remember…”

“Of course, you don’t. You’ve never been this hurt.”

“Sweetheart.”

“I would’ve traded your life for mine if I could’ve. I tried, Matt, I did. I prayed to God and told him to take me instead while I was trying to get your heart beating again. And I blamed Him for doing this to you ‘cause I didn’t know who else to blame.” 

His fingers brush against the back of your hand. A nurse kindly lent you clothes from the lost-and-found, but you can still feel the sticky substance on your skin, crawling like a parasite.

You shudder. “If you hadn’t woken up, I–“ 

“C’mere,” he says. 

Beep, beep, beep, goes the heart monitor, and sirens wail outside his window. 

“I can’t,” you whisper back.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Sweetheart, you could cut out my heart and I’d still want you.”

A shiver runs down your spine, settling in the pit of your stomach. You feel so sick, so detached from everything and everyone, but the piece of you that you almost lost is right there, and he’s alive.

He’s alive. 

You have to keep reminding yourself of the fact. His heart is beating. His lungs are filled with air. Those last few hours might have felt like a proper nightmare, but you made it through. He made it through. 

“Please,” he pleads. “I… I need you.”

It’s different now. He’s not asking to hold you for your comfort but his own, and without another second thought, you climb into the tiny hospital bed with him. 

Matt seeks out the comfort of your chest, but he’s aimless in his agony. You gently guide his head to your heart. Touching him, feeling him so close to you, melts away the last of your fears.

“You scared me,” you confess.

He exhales. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just… promise you’ll live for me.”

The silence wraps a noose around your neck. But then, “You own my heart,” he says. 

“So?”

“Yeah, I’ll live for you.”

Those four words mean more to you than a promise to die for you if push comes to shove. Because what are you supposed to do without him? You’d rather he try everything in his power to live for you than leave you. 

“If you live for me, too,” he whispers then, and a tear runs from his cheek down your chest. You can’t survive without him, that much is certain. That may sound like a state of unhealthy codependency, but when two people share the same soul, every breath one breathes sustains the other. There’s nothing you can do about that, nor would you ever want to.

“Without you, I’d–” he cuts himself off. 

Without you, he’d be lost. Without you, even in death, he would not be able to find peace. 

“I promise,” you manage to say, although the words come with a fresh flood of salty tears that mix with the ocean of his. 

He relaxes into you. “Thank you.”

As he falls asleep in your arms that night, you find yourself staring up at the ceiling again.

“Don’t fail him,” you whisper. To God, to the universe, to the moon and Saturn, and to yourself. 

matt murdock angst tag list: @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @thychuvaluswife @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @steve-chandler @lucienofthelakes @mochie-is-a-librarian @buckyssugarchick

[peachversace]

fashion killa

chapter two ; and fall into you

[nsfw] — smut (18+) ; bakugou katsuki x reader

word count: 20,014 — read on ao3 — read part one on tumblr

tags: strangers to lovers, friends with benefits, pro hero bakugou katsuki, explicit language & sexual content, aged-up characters, porn with plot, model!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, mutual pining, bakugou is a soft yearning idiot who i want to eat up, kirishima eijirou is a good friend, not beta read!

summary:

Fashion Week was supposed to be simple-walk the runway, collect your check, and, if all went according to plan, spend the night with Pro Hero Dynamight. Just a little fun. Nothing more. But getting rid of Bakugou Katsuki proves to be harder than slipping out of a too-tight sample size.

Or, in which a one-night stand with one of Japan's most famous men turns into a relentless game of cat and mouse-and the worst part? You don't hate it.

notes:

the final chapter is here! thank you so much for all the love on the first chapter—it really means a lot to me. this was supposed to go up on sunday, but i didn’t like the ending, so i changed it last minute lol. i hope you guys like it and that it lives up to your expectations. thank you in advance, and happy reading!

enjoy! :D

Things get stranger after that night, but not in a way you could have anticipated. 

You and Katsuki seem to grow closer, slipping into each other’s lives with an ease that feels both natural and unsettling. It's not what you expected. You thought things would stay casual. But there’s a shift now—something in the way you reach for your phone more often, his name lighting up the screen with more frequency.

It starts with simple things. He calls you more, which surprises you because Katsuki’s never been one for chit-chat, but his voice on the other end of the line feels steady, grounding. You catch yourself waiting for those calls, anticipating the sound of his gruff voice grumbling about some villain he had to deal with or asking how your day went. It's not just calls either. Texts come in, pictures too. You send him photos of you in a photoshoot, all glammed up in haute couture, and he replies with short, dry comments, ‘Looking good,’ or ‘Too fancy.’ But you can tell he's looking, really looking. You send pictures from the gym, hair tied back, sweat glistening on your skin. And in return, Katsuki sends you his own pictures. They’re blurry sometimes, like he doesn’t know how to properly frame a shot, and he always scowls in them, half his face obscured. 

He grumbles, “Ain’t good at this photo crap,” but you can see the effort. It’s adorable, especially when he sends you pictures from bed, messy hair and bare chest, a hint of vulnerability in the way the camera captures him. You wonder if he realizes how soft he looks.

You start spending more time together too—more than you’d planned for. It’s not always about the sex now, though that’s still a big part of it. But there’s a sweetness in how you share space. Sometimes, it’s cooking together, and he’ll stand beside you, watching your every move with that sharp focus he has for everything. Other times, it’s movies, the two of you sprawled out on the couch, his arm slung lazily over your shoulders. Katsuki’s not great with words, not in the way some people are, but he doesn’t need to be. His actions speak for him—whether it’s making sure you’re comfortable or tossing a blanket over you when you doze off mid-movie.

The softness between you is unexpected. You’ve seen his gruff, explosive exterior, the way the media paints him as some sort of untouchable force. But here, with you, he’s different. He’s cuddly, something you never would’ve expected from him. He pulls you close without hesitation, his arms firm and warm, always keeping you near. You don’t question it, but it throws you off. This wasn’t what you signed up for—this quiet intimacy that feels more like a relationship than something casual. He’s not supposed to be so sweet, so soft.

One thing that surprises you most is how much he enjoys taking pictures with you. 

You’d never have guessed the gruff, no-nonsense Pro Hero would indulge in such a thing, especially when he’s always grumbling about media shoots and press. But when you’re in one of his hoodies, and you tug him down to take a selfie, your hand gently curling around his jaw, he leans in without protest. There’s this small, content smile that tugs at his lips—subtle but real, and it lights up his face in a way that makes your heart skip. You snap the picture, and he’ll grumble, “Didn’t ask for this,” but you catch him later, zooming in on the photo, his thumb lingering over the screen. There’s a softness in his eyes as he looks at the two of you together.

He’s not one for skincare, either, but when you do face masks or anything remotely involving pampering, he sits there and lets you do it, his face a picture of calm contentment. His quirk may have blessed him with great skin, but he indulges you, letting you push his wild hair back with a fluffy headband, revealing his sharp features. You prep his face, and he just watches you with half-lidded eyes, relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before. He doesn’t even protest when you lean down and kiss him in the middle of it, his lips curving into a small, lazy smile. It’s cute how unbothered he is, how he lets you do whatever you want to him.

You’ve gotten more comfortable with each other in general.

More touching, more kissing, and sex has become something deeper. It’s no longer just an outlet, no longer just physical. It’s a way for the two of you to connect, to be closer. There’s a vulnerability in how he touches you, how his hands roam your body with a quiet reverence. When he presses against you, his skin flush against yours, you feel it—the way his guard drops, the way he lets himself need you in those moments. Your head will fall back, and he takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, his mouth warm and insistent, before his firm hand finds your face, guiding you back to him for another kiss. You feel like you’re floating in those moments, lost in the press of his body, the sound of his voice, and the way he holds you as if you’re something precious.

One night, after several rounds of unraveling each other, Katsuki does something he’s never done before—he opens up. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, as he starts to talk about the Final War. You weren’t prepared for the weight of it. He tells you about being sent to the frontlines as a child soldier, about how his heart ruptured, the physical agony and the fear that came with it. His right arm, crushed beyond recognition, left him scarred—inside and out. He talks about rehab, about how long it took him to get his arm functioning again. 

And then, in a softer tone, he admits something that surprises you: “I still wanna be number one... but I’m content, y’know? With where I’m at right now.”

You’re lying beside him, his hand heavy on your waist, and you look up at him. His face is dimly lit, and there’s a vulnerability in his expression that makes your heart twist. “I think you’re amazing,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure, your fingers reaching up to gently curl around his jaw, pulling him down for a kiss. It’s slow and sweet, and when you pull away, his cheeks are flushed, a faint pink creeping across his skin.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, embarrassed, but you can see the small, content smile tugging at his lips again, the same one he gives you in those quiet moments when his guard is down.

You smile back, your heart swelling in your chest as you kiss him again. There’s a softness to this moment, to him, and it feels like something has shifted between you. Something you can’t quite put into words yet, but it’s there, lingering in the air, unspoken but undeniable. 

But then there’s a pause, a hesitation. Katsuki’s expression changes, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter. "You’re the one that’s amazin'," he repeats, his voice low, almost like he’s afraid to say it too loudly. The way his words hang between you makes your heart do a strange little flip. You can feel the weight of them. 

You tilt your head slightly, giving him a teasing smile to ease the tension. "What, for walking in 120 mm heels or for letting you do facemasks with me?" you whisper, fingers brushing the scar on his cheek, tracing the jagged line that’s become so familiar to you now. 

He huffs, but there’s a flicker of something more behind his eyes. "Nah," he says, shaking his head. "For bein’ you. For workin’ hard as hell, doin’ all this stuff, and still bein’ able to… to put up with me."

The words hit you harder than you expect. You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You hadn’t realized he saw it that way—like he was a burden, like being with him was something difficult to endure. There’s a vulnerability in the way he avoids your gaze, his usual cocky demeanor gone, leaving just Katsuki—raw and exposed in front of you.

"You’re making it sound like I’m putting up with someone from hell," you say, your voice softer now, trying to coax his eyes back to yours.

He grumbles again, that same frustrated sound, but he still doesn’t look at you, and that’s when you realize just how much he doubts himself. How much he carries with him—his past, his insecurities, the weight of being a Pro Hero. And for the first time, you see how deeply it cuts him, how much he worries that he’s too much for anyone to handle.

"Hey," you whisper, your hand gently guiding his face back to you. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and his eyes, reluctant at first, finally meet yours. "I like putting up with you. You always think so bad about yourself. Stop doing that. Sometimes people just want to be around you, to spend time with you. It’s not weird, and I like spending time with you."

Katsuki’s cheeks flare up with a faint blush, his ears turning a little red at your words. He scoffs again, the sound almost automatic, like he’s trying to shake off the embarrassment. "You’re fuckin’ clingy," he mutters, but the bite in his tone is weak. His eyes flicker with something softer, something grateful.

You grin at him, laughter bubbling up in your chest. "Says the man that’s clinging to me like glue." You lean up on your elbow a little, your smile widening. "I have the pictures to prove it, by the way."

Before you can react, he’s turning his head and biting lightly at your fingers where they rest on his jaw, his teeth just grazing your skin in a teasing nip. It sends a small jolt through you, and you laugh softly, falling back into the pillows, your chest rising and falling with quiet giggles as you look up at him.

Katsuki’s grinning now, a real grin that lights up his face, his usual intensity tempered with affection. He leans down closer, his breath warm against your cheek, and you can feel the way his body relaxes against yours. There’s no distance between you—no walls, no masks. Just you and him, sharing the space in a way that feels... real.

"What?" you whisper, still smiling as you reach up to smooth a hand through his messy hair. "Is my skin glowing or something?"

Katsuki scoffs lightly at your teasing, though there’s a small tug of a smile at the corner of his lips. His crimson eyes stay locked on yours, searching your face with an intensity that always makes your heart race. The heat of his body radiates against you, and even though you’re joking, there’s a flicker of something deeper in the way he holds your gaze, something vulnerable he’s still not used to sharing. 

"Yeah, sure, your skin’s glowin’," he mutters, his voice rough but soft, leaning down closer. "From all those dumb facemasks you make me do." His lips brush your temple, but the grin on his face betrays his usual gruffness.

You laugh, a light sound that melts between the two of you in the dimly lit room. "Dumb facemasks that you enjoy way too much," you fire back, playfully nudging him. "Don’t think I don’t notice how relaxed you get."

He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but there’s no real bite behind it. His hand, rough from years of hero work, trails absentmindedly along your side, his fingers brushing lightly over your skin, sending tiny shivers down your spine. His touch is softer than you ever expected when you first got involved with him, but now it’s familiar—comforting in its warmth and weight.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you, the usual fire in them dimmed into something warmer, more intimate. "Maybe," he mutters, his voice low. "But I like you better without all that makeup anyway."

The simplicity of the statement, the raw honesty of it, makes your heart squeeze. You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head slightly as you press a kiss to his lips, slow and lingering. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, deepening the kiss for a moment before pulling away, his forehead resting against yours.

There’s a stillness in the room now, a sense of peace that settles between the two of you. It feels like the world outside doesn’t exist, like all the noise and chaos of your lives as pro heroes and public figures has melted away. In this moment, it’s just you and Katsuki—no expectations, no pressure. Just the quiet, simple warmth of being together. 

"You're an idiot," you whisper playfully, breaking the silence as you tap his chest lightly, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin as he presses another soft kiss to your forehead. "Guess I am for you."

Katsuki's words make your heart skip a beat, and you have to bite your lip to stop the smile threatening to break through. The way he says it—so casually yet so earnestly—makes warmth bloom in your chest. You’re not used to this side of him, this softness that he reserves just for you.

“What are your plans tomorrow?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid to disturb the peace between you.

You think for a moment before replying, "Well… I have Pilates in the morning, and then I’m getting my nails done. Do you have any suggestions?" You stretch your arms lazily above your head, watching him with a playful glint in your eye.

Katsuki shrugs, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck. His hair tickles your skin, and you can’t help but let out a soft sigh as your fingers instinctively move to scratch his scalp. The sound he makes in response—a low, content rumble—reminds you of a cat purring, and it makes you smile. He presses a kiss to your cheek, his lips warm against your skin, before mumbling, “Dunno. Whatever makes you feel good.”

You grin, already knowing what will get a reaction out of him. “So if it’s an ugly purple color, you’ll be okay with it?”

As expected, he makes a face, his brows furrowing in clear disapproval. The corner of your mouth twitches in amusement as you roll your eyes. "Don’t worry, I’ll probably go for a nude pink," you murmur, leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his. The closeness between you feels so natural now, like a second skin. "And then I have a meeting with my agent about being a brand ambassador for an upcoming label, but I’m still thinking about it. That’s all."

He hums, a low sound of acknowledgment vibrating through his chest, and then you return the question. "What about you?"

"Got the day off," he says after a beat, his voice a little hesitant as if he’s testing the waters. "Thought… thought maybe I’d cook for ya or somethin’." His fingers brush against your lower back, the warmth of his touch drawing you even closer. It’s so subtle, the way he pulls you in, but it feels like he’s trying to close any remaining distance between your bodies. "Make ya those sushi rolls you liked. The ones you had in the US."

The way he remembers something so small, something you mentioned offhandedly during a trip, makes your breath hitch slightly. It’s not just the gesture itself—it’s the meaning behind it. How vulnerable and open he’s become with you, how he always wants to do things for you, to make sure you’re comfortable. His actions say what his words sometimes struggle to—how much he cares, even if he’s not always good at expressing it.

You swallow, the emotions swirling inside you making your chest feel tight in the best way possible. "You don’t have to do all that, Katsuki," you say softly, your fingers tracing small circles along his shoulder, feeling the strength and warmth beneath his skin. "But I’d love it. You know I’d never say no to your cooking."

He grumbles, his usual tough exterior showing through even in moments like this. "Yeah, well, don’t expect it all the time," he mutters, but the way his fingers tighten slightly on your back tells you he’s already looking forward to it. He likes taking care of you, even if he’ll never admit it outright.

You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, your lips lingering there for a moment. His skin is warm, and the simple act of affection makes him relax even more against you, like he’s letting go of something heavy he’s been holding on to. 

"I’m looking forward to it," you whisper, and the sincerity in your voice seems to catch him off guard. He looks up at you, his usual sharp gaze softened by the quiet intimacy of the moment. There’s something vulnerable in his eyes, something that makes your heart ache in a way that’s both beautiful and terrifying. 

"Yeah," he says, his voice rough but tender. "Me too."

And in that moment, with the quiet warmth of the room surrounding you, it feels like everything is exactly as it should be. The casual arrangement you once had has blurred into something deeper, something more profound. You can feel it in the way he holds you, in the way he speaks to you, in the way he cares for you. 

You never expected this to happen, but now that it has, you’re not sure you want it to stop. Katsuki has wormed his way into your life in a way you hadn’t anticipated, and it scares you, just a little. 

But when he’s this close, when his touch is this gentle, and when his words are this soft, it’s hard to imagine ever wanting to let him go.

It’s like stepping into a high-end restaurant when you walk into Katsuki’s apartment the next day, after finishing up your schedule. 

The moment you enter, the smell of freshly prepared food hits your senses, and the sight of the spread on the dining table takes your breath away. He’s really gone all out—sashimi platters laid out beautifully, with slices of the freshest fish you’ve ever seen; multiple types of sushi from nigiri to uramaki and temaki, each piece looking meticulously crafted. The fried dishes, like ebi furai and karaage, are golden and crisp, making your mouth water at the sight of them.

It’s a lot. More than you ever expected from him, especially after how shy he seemed about cooking this for you. 

But what really catches your attention isn’t the food—it’s the bouquet of flowers sitting at your usual seat.

Your breath hitches as you step closer, reaching out to touch the delicate petals. The bouquet is a stunning mix of roses, lilies, orchids, and carnations, all in varying shades of pink. The arrangement is soft but vibrant, delicate yet full of life, and you can’t help but be completely charmed by the gesture. You pick it up carefully, the scent of the flowers filling the air as you lift the bouquet closer to your face. The blend of colors is beautiful, and it makes your heart flutter.

With the bouquet in hand, you turn to look at him, your expression softening into a teasing but warm smile. "Flowers, huh?" you murmur, your voice light with affection, though there’s an underlying sense of surprise too. You’d never thought Katsuki would go this far, to do something so thoughtful and gentle.

Katsuki stands a few feet away, looking a bit out of his element, his usual confidence slightly faltering. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, a telltale sign of his discomfort with this kind of vulnerable gesture. His eyes flick to the flowers in your hands, and then back to you. His mouth twitches like he’s about to say something, and after a beat, he murmurs, almost bashfully, “It’s the same color as your nails.”

You blink, and then you realize—he’s right. The delicate pink flowers are nearly an exact match for the nude-pink shade you’d mentioned getting done at the nail salon earlier that morning. It’s such a small detail, something you didn’t even think he’d remember, let alone match. It’s thoughtful in a way that makes your chest tighten and your heart swell.

You think you might just melt right there. He’s always been sweet in his own gruff, awkward way, but this? This feels different. This feels like he’s trying to show you something more, to express something he doesn’t have the words for.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, your voice a little breathless as you take a step toward him, the bouquet still in your hands. You want to say something else, to tease him maybe, but the lump in your throat won’t let you. Instead, you just stare at him, feeling the warmth in your chest grow, spreading like wildfire.

He looks away, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, his lips curling into a small scowl. But there’s no bite behind it. If anything, he just looks a little embarrassed. “Don’t make a big deal outta it,” he grumbles, though the way his eyes flicker back to yours betrays his nerves.

But you can’t help it. How can you not make a big deal out of it? He went through all this trouble just to match a detail as small as your nails with the flowers he picked. He cooked an entire feast for you, filled with dishes you love. And all of it—all of it—is done with the kind of care and thoughtfulness that makes your heart ache in the best way.

You set the flowers down gently on the table and step closer to him, your hands reaching for his. You feel the callouses on his fingers as you intertwine them with yours, and he stiffens slightly before relaxing, allowing you to pull him closer. “You didn’t have to do all this,” you whisper, your voice soft and tender. “But I love it. I love everything. Thank you.”

Katsuki’s gaze flickers down to your hands, then back up to your face, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out how to respond. He shifts his weight, looking uncharacteristically shy. “S’nothin’. Just wanted to do somethin’ nice.”

Your smile grows, and you can’t resist the urge to stand on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin flushes under your touch, and you feel the way he holds his breath for a second before he relaxes. “Well, it means a lot to me,” you murmur against his skin, your lips lingering just a little longer than necessary.

When you pull back, his gaze locks onto yours, and there’s a softness in his eyes you don’t often get to see. For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the world feeling a little smaller, a little more intimate. The bouquet, the dinner, the way he remembered something as small as the color of your nails—it all feels like more than just casual affection. It feels like he’s slowly, hesitantly opening himself up to you in ways he’s never done before.

And it makes your heart race.

“Now, come on,” you say, breaking the silence with a grin as you tug him toward the table. “Let’s eat before this masterpiece gets cold.”

He huffs, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Sit down already.”

As you take your seat, you can’t help but feel a little giddy. Katsuki takes his seat across from you, and for a moment, the two of you just sit there, surrounded by the feast he’s prepared. There’s a warmth in the air, a sense of quiet happiness that lingers between you.

And as you pick up your chopsticks and dig into the meal he made just for you, you realize that whatever this is between the two of you, it’s something more than you ever could have imagined. Something real. Something that’s growing in ways neither of you expected.

That night feels like a memory already etched into your soul, a moment you know you’ll never forget. 

The signs were all there from the start—the flowers, the dinner, the shy glances exchanged between the two of you over the table. There was a softness in the way you spoke to each other, a quiet warmth that lingered in the air, charged with something more than just affection. 

It was inevitable, the way the night would unfold.

Now, the room is filled with nothing but the quiet creaking of the bed, the sound of skin meeting skin, and the breathless, intimate sounds you and Katsuki make together. Your hands grip the pillow beneath your head as his strong hands hold your thighs, keeping them folded around his hips. He moves with a steady, deliberate rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body. There’s something deeper in the way he touches you tonight—something tender and almost reverent.

Through the haze of pleasure, your eyes blink up at him, catching the intensity of his gaze. It’s overwhelming, the way his molten eyes lock onto yours, filled with an emotion so raw it almost makes your chest ache. You can’t help but tug him closer, wanting to feel his warmth, his skin against yours. He obliges, his forearms coming to rest on either side of your head, bracketing you in. Your legs instinctively tighten around his waist, your ankles crossing at the small of his back, pulling him even closer.

“Katsuki,” you gasp, the word slipping from your lips in a whisper. It’s a plea, a confession, everything wrapped in one. He answers you not with words but with a kiss—soft, slow, and wet. His lips press against yours with a tenderness that belies the strength of his body, and it makes you shiver with how gentle he’s being. There’s something different in the way he’s moving, like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t quite put into words.

Then, his voice breaks the silence, low and vulnerable. “Say my name,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your neck.

The need in his voice makes your heart stutter. You feel his vulnerability, the rawness of him asking for something so simple, yet so important. So you do—you say his name over and over, like a mantra. “Katsuki, Katsuki, Katsuki…” Each word is punctuated by a kiss, your lips brushing against his in fleeting touches. His name feels sacred on your tongue, like it’s the only thing that matters in this moment.

His eyes darken, flecks of gold and violet swirling in the molten depths of his gaze. It’s like he’s seeing straight through you, into the deepest parts of you, and it makes you feel bare, exposed. But in the best way. You’re not just giving yourself to him; you’re sharing something far more intimate, something unspoken but understood. The two of you are drowning in each other—in the kisses, the warmth of your skin pressed together, the way he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

He’s exploded you, just like his quirk, and in his touch, you feel like fireworks—bright, burning, alive. Every time he moves, you feel like you’re breaking apart in the best way, only to come back together, more whole than before.

And then, Katsuki slows his movements, like he’s trying to savor every second of this. His thrusts become deep, deliberate, each one dragging out the moment as if he never wants it to end. There’s something reverent about it, like he’s worshipping you, wanting to memorize the way you feel, the way your body responds to him. It’s so intense, so real, that it almost overwhelms you. 

You can’t help but moan softly, your body arching into his as he moves within you. The sensation is slow, building like a crescendo, and you feel like you’re on the edge of something greater than either of you. You’re not just feeling pleasure—this is something deeper. His touch, his kiss, the way he holds you, it all makes you feel like you’ve become something otherworldly, like a star burning brightly in the night sky.

His lips brush against your ear, and in the quiet between breaths, you hear him whisper, “You’re incredible.” The words are hushed, almost like a secret, but they hit you hard, sinking deep into your heart. He’s never been great with words, but in this moment, he doesn’t need to be. The way he touches you, the way he holds you, speaks volumes.

And just like that, you feel yourself slipping, falling into that blissful oblivion, with Katsuki right there with you. The world outside disappears, and all that exists is this—the two of you, tangled together, lost in the feeling of each other. Time slows, the space between each breath stretches, and for a moment, it feels like you’re not just two people anymore. You’ve become something greater, something inseparable, something you never want to let go of. 

As the two of you finally find release, together, it feels like the stars themselves have exploded inside of you, leaving you breathless, weightless, and utterly content.

It’s close to dawn, and the first hints of light peek through the blinds, casting a soft glow across the room. 

You’re completely spent, bodies tangled together, exhausted after countless rounds of pleasure, yet it’s not just the physicality that keeps you close. It’s the warmth of his touch, the familiarity of it, the way his body instinctively presses against yours. Katsuki is holding you like you’re something precious, his lips brushing over your skin—your jaw, your neck, your shoulders—leaving behind tender kisses in his wake. His hands glide over your hips, your stomach, your thighs, tracing your curves with a gentle reverence that makes your breath hitch. There’s something so intimate in the way he touches you now, not just as a lover, but as someone who’s cherishing every moment.

You nuzzle closer, your head resting against his muscular bicep, pressing a soft kiss to it with a smile. His warmth surrounds you, and you can feel his chest rise and fall with every breath he takes. The silence between you is comfortable, peaceful, only filled with the sound of your shared breaths and the occasional rustling of the sheets.

In a teasing, hushed tone, you break the stillness, “You never told me what you think of my nails.” 

Katsuki huffs a quiet laugh against your cheek, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Idiot,” he mumbles, the insult carrying no real bite. His teeth sink into your skin teasingly, making you let out a startled squeak, but you laugh when you feel his lips press a soft kiss in the same spot. His voice is a little rough, but warm as he admits, “They look good.”

You smile at his response, feeling the warmth of his approval as it spreads through you. “Good,” you whisper back, your voice soft in the quiet room. You let the moment drift into comfortable silence once again, enjoying the simple pleasure of being close to him, his body still pressed to yours. The bed shifts slightly as you both move, adjusting your positions to be closer, your limbs lazily draped over each other.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through the silence, and you instinctively reach for it. You scroll through a few messages before opening the camera, catching your reflection on the screen. There’s a faint flush to your cheeks, and you can see the small marks he left on your skin—little love bites trailing down to your collarbone, proof of the night’s passion. You look at yourself, and you can’t help but smile.

You’re glowing.

Before you can dwell on it, Katsuki shifts beside you, slowly leaning in to rest his head against yours, his weight a comforting presence. Your smile softens as you press the button on the camera, capturing the two of you in the frame. He doesn’t protest—he never really does when you take pictures anymore—and there’s a softness in his eyes, a quiet contentment that’s so different from the sharp, hardened persona he shows the world. Here, with you, he’s just Katsuki, sleepy-eyed and tender, his face relaxed in a way that makes your heart swell.

You click on the video option, and still, he says nothing, just watches as you record. He leans further into you, his body language loose and easy, completely at peace in your presence. You lift your hand to his jaw, gently scratching at the stubble growing there, and he blinks lazily, his eyes half-lidded as he leans into your touch. His vulnerability is on full display, and it’s something so personal, so special, that it makes your chest tighten with affection.

Without thinking, you turn your head and press a soft kiss to his lips. He lets you, meeting your kiss with a slow, sleepy response, his lips warm and slightly chapped. The kiss is tender, and when you pull away, it leaves behind a small, wet sound that makes you smile. You press another, quicker kiss to his lips before glancing back at the camera, capturing the quiet intimacy of the moment. 

On the screen, you see him with that small, almost shy smile curling at the corners of his lips. It’s a rare expression, one that he only seems to show when he’s with you, and it makes your heart flutter. There’s no mask here, no front, just him—content, soft, and utterly at ease with you.

And in that moment, you realize how deeply you’ve both fallen into this. How much you’ve come to mean to one another. His presence feels like home, like something you’ve been missing all along. 

There’s something deeper here, something you didn’t expect, and now it feels terrifyingly real.

And that thought scares the hell out of you.

You avoid him after that night.

It’s dumb; it’s stupid; it’s insane, but after that night, the intimacy had shaken you to your core, and you’re not ready to deal with the weight of what that means. The soft way he touched you, the vulnerability in his voice when he asked you to call him by his name—those aren’t things that fit into your neat little box labeled casual. And you don’t want to face the fact that whatever this thing is between you and Katsuki, it stopped being casual a long time ago.

So, you pull away. You don’t call him, don’t text back as often, and when he tries to reach out, you tell him you’re busy. It’s not entirely a lie. Work is busy. You’ve been booked back-to-back with photoshoots for Vogue China, campaigns for Kintsugi and Chanel, and appearances for Tsukiyo. Haute Couture Week is just around the corner, and you’re drowning in preparations. 

But the truth is, it’s easier to hide behind your schedule than face the reality of what’s happening between you and Katsuki. You bury yourself in work, hoping the distance will clear your head, will give you time to sort out your feelings. Because you’re not sure what you want anymore. Do you still want something casual? Or has it become something more? You’re not ready to answer that question, not ready to confront the feelings that have begun to creep up on you.

And then, late one night, the consequences of your actions come knocking—literally.

It’s around one in the morning when there’s a knock at your door. The sound startles you, breaking the quiet of your apartment, and you instantly know who it is. You hesitate for a second, your heart racing as you walk over and pull the door open.

Katsuki stands there, still in his hero gear, covered in soot and sweat, fresh from patrol. His eyes are sharp, but there’s a softness in the way he looks at you—something like confusion, or maybe even hurt. He doesn’t waste any time.

“You avoidin’ me or somethin’?” His voice is gruff, but there’s a vulnerability in it, the kind that makes your chest tighten.

“No!” you blurt out, too quickly. Your voice sounds high, and you can’t even convince yourself. “No, I’ve just been... busy. You know how it is.”

He narrows his eyes, his expression hardening. “Busy, huh?”

You nod, trying to hold his gaze, but your heart is pounding in your ears. “Yeah. Work’s been crazy lately.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at you with that intense, unreadable look of his, and you feel the guilt crawling up your throat. You expect him to yell, to snap at you, but when he finally speaks, his voice is low, hesitant.

“Did I... do somethin’ wrong?”

The question hits you harder than you expect. You see the hurt in his eyes now, the way his jaw tightens, like he’s bracing for something. Your chest tightens, and you want to reach out, to reassure him, but you hesitate. You shake your head quickly. “No, Katsuki, you didn’t do anything. It’s... it’s not you, it’s me.”

His entire body tenses at your words, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?”

You take a step back, rubbing your arms nervously. “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you say quietly, almost like you’re hoping he won’t hear you.

He takes a step closer, his voice firm, almost demanding. “Do what?”

You swallow, trying to find the right words, but they stick in your throat. “This... us. I wanted things to stay casual, you know? Casual but serious? But now... everything feels different… and I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship.”

He’s silent for a beat, his jaw clenching, his fists tightening at his sides. “So avoidin’ me was your solution?” His voice is sharp now, tinged with frustration and hurt. He’s not yelling, but his tone cuts through you.

“No, it’s not like that. I just didn’t know how to—”

“Didn’t know how to what?” He interrupts, his voice rising slightly, his eyes flashing. “Didn’t know how to tell me I’m just some fuckin’ fling to you?”

“No!” you shake your head desperately, stepping forward, but the words feel stuck, like no explanation is good enough. “It’s not like that, I just—”

“Then what?” His voice cracks, and for a moment, you see something raw in his expression. He lets out a shaky breath and takes a step back, his shoulders slumping as he runs a hand through his messy hair. The usual fire in his eyes dims, replaced with exhaustion—emotional exhaustion. He looks tired. Tired of fighting for you. “Y’know what? Whatever. Do whatever the hell you want.”

You freeze as he turns, his back to you, and walks toward the door. Your mouth opens to stop him, but no words come out. You watch helplessly as he reaches for the door handle, his movements slow and heavy, like he’s waiting for you to say something—anything. 

But you don’t. 

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening. 

You stand there, your heart pounding, staring at the empty space where he just stood. The weight of the conversation, of everything you didn’t say, settles in the pit of your stomach, and for the first time, you realize just how badly you’ve messed up. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to feel this way. But it does. And now, you’re left standing in the aftermath of your own avoidance, the silence of the room echoing with the absence of him.

And for the first time, you wonder if it’s too late to fix things.

────────────────────────

The weeks after your... breakup? Was it even that? You still don’t know how to label it, but whatever it was, it’s hard. It hurts more than you thought it would, more than you ever expected it could. You don’t cry easily, you’ve never been the type to fall apart over someone, but Katsuki—Bakugou—was different. His absence feels like a missing piece of your life, a hole that you can’t seem to fill no matter how much you try.

You find yourself crying at night, tears slipping down your cheeks as you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s a quiet kind of crying, the kind where your chest aches and your throat tightens, but you don’t make a sound. It’s unexpected, this grief, this sense of loss. You hadn’t realized how much he meant to you until he wasn’t there anymore. Until the warmth of his presence, his gruff voice, his touch was gone, leaving you cold and hollow.

But you push through it. You force yourself to keep going, to focus on your work, because that’s what you do. You’ve always been good at throwing yourself into your career when things get hard, and this time is no different. Even if your heart feels like it’s been ripped out. Even if you feel like you’re walking around with this empty, aching space inside you. 

Even if it feels like... love.

But you don’t let yourself dwell on that thought. You shove it down, deep inside, where you don’t have to deal with it. Instead, you work. You focus on your job, on the constant demands of your schedule. Haute Couture Week in Paris comes quickly, and you’re on a plane before you even realize it, throwing yourself into the chaos of the fashion world.

Paris is as hectic and glamorous as always. You’re swept into a whirlwind of fittings, castings, and shows. You walk down runways draped in the most luxurious fabrics, you pose for countless photoshoots, you attend brand events where everyone looks perfect, where everyone seems to have it all together. On the surface, you look the part—you’re poised, composed, radiant. But inside, your thoughts are consumed with him.

Every time you stand still for more than a second, your mind drifts back to Katsuki. To the way he looked that night at your door, the hurt in his eyes, the way he walked away. You think about the nights you spent with him, about the softness in his touch that you hadn’t expected, about the way he kissed you with such intensity that it made you feel like you were the only person in the world. 

You miss the way he would scowl when he was embarrassed, the way he’d flick your forehead when you teased him, the way he’d grumble but still pull you closer when you were lying in bed together. You miss him, and no matter how much work you bury yourself in, that feeling doesn’t go away. 

And you do bury yourself in work. 

You walk runway after runway, your legs aching from the hours spent in heels. You attend fittings, standing perfectly still as designers adjust fabric on your body, their hands moving with practiced precision. You barely eat, following the strict diet that keeps you in shape for the shows, even when your stomach growls in protest. You push through photoshoot after photoshoot, your face a mask of calm professionalism even when your head feels like it’s going to burst from exhaustion.

By the time Haute Couture Week ends, you’re exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. But there’s no time to rest, no time to stop and process the whirlwind of emotions that have been swirling inside you since that night with Katsuki. September is coming fast, and with it, the next fashion month. Castings have already started, and of course, you’re booked solid. Tsukiyo, Ryūmon, Dsquared2, Dior—they all want you, and you don’t have the luxury of slowing down.

You tell yourself that this is what you need. That keeping busy is good, that focusing on your career will help you forget. But late at night, when the city around you is quiet and your hotel room feels too big, too empty, you can’t stop your thoughts from drifting back to him. To the way he said your name, his voice rough but soft at the edges. To the way he held you close after everything, his hands gentle on your skin. To the way he looked at you, like you were more than just some casual fling, like you were something that mattered.

And that’s what scares you the most.

Because deep down, you know it was never just casual for him. You saw it in the way he touched you, in the way he let you call him by his first name, in the way he always made sure you were comfortable, that you were okay. You could feel it in the way he held you close, even when he didn’t say the words. Katsuki was serious about you, and that terrified you because you hadn’t let yourself believe that you could be serious about him too. 

But now, lying in your hotel bed, staring at the ceiling in the dim light, you wonder if maybe... maybe you were serious about him too. Maybe this wasn’t just some casual thing for you either. Maybe you let your fear get the best of you. Maybe you pushed him away because you were scared of what it meant to feel this way about someone.

Maybe... it’s too late to fix it.

You first meet Kirishima Eijirou at the brand event for Yūgen, a high-end luxury brand that’s slowly carving its name into the industry. 

The event is bathed in understated elegance, the kind that makes everything feel weightless, like an ethereal dream. The fragrance of Yūgen lingers in the air, soft but pervasive, the scent weaving in and out of your senses. It’s a haunting aroma—woody, floral, with a touch of something mysterious that stays with you long after you leave the room. The brand’s aesthetic mirrors that feeling, subtle craftsmanship and poetic beauty all wrapped in quiet luxury.

You’re wearing one of Yūgen’s finest designs: The Moonlit Silk Gown, a floor-length masterpiece in pearlescent ivory that moves like liquid moonlight against your skin. The cherry blossom embroidery is so delicate, it looks as though it might dissolve at any moment. The backless design leaves a trail of silk down your spine, each movement making you feel like a walking work of art, fragile but powerful. You look flawless—because you have to—but inside, you’re far from it. 

It’s been a long week. A long month, really. 

Physically, you’re exhausted. Every photoshoot, every runway, every campaign pulls energy from you in a way that leaves you hollow by the end of the day. But emotionally? That’s where the real toll is. It’s been weeks since you and Katsuki—Bakugou, you remind yourself, like a bad habit you need to kick—had your falling out, and despite throwing yourself into work, the ache hasn’t dulled. 

A vacation sounds tempting, but the thought of having time—time to rest, time to think—is too much. You don’t want to think. Not about what happened, not about the way you avoided him, not about the hurt in his eyes that still haunts you late at night. So you bury yourself in everything else—work, events, anything that keeps you moving forward without looking back.

The event is in full swing, and you’ve spent hours mingling, moving through the crowd like a ghost, smiling, nodding, talking to people whose faces blur together after a while. Celebrities, designers, businessmen, all wanting a piece of your attention. You’re good at it—the small talk, the easy charm, the graceful way you handle yourself. But by the time you finally find a moment to sit down, you feel like you’re about to collapse.

Your feet ache from the heels you’ve been wearing all night, sharp pains shooting through your legs with each step. Your head pounds from the constant hum of conversation, lights, and the weight of it all. You take a deep breath, trying to center yourself, to focus on anything other than the discomfort coursing through you. You consider finding an excuse to leave early, to escape the noise and the pressure, but before you can even act on it, a voice cuts through the noise around you.

“Hi, may I sit here for a moment?”

You blink, looking up, surprised to find a tall figure standing over you, smiling. It takes you a second to place him—Kirishima Eijirou, also known as Pro Hero Red Riot. 

He’s famous, one of the top heroes in the country, known for his kindness as much as his strength. You’ve heard about him before, mostly from Katsuki. Despite Bakugou’s endless grumbling about Shitty Hair this, Shitty Hair that, you could always tell there was a lot of affection there. Kirishima is one of Bakugou’s closest friends, a bond that goes back to their high school days. 

It’s odd, meeting one of Bakugou’s friends now, after everything that’s happened between you two. You’ve only met Kaminari and Ashido briefly, and that was back when things with Katsuki were... different. Now, you don’t know where you stand with him, let alone the people in his life. 

But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Not after how things ended.

“Yeah, go ahead,” you say, forcing a polite smile. Your voice is steady, though inside, you feel the familiar tension creeping back up your spine. You watch as Kirishima sits down beside you, his broad frame filling the space with a kind of easy warmth. He’s dressed in a sleek black suit, the fabric perfectly tailored to his muscular form. A golden chain hangs around his neck, catching the soft light of the room. 

He doesn’t feel overwhelming, though. Despite his large frame and the unmistakable air of strength he carries, Kirishima exudes a kind of gentleness that puts you at ease almost immediately. His presence is the complete opposite of the tension that’s been gnawing at you all night. 

“Long event, huh?” Kirishima says, his voice light, but there’s a genuine empathy in his tone. It’s the kind of voice that invites you to relax, to drop the mask you’ve been wearing all night.

You nod, offering him a tired smile. “Yeah. It’s been a long week, actually.”

He chuckles softly. “I bet. These things can be exhausting, even for someone like you.” His eyes flicker down to your gown, admiration clear in his gaze. “You look incredible, by the way. That dress... it’s something else.”

You let a tired smile curl around your lips. “Thanks,” you say softly, though the compliment feels weightless. You’ve been hearing it all evening, and the words don’t really touch you anymore. 

Kirishima smiles back, but his expression carries a hint of concern now. His easygoing demeanor is still there, but there’s something more perceptive in his gaze. 

There’s a pause, a moment of silence between the two of you, as the murmur of the event continues around you, but Kirishima doesn’t seem to mind the quiet. “You seem overworked,” he says after a moment, his voice gentle but probing.

You shrug, taking a sip from the champagne in your hand. The bubbles fizzle, but even the sharp taste of alcohol does little to break through the numbness you’ve been carrying all night. “I am,” you admit.

He raises a brow, clearly concerned. “Why don’t you take a break then?”

The answer comes to you immediately, almost on instinct. “I don’t want to,” you say flatly. “Taking a break means having time for myself, and that’s the last thing I need right now. Plus, I can’t.” You gesture vaguely, feeling the weight of your schedule already pressing down on you. “Fashion Week is in two months, and my calendar’s already packed. There’s no time.”

Kirishima hums in understanding, but there’s something unsaid in the air between you. His gaze softens as he looks at you, clearly mulling over his next words. The silence stretches, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he knows about you and Bakugou—if Katsuki ever mentioned you to his friends. Did he talk about you? Did they know you were… something, once? The thought makes your heart flutter, but it’s quickly followed by the familiar ache. You feel a lump rise in your throat as you try to push it all down.

Before you can dwell on it further, Kirishima finally speaks. “You know, I have a friend,” he says, his tone casual but laced with something deeper. “He kind of reminds me of what you’re going through. Recently, he went through something… rough, and it’s been hard on him. He’s been burying himself in work, and honestly, he’s not the same as he used to be. Not as happy, not as... alive. Like, something’s missing, you know?”

Your breath hitches. You know where this is going, but you can’t stop yourself from listening, from feeling every word sink deeper.

“The funny thing is,” Kirishima continues, his voice softening, “he never really told us about it. We found out by accident, actually—one of our friends snooped through his phone and found a picture.” He chuckles lightly, but it’s a sad sound. “He was pissed, obviously, but he didn’t stay mad for long. I think it’s because back then, he was still happy. Whatever he had, it made him content. But then… things happened.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile is sympathetic, almost knowing. “I think you understand.”

Yeah. He definitely knows. 

The weight of his words settles in your chest, heavy and suffocating. You feel the guilt rise up, thick and choking, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. You don’t want to show just how much it’s affecting you. “I hope your friend is doing okay,” you manage, though your voice comes out quieter than you intended.

Kirishima shrugs, his eyes flickering with a sadness of their own. “He says he is, but… I know him. He’s not.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. It’s all your fault. You can feel it—deep down, you know it. You’ve hurt him, and now he’s suffering because of it. The thought makes your chest tighten painfully. “I bet that… something he had misses him, too,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe they didn’t realize how important he was until it was too late.”

Kirishima smiles, but it’s tinged with that same sadness. “Yeah. That’s usually how it goes, isn’t it? We don’t realize what we’ve lost until it’s gone.”

You let out a small, bitter chuckle, nodding in agreement. The weight of the truth in his words is almost unbearable. You didn’t realize. Not until it was too late. And now, you’re left with nothing but the hollow ache of what used to be.

Kirishima watches you carefully, as if weighing his next words. “But, you know,” he says after a pause, “my friend, for all his gruffness… he’s pretty forgiving. He’s changed a lot since we were kids. He’s softened, in his own way.”

Your heart stutters at his words. You feel the lump in your throat grow bigger, making it hard to breathe. “Do you…” You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Do you think he’d forgive that something? If they tried to make things right?”

Kirishima shrugs, but there’s a softness in his gaze as he looks at you. “I think he would. He misses them more than they probably realize. But… they won’t know unless they try.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, and before you can say anything else, Kirishima stands up, offering you a kind smile. “It was nice talking to you. And hey, think about that vacation. It might be exactly what you need.”

You nod, too overwhelmed to say much in response, and watch as he walks away, his presence fading into the crowd.

The second he’s gone, your mind spins in a thousand directions. You sit still, your thoughts a jumbled mess of guilt, regret, and longing. You think about what Kirishima said—about Katsuki, about how he misses you, about how he might forgive you if you reached out.

Is it possible? Could he really forgive you? After everything?

Your heart races as you play the conversation over and over in your head, and slowly, a realization starts to settle in. You’ve been running from your feelings for weeks, but now… maybe it’s time to stop. 

Maybe it’s time to try. 

That’s when you make your decision. 

You’re done hiding; done avoiding the truth.

The commute to his apartment is hell. 

Everything that could go wrong, does. There’s an accident on the highway, forcing your driver to navigate the congested streets of Musutafu. The city is thick with humidity, and a summer storm has turned the streets into rivers. The rain pounds against the car windows relentlessly, and every drop seems to mock you, making you feel like the world itself is pushing back against this decision.

A few blocks from Katsuki’s apartment, the road is blocked by construction. Of course it is. Because, why wouldn’t it be? You’re so close, and the frustration bubbles up inside you until it spills over. Without thinking, you throw the door open and leap out of the car, pulling off your heels and clutching them in your hand. The rain immediately drenches you, soaking through the silk of your gown. 

But you run. Barefoot through the city streets, you run.

By the time you reach his building, you’re a sight—your silk dress clings to your skin, the once-elegant fabric now heavy and dripping, your hair plastered to your face. Your heels, still in your hand, are soaked through, and your feet slap against the slick pavement as you take the final steps to his door.

You knock, and it only takes a few moments before the door swings open. Katsuki stands in the doorway, his body immediately tensing as his gaze sweeps over you. His eyes go wide, and you can see the confusion—maybe even concern—flicker in them as he takes you in. 

You probably look like a drowned rat, soaking wet and panting from your sprint, but that’s not what gets to you. It’s him. It’s the way he looks. He’s tired. So tired. His eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, and the bags under them make it clear he hasn’t been sleeping. His broad shoulders are hunched, his usual fire subdued, and that alone breaks something inside of you. 

You did this to him.

“What the fuck—” he starts, his voice rough, but you cut him off before he can get any further.

“No. You listen to me.” You step forward, your heart hammering in your chest, your breath coming in shallow gasps from your run. “I want to talk. I couldn’t do that last time.”

His mouth snaps shut, and he blinks, clearly thrown by the intensity in your voice. He nods, just slightly, a gesture so small that most people wouldn’t even notice it—but you do. He’s listening.

You take a breath, trying to steady the storm of emotions swirling inside you, and then you begin. “I never meant to avoid you,” you say, voice shaky but determined. “I just… wasn’t ready to deal with the weight of what happened. I wasn’t ready to confront the feelings that you—” You swallow hard. “—the feelings you gave me.”

Katsuki’s eyes stay locked on yours, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way he’s trying to keep himself calm, to hear you out.

“I always thought I wasn’t ready for a relationship,” you continue, feeling the words start to spill out faster, as if you need to get them out before you lose your nerve. “I thought I wanted something casual. But you… you changed that. You made me realize how wrong I was.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you force yourself to keep going. “I miss you. I miss you all the time. I miss your warmth, your kisses, the way you hold me close, the way you always make sure I’m comfortable, the way you’re grumpy but always so sweet… I miss everything about you.”

His breathing picks up, a faint hitch in his chest, and you notice the way his hands flex at his sides, like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

“You were never just a fling to me,” you say, your throat tightening with emotion. “And I’m sorry I made you feel like you were. I’m sorry for everything. I was scared, and I didn’t know what I wanted, but now I do. I want you.”

You see him stiffen at those words, his expression shifting, but you press on. You have to say it all, everything.

“Today… today made me realize just how stupid I’ve been,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t know what I had until I lost you. And I’m—” You choke slightly on the words, but push through them. “I’m in love with you.”

He inhales sharply, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet hallway, but he doesn’t move. His eyes widen slightly, but you can’t stop now.

“I think about you all the time,” you continue, your voice shaking with every word. “I feel like such an idiot, because I had everything—you—and I screwed it up. I was scared, and I—I let you walk away, but I don’t want to make that mistake again. I want you, Katsuki. I’m choosing you.”

The words hang heavy in the air between you, each one carrying the weight of everything you've been too scared to admit, too scared to confront. The hallway is quiet, save for the sound of your uneven breathing and the faint drumming of rain against the building outside. Katsuki is still standing there, his broad frame taking up the entire doorway, but he's utterly still. His eyes are locked on yours, wide and unblinking, as if he's trying to process every single word you’ve just thrown at him. 

And you know Katsuki. 

You know him in ways most people don’t. He’s strong, stubborn, and often explosive, but beneath that tough exterior is a vulnerability that he hides from the world. He doesn’t let people in easily, not really. His sharp edges and brash attitude are a shield, a way to protect himself from the constant pressure, the overwhelming expectations. He’s used to people seeing him as a weapon, a force of nature. But never as something to be chosen—never as someone who could be the safe place for someone else.

So when you stand here, drenched in rain and raw emotion, telling him that you do choose him, that you’re in love with him, it shakes him to his core. You can see it in the way his breath catches, in the way his body tenses like he’s bracing for impact. His eyes, usually so full of fire, are now filled with disbelief, as if he’s trying to convince himself that this is real, that you're real.

His lips part slightly, but no words come out. It’s like he’s frozen, caught between wanting to say something and not knowing how to. Bakugou Katsuki, the man who always has something to say, who always knows how to react, is speechless. 

The silence stretches on, and with each passing second, your heart feels like it’s being squeezed tighter and tighter. You’ve laid everything out—your heart, your soul, your fears—and the silence in return feels like a weight pressing down on your chest. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and your throat tightens, making it hard to breathe.

“Say something,” you whisper, your voice trembling as the tears finally start to spill over. You can’t stop them anymore. They fall freely now, mixing with the rain still dripping from your soaked hair and clinging to your skin. “Please.”

Katsuki’s eyes flicker, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting some internal battle. He’s never been good with words—he’s never been good with feelings—and you can see how much he’s struggling right now. The vulnerability on his face is something you’ve only seen a handful of times, and it cuts through you like a knife. 

Finally, he exhales sharply, a sound that’s more like a growl than a breath, and he takes a step forward. His hand reaches out, hesitating for just a fraction of a second before he cups your face, his palm warm against your cold, rain-soaked skin. His thumb brushes away a tear from your cheek, the gesture so uncharacteristically gentle for him that it makes your heart ache even more.

“You… fuckin’ idiot,” he mutters, his voice rough and thick with emotion. There’s no anger in his words, though—just a kind of raw frustration and something deeper, something more vulnerable. His crimson eyes are locked on yours, searching your face as if he’s trying to make sure this is real, that you’re not going to disappear on him again. “You think… you think I didn’t fuckin’ want this? That I didn’t want you?”

You blink up at him, the tears still blurring your vision. His voice is cracking in a way you’ve never heard before, and it hits you just how much this means to him. 

“I wanted you,” he says, his hand still cradling your face as he leans in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Fuck… I still want you.” His voice is raw, the vulnerability bleeding through with every word. “But you…” He swallows hard, his other hand coming up to grip your waist, pulling you just a little bit closer. “You pushed me away. You made me think… I wasn’t enough. Like I wasn’t worth shit to you.”

The pain in his voice is palpable, and it makes your chest ache in a way that feels almost unbearable. You shake your head, your own voice cracking as you try to get the words out. “No. No, Katsuki, that’s not—”

He cuts you off, his grip tightening just slightly, but not in a way that hurts. It’s like he’s holding on to you for dear life, afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear again. “You don’t get it,” he mutters, his breath hot against your skin. “No one… no one ever fuckin’ chooses me. Not like this. You think I didn’t want you to come after me? You think I didn’t want you to fight for me?”

His words hit you like a freight train, and you can’t stop the sob that escapes your lips. He’s right. You did push him away. You made him feel like he wasn’t worth it, like he didn’t matter as much as he should have. And now, seeing the pain in his eyes, hearing the hurt in his voice, it feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Katsuki. I was scared, and I didn’t know how to handle it, but I… I love you. I love you so much, and I don’t want to lose you again.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find the truth in your words. Then, slowly, his expression softens, the hardness in his gaze melting away as he exhales a shaky breath. His thumb brushes over your cheek again, wiping away the fresh tears. 

“Shitty timing,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words. In fact, there’s something almost tender in the way he says it, like he’s trying to hold on to his usual roughness, but it’s slipping through his fingers. 

You let out a shaky laugh, your tears still flowing, but now there’s a warmth building in your chest—hope, maybe. You can feel it in the way he’s holding you, in the way his body is slowly relaxing against yours. He still wants you. He still cares.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I know.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The rain continues to fall outside, the world around you moving on without care, but in this small space, it’s just the two of you. Just Katsuki and you, standing in the doorway of his apartment, soaked to the bone and hearts laid bare.

Finally, he pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace that leaves no space between you. His chin rests on top of your head, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his heart beats against yours. 

“Don’t run from me again,” he murmurs, his voice gruff but laced with something soft, something tender. “I won’t fuckin’ let you.” 

You nod against his chest, your arms wrapping around him as tightly as you can. “I won’t. I promise.” 

He’s warm and so familiar, and you pull away from the embrace slowly, your fingertips grazing the sharp edge of his jaw as if grounding yourself in the solidity of him. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and there’s a slight tremor in his breath, a vulnerability that only you get to see. With your hands framing his face, you look up into his eyes—those deep, crimson eyes that burn like embers in the dim light of the hallway—and you murmur, “I love you.”

The words are soft but sure, slipping from your lips like a secret, and they hang in the air between you, filling the space with something fragile yet undeniably real. Katsuki’s breath hitches, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that betrays the storm brewing inside him. His hands, which have always been rough, steady, and unyielding, now grip your waist gently, like he's afraid you might vanish if he holds too tightly.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he closes his eyes for the briefest moment, letting the weight of your confession settle inside him, and when he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that you rarely get to see. It’s raw, unguarded, and it steals the air from your lungs. His head dips, and with a shuddering breath, he captures your lips with his own.

The kiss is tender, a slow unfolding of everything unsaid. It’s not rushed or frantic—it’s a return, a homecoming. It feels like stepping back onto familiar shores after being adrift for too long. His lips, warm and firm, taste of all the things you missed, of safety and fire, of passion restrained but not diminished. His kiss is like the first light of dawn breaking across the horizon, soft yet full of promise. It’s the summer sun that melts the tension from your bones, the serene hush of winter’s first snow, the gentle bloom of spring flowers, and the quiet fall of autumn leaves—all of it wrapped into one. A constant rhythm, pure and right, grounding you in the moment.

Before you realize it, he’s pulling you into his apartment, the door shutting behind you with a soft click. Your heels clatter to the floor in the genkan, forgotten as his strong arms wrap around you, lifting you with effortless grace. Your hands find their place again, cradling his jaw, your fingers tangling in his hair as his lips seek yours with a fervor that leaves you breathless. You’re weightless in his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he guides you down the familiar hallway, each step measured and deliberate, leading you toward the sanctuary of his bedroom.

The scent of him surrounds you, filling your senses—sharp and smoky, like burning embers, mixed with something inherently Katsuki. You missed this. You missed the way he feels against you, the steady pulse of his heartbeat as it thunders beneath his skin, the way his presence alone fills every corner of the space with warmth.

He lays you gently on the bed, the mattress sinking beneath your weight, and for a moment, he pulls back. The loss of his warmth is brief, but you feel it keenly until he’s tugging his shirt over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, every scar etched into his skin like a map of battles won and lost. His body tells stories—of strength, of endurance, of survival—but all you see is the man who holds you now, the man who wears his heart hidden beneath layers of gruffness and fire.

Your hands move instinctively, tracing the familiar lines of his chest and shoulders. Your fingertips ghost over each scar, each ridge, as if memorizing him all over again. His skin is hot beneath your touch, and your hands curl around the back of his neck, pulling him back to you. His mouth meets yours once more, but this time the kiss is deeper, more urgent, the heat between you building with each passing second.

He welcomes you back like the dawn welcomes the night—slowly, but with an inevitability that feels like fate. His touch is reverent, as if you’re something sacred, something to be cherished. His hands, rough and calloused from years of combat, move with a surprising gentleness as they begin to peel the wet fabric of your dress away from your body. It clings to your skin, soaked through from the rain, but he is patient, his fingers working carefully, unwrapping you from the silk like a gift.

His touch is molten, a slow burn that spreads through you, lighting up every nerve. It’s like molasses—thick, slow, and deliberate—filling the space between you, pulling you deeper into the moment. Katsuki is fire, fierce and untamed, and in his hands, you feel like molten gold, soft and pliable, shaping yourself to the heat of his touch. He moves with purpose, his gaze never leaving yours as he strips away the last barrier between you, leaving you bare beneath him.

When he finally presses his body against yours, skin to skin, it feels like everything you’ve been missing. His warmth envelops you, his presence grounding you in a way that nothing else can. His hands roam over you, tracing every curve, every line, his fingers mapping out the soft planes of your body with a tenderness that contrasts with the fire that burns in his eyes.

There’s something unspoken between you now, something that doesn’t need words. His touch is a silent claim, his fingers skimming over the dips of your waist, the arch of your spine, the softness of your thighs. He knows every inch of you, and yet it feels new all over again, like he’s discovering you for the first time. His hands are steady, but there’s a quiet desperation in the way he holds you, like he’s afraid this moment might slip away if he lets go.

Katsuki’s breath is hot against your skin as he lowers himself down, pressing kisses along your collarbone, down to the hollow of your throat, each one a promise, a vow. His touch is deliberate, a slow, deliberate worship of your body, as if he’s reminding you of everything you are, everything you mean to him. His hands glide over your hips, his fingers brushing the tender skin of your inner thighs, and you arch into him, your breath hitching as you feel the weight of his love in every movement, every touch.

In his arms, you are safe. In his arms, you are whole.

He is fire and strength, and you are his, claimed by the fierce heat that only he can bring. You are molten gold, shaped and refined in the crucible of his love, and together, you burn brighter than the stars.

His lips press against yours, fueled by a newfound hunger, a kind of urgency that pulls a gasp from your throat, a soft whimper that escapes into the space between you. His hands roam your body with a heated reverence, fingers tracing the curves of your waist, the swell of your hips, until one hand dips lower, slipping between your legs. When his finger slides inside you, the sensation is immediate, raw—a sharp intake of breath echoes through him as he feels you clench around him. You’re so warm, so wet, and it sends a shudder down his spine.

You can feel the tremor in him, the restraint, the overwhelming desire bubbling beneath the surface as his forehead presses against yours, breath mingling with yours in the stillness of the room. Another deep pant leaves him as he moves his finger inside you, the motion making you arch into him, your body responding to him as if you were always meant to. But before you can even catch your breath, he pulls away, eyes burning with a fire that ignites something deep inside you, and in one swift motion, he’s pressing his hips against you, rutting the length of his cock against your slick heat.

His body trembles with restraint as he teases you, but soon enough, he can’t hold back. His hand grips your thigh, pulling you closer as he lines himself up, and then he slips inside you—slowly at first, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, taking you inch by inch until he’s seated fully within you. The world stills, and for a brief moment, it’s just him and you—joined together as one, moving in a rhythm older than time itself.

It feels like floating—weightless, untethered, as if you’re both suspended in the space between worlds. He rolls his hips, a slow, rhythmic tide, and you meet him, each thrust a push and pull, the two of you locked in a quiet dance. It’s like the meeting of the sea and the bioluminescent sands, glowing with heat and light, each touch sparking something deep and primal within you.

You murmur his name, “Katsuki…” your voice breathless and needy, and he responds with a kiss, his lips soft but insistent as they claim yours. He thrusts into you, achingly gentle, his movements precise but tender, each one filled with care. His hips move steadily, his hands cradling your body as though you’re something delicate, something priceless. To him, you’re precious—a masterpiece he’s lucky enough to hold, a delicate thing that he handles with reverence. Every time he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are filled with something deeper than desire—something raw and unspoken, something that ties the two of you together in ways words never could. 

Your hands drift over the hard planes of his chest, tracing the scars that mark his skin—testaments to battles fought and won, to the life he’s lived. Your fingers explore the rough edges of his body, skimming over the taut muscles that ripple beneath his skin, and the stubble along his jaw that scratches lightly against your fingertips. Each touch is full of reverence, because to you, Katsuki isn’t just a work of art; he’s a force of nature. He’s beauty in its rawest form, an Adonis sculpted from lava and tempered by explosions. He’s the embodiment of power, but beneath it, you feel the vulnerability he only ever reveals to you.

Your hands continue to explore his body, memorizing every part of him. You thumb the scars along his shoulders, fingers dancing along the ridges of his abs, and as you do, you marvel at how someone so strong, so unyielding, can be so gentle, so loving. He moves inside you with reverence, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and heavy against your lips. His body presses down against yours, the heat of him sinking into your bones as he thrusts deeper, driving you further into the mattress. His movements are unhurried but deliberate, each one building on the last until the tension in your body coils tight. 

And then it snaps, the pleasure washing over you in waves, pulling you under as you come undone beneath him. His name is the only thing you can manage, whispered over and over like a mantra, like a promise, your hands clutching at him as though he’s the only thing anchoring you to this moment. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes, not from sadness but from the overwhelming emotion of it all—of being with him like this, of feeling loved, cherished.

Katsuki follows you into that blissful fall, his own body trembling as he reaches his release. A broken moan escapes him, raw and guttural, his forehead pressing into the crook of your neck as he holds you close, his thrusts slowing to a stop. His breath is warm against your skin as he cups your cheeks, tilting your face toward him for a kiss that’s softer now, full of unspoken words and emotions too heavy to name.

When he pulls back, his forehead resting gently against yours, his eyes flicker open, and you see everything in them—gold, violet, amber, the brightest and most precious colors shimmering in the depths of his gaze. It’s as though he holds the universe within him, and all of it is focused on you. His lips brush against yours, the softest of touches, and he whispers in that deep, gravelly voice, “I love you too.”

The tears you’ve been holding back spill over, but they’re happy tears, and you blink them away as you smile. You press another kiss to his lips, your heart full, knowing that whatever happens next, you’ve found your way back to him. 

And that’s all that matters.

The aftermath is a world all its own—silent, untouched by the chaos that exists beyond the walls of his bedroom. 

Here, in the quiet glow of the moonlight, everything feels simple. The unspoken tension and complicated emotions that usually color the spaces between you seem to fade, leaving only this moment. It’s just you and Katsuki, wrapped up in each other, connected by something deeper than words could ever capture.

You’re cradled against him, his body solid and warm beneath you. His fingers trace slow, languid lines up and down your side, a repetitive, soothing motion that makes you feel grounded. Your own fingers mirror his, lazily drawing circles over the hard planes of his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths under your touch. The scent of him—burnt caramel, cloves, sandalwood—wraps around you like a familiar blanket. It’s intoxicating and comforting, a part of him that feels so deeply etched into you now, as permanent as carvings on an ancient tree.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The stillness is sacred. But then, as if the weight of everything unsaid finds its way to your lips, you break the silence. "You know," you whisper, your voice soft as it brushes against the darkness, “today I realized that I deserve to take a break. To stop running away from everything.”

Katsuki’s fingers still for a moment on your skin, but then he leans down slightly, a silent acknowledgment that he’s listening. His hand rests at your hip, grounding you both.

“And… and you do too,” you continue, your voice growing a little stronger, though still fragile. "Your mom’s always on you about taking a vacation, right?" You feel his chest rise sharply beneath your head, his body stiffening just slightly. You take a shaky breath, pushing forward with the thought that’s been growing in your mind. “So… I booked two tickets. In the car. On my way here. To Indonesia. A luxury vacation. The plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

For a second, the world pauses. Katsuki freezes, his hand stopping mid-motion, his entire body going still as if he’s trying to process the words. Slowly, he leans up, propping himself on his elbows, his gaze searching your face with a mix of disbelief and confusion. His fingers find your chin, tipping your face toward him so your eyes meet. “You did what?” His voice is low, rough, not quite angry but edged with a bewilderment that you rarely see from him.

You lean into his touch, your heart swelling at the feel of his calloused fingers against your skin. “I want to go away with you,” you say, your voice steady and honest. “I’m tired, and you’re tired, and I just… I want to be with the man I love. To take time for us. Away from everything.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing. His chest rises and falls beneath you, each breath coming in measured, as if he’s trying to contain the flood of emotions threatening to break through. His jaw tightens, muscles clenching as he looks at you, something raw and vulnerable flickering in his gaze.

It’s like he can’t believe it. Like he’s struggling to understand that you, here in this moment, are choosing him. That you’ve made this grand, impulsive decision for him—for both of you. His eyes dart away, unable to hold your gaze, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. You watch the way his emotions twist inside him, how they tangle up in his mind like a storm that he can’t quite put into words. You can see it all—the disbelief, the hesitation, the way this feels too good to be real for him.

He doesn’t speak, but the weight of his silence says everything. For someone like Katsuki, someone who’s spent his whole life being told he’s too much, too harsh, too aggressive—it’s hard to let himself be wanted like this. To be chosen. And it breaks your heart a little, knowing that this is how deep his vulnerability runs, how much he’s carried on his own without ever asking for anything.

Gently, you reach up, brushing your thumb along his jaw, guiding his face back toward yours. “You deserve this too, Katsuki,” you whisper. “You deserve to take a break. To just… be with someone who loves you.” Your voice softens, a faint crack in the quiet. “Let me love you.”

His breath stutters at those words, his eyes meeting yours again, this time filled with something deeper—something fragile. His hands tighten on your body, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But then, he just exhales shakily, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

You can feel the tension slowly leaving his body, the weight of his resistance melting away as he allows himself to accept what you’re offering. He doesn’t speak, not yet, but his lips brush against yours in the softest of kisses, and you know he’s heard you.

It’s a moment of surrender, not just to you but to the idea that he can have this—that he’s allowed to be loved like this. And as you both lay there, tangled in each other, you realize that this is the start of something new. 

Something real. 

Something that, for once, feels like it’s yours to keep.

There has to be someone sabotaging Tsukiyo, you think. There’s no way this could happen two Fashion Weeks in a row—the final outfits not fitting again.

It’s déjà vu. Minase looks like she’s on the verge of a breakdown. The tension in the room is thick as assistants, stylists, and tailors dart around like bees in a hive, scrambling to fix the chaos unfolding before them. You’re sitting in the same spot you were last time, watching the chaos but strangely calm, Amanai seated beside you. The familiarity of it all is almost comical.

“This can’t just be bad luck, right? Someone has to be sabotaging the brand,” you muse aloud, watching Amanai get her hair touched up while your own makeup artist carefully layers shimmer onto your eyelids. 

Amanai snorts, tilting her head slightly as the stylist adjusts a stray curl. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But at this point, I’m almost used to it. Minase will just do what she always does. Cut some outfits and make sure the important ones fit. These are summer pieces anyway—more skin showing means less fabric to worry about.”

You chuckle, a tired sound that mingles with the hum of panic around you. The Spring/Summer collection is about fluidity and celestial romance, staying true to Tsukiyo’s ethereal identity. You’re supposed to embody that dreamlike essence, but right now it feels more like a fever dream than a romantic one.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. She always manages to pull something off.”

Like clockwork, Minase’s voice cuts through the frenzy. “We’re cutting some outfits!” she announces, her voice laced with an edge of barely-contained frustration. “We’ll focus on the most important pieces. It’ll shorten the show, but it’s all we can do.” She turns to one of the stylists, rubbing her temples with a groan. “At least The Celestial Ripple Dress still fits,” she mutters under her breath, almost as if she's trying to convince herself that this won't be a complete disaster.

You exhale, grateful that your outfit isn’t one of the ones causing trouble. 

With hair and makeup done, you’re hurried to the fitting room, where the assistants and tailors usher you into your first outfit of the night: The Sakura Veil Jumpsuit. It’s an airy, pastel pink piece, with floral appliqués floating on a sheer overlay. The deep V-neckline glimmers with crystal embellishments, catching the light as you move. You feel the soft iridescent embroidery brush against your skin, mimicking the delicate movement of petals in the wind.

It’s snug, but the tailors make some quick adjustments, and soon enough, you’re able to walk comfortably in it. With one final touch-up to your hair and makeup, you prepare yourself for the runway, the whirlwind of activity swirling around you like an unseen storm.

Amanai and Hanari are already at the curtains, peeking out at the venue. Amanai is dressed in The Moonlit Nomad Ensemble, a layered kimono-inspired blazer in misty gray, paired with fluid silk palazzo trousers that make her look like she’s gliding. Embroidered constellations shimmer faintly on the blazer, cinched at the waist with a metallic indigo belt, adding a regal structure to the otherwise ethereal look. 

Hanari is draped in The Ocean Mirage Dress, a sky-blue gown made of sheer layers of chiffon that ripple like water. The bodice is structured with wave-like 3D elements, flowing seamlessly into a skirt of cascading ruffles edged with micro-crystals that glitter with every movement.

Amanai turns to you, her expression calm despite the chaos. “So? Ready?”

You smile wryly, adjusting your boots. “I think so. Just hope I don’t face-plant. These boots are a little slippery, and I don’t think I can handle the embarrassment of falling in front of everyone.”

Hanari snorts, barely suppressing her laughter. “Just make sure to fall gracefully, then. That’ll still fit the theme, right?”

You all share a brief moment of amusement, but soon enough, it’s time to get serious. The smirks and giggles are quickly replaced with the practiced poise of professionals. 

Time to focus.

One by one, you step onto the runway. Hanari goes first, her gown flowing like liquid, followed by Amanai, whose ensemble glints subtly in the soft lighting. Finally, it’s your turn.

The second your foot touches the glossy floor of the runway, the world condenses into a singular moment. The backstage chaos falls away like a distant memory, and all that remains is the rhythmic click of your boots against the floor and the steady pulse of your own breath. The lights are blinding, but you keep your gaze forward, your body moving with effortless grace. You’ve done this a hundred times, but tonight, there’s something sharper about your focus, something more intense.

The audience fades into the background, their murmurs barely registering in your mind. Each step feels deliberate, every movement controlled. You feel the fabric of your jumpsuit shift against your skin, the weight of the crystals on your chest catching the light as you move. The shimmering appliqués float as if alive, and you become a part of Tsukiyo’s dreamscape—an ethereal figure, moving through a world of starlight and fluid beauty.

As you near the end of the runway, you pause, turning slowly to give the audience a full view of the outfit. You hold your head high, projecting an aura of quiet confidence. 

You turn on your heel, making your way back down the runway with steady, deliberate steps, the sound of your boots echo with each click, vibrating deep in your chest. There’s a practiced grace to your movement, but every step feels charged with a weight that goes beyond the runway. You remind yourself to stay poised, to let the outfit speak through your body, through your calm. The audience’s eyes are still on you, but their murmurs barely pierce your bubble of focus.

When you finally step off the runway, a quiet exhale of relief escapes your lips. You feel your muscles relax, but only slightly. There’s still one more outfit to showcase—the most important one of the night. As you slip into the organized frenzy of backstage, assistants swarm you with quick, precise hands, ushering you toward the fitting area for the final look: The Celestial Ripple Dress.

The jumpsuit slides off with ease, and in its place, the assistants fit the silk of the Celestial Ripple Dress against your skin. The fabric feels like liquid, molding to you as though it’s alive. The iridescence of the material shifts between hues of lavender and warm peach, flickering like the first light of dawn. The architectural collar frames your neck and shoulders, delicate patterns flowing from it like lacework, lending you a regal air. The beaded obi-style belt cinches your waist, and as you glance down, you admire the laser-cut lace at the hem, each detail a testament to the craftsmanship of the design.

It’s a vision, a dream, and as you catch your reflection, you feel like a celestial being. But the reality of what’s about to come slams back into you with the controlled chaos around you—stylists pulling at your hair, makeup artists adding touches of shimmer to your already glowing skin. You still carry a faint tan from your trip to Indonesia two months ago, and the subtle golden tone contrasts beautifully against the soft tones of the dress.

Before you can fully immerse yourself in the calm before the storm, Minase appears at your side, her energy frantic but precise. She adjusts a few last details on the dress, her fingers working quickly.

“Listen,” she starts, her voice low but urgent. “Remember what I told you. Confidence. You need to own this moment. Make sure every single person in that room sees you—sees the dress. And that final pose?” She gives you a meaningful look, her eyes wide with intensity. “It has to be perfect. You need to look like you’ve stepped straight out of the stars. When the lights dim, and you see those white LEDs flicker, that’s your cue. Got it?”

You nod, giving her a reassuring smile despite the nerves twisting in your stomach. “Don’t worry, I got this.”

Minase’s eyes flicker with a mix of tension and trust, and she nods before stepping back to allow the final touch-ups. The makeup artists dab a bit more highlighter on your cheekbones, and the hair stylists smooth out the last few tendrils framing your face, ensuring everything is in place.

As you take a deep breath, steadying yourself, the assistants guide you toward the runway entrance. Your pulse races, but the adrenaline is steadying, sharpening your focus. Around you, the backstage murmurs grow softer, almost muted against the steady beat of your own heart. Several people wish you luck as you pass, but their words blur into the background as your mind narrows into a singular focus: the final walk. Amanai and Hanari catch your eye from the side, their reassuring smiles grounding you in the moment. You return the smile, grateful for their support, but you know that no amount of encouragement can ease the pressure bearing down on you.

The runway lights begin to dim, casting the space into an ethereal shadow. The energy in the room shifts—hushed but charged with anticipation. A shiver of excitement runs through you as the white LED lights flicker, signaling the start of your walk. 

Here we go.

You step onto the runway, and the moment your heels hit the floor, every pair of eyes in the room locks onto you. The dress catches the dim light, shimmering like a pool of liquid starlight, and with each step, the fabric shifts between hues, casting soft reflections across the room. The collar frames your face, a delicate extension of your own elegance, and the beaded belt accentuates your silhouette, guiding every movement with a subtle grace.

The world seems to fall away again. It’s just you, the runway, and the audience. You walk with the kind of confidence Minase drilled into you—a confidence that commands attention, yet exudes an effortless air. The hem of the dress whispers against your legs as you move, the intricate lace catching the softest hints of light with every step.

You hear the faint click of cameras, the subtle murmurs of awe from the audience, but it all blends into the background. In this moment, you are no longer just a model walking the runway; you are the embodiment of Tsukiyo’s celestial dream, a being that belongs to the stars.

As you approach the end of the runway, you pause, turning gracefully to give the audience one last view of the dress. The delicate collar flares slightly as you move, and you hold your final pose—a celestial queen, untouchable yet mesmerizing. You feel the weight of the moment, the pressure, but also the thrill of it. The audience is enraptured, their eyes drinking in every detail, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to hold its breath with you.

And then you turn, gliding back down the runway with the same deliberate grace. The energy in the room hums, and you can feel the attention still on you, as if the entire space is caught in the glow of your presence. 

As you step off the runway, the weight of the night slowly lifts from your shoulders, and you release a deep sigh of relief. The adrenaline that had been pumping through your veins starts to ease, leaving you with a calm satisfaction. “Good job!” echoes from all around you, stylists and assistants offering you quick words of praise as you make your way further backstage. 

Minase rushes toward you, her arms enveloping you in a bone-crushing hug, squeezing tightly. You return the hug, a wide smile spreading across your face. You know you did good tonight—really good. 

The look on Minase’s face is proof of it. 

You’ve done it again. 

The afterparty is in full swing by the time you arrive. 

The warm hum of low conversation and soft jazz mixes with the gentle clink of glasses. Dim lighting washes the room in an intimate glow, as glittering gowns and sleek tuxedos fill the luxurious space. The familiar click of your heels echoes against the polished marble floor, blending into the cadence of the night. Your eyes sweep the crowd, taking in the lavish surroundings, but you're instantly drawn to Amanai and Hanari, who are comfortably seated near the bar, their faces bright with laughter.

You’re dressed in a liquid gold slip dress that shimmers like molten metal with every movement. The delicate spaghetti straps highlight your shoulders, and the draped cowl neckline adds a touch of sensuality, balancing elegance and allure perfectly. The fabric clings to your body just enough to accentuate your figure before pooling subtly at your feet in a way that feels ethereal, otherworldly. Every step you take makes the high-shine metallic fabric catch the soft lighting, creating a fluid, rippling effect as though you’re a goddess dipped in gold. Paired with minimalist strappy heels, you feel the kind of confidence that only comes with wearing something that makes you feel utterly captivating.

But before you can reach Amanai and Hanari, you feel the familiar warmth of a hand sliding against your back. You already know who it is before you even turn around. There’s no mistaking the touch, the possessive yet gentle slide of a palm against your spine, the electric tension that runs through your body when he’s near.

A slow smile curls onto your lips before you even look over your shoulder, and when you finally glance back, your heart gives a small flutter as you meet Katsuki’s gaze. His expression is amused, eyes glinting with that familiar intensity you know so well. The edges of his mouth are curved slightly upward, a rare smirk tugging at his lips as if he’s just as aware of the magnetic pull between the two of you.

“Hi,” you breathe, the word barely a whisper as you turn fully toward him.

Without a second thought, your hand comes up, fingers curling lightly around his strong jaw, guiding his face down to yours. The kiss that follows is soft, slow, and searing. There’s something intoxicating about the way his lips move against yours, the way he holds back, teasing, yet still letting you feel the depth of his affection. When you pull away, you press another quick kiss to his lips, something playful. His eyes are half-lidded, lazy but brimming with affection, a softness in his expression that only you ever get to see.

Katsuki presses a kiss to your thumb, his lips warm against your skin. You wipe the smudge of lip gloss from his lips with your thumb, a soft chuckle escaping you. “You didn’t answer my texts,” you say quietly, your voice carrying a playful edge. “I didn’t know if you’d already arrived or not.”

He lets out a tch, glancing over his shoulder toward the back of the room where his friends are lounging. “Came with Shitty Hair and the others,” he mutters, nodding toward Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, and Mina. They’re grinning and waving at you like a bunch of excited kids. You smile and wave back, but your focus quickly returns to Katsuki.

“You did good out there,” he says, his voice almost too soft for him, but it’s laced with pride. It sends warmth flooding through your chest.

“You think so?” you ask, searching his face, feeling your heart swell when you see the genuine admiration in his eyes.

He hums, nodding slightly. “Yeah.” His tone is gruff, but the sincerity is clear.

You tease him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “So, I looked good then?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes in that familiar way of his, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. “You always do,” he mutters, his hands slipping down to rest on your hips, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress. There’s an understated affection in his touch, like he’s always more comfortable showing his feelings through actions rather than words.

Your fingers smooth over the fabric of his blazer, admiring the sharp, tailored fit of his all-black ensemble. He looks effortlessly handsome, dressed in a sleek black blazer with subtle metallic details that add an edge to the classic silhouette. The buttoned-up dress shirt underneath enhances his sharp jawline, and the wide-leg pleated trousers give him a sense of casual elegance. He looks sophisticated, polished, but still undeniably him. 

Your Katsuki.

“Well, you look pretty good yourself,” you say, your smile widening as you take in his appearance, your hands lingering on his chest. “Real handsome.”

He scoffs again, but you catch the faint blush dusting his cheeks, and it makes you smile even more. He always does this—acts tough, but you know how much your words affect him. His fingers flex against your waist, a small tell that he’s pleased.

He still has a faint tan from your trip to Indonesia, and the memory stirs a warm ache in your chest. It's hard to believe it's been two months since that whirlwind adventure. You can still picture the lush rice fields, ancient temples, breathtaking sunsets, traditional villages, and those perfect beaches.

Indonesia had been like a dream. 

It was everything you both needed. The two of you sat down and talked, really talked, about your feelings. Katsuki had opened up in his own gruff way, admitting how he felt after walking out of your apartment that day—how he wasn’t sure if he was just a fling or something more. You shared your own fears, how you’d been too scared to admit to yourself how much he meant to you.

And in that moment, everything felt right. 

The rest of the vacation was a dream—relaxing on the beach, hiking through the jungles, trying local food, and, of course, spending every night tangled in each other’s arms. You hadn’t realized how much you missed his touch, his voice, until you had it again. Every morning and night spent wrapped in him felt like a piece of you had been restored.

And now, you’re dating. Officially; something you hadn’t dared to hope for before the trip, and the thought still makes your heart race sometimes.

“So, I look good now as well?” you tease, a playful glint in your eyes as you step closer to him, feeling the heat radiating from his body.

Katsuki raises a brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His thumb brushes over the golden necklace around your neck—the one with the first kanji of his name as the pendant, a gift he gave you after the trip. His other hand remains firm against your back, his touch grounding you.

“‘Course you do,” he mumbles, voice low and steady, filled with that quiet, unspoken affection only he can give.

“Sweet talker,” you tease softly, your lips quirking into a smile as you gently smooth a hand down Katsuki’s chest. His warmth seeps through the fabric of his sleek black blazer, grounding you in this moment of intimacy. 

He raises a brow but doesn’t refute it, letting your words settle with that usual gruffness, though you can see the faint trace of a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. “Let me say hi to the girls, then I’ll join you at your table, okay?” 

He nods and leans in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to your lips, and you can feel the possessiveness in the way he lingers for just a second longer than needed. His lips brush against yours with a tenderness that feels almost out of character, but you know it’s him—Katsuki showing affection in his own way. You pull away and pat his chest, turning to make your way toward Amanai and Hanari at the bar. 

You glide through the room, feeling the eyes on you once more—not from the runway this time, but from the afterparty’s crowd. Your golden slip dress catches the ambient light, shimmering like liquid gold with every step. You’re in your element, but your heart is still wrapped up in Katsuki’s touch, in the way he looks at you like you're the center of his world, even in a room filled with people.

Greeting Amanai and Hanari doesn’t take long—just a quick exchange of hugs and a few words of praise for your performance on the runway. You laugh softly as they gush over your dress, the compliments filling you with warmth, but there’s an eagerness to get back to Katsuki. 

By the time you return to his table, he already has a drink waiting for you, of course. He always pays attention to the details, even when he pretends not to. As you approach, you quickly go around the group, greeting everyone with hugs and smiles. Kirishima gives you a bear hug, Kaminari’s enthusiasm is infectious, and Mina’s wide grin feels like a mirror to your own.

“You looked so cool!” Kaminari practically bounces in his seat, his eyes wide with admiration. 

Sero, his usual laid-back self, nods in approval while toying with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He smirks. “Yeah, you killed it out there. Not surprised, though.”

You settle into your spot beside Katsuki, his arm naturally wrapping around your waist as you lean into his solid frame. His presence is comforting—like a rock in the midst of the swirling energy around you. You smile and shrug modestly. “Thanks, guys. I’m just glad that starting tomorrow, I have a few days off. A mini vacation before the real work starts.”

It feels good to let that thought settle in—time to recharge before diving back into the hectic world of photoshoots and campaigns. You’ve been looking forward to this breather for weeks now.

Kirishima, always the supportive one, grins at you. “Good for you! You should take all the time you need.” His warm, encouraging tone is typical of him, and it only adds to the sense of relief that washes over you.

Mina hums in agreement, her bright eyes twinkling as she takes a sip from her drink. “Yeah, you deserve it. Fashion Week looked intense this year.”

You nod, feeling the tiredness start to creep in, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes after you’ve given it your all. “It was, but honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s just… fulfilling, you know?”

Katsuki’s hand tightens slightly around your waist at your words, his quiet approval always there even when he doesn’t voice it. His presence beside you, even in these small moments, is grounding. He’s never one to shower you with compliments in public, but his actions—the way he holds you close, the way he’s always there when you need him—speak volumes.

Mina leans in, her smile mischievous. “So, what’s the plan for your mini vacation? You and Bakugou jetting off somewhere?”

Katsuki scoffs, his eyes flicking toward her with mild annoyance, but you catch the subtle way his hand remains on your back, protective and reassuring. You laugh softly. “We haven’t decided yet. Maybe something low-key. Relaxing.”

Kaminari nudges Sero with a grin. “Bet it’ll involve lots of… relaxing.”

You roll your eyes, chuckling at the innuendo, while Katsuki gives Kaminari a warning glare that shuts him up quickly. “Keep talkin’, Sparky, and you’ll regret it.”

“Jeez, I’m just kidding, man,” Kaminari holds his hands up in surrender, laughing nervously. 

You smile and lean your head against Katsuki’s shoulder, feeling his body relax under your touch. “Honestly, I’m just excited to spend some time with this guy. We don’t get enough of that these days.”

At that, Katsuki glances down at you, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll figure something out.” His voice is low, private, as though the two of you are the only ones in the room.

You smile softly, leaning up to kiss Katsuki’s cheek. The subtle gesture of affection makes his face flush slightly, but he keeps his composure by pretending to sip on his drink, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone. It’s a small, rare show of his vulnerability, the way his cool façade slips just for you. Even though he’s trying to play it off, you can feel the warmth in his posture, the way his arm tenses slightly as if to pull you closer. 

His friends, however, are far from oblivious. Kaminari and Mina are practically glowing with grins as they exchange glances, amused by the way Katsuki tries so hard to act nonchalant. Kirishima's grin is wide and genuine, clearly happy for his best friend. They know this side of him, the softer side he shows only to you, and it’s a sight they cherish—though they’d never dare tease him about it, not seriously anyway.

“I just want somewhere with a beach,” you continue, keeping the conversation flowing as you sip your drink. “Maybe Okinawa. Maybe the Caribbean. I’m still figuring it out with our schedules, too.” Your voice is light, relaxed, but the longing for a break is evident in the way you speak. The whirlwind of fashion shows and shoots, though thrilling, has left you craving some time away—a place where you can unwind and just be.

Katsuki’s thumb absentmindedly strokes your waist as you speak, his subtle way of showing that he’s listening, even if he doesn’t say much.

“But I do know that I need a break,” you laugh softly, the exhaustion creeping into your tone, though it’s balanced with a sense of excitement for whatever comes next. “Something relaxing, somewhere far away from all of this chaos.”

Kaminari nods in understanding, his carefree grin softening into something a bit more thoughtful. “No, I get it. This whole thing is a lot, and you’ve been working hard. You gotta enjoy some time off.” His words are simple, but there’s an appreciation in his tone for the effort you’ve been putting in. Hero work, modeling, it’s all a lot, and sometimes people forget how much goes on behind the scenes.

You nod in agreement, grateful for his words, and the conversation begins to shift. Soon enough, they start talking about their hero work—patrols, training sessions, recent missions. You find yourself listening more than speaking, content to let the conversation flow around you. Your hand rests on Katsuki’s thigh, the soft fabric of his trousers warm under your palm. Absentmindedly, you run your fingers up and down, feeling the solid muscle beneath your touch. It’s a comforting gesture, one that feels natural between the two of you now, and you notice how it subtly relaxes him.

Katsuki, who usually has a sharp edge in his voice when he talks, is different tonight. His gruff tone is still there—because that’s just him—but it’s not harsh. He doesn’t bark his words or throw in as many biting remarks. When he speaks, it’s with measured authority, chiming in with his own thoughts on their hero work without dominating the conversation. He’s relaxed, at ease with you at his side.

You catch snippets of the conversation: Kaminari rambling about a recent mission that went awry, Sero and Mina debating the best techniques for urban rescue, Kirishima enthusiastically talking about new training regimens. Katsuki listens, occasionally grumbling an opinion or a sarcastic comment, but you can feel the quiet respect between him and his friends. They look up to him, even when they joke around, and he, in his own way, values their friendship deeply.

Every now and then, Katsuki’s hand moves to your back, brushing against your skin as if to remind himself that you’re still here, grounding him. It’s a small gesture, but it makes your heart flutter every time.

You gaze at him—really look at him—and it hits you: your boyfriend is like a supernova. His eyes, red but gleaming gold in the light, his messy blonde hair somehow still effortlessly handsome, and the way he fills out that sleek black blazer and those perfectly tailored pants. He looks absolutely irresistible.

And then, an idea starts to take shape in your mind.

You can’t help but grin mischievously, leaning further into Katsuki's side. You press a quick, feather-light kiss against the corner of his jaw when no one's looking, letting your fingers lazily trace patterns on his thigh. Your foot slides up and down along his ankle, a slow, deliberate tease that makes him stiffen slightly, his breath catching in his throat. For just a moment, his usual composure falters, and you feel the way his muscles tense under your touch.

A wicked grin spreads across your face as you lean in close to whisper, your breath warm against his ear, "Meet me in the bathroom from last time."

Katsuki’s sharp inhale is barely audible, but you hear it, and it only makes your grin widen. His reaction is perfect—a mixture of shock and anticipation. He tries to maintain his cool, but you can feel the tension radiating off of him, his grip on the glass in his hand tightening just slightly.

You pull back as if nothing happened, your expression innocent as you stand up. "I’m just heading to the bathroom," you tell the group with a casual smile, and no one bats an eye. But Katsuki knows better. His gaze follows you, smoldering, even as he tries to act unaffected.

With a teasing sway of your hips, you walk away, knowing full well that he's watching. The sounds of the party fade as you make your way to the more secluded part of the venue, the quiet settling around you. There’s a pleasant thrum in your body, the buzz of alcohol adding to the heady anticipation that builds with each step. You move through the hallways with ease, your heart pounding just a bit faster as you turn the familiar corners.

Slipping inside the private bathroom, you take a moment to check your reflection. The liquid gold of your dress shimmers under the soft lighting, clinging perfectly to your curves. You snap a few mirror selfies, the excitement bubbling up inside you, and even take a moment to fix your makeup. 

A few minutes pass before you hear the door creak open behind you. Katsuki slips inside, his presence filling the small room immediately. His face is flushed, his usual scowl more pronounced, but you can tell he’s fighting it—his embarrassment, his frustration at how easily you get to him. It makes you laugh, a soft, teasing sound that fills the space.

"Don't look so grumpy," you tease, turning to face him fully. "You're about to get the best head ever, honey."

His ears turn an even deeper shade of red, the blush spreading across his neck, but all he can manage is a low, unintelligible grumble. He looks almost flustered, which is rare for him, and it only makes you smile wider. Before you can say anything else, he steps forward, wrapping his arms around your waist, his body pressing against yours from behind. His breath is warm against your skin as he buries his nose in the crook of your shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss there.

The warmth of his mouth on your skin sends a shiver down your spine. His lips linger for a moment, soft and deliberate, before he pulls back, resting his head against yours. He’s relaxed now, his earlier tension melting away as his eyes become heavy-lidded, the earlier scowl gone. His hands stay firmly on your waist, holding you close, and you can feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.

You smile at both of your reflections in the mirror—Katsuki looking uncharacteristically soft, his gaze half-lidded and affectionate, while you’re practically glowing with warmth. It’s moments like this that remind you of why you love him so much. Despite the brash exterior, the sharp words, and the gruff demeanor, he’s always so gentle with you. He’s always so careful, so loving, in a way that makes you feel treasured.

"I love you," you say softly, turning your head to press a kiss on his cheek. He lets you, his lips curving into a faint smile before he tilts his head to capture your lips in a soft, whispery kiss. It’s slow, tender, and full of unspoken affection, his way of saying what he’s never been good at putting into words. 

"Love you too," he mumbles against your lips, the words barely audible but sincere.

The simple exchange fills you with a sense of warmth, but you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face next. "Now, let’s get down to business," you say, your voice light with amusement.

Katsuki snorts, rolling his eyes, but there’s a trace of a smirk on his lips. "Yeah," he grumbles, his tone playful, "let’s get down to business."

You laugh softly, your heart swelling as you realize—this is your life now. Moments like this, the quiet intimacy, the teasing, the shared affection—it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of it. 

With Katsuki, it’s always exciting, always a perfect blend of passion and tenderness. 

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

final notes:

thanks for sticking around and for reading! this was such a fun story to write, and i hope you guys enjoyed it as much as i did.

here is my ko-fi :) as some of you may know, i’ve been sick and haven’t been able to work as much, so any support would mean a lot. no pressure, of course!

again, thank you so much, and until next time!

[inseobts]

hii, sorry to disturb you, i was wondering if i could request a law scenario inspired by the song tolerate it by taylor swift, but with a happy ending if possible! i really really love the way you write, is really immersive and touching, you are amazing!! sorry for my english, its not my first language, lots of love from brazil!! 💓

Tolerate it

law × reader

a/n: this was the first time I heard the song, hope you'll like it ^3^ also, don't apology for you english please

inspired by the song:

words count: 2.1k

tags: hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, emotional tension, slow burn

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The library on the Polar Tang is too quiet.

You sit across from Law, legs tucked beneath you, a book open in your lap, but you haven’t turned the page in twenty minutes. The only thing you’re reading is him.

He’s hunched over medical texts, brows furrowed, hair slightly messy from running his fingers through it too many times. His eyes scan the lines quickly, absorbing things faster than most could. You could watch him like this for hours. You have.

“I sit and watch you reading with your Head low I wake and watch you breathing with your Eyes closed I sit and watch you And notice everything you do or don't do”

He doesn’t look up when you shift in your seat.

He hasn’t in a while.

You used to be the thing that caught his attention mid-sentence. Now, it’s like you’re just part of the furniture, reliable and quiet. Too quiet.

You whisper "Law?" but your voice barely carries.

No answer.

“I wait by the door like I'm just a kid Use my best colors for your portrait Lay the table with the fancy shit And watch you tolerate it”

Later that night, you cook his favorite.

You even set the table the way he likes it. It's stupid. It feels performative. But you do it anyway.

He walks in late and glances around at the setup. His brows raise, just slightly. He sits.

Not a word about the effort.

He eats. You talk. He nods sometimes.

You laugh at your own story halfway through and realize you’re the only one smiling.

“If it’s all in my head,” you say softly, not looking at him, “tell me now. Tell me I’ve got it wrong somehow.”

He looks up finally, fork pausing in the air.

“What?”

You shake your head and fake a smile but it's too hard.

“I know my love should be celebrated,” you whisper, voice breaking, “but you tolerate it.”

The air goes still. Even the gentle hum of the ship fades beneath the silence that follows.

Law sets his fork down slowly.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time in weeks, really seeing you. There's something in his eyes. Not anger. Not confusion. Guilt, maybe. Exhaustion, too.

"...I didn't realize I was making you feel that way."

You look up, startled at the honesty in his voice. Raw. Quiet. Honest.

“You didn’t have to... realize.” you say “It was already happening.”

Law leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face “I’ve been focused on... too much. Everything. The crew, the supplies, the territory threats. I thought you understood.”

“I do,” you say, and it’s not a lie “But understanding doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

He flinches.

You continue, voice low but firm, “I gave you everything. My time, my heart, my effort. You didn’t even have to ask, I wanted to. Because I love you. But lately, I feel like you’re just... enduring me. Like I’m this soft, breakable thing that’s in the way.”

You don’t expect the silence that follows to ache so badly.

“While you were out building other worlds, where was I?”

Law swallows hard “You’re not in the way.”

“Then where am I, Law?” you ask “Because I’m not beside you. Not really. Not anymore.”

His gaze drops to the table.

And when he speaks again, it’s soft. Unsteady.

“I thought if I kept my head down, I could protect you from what’s coming. From me. I didn’t mean to shut you out. I just...” he trails off, fingers curling into a loose fist “I’ve already lost too much. If I get too close, I’ll lose that too.”

“That’s not fair...” you whisper “You don’t get to punish me for the people who aren’t here anymore.”

Law’s eyes meet yours again and they’re glossy now.

“You’re right.”

That stuns you more than anything else.

“I’ve been... distant. Detached. And you’ve been giving everything. I saw it, but I didn’t let myself respond. Because if I did, I’d remember how much you mean to me. And that terrifies me.”

You take a slow breath “So what now?”

He stands from his chair and walks over to your side. Slowly. Tentatively. Like he’s approaching a wounded thing he doesn’t want to startle.

When he crouches in front of you, he speaks softly “I don’t want to tolerate you.”

You hold your breath.

“I want to fight for you. I just... forgot how.”

You blink back the sudden sting in your eyes, but a tear escapes anyway. Law reaches up, gently wiping it away with the back of his hand.

You don’t say anything. But you don’t pull away either, and that’s something.

He’s still kneeling in front of you.

The whole room quiet now.

You didn’t mean to break open like that.

But now that you have... you can’t go back.

Your voice is barely above a whisper "If it's all in my head, tell me now... Tell me I've got it wrong somehow."

Law’s eyes flicker, and his hand, which still rests gently on your knee, tightens just slightly.

“It’s not in your head,” he says, the words thick in his throat “You didn’t get it wrong. You’ve been trying. And I...” He trails off, glancing down at the floor for a moment “I’ve been a coward.”

That hurts in a different way, because hearing him say it means it’s real. That you weren’t imagining it. That the coldness wasn’t just you being too sensitive.

“I didn’t want to need you” he admits.

You blink “What?”

“I didn’t want to need you,” he repeats, softer “Because needing someone means they can leave. Means I can lose them. And I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you too. So I made myself distant. I thought I was protecting you… but I was only protecting myself.”

You shake your head slowly, tears starting to sting again “You don’t protect someone by disappearing from them while standing right next to them.”

He flinches, and it hits you, you’ve never talked like this before. Not to him. Not like this. You've always tried to be enough without needing to ask for more.

You swallow hard “I thought… if I was good enough, quiet enough, patient enough… eventually you’d look at me again like you used to.” Your voice breaks “You tolerated it. You tolerated me.”

“I never meant to” he says, voice rising slightly in urgency “I didn’t realize how far I’d pulled away. How much I was asking you to carry alone.”

You look at him for a long time, your chest aching.

“I missed you” you say, honest and broken and so simple it almost sounds like a confession “Even when you were right here, I missed you.”

His face softens. That steel-sharp edge in his eyes dulls, melts, crumbles.

“I missed you too,” he says “But I buried it under work. Under duty. And that’s not fair. To you. To us.”

A beat of silence.

Then he reaches for your hand. Holds it, tentative but steady.

“I want to do better” he says “I want to see you again. Not just glance over you when I’m tired. Not just nod while I’m thinking about something else. I want to celebrate your love the way you always deserved.”

You breathe out a sound, half laugh, half sob, and squeeze his hand.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you whisper “You just have to try.”

“I will,” he promises, a little breathless “Every day.”

You reach for him, and this time, he leans in too.

It’s not a kiss, not yet. But it’s a meeting of foreheads, a closeness that’s been absent for too long. A beginning again.

And for once, when you sit and watch him… he watches you right back.

It starts with small things.

The next morning, when you step into the kitchen, he’s already there.

He doesn’t look up from the kettle he’s watching, but his voice is soft when he says, “Tea’s almost ready. I made yours the way you like it.”

That alone almost makes your knees go weak.

You sit across from him in quiet surprise as he slides a steaming mug toward you without meeting your eyes.

But then he does look up. Just for a second.

You catch it.

He’s trying.

That same night, you find your favorite book, the one you always reread when your heart’s too loud, left on your bed. A folded note inside:

I’ve been thinking about you. Let me know if you’re ready to talk again. —T.L.

Your fingers tremble a little holding the page.

You press it against your chest and breathe.

It becomes a routine. Little rituals that weren’t there before.

He starts joining you in the library again, but this time his chair is a little closer. He still reads, but he glances up more. Sometimes, you catch him just watching you, and when you smile, he doesn’t look away.

Once, while you both clean the medical bay, he reaches over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Doesn’t say a word about it.

He doesn’t have to.

One quiet evening, you’re sitting side by side after dinner, a half-played game of shogi abandoned on the table between you, the crew all in their own rooms.

You watch the way the soft lamplight brushes the edge of his cheekbones. He’s more relaxed than you’ve seen him in months.

Your hand inches toward his on the table.

He turns his palm up, lets yours slide into it.

No hesitation this time.

You murmur, half to yourself “I made you my temple, my mural, my sky…”

Law’s head tilts toward you “What was that?”

You smile softly “Just something I used to think. Before.”

He watches you closely “Do you still?”

You hesitate “Not the same way. Back then, I would’ve given everything just to be a footnote in your story.”

You turn your head, looking at him fully now.

“But now… I want to be a chapter. One you choose to write.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then “You already are.”

Your breath catches.

He takes your hand, lifts it to his lips, and presses a kiss to your knuckles, light, lingering, reverent.

“I’m sorry I didn’t show you sooner,” he says “But I see you now. I see everything.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. Your voice is barely a whisper.

“You assume I’m fine…” A pause “But what would you do if I—I broke free and left us in ruins?”

Law doesn’t hesitate “I’d chase you.”

You glance up, surprised.

“I’d chase you,” he repeats, voice rough with honesty “Even if it meant tearing the world apart.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You believe him. This time, you believe him.

The silence between you now is comfortable. Whole.

You think of the nights you lay awake, tracing hearts into the margins of your journal, wondering if you were too much. Or not enough.

Not anymore.

You turn your head slightly, brushing your lips against his shoulder “I’m still learning how to forgive you.”

He nods “I’ll wait.”

You squeeze his hand gently.

“And I’m still learning how to be loved out loud.”

He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple “Then we’ll learn together.”

It’s late again.

The crew is tucked away in their quarters, laughter and footsteps long since faded.

You’re curled up on the infirmary bed, half-asleep, a blanket over your shoulders and a medical book on your chest you’re not really reading. Law sits at his desk nearby, notes scattered, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

You watch him in the glow of the low light, warmth in your chest where ache used to live.

“I sit and watch you…”

But this time, he looks up. Catches your eyes. And he smiles.

Small. Genuine. Just for you.

“I told you to go to bed hours ago” he says, voice gentler than any reprimand.

You shrug, grinning sleepily “You’re still up.”

Law stands and walks over, plucks the book from your hands and sets it aside. Then he leans down, brushes his lips over your forehead, and sighs against your skin like he’s just come home.

“You shouldn’t have had to wait so long for this” he murmurs.

You reach for him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

“But I did,” you whisper “And I’d do it again. For this.”

He sinks down beside you on the cot, and you both shift until you’re tangled together, his arms around your waist, your head tucked under his chin, heartbeat pressed to heartbeat.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

And that silence isn’t heavy anymore.

You think back to the version of you that stood at the edge of this love, unseen, unheard, giving and giving.

Drawing hearts in the byline.

Now, you’re written into the page.

Celebrated.

Not just endured.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your hair.

You nod, eyes closed, tears forgotten.

“I am now.”

[supernotnatural2005]

yay you accept requests! 🥰 sometimes i think about how dean has endured a lot of touch that was not welcomed especially from monsters and of course michael 💔 it makes me think about a fic where reader is extra gentle with him and makes the effort to check in with him and ask for consent before doing different simple actions while theyre getting intimate. idk that might be kinda heavy to write and if it is please dont feel pressure to write it..... actually please don't feel any pressure at all to write it lol but i think youd really do it justice if its something youre interested in 🧡

Touch

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Michael is gone, for good, but his lingering torment still remains with Dean. Will he ever find closure, can you bring him back from this?

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/tags: Angst, PTSD, established relationship, Light smut (18+Only), fluff.

AN: So I focused more on the aftermath with Michael, I feel it worked better with this request? To the lovely anon who sent it in, I hope I've done it justice for you? 🫣❤️ I hope you all enjoy ☺️

Main Masterlist

The last few weeks had been a delicate dance of watching Dean. Not in a way that felt suffocating, but in a way that was more about paying attention to the quiet things he didn’t say. You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed when people unexpectedly clapped him on the back or reached for him. It was subtle, but it was there. And you noticed.

Dean was no longer the man he had been before, even if he didn’t fully realise it. The constant tension in his body, how he always seemed on edge, the way his eyes would narrow in wariness at sudden movements—everything about him screamed that he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Michael to return.

And that was the difference, wasn’t it? 

Dean had been through hell before—literally. He had clawed his way out of the Pit, had survived Purgatory, had fought his way back from being a demon. He had been battered, broken, and stitched together more times than he could count, but through all of it, he had always been fighting, always been in control of his own choices, even when they were terrible ones.

But Michael? Michael had taken that from him.

Being possessed by the archangel had been a different kind of torment, a horror unlike anything he had ever endured. It wasn’t just about pain or suffering; it was about helplessness. He had been a prisoner in his own body, a passenger while Michael moved him like a marionette, speaking with his voice, wielding his hands, using his face—all while Dean could do nothing but watch.

Every moment had been filled with the unbearable certainty that it wasn’t a matter of if Michael would use him to hurt the people he loved, but when. And then Michael locked him away in his own head, had him living in some fantasy loop that you Sam and Cas shattered. It haunted him, and deeply so.

Jack had made sure Michael was gone for good, burned him up until there was nothing left, but that didn’t erase the damage. Knowing Michael couldn’t come back didn’t stop the nightmares. It didn’t stop the way Dean flinched when someone reached for him too quickly, or the way he sometimes stared at himself in the mirror for too long, as if expecting to see someone else staring back. It didn’t stop the lingering fear that there was still something inside him that wasn’t him. That maybe, in some way, he wasn’t just Dean Winchester anymore.

It had left a fracture in him, a barely visible fault line running through the man who had once seemed unshakable. Maybe no one else could see it, but you could. And maybe, deep down, Dean could feel it too—even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.

You weren’t sure how to help him heal from something like that. But you knew being there was half the battle.

You didn’t want to smother him or act like he was fragile—Dean hated that more than anything—but you also didn’t want to pretend you hadn’t noticed the way he had changed. He wasn’t broken, no matter how much he tried to convince himself he was. He was healing. And healing took time.

So, you started small.

A gentle hand on his arm as you passed him a cup of coffee in the morning, fingers lingering just long enough to remind him you were there. A light brush of your knee against his under the table, subtle enough that he didn’t tense, but still something real.

When you drove into town, you’d reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his, letting your thumb trace slow, idle circles over the back of his knuckles. You never pushed, never clung—if he pulled away, you’d let him. But more often than not, he didn’t. He let you hold him, let himself get used to it. And when he did squeeze your hand back, even just a little, it felt like progress.

On the couch in the ‘Dean cave’ when you sat down to watch a movie, you’d sit close enough that your thighs touched, letting him decide if he wanted more. Some nights, he’d stay still, comfortable in your quiet presence. Other nights, he’d surprise you—letting his arm fall loosely around your shoulders, pulling you in just enough that you could hear his heartbeat beneath the layers of flannel.

You never made a big deal out of it. That was important. Dean never did well with being handled like something fragile. But little by little, you saw the shifts.

He started reaching for you. Taking your hand first when you walked through town, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over your knuckles the same way you did to him. Kissing your temple as you made breakfast together, his hand steady on your waist as he leaned in, warm and familiar. He let himself relax into you, like he used to—like before.

However, as the night stretched on and you curled up beneath the covers one night, waiting—either for him to join you or finding the familiar sight of him slumped over a library table, lost in whiskey and exhaustion—Dean appeared in the doorway. His shadow spilled into the room, not looming, just present.

You smiled at him, warm and welcoming, offering him the quiet reassurance you always did.

Something about him seemed different tonight—quieter, but not in the way that made your chest tighten with worry. Still, after everything, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was slipping again. But then, without a word, he crossed the room, climbed into bed beside you, and slipped under the covers—no hesitation, no distance, no walls.

That alone was enough to steal your breath.

He didn’t just press a quick kiss to your lips before rolling over like he had so many nights before. Instead, he moved closer, warm and solid, his arm carefully draping around your waist.

You stilled, startled by the shift—but pleasantly so.

Then, for the first time in what felt like forever, he held you.

Not just physically, but fully. Like he was here with you, really here, instead of somewhere far away, trapped in the shadows of his own mind.

A slow, lingering kiss pressed to your bare shoulder. Then another.

You sighed at the warmth of it, at the weight of him against you, at the silent promise in his touch that you hadn’t felt in so long.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion.

Your fingers curled around his arm where it rested against you, squeezing lightly. “For what?”

“For sticking with me,” he admitted, his lips brushing your skin between words. “For loving me through yet another damn crisis.”

Emotion clogged your throat as you turned in his arms, meeting his gaze. His eyes—green, raw, open—held something you hadn’t seen in too long. Something him.

“It was never even a question,” you whispered, your fingers ghosting over his cheek, aching to soothe away the lingering remnants of his fear.

Dean exhaled sharply, like the words reached something deep inside him. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, and he sighed—a real sigh, one that sounded like relief, like letting go.

Then, he turned his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm before capturing your lips with his own.

It wasn’t rushed or uncertain. It was slow, deep, sure—the kind of kiss you had missed, the kind that said more than words ever could.

It grew heavier, his hands finding your waist, gripping like he needed to anchor himself to you. You felt the heat of it, the want in it, and your heart ached with how much you had missed this.

Still, you pulled back, breathless, searching his eyes. “Dean…” you whispered. “Are you sure?”

For the first time in what felt like forever, he looked like your Dean.

His gaze was warm, adoring, steady—filled with something deeper than desire.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

And then, he kissed you again—more purposefully, more certainly, pulling you flush against him.

You let him lead, let him set the pace, let him take what he needed. But still, some small part of you hesitated, worried, unsure if he was ready.

Dean must have sensed it because his hands fisted in your camisole, his lips brushing yours as he broke away just enough to whisper, “I want you to touch me. Make me feel whole again.”

Your breath caught, your chest tightening at the vulnerability in his voice. At the pleading look in his eyes. Like this—this—was the final piece he needed to reclaim himself.

And so, you did.

You held him tighter, your hands tracing familiar paths over his skin—relearning him, grounding him, reminding him that he was here. That he was Dean—and no one else.

Your fingers ghosted over his jaw, down the strong column of his throat, feeling the thick swallow beneath your touch. His breath hitched, his grip on you tightening like he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. You never would.

Instead, you pulled him closer, your lips finding his in a slow, unhurried kiss—one that deepened as his body melted against yours. He was warm and solid, all hard muscle and quiet vulnerability beneath your fingertips, and when your nails scraped lightly down his back, he shuddered.

His mouth parted against yours, a quiet groan slipping free as your bodies aligned. He pressed closer, hands roaming—hesitant at first, like he needed to be sure this was real. But when you murmured his name, when your fingers traced his spine and your legs tangled with his, something in him snapped.

The hesitation bled away, replaced by something deeper—something desperate.

His hands gripped your hips, strong fingers pressing into your skin as he guided you beneath him. His kiss turned hungry, consuming, like he was trying to make up for every night he’d spent distant, for every time he convinced himself he didn’t deserve this—you.

Between kisses, between slow, careful touches, you checked in with him—silent, unspoken questions in the way your eyes met his. And each time, he nodded. Yes. Encouraging. Needing.

And when he finally pushed inside you, his forehead dropped to yours, his breath faltering as a deep, broken sound rumbled in his chest. His arms tightened around you, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. But you only held him closer, guiding him through it, keeping him here—with you.

Soft reassurances spilled from your lips, your hands mapping his body—his back, his arms, the sharp line of his jaw. Gentle yet firm, never letting him go. Never letting him slip away. He breathed your name like a prayer, like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment, to you.

And then he moved.

Slow at first, each roll of his hips careful, like he was afraid to shatter the fragile reality of this—of you. His lips ghosted over your skin, relearning, savoring, his breath hot against your throat. But the restraint, the hesitation, it was slipping. You could feel it in the way his fingers tightened in your hair, in the way his body pressed flush against yours, desperate to be closer.

When he pulled back, his gaze met yours—warm, adoring, a little wet around the edges. He swallowed hard, his voice rough when he rasped, “God, I've missed you.”

Your fingers curled into his back, nails digging in just enough to ground him, and you kissed him—his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—letting your own emotions spill into every touch. 

“I’m right here,” you whispered. “Always.”

Something in him cracked at that. A quiet, shuddering exhale. His jaw tensed like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just kissed you—slow and deep, pouring everything into it.

And then the desperation bled through.

His rhythm faltered, hips pressing harder, deeper, like he was chasing something just out of reach. His breath grew ragged, his hands roaming—gripping, pulling—like he needed to anchor himself in you.

His fingers threaded through yours, pinning them to the mattress as his pace turned urgent. A tremor rolled through him, his forehead pressing into the crook of your neck as he gasped your name. And you felt it—the way his body coiled, the way he was holding on, trying to keep control, trying to make this last.

But you didn’t want him to hold back.

So you whispered his name again, voice soft, coaxing. You let your hands wander, tracing his spine, dragging your nails down his back just enough to push him over that final edge.

And then, he let go.

A broken sound tore from his throat as his body shuddered against yours, as he buried himself deep, spilling into you with a raw, unguarded intensity. His grip on you tightened, his breath hot and uneven, your name falling from his lips like a prayer, like a plea.

And as the tension ebbed, as his body finally melted against yours, you felt it.

The shift.

The moment he finally, finally came back to you.

AN: So this was my first time in like over 10 years of fulfilling a specific request! 😅 It's a little angsty with a sweet ending 🥹. I hope it's what you were hoping for anon! 💕 And to everyone else I hope you enjoy 😊

Also i’m currently taking requests if anyone would like to drop one in 🤗

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[always-just-red]

A/N: Poured my soul into this a couple weeks ago, am dedicating it to everyone who's similarly torn between Sylus and their original LI- especially my fellow Rafayel girlies! This is not going to help! It's going to make it worse!! 🥰

Unspoken

Sylus x Reader 🩸 (implied Rafayel x reader)

Summary: You could fix all of this if Sylus would just resonate with you. Why won't he resonate with you?

Genre: Angst, so much angst, brace yourselves

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, injury detail, blood, swearing, possibly not lore-accurate (I've taken some creative liberties with Sylus' healing abilities and MC's resonance for the sake of maximum angst, because I like to suffer!)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Like the first, warm prickle of sunlight when you step out of a cold shadow.”

“Hmm?”

“That is what you said to him, right?”

Sylus’s eyes are closed, his head leant back against the wall and his whole body heavy with tiredness. He doesn’t move as he asks you the question. Doesn’t fix you with that suffocating, crimson gaze— like he usually does— and you almost miss it. There’s a pain to his tone, accentuating the gravel of his voice, and a part of you thinks it isn’t all for the injuries you’ve set about tending to.

If he was looking at you, you would see it, wouldn’t you? That flicker of melancholy that sometimes likes to betray the rest of him. Maybe that’s why he keeps his eyes closed.

You deliberate his words, trying to ignore the way he tenses as you press gauze to a wound on his stomach. They do feel familiar: a simile dancing at the edge of your consciousness, just barely out of reach. It’s hard to pursue the past with the present wetting your fingertips, fresh, hot, and red.

One clue: That is what you said to him, right? Him. Him? Who was—

Ah.

Suddenly the words are your own, at the tip of your tongue, because you're saying them in a memory. You were with Rafayel in his studio, reunited and safely returned from the N109 Zone. He had been holding you close, telling you he’d missed you and that he’d been waiting forever; he was so, so bored. You’d smiled fondly. Laced your fingers through his and resonated: wanting to lose yourself in his power, wanting to forget there was any other kind of warmth. He had sighed softly. The sensation was usually buried beneath blood and battle; you’d forgotten how intimate it was.

Then he’d asked you what it felt like.  

“You heard that?” you say to Sylus.

He hums a little. “Not directly.”

“Sylus.”

His name evokes a faint interest, or perhaps it’s the way you said it: chiding, stern— like you were just getting started. His right eye opens, regarding you warily. “Mmm?”

“We’ve talked about this.”

“You’ve lectured me, sweetie.” He leans back again, eyes closed. “There is a difference.”

You resist the urge to wring his neck, especially when it’s bared as invitingly as it is now. It feels calculated. Deliberate. You can almost imagine him lying there, anticipating the fatal vice of your hands. It was what he always seemed to want: to drag you into sin with him.

“I wouldn’t have to lecture you if you actually listened to me,” you reason, releasing a breath. “You can’t keep spying on me, Sy.”

He hums again: this time sceptically. “Can’t I? But you say such pretty things to him, kitten. It’s like watching a melodramatic film. I’d hate to miss it.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Maybe,” he admits with a half-hearted chuckle. “Then again, maybe not.”

You don’t know what to say, so you pretend it’s because you’re busy. Sylus’s hastily rolled up shirt has slipped downwards, catching the edge of his wound, and you lift it delicately, your fingers skirting over skin. His jaw clenches. His hands fist. His mouth is a tight line and you’re not sure what it’s holding onto more carefully: a short hiss of pain or the rest of his confession.

There are always things he isn’t telling you, but he comes closer to it at times like this, when you could do anything to him— cut his throat, collect on so many bounties— and instead you’re just… nice.

It’s the reason he doesn’t call when he’s slumped somewhere after a shootout, his Evol exhausted and his strength draining from half a dozen wounds he can’t quite heal yet. It’s the reason he lay here for who knows how many hours before you found him, rolling his eyes as you rushed to his side, because Luke and Kieran couldn’t keep their mouths shut.

You want to shout at him— want to scold him for being so goddamn stupid— but you don’t. Here you are instead, humouring him and playing nurse, when a simple resonance would suffice. He’d tried to force it before, but now, when you had thrust your hand into his and willed him to take? He’d snatched his hand back. Insisted on bearing his pain ‘the old-fashioned way’.

He was so fucking stubborn.

“What does it feel like with me?”

Sylus’s voice is gentle but his eyes are sharp— cutting into you like a blade striving for bone. It’s an unintentional violence, a jarring: I know what you’re thinking, but I’d rather hear you say it. Kindred spirits; he sees your mind and your heart and then looks at you like it isn’t a weapon. Like you should be grateful for the knife at your throat because you can trust the hand that’s holding it.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffs, “if you can conjure up a metaphor for your little artist, you can do the same for me.”

Something is stoked in you, and though you bite your tongue, your careful fingers slip for a moment, pressing into the tender skin at the edge of his wound. Sylus grimaces— hisses— though you could swear there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

You’d sinned, hadn’t you? “You really wanna know?”

He nods, his eyes on you again. It’s your hand on the knife, and he trusts you implicitly.  

“It’s like… the ocean, I guess.”

“Inspired.”

“Shut up—” you flick his forehead— “just listen, okay? It was overwhelming at first. Zayne, Xavier, Raf… They’re all so powerful. But you? It felt like you could drown me. Like you wanted to drown me.”

Sylus is quiet. You’re running an antiseptic wipe over the smaller scrapes on his stomach, but he doesn’t flinch.

“It was consuming,” you carry on as you work. “Frightening. There was so much of it— so much you— filling my lungs, trying to take my breath away. The entire time I could feel how fathomless it was. I knew if I stopped fighting it I would sink, and that I would never, ever stop.”

You can remember it vividly, especially when you’re as close to him as you are now. Though there’s no more dark energy, twisting around you, dragging you closer, you can still feel its grasp. You can see it, too, when you look up at him: hunger, burning red.

It isn’t a command anymore; it’s a longing.

And you both know you can’t give him what he wants.

“But then I did stop fighting,” you continue, because you can at least answer his question. “And I could still breathe. I was still… myself.” You place a hand on his knee. “It doesn’t scare me anymore, Sy. It’s vast and intimidating, but it’s… exciting, too.”

You smile and give his knee a playful squeeze. “I wanna see how deep it goes.”

He’s stoic for another moment, an apathetic gaze dropping to your hand before lifting to your lips. Then he’s smiling too, leaning closer: “I want to show you how deep it—”

“Don’t ruin it.” You push him back to the wall.

He laughs, running a hand through his white hair, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s a place in his mind where he’s closing the distance again, and he doesn’t care if you know it. You feel the heat in your cheeks betraying you, so you focus back on the man’s injuries: the gash on his stomach has already bled through your bandages. It’ll need stitches.

You sigh, starting to peel back your previous work.

“Does it hurt?” Sylus asks. “Now that you’ve… stopped fighting?”  

You glance up, and he’s examining his hand like it’s a gun he hasn’t yet fired and so can't know the power of. He flexes his fingers, pale in the light. “A little,” you admit, thinking of Zayne’s ice and Rafayel’s fire. Resonating was always a trust exercise: it could kill you, could burn, and you had to be willing to let it. “But I can handle it.”  

Used bandages tossed aside, Sylus’s wound looks as dire as when you’d first lifted his shirt to find it. You lean back, lips pursed in bleak assessment; somewhere at the back of your mind, Zayne is insisting this is a job for a real doctor.

“That bad, huh?”

You huff in answer, exhausted. You shoot Sylus a look of defeat before gingerly offering your hand.

His eyes flit between it and you, and you have to give another nod of encouragement before he surrenders. He holds his breath— it’s slow— his forefinger gliding tentatively up your wrist, spelling a silent question, before tracing a circle in your palm. He closes his eyes. His long fingers spread yours and he’s claiming your hand with something between reverence and sin.

His touch trespasses delicately. His Evol doesn’t.

You bite back a gasp as power surges through you, dark and devouring. Your eyes snap shut and your hand tightens around his, not knowing if it’ll ground you or drag you deeper, not caring so long as there’s something in all this everything to hold onto. This could kill you— you would let this kill you, but it won’t. Your nails are leaving crescents in his skin and you know, you know, the world will burn long before you do.

This is different than the others. Better than the others.

Suddenly your hand is empty and the darkness is not a promise but a place where you’re alone. Your eyes flutter open, searching for an anchor. Your head is swimming.

“Are you alright?” Sylus is looking at you, his hand on your shoulder, steadying you, and it takes everything in your power not to grasp it again.

So empty. So alone. “I’m fine,” you manage, but your voice is shaking.

“Tch.”

He’s not a man who wastes his time, and he knows better than to push that particular lie. Rejuvenated, he sits up, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders— reacquainting himself with the strength of his body. He’s imposing again. Looming over you, again. His wounds have all healed, and you watch as the stains of his blood lift and disintegrate, like embers on a breeze.

His hand moves to massage his neck, and he yawns as he lazily tips his head from side to side. “Enjoying the show, sweetie?”

You don’t really hear him. He chuckles, pulling his shirt back down before waving a hand in front of your face; you catch it in a heartbeat. “Stop it.”

“There you are.” 

He twists his wrist free, but then your fingers are around his hand, turning it over so you can get a better look. Your thumb traces thoughtfully over the marks you’d made. “Aren’t you going to heal—”

“No,” he smirks.

He wants you to ask him why, so there’s no way in hell you’re going to. You both have your secrets: some worn on the sleeve and others, clutched a little closer to the chest. What does it feel like with me? You turn the question over in your mind as you tidy up wet gauze and bandages. You had told him the truth, just not all of it.

Like how you don’t lose yourself in him, but feel more yourself than you ever have.

Like how every time it gets easier, but so much harder to stop.

“So,” you mutter, distracting yourself, “are you happy with your metaphor?”

Sylus mulls it over as he studies you, a faint glow in his right eye. There are also things he wants to say, but he’s thinking of you and the artist, locked in a wistful embrace in a cluttered studio, so he keeps them to himself. His gaze tells you what he doesn’t: that he will bear it with a smile, for you, and that he will hold onto it long after it makes his hands bleed.

“It was a trifle trite, perhaps. Though… sweet,” he purrs. “Who knew a kitten could be so eloquent?”

“Fuck you.”

“Mmm.” He grins as he looks at your marks on his skin. “That’s better.”

[mistymisfit]

I'm your man

angst, mentions of past abuse, loosely based on the Mitski song by the same name, they're kinda toxic ngl. (2,1k)

You were no strangers to arguments, they tend to happen more often than not when two stubborn people decide to date. Normally, you could work it out. Sometimes, one or both of you needed some time to cool off and let the initial anger wear down so you could approach it without yelling and think more rationally.

Other times, the arguments could end up with laying in bed with your head on his chest, thinking you were glad to have such a hot headed boyfriend. Some nights, you'd sleep on either side of the bed, your backs to the other and facing your respective walls, only to wake up with your limbs tangled together and find out you both reached for the other in your sleep.

This time it had been different, you didn't know why he got so defensive when all you asked was that he was careful that night. And you were no better than him, so when he started to get mad, you got mad too. He doesn't know why he said such hurtful things to you, you don't know why you couldn't be the only one whose feelings got hurt that night.

"Sure, be careful" You said absentmindedly, you always told him to be careful at night, and you didn't think tonight was any different.

"Yeah, when am I not?" He sighed. You didn't like the tone he used, like he was tired of you, as if he didn't want to hear it from you.

"Why the attitude?" You questioned almost immediately, and that's how it started.

Then one thing led to another, and you both pressed the other too hard that night.

"You think I'm an idiot? Think I didn't see you last night with that guy?" He finally cracks after a solid fifteen minutes of yelling that for sure your neighbors were going to complain about.

"Is that what it is?" You're pretty sure he could see the disappointment painted all across your features, "You think I'm cheating?"

"No I-" He sighed "You know what? fuck this, forget it"

It ended with him storming out of the apartment, and you waiting up all night just so you could work it out when he returned home. Hopefully, he had blown off some steam by then. But that never happened, and now you hadn't seen or talked to your boyfriend in two weeks.

At least you hadn't heard from him, but you did read a news article about some drug dealer's warehouse being blown up the same night you got a call from Babs asking if you knew what he was up to, or if you knew he was okay, recognizing that's the type of reckless stunt he'd pull when he's going through something. It was not hard to put two and two together, even if your reply was intentionally vague to help him. You said something along the lines of: "Babs, you know he doesn't tell me that. He wouldn't tell me he is Red Hood if it was up to him." and "We're not broken up if that is what you're asking". You were not so sure of that last one.

You itched to call him or text him all the time. You even got your phone out and the text ready to send before deleting it, remembering he was the one who got offended when a friend walked you home once. Once. At night, after he was the one who asked you a million times to avoid walking home alone that late. If he didn't swallow his pride to talk to you, why should you? Yes, you were offended, but you were also worried. He had never disappeared like this before, he'd always stayed with you no matter how angry he was. You weighed your choices, waiting clueless until he returned or calling someone with the same hobby as his --vigilantism--. The second option would definitely end with Bruce knowing and suspecting Jason was up to no good again, and he'd hate that. You considered calling Roy but then remembered you didn't have his number. So you waited for two long anxiety-ridden weeks, you were sleeping poorly and eating even worse. Even your friends asked if you were okay.

Until one night, he finally enters your apartment through your window. You want to jump and hug him at the sight of him for the first time in what felt like forever, but you don't. Instead, you stay put in your place on the couch. It's late, but he's glad you're awake, so he makes quick work of uncovering his face and dropping his guns on the floor. And in no time, he's kneeling in front of you, looking up with tear-brimmed eyes.

"I'm sorry" He breaks the silence. You shake your head no, holding his face with both of your hands and swiping away his tears with your thumbs.

"No, I'm sorry" You speak faster than you think. All these days, you didn't feel the need to apologize, and now you do. "I swear he's just a friend, he just walked me home 'cause it was late, and I didn't tell you because I thought it didn't matter-"

"No, no, I know that" He sighs, his hands lay over yours in an attempt to feel more of you, or so that you wouldn't stop touching him. "I trust you, baby"

"Then what is it?" You insisted with tears in your eyes too "Just talk to me, Jason, I can't- I can't deal with you disappearing like this. I was worried sick"

You had to pause a second to sniff and wipe your own tears before continuing; "even Babs called me to ask about you and I had to lie"

I was scared, thinking how easy it'd be for you to leave me, how easy it'd be to lose you, he thinks, come on just say it. "I've been stressed, I'm sorry I took it out on you" I'm sorry, I was hurting, and I had to hurt you too, I don't know why I do this, he wants to add.

"Okay," you sniff, nodding and accepting his reasoning even if you don't fully believe it.

You don't have the strength to push him into telling you the truth. It was a hard learned lesson with him, pressuring Jason to open up would only get the opposite effect on him. Another hard learned lesson was that when he wants to reach out, he'll do it, but in the most dramatic way possible. 

"Hit me" He begs

"What? No." You are taken aback with his request.

"Please," He insists. Why he needs violence to repent is beyond you, it's all he's ever known. He craves it as much as he does affection, sometimes even more, which is why you think he argues with you so often. He needs to hear you call him a jerk, an asshole, and every name in the book as much as he needs to hear you call him sweet pet names.  "I deserve it"

"Jay-" Your voice is stuck on your throat. You can't believe what he wanted you to do, to harm him. Your tears start falling again on their own at the thought of how ingrained the association between forgiveness and being hurt is in his mind, how many times he must have suffered as a kid and an adult at the hands of those he loved the most to think like this. You were aware of the deep self-hatred your boyfriend had, but he had never asked you this. "I'd never raise a hand against you"

He looks up at you, stunned and unsure of how to act. That's what a life time of abuse caused him, years and years of being fed crumbs of love and affection that he does not know how to behave around someone like you. Someone who so freely gives him what he's always wanted, unconditional love, to be taken care of as much as he's taking care of the other person.

At first, it was his mostly absent parents, whether it was psychically like his dad, or mentally like his mom. Maybe it was a head pat once from his father, or Catherine telling him "you take care of me so well" or a few praise words every once in a while that made it all worth it. Never mind the neglect he went through, he would grab those crumbs of love and mistake them for grand gestures.

Then he got adopted, and Bruce gave him all he ever wanted. Completely casting aside the fact that he isolated him from kids his age, in favor of not repeating the "mistakes" he had while raising his predecessor. Or that when he felt he was no longer needed, or wanted, he left to look for his biological mother. Even now in his adult years, if he wronged Bruce, he felt a fight would settle it. And he was never above giving Jason what he wanted. Not that he'd ever recognize any of the parental figures on his life were abusive, but it is what he's learned. That if he lets people hurt him, then they won't be mad at him anymore.

Jason's always been hungry for love, but now that he has it, he's choking on it. You've spoon fed him his wildest dreams, and he can't stop trying to push you away. It's even worse because you stay, you may yell and get equally as angry as him, but you stay.  You always wait for him, and he always comes back for you.

"Baby," You cut him off with a kiss before he can insist. His hands hold your face like he's going to lose you, and you'd think this was the last chance he had to kiss you with how intense he gets. "I'm sorry"

"I know you are," You nod, eyes still closed, lips still close to his. "and I've missed you"

"I've missed you too" He kisses your cheek, it feels almost shy, the way he presses his lips so lightly to your skin as if waiting for you to push him away.  

"Why don't you spend the night here?"

Jason takes your offer without much complaint, nodding before his tears get too much to handle. He hides his face on your lap right as he starts sobbing. All you can do is pet his hair and tell him everything is okay until he calms down, or maybe tires himself out. Then you can finally lift his head and lean down to kiss his forehead. His eyes are puffy, and he's about to apologize again when you take his hand and guide him up to take him to your room. You gently and quietly help him rid of his armor and clothes. He does not say a word when you look up at him like he's worth something, as if he's not way past fixing.  Your fingers trace the mark on his neck, and for once, he lets you. No complaints, no wincing. He lets you trace and kiss all the scars, marks, and bruises you want.

But he's afraid, afraid that your soft gaze will disappear once you figure him out, once you stop believing in him. He knows that if he lost your love, dying would be the only thing to bring him comfort, and that he'd deserve it.  For tonight, he settles for following you to bed, basking in the warmth of your embrace. Limbs wrapping around each other to leave as little space separating you as possible. Jason can be selfish every once in a while, maybe he doesn't think he deserves your forgiveness, but he'll accept it anyways.

"I don't know why you keep putting up with me," He sighs into your hair.

"Because I love you," you explain, grabbing his arms so they wrap around you tighter. The hum you get in response is calm, but with your ear pressed against his chest, you can hear his quickened heartbeat. "just don't ever ask me to hit you again"

"Promise," You feel the barely there nod that accompanies his words,"I'll make it up to you, I'll be better"

Now it was your turn to hum and nuzzle your nose to his chest, even planting a little kiss for reassurance when you feel tears falling on your hair. You know this doesn't fix anything, that his promises are probably empty, and he'd still beat himself up over this in the morning. And he'd still feel unworthy until he's finally ready to make some deep changes in how he views himself, but until then, you could only be there for him.

[moonstruckme]

So, obviously you don't gotta do this request if you are not comfortable, and you can totally delete it, don't feel like you gotta, really.

I was wondering if, you could write some like angst-comfort-fluff type thing with poly!marauders? Where they have been dating reader for a hot minute now, but during (and long before they started dating) reader has been on-and-off cutting herself? And the boys don't know?

Like I said you do NOT have to write this, and just like any request do NOT feel like you EVER have to write a request.

Have an amazing day <3 <3

Hi lovely! I appreciate the disclaimers. I was a bit hesitant to do this because I feel like I'm not always sure where the line is between comforting/validating people who experience this and inadvertently glorifying self-harm, but I hope the general message of getting support and help comes through. Thanks for requesting and hope you're having a good week <33

cw: self-harm scars, mention of current self-harm

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

James doesn’t see so much as feel them, hands roving under your clothes as has become his favorite pastime when you’re both feeling lazy. A series of neat, raised lines starting at the skin of your hip. Curiosity moves his hand upward, following the rows up to your waist. It’s impossible to tell how many there are. They just feel like vague ridges to James’ touch. 

His heart takes on a too-familiar heaviness, and he strokes the lines absentmindedly as he thinks of what to say. 

In the end, he doesn’t have to. You’d been on the precipice of sleep, your form lax between James’ legs, but suddenly you’re startling, an almost imperceptible jolt and your hand covering his own. 

“What’re you doing?” you ask dazedly. 

You sound panicked, and James hurries to placate you. “Sorry, I should have asked before touching you there.” Your alarm attracts Remus’ attention, and he peers over the top of his book from where he sits on the opposite end of the couch. James isn’t sure what to do. He wonders if you’d want this to be a private conversation (based on the fact that you haven’t brought it up yourself, he doubts you want it to be a conversation at all), but he can’t just not mention it and have you think he doesn’t care. He does what he can to keep the wariness from his voice. “Do you want to talk about it, lovely?”

Remus lowers his book as you slide down James’ torso, shrinking yourself. “Talk about what?” he asks, concern already infiltrating his tone. 

James won’t speak for you. You’re quiet for a few long, heavy moments, and he can feel you growing tenser with each one. Finally, you say, quietly so that Sirius can’t hear from the kitchen, “It’s okay. I was going to tell you at some point.” 

“Tell us what?” Remus asks again. 

James sends him a look that begs for patience, bringing his hand to your shoulder to knead tenderly at the taut muscles around your neck. “Okay, thank you sweetheart. Would it be alright if I pulled your shirt up a little?” 

He knows he’s handling you in that extra-gentle way that sometimes frustrates you. You resent kid-gloves, and he can’t tell for certain if this situation is an exception or if you’re just too embarrassed to say anything. You only nod, and James pinches the hem of your top between his fingers, bringing it up to just below your ribs. 

The lines look thinner than they’d felt against his fingertips. Remus sets his book down, forgetting to save the page as he leans forward, palm moving up your leg as if to keep you in place while he looks. He fingers the waistband of your shorts, looking to you for permission before drawing it down until the lines stop where your hip bleeds into your upper thigh. 

“When—” He swallows, voice painfully quiet. “When were you going to tell us?” There’s a sound from the kitchen which signals Sirius has finished preparing his snack. 

Your eyes are almost frightened. James can tell there’s a myriad of placations vying to be the first to leave your tongue, but what makes it out is  “Please don’t be mad.”

“Ooh, what do we have?” Sirius hears and comes running at the first whiff of trouble, perching on the armrest and sidling up to Remus. “A secret tattoo or—” You turn your hip into James’ thigh, and he doesn’t try to stop you, but you’re too slow, and Sirius’ voice seems to run out of air. Usually mirthful gray eyes flit up to yours looking almost betrayed. “Baby.” The word sounds as if it’s been hooked from some wretched part of him and dragged forcibly out. “When did…how long has this been going on?” 

James can feel your ribs expanding and contracting faster as your breaths come quicker. You feel cornered. He puts his hand over the marks on your waist protectively, and you flinch. 

“Hey,” he shushes you. “You’re alright, darling. Nobody’s upset with you, okay?” He lets his eyes flit up to meet the other two boys' warningly. Okay? “We’re just a little worried.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and your tone is so fraught James’ heart very nearly shatters. “You don’t need to worry about me.” 

“We don’t mind worrying, love.” Remus’ voice is still quiet, but the gentleness in it is more apparent now. “But whatever you’re comfortable sharing, we’ll take it. Has this been going on a long time?”

You nod. James begins stroking up and down your side. 

Remus’ lips pinch, but he doesn’t waver. “Is it still going on?”

Your shoulders stiffen and your breathing stops. James’ insides fill with concrete, but he forces himself to peer around the back of your head to see your face. You’re biting down on your lip, hard. 

“Even now?” Sirius sounds devastated. Remus reaches behind him, setting a pacifying hand on his knee. 

Silver lines your eyes, but you take a slow, shuddering breath, and your voice comes out calm. “I’ve almost got it under control,” you say. “I’ve slipped up a few times, but…but I’m working on it.” 

“Alright,” Remus replies, giving Sirius’ knee a squeeze and you a kind, if thin-lipped, smile. “Is there anything we can do?” 

You shake your head immediately, but Sirius shoots you a look. “Don’t,” he says, and his voice is so uncharacteristically stern that even James startles, hand faltering on your side. It’s quiet as Sirius can manage, though still strained with emotion. “Don’t try to shelter us by keeping it to yourself. There have to be things we can do.”

James recollects himself, wrapping both arms around your middle and drawing you closer until the back of your head rests against his collarbone rather than his stomach. “Maybe,” he suggests, “you could let us help by telling us when you think you might slip, and we could try to find ways to distract you. Does that sound alright, lovely?”

You turn your head to look at him, and James steals a selfish kiss to the skin just near your eye. The corner of your lips twitch, and he hits there too, the little peck aiding the spread of your smile.

“That might help,” you say, quiet, tentative. Your smile fades as you turn your gaze to the other two boys. Sirius’ eyes have gotten stuck again on the scars lining your side, but he looks up when you speak. “Are you…do they bother you?”

Remus’ eyebrows stitch together, but he lets Sirius answer. The raven-haired boy looks almost surprised. “The marks?” he asks you, and despite James’ sympathy for the shock of all this, he sort of wants to kill him. He couldn’t make it easy on you, could he? Your hand finds James’ where it rests against your side, fingers worming between his, and he gives them an encouraging squeeze. You nod. “Baby, of course not,” Sirius says, ardent, and James swears he can feel you relax against his chest. “It bothers us—it bothers me that you’ve been upset, and that you’ve been dealing with it by yourself for so long, but I couldn’t give less of a shit about the marks. I care about you, your pain, not how it—how it looks on your body.” 

“I agree,” Remus says, smiling a little as he pats Sirius’ knee like settle down. “Honey, so long as you’re doing what you can—and letting us do what we can—to help yourself feel better, the scars don’t matter.”

“Thanks.” Your voice is quiet, but more bashful now than ashamed, which James considers to be some improvement. “It’s just awkward to talk about, you know?”

“It’s not,” James tells you. “Or, it doesn’t have to be. Listen, we don’t have to talk about it like, every day, but you should be able to tell us when you’re feeling down, okay?” You rest your head against his shoulder, and it feels nice, but James gives you a playful little jostle to let you know his question wasn’t rhetorical. “Okay?” 

“Yeah, okay.” The words leave you in a sigh, and Sirius rolls his eyes amusedly while Remus watches you with a knowing look. You were on the brink of a nap before, and the weight of this conversation has thoroughly tuckered you out. 

“Good,” James says, mock stern as he tucks his chin into the juncture of your neck. Wordlessly, Remus pulls Sirius down from the armrest and into his lap, picking up his book again. Your breathing slows, and James’ thumb strokes at your side underneath your shirt, indiscriminate between smooth skin and scars.

[kathelovecatsandfeminism]

Hold me

warnings: dr robby x reader; angst; smut; pet names; fluff and comfort; p in v; unprotected sex; heavy eye contact; no use of y/n; daddy kink; age gap; I wanted SO MUCH to be curled up in Noah's lap, so this is a confession, sorry Summary: reader is very stressed and overwhelmed but robby is here to take care of her

The spelling has not been fully revised and it is always good to remember that English is not my first language, so be nice. I think that's all.

Your day had been disastrous, as had your week, those moments where you could swear the universe itself was against you. You loved your job so much, but let's face it, you didn't know how to distance yourself, too much effort for little recognition. There was a constant pressure in your eyes coming from a headache that refused to go away. You don't know when exactly, but everything seemed to be too much, too bright, too loud, too many people, too many textures and sensations. You may or may not have been a bit of a bicth to some people.

You were tired.

You also missed Michael, you had barely seen each other these days, usually you could blame his shifts, but this time it was you who was being swallowed up by the huge capitalist wheel. So ignoring the request for you to work overtime in a poorly paid academic internship, you just grabbed your things and walked out (not before taking a good shower in the building's bathroom, since they sucked your soul out of you, you could waste some water) offering some excuse, a sick grandmother or something like that.

You wanted him, you needed to see him

There was something magical about him that you couldn't explain. He always laughed when you tried, making the laugh lines around his eyes deepen. It was cute. He always seemed to know what to do. Okay, sure, years of experience as an emergency room chief develop that in a guy, but that wasn't all. He had that soft voice that made everything seem clear. His brain was always racing at a thousand miles an hour, but somehow Michael knew how to make him stay silent. That was why you were running to him.

You crossed your fingers, hoping he'd already gotten back from his shift. It was only when you got to the door that you realized you hadn't even told him about your sudden change of plans. A certain guilt settled in your chest. What if he was tired from his shift? He could very well be as much of a workaholic as you.

Yours steps were light as a cat's, passing through the living room and hallway. There was a faint yellow light coming from the room. Just the sight of it made your heart warm. Dr. Robby in his pajamas, under the covers, reading the novel you recommended, with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“Hello, Doctor,” you offered, trying to be warm, but when Robby looked at you, his smile turned into a worried expression.

Did you look that bad?

Maybe, because right after that he gets up from the bed and walks towards you and holds your face in his cup, making you look up, into his eyes. That was enough to make you collapse, all the tears that were stuck and burning in the back of your throat. Like the breaking of a dam. So he does what he always does, he resolve. He hugs you tightly, lifting your feet in the air for a moment, allowing you to wet his shirt, leaning against him. And he senses your need for comfort and slowly guides you both back to the large bed in the center of the room. He sits you on his lap and you automatically curl up against him. Hands around his neck, knees raised, face hidden in the curve of his neck. He smells like home, warm and wide. Sometimes you feel like snuggling up inside his skin, does that make sense? His big hands distract you, under your shirt, not malicious, not yet, but caressing you, their warmth making you cling to the moment, to being in his arms.

You don't even notice when the crying stops and your breathing stabilizes, but he does.

"Hey, look at me, beautiful" with a reluctant moan you take a good look at him, but without tears this time. Handsome, the glasses are still there, he hates them, but you find them sexy

“Do you want to talk?” One of his hands clasps the side of your face. “not now” you try to go back to your hiding place around his neck, but he won't let you, stubborn. “so what can I do for you now, huh?” “now?” he nods “Love me” you say without thinking. He smiles “I already love you” you snort, wriggling in his lap and rubbing your face against his beard like a needy cat “I want you to hold me, I want you to make love to me” for some reason you blush with embarrassment. Robby had this thing about making you feel like a teenager in high school, all smiles and shyness. “Yeah?” his voice is husky, between smiles. The hand on your back, now more intent, goes down to your waist, it feels heavy there, warm “yeah” In a second his lips are on yours, it's slow, deliberate and deep. There's no rush in his movements, today isn't about that. His tongue enters your mouth with the same ease with which he has become a constancy in your life. You grab the fine hairs on the back of his neck When your lips are already red and swollen enough and you're short of breath, his lips move to your cheeks, your neck. He doesn't want to rush, but damn it, he's missed having you like this, so he gets bold, leaving little nibbles as he goes. Your breath catches. After sucking and biting your collarbone, his hands snake down the hem of your blouse, and you automatically raise your arms, doing the same with your sports top. Robby steps back a little, taking in the sight of you in all your glory, it's impossible not to slap him His fingertips trailed down your sides, stopping at your breasts. He seemed enchanted by them despite the number of times he'd seen you naked, until he lowered his head and gently took one of them in his mouth. He sucks and runs the tip of his tongue over the nipple, occasionally nibbling, just to make you lose your breath, he doesn't leave the other one unattended, he rolls the nipple in his fingertips. The combination of stimuli makes you arch your back, pushing your breasts more and more towards him.

He doesn't complain at all. But you do. There are too many clothes between you “take it off” you grab the hem of his shirt Then you pull away for a minute and you think you might die, grumbling against your will and before you can get back on his lap, his hands are quick to take the rest of yours off. He flips you over this time. His naked torso against your back, skin to skin, the hair of his chest tickling your back and the cold metal of his medal contrasting with the effervescence of the bodies anchoring you while one of his hands is between your legs playing with your clitoris with slow but deliberate and skillful circles applying just the right pressure, the other hand spreading and squeezing your left breast. Feels good His mouth is busy leaving kisses and nibbles from your shoulder to your ear, lingering on the last one, biting, pulling, licking and then blowing on the united point. the gray beard agitating the sensitive skin You are nothing more than a soft mass in his hands. But you want more, you need more, so you start rubbing yourself against his erection just below you, but unfortunately separated by his clothes. He notices your impatience, moans and gasps at the movement of your hips. Regaining control of the situation, the fingers that were on your clitoris move down to circle your entrance, teasing you and denying you every time, just there tempting you. He's going to give you what you want but first he whispers in your ear “daddy will take care of you, babe” and then his middle and ring fingers are inside you, curving into a hook shape, causing a loud moan to escape from you. Your brain is pure static, just Michael His hands, his skin, his breath in your ear as hot as your whole body A knot is forming in your core that Robby pulls and pulls, increasing the tension like the string of a guitar until you come. Whimpering and slurping as he just lets you ride his fingers, never easing the pressure on your peak. At the end of your descent you throw yourself against his broad chest, entropy, but still not enough. One of his hands runs wetly down your side as he rests his chin on your shoulder, watching your chest gasp and gradually stabilize

He whispers compliments “good girl” “That's it, babe” “You are so good to me, sweetheart” “Christ, you look so hot like this”

You just hum in response, wriggling intentionally on top of him. He sticks out his tongue and laughs In one fluid movement you're under him with his broad robby body between your legs. Eyes to eyes, noses almost touching, he's such a delight, your mind is already so clouded that you don't even notice when he's finished undressing. He takes your hand and leads it to his member, letting out a tense sigh, and covers yours with his, playing with the tip between your wet folds. Circling the entrance, but never actually entering, you wouldn't dare move your hand, so you move your hips so that they meet the shiny pink head of his cock Then without further ado he gives you a wet, lazy kiss as he slowly enters you, so needy your walls clench around him needing more and more. Robby closes his eyes to concentrate, you're so warm and receptive The rhythm is slow, almost lazy, but deep, to the hilt, grinding, his balls slap against your ass and the curly hairs at the base of it gently stimulate your clit, it's all very tender and the coming together of everything, “Look at me, beautiful,” he asks gently, leaning on one elbow next to your head, his face hovering over yours, sharing the same breath. With his free hand, he puts one of your legs on his hip, the other mirroring the movement, but his hand stays firmly there, leaving a beautiful mark It takes a lot out of you to open your eyes and they're addled, big and bright, at that moment there's no coherent line of thought in your mind, just michael, michael's tired eyes, michael's swollen and red lips, the sound of michael's deep thrusts hitting that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back and a scream die in your throat, michael michael michel You don't even notice when it's so loud, but it's so close and by the way you squeeze Robby, so is he. He wets his fingertips with his own saliva and travels with his hand between your sweaty bodies, they're tight, firm circles, everything becomes too much and the only thing you remember is shouting robby's name while digging your nails into his back, keeping him as close to you as you can. It takes a while for you to come to your senses. Lying on his chest, one hand strokes his hair. He notices your breathing change and straightens up to look at you “there you are”

You just smile, too tired to speak Now he looks more serious, a little worried “we should talk” “hm” is all you say “you know you look like me, that's not good” he offers with humor but concern in his voice You move up his body a little, faces closer and scatter a lot of kisses over the frown that forms on his face “tomorrow, I promise”. That seems to satisfy him. He squeezes you tightly against his chest and pulls the sheet over you, you have the quietest sleep in weeks, all by robby

[virtualvault]

Finish What I Started

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara  x f!reader

Summary: After being called away while he's between your thighs, Miguel comes back to finish what he started.

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+ ONLY, brief angst, oral(f receiving), fingering, brief somno, kissing, dirty talk, pet names( baby, good girl), kissing, unprotected p in v, creampie. Let me know if I missed anything

WC: 2.3k

A/N: I know reader starts off sad but don't worry, Miguel fixes it with his dick lol I was determined to make Miguel his regular dirty self, but spice it up with a bit of angst. Also, no explicit consent for somno given by reader beforehand, but I wrote it as if there is general consent within the relationship to do so. As always, feedback is encouraged and appreciated!!

For the past few months Miguel has been gone more than usual. He's home a few days then called away again and it's starting to weigh on you. He's just returned from a week away and he's finally back. He was taking care of some 'business', which he of course doesn't tell you anything about. You know it's for your own good, but sometimes it would be nice for him to open up a bit about his work. At least vent to you. You know he's under an extreme amount of stress and it would do him some good to open up about it.

But of course, he tells you he doesn't want to burden you, even though you've told him a thousand times that it wouldn't. He does have his own way of communicating, though. It's just usually through actions instead of words. Like when he holds you close and locks you into a needy kiss and you can feel the desperation and all his pent-up emotion. It lets you know he's back where he wants to be. Home with you.

Which is where you are right now. He kisses down your stomach, taking his time not only to savor you, but show you how much he's missed you. He makes it to your folds and places a few light kisses there before diving in. You let out a long sigh, reveling in the feeling you haven't gotten to indulge in for what feels like forever. He never fails to take your breath away, though. The way his tongue glides against you and prods at your entrance. You wrap your fingers in his hair, lightly dragging your fingers across his scalp and he leans closer into you, and he groans.

His hand comes up to join his mouth, and just before he can push a finger in, you hear it. That dreaded sound. A high-pitched ring accompanied by a buzz, letting you know he has to leaves you. Again. You try to put things into perspective any time he gets called away and try to find the restraint to not get on your knees and beg him not to go. You know he helps people, and he puts his life on the line for the greater good, but you can't help the sadness that blooms in your chest each time.

He doesn't say anything, just pulls his mouth from you and rests his head on your thigh, letting out an exasperated sigh. A pathetic whine falls from you lips in return. You cradle his head in your hands and hold it against you, silently pleading with him to stay. He gently pries your hands off and kisses each wrist before sitting up and tapping his watch, answering the distress call. He shares a few quick, and quiet, words with someone before leaning back down to you.

"Baby-" he starts. "I know," you respond, sounding dejected, and he looks back at you apologetically. He knows he asks a lot of you. You live your life around his work and are always left waiting for him to return. The unpredictability and the time away are a lot to deal with. You do it happily because you love him, but he knows it takes a toll on you. It takes a toll on him too, and he finds it harder and harder to leave you every time.

 He kisses your forehead and lifts your chin to meet his eyes. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise." He pulls you in for a kiss, then makes his way to the door.

You hear it close and are immediately overwhelmed by the emptiness. It's dark and the silence is deafening. You look over to his side of the bed and pull his pillow into your arms. Usually, you'd at least give yourself a pitiful orgasm to let out a little of the sexual frustration he left you with alongside the emotional, but you don't have it in you. You roll over and hold the pillow close. You can smell him on it and the comforting scent lulls you to sleep.

Miguel returns in the dead of night, and he shuts the door softly behind himself to avoid waking you. He was only gone a few hours, which is something of a rare occurrence. Turns out he just had to assist in a little damage control and then he was racing back home to you. Part of him was hoping you'd still be awake, but he knows that'd be unfair to expect of you. It breaks his heart to think of you curled up in bed, sad and alone, waiting up for him.

He walks into the bedroom, and he's met with a wonderful sight. There is a feeling burning hot within him at the sight of your exposed backside. He ripped the pleasure from you upon his departure and is determined to give you what you deserve. He wants to express how grateful he is that you stay by his side, giving so much to him and the relationship. That you are the most important thing to him and that he cherishes you above all else. These are things he makes an effort to tell you all the time, but right now he wants to show you.

You wake up to a pulsing heat in your core. You're on your stomach, one leg hiked up, and Miguel's pillow still held against you. Your eyes flutter open, and you attempt to roll over, but two pairs of hands hold you in place.  You let out a soft moan and you shake your head, clearing the last bit of haze as you become fully conscious. That's when you feel it. Miguel's tongue firmly, yet slowly, rolling against your exposed nub.

"Miguel?" There's a slight drowsiness to your voice. It doesn’t last long as you exclaim his name at full volume when he slips a finger inside you. "I'm here, baby." He lifts his head long enough to offer you the reassurance and flip you over, then he resumes his position between your thighs. He slips two fingers in this time. You gasp and you grab the pillow beneath your head.

"You're home," you pant out and he chuckles. "Yes. I am. There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

He brings his thumb up to your clit while he speaks to you and rubs in slow, teasing circles. "I left you all desperate for me. That wasn't very nice, was it?" He asks and you quickly shake your head 'no' as you tilt your hips up and start grinding your hips in time with his movements. "Did you touch yourself when I left?"

Again, you shake your head and let out a ragged "No," and he cocks his eyebrow. "Why not?" He asks. You don't answer as he starts moving his fingers faster and biting across the flesh of your thighs. "I bought you that wonderful little toy to keep you company when I'm away." You blush as you think about the vibrator sitting in your nightstand. It was a very thoughtful gift, and you do get a lot of use out of it, but there's no substitution for the real thing.

 "It's not the same," you moan. He lets out a pleased hum at your answer. "I want your fingers…your mouth… your cock." Your last word is punctuated by a whine as he probes deeper inside you. He groans and you see him grind his hips into the mattress. "Well, I'm happy to give it all to you, baby." He places his tongue back on your clit and before you know it, you're cumming around his fingers.

"That's it, good girl. God fucking girl," he praises, admiring the way your arousal gushes out of you and down his hand. When he slips them out of you, you pull his fingers up and into your mouth. His breath hitches as your tongue slides along each digit. When he looks up at you, you can see the desire dancing in his eyes. His kisses up your stomach, across your breast, and up your neck until his face is hovering over yours.

"That's two out of three. You gonna give me your cock?" You speak in a teasing tone, but you're dying to feel him inside you.

He chuckles. "Happily."

He sheds his clothes and settles between your thighs. "How do you want it, sweetheart? On your back? Stomach?" He asks, wanting to give it to you exactly how you want it. "Um…" you take a second to think and realize what you really want. "I want to feel your arms around me while you fuck me," you respond, looking up at him through your lashes. He nods and moves your body into position. He puts his arms under you and flips the both of you over. He plants his feet onto the mattress and wraps his arm around your waist, using it to move slide you up and down his length, effectively coating him in your slick. The friction feels wonderful, and you gasp when his tip catches on your clit.

 Once he feels he's properly lubricated, he slowly guides himself inside you. You both breath out a sigh of relief at the feeling you've both been waiting so long for. He's got one arm around your waist while the other goes to cradle the back of your head and he pulls you into a heated kiss. Your shared longing and need are apparent in your movements. You slide your tongues over each other's messily and only pull apart when you become desperate for air. Then, urgent with need, you begin grinding yourself down on to him, earning a throaty moan from the man below you.

"I've made you wait long enough, haven't I?" You nod and nip at his lower lip. "Please, Miguel. I need it so bad."

He starts slow, stretching you out deliciously and you melt around him. You drop your head to his shoulder and nuzzle into his neck as he picks up the pace. His deep, steady strokes cause pleasure to ripple over your body. You can hear his ragged breathing and the noise of your skin slapping together and it adds to the warmth building in your belly. You begin placing sloppy kisses on his neck and nipping at the flesh. That always drives him crazy, and he holds you tighter against him. He grips the back of your neck and starts pulling you down to meet his thrusts.

"Oh, god baby, you're gripping me so tight," he groans, speaking against the crown of your head. He breathes in deeply, relishing in your scent. You whine into his shoulder as you feel him fucking you at just the right angle. Pleasure pulses through your veins and you can tell you're close. So can he.

"Let go, baby. Make a mess on my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze me." You keen at his words as they vibrate against you, and it has you tumbling over the edge. He grits his teeth as your walls quiver around him and you babble out thank-yous and sweet nothings while you ride out your high.

Before you can fully come down, he rolls you over and before you know it, he's rutting into you again. He pushes your legs up by the back of your thighs and admires the way his shaft disappears inside you. "You take it so well. This pussy was made for me, wasn't it?" He brings his thumb down to circle your clit and you writhe under him.

"C'mon, say it." he brings his other hand to the back of your head and angles so you're looking at him.

"This pussy was made for you. I was made for you" you say, raggedly. He moans at your confession before wrapping his arms around you once more. You're completely enveloped by him now. By his body, his scent, and his sounds. It overwhelms your senses int the best way and you can tell you're about to succumb to the pleasure again. You wrap your arms around his shoulder, holding him to you, and run a hand through his hair. You give it a tug each time he hits that soft spot inside you and he groans at the feeling.

You gasp with each measured thrust, although they're getting sloppier, and you can tell he's close too. You'd love to cum with him, so you contract around him again and again. Now he's the one whining into your shoulder.

"I'm never leaving again. I wanna stay buried inside this pussy forever," he admits, breathily. He voice is barely above a whisper, and you think he's saying that not only to you but himself as well. You know he will inevitably leave again, but he speaks with such passion. So, you both let yourselves believe, even for just this moment, that it's true. When the words leave his mouth, you allow yourself to let go.

You arch your back and drag your nails across his skin as you let the ecstasy wash over you. It pushes him to his own release, and he presses his lips to your forehead, and you feel him twitch inside you. You pulse around him, and he stills as he spills himself inside you with a strangled moan.

He pulls away and cradles your face, looking deep into your eyes. "I know I'll have to leave again, but I will always come back to you. Always." He vows.

"And I'll always be here when you do. Always," you reply, then seal your promise with a kiss.

[wolfish-trickster]

Don't make me choose

Gojo x fem!reader

Part 2

Word count: 1.4K

Summary: it's been some time since you've started dating the infamous Satoru Gojo. But lately you feel more like the two of you are just cuddle/fuck buddies and not a real couple. You make him choose his priorities which is something the strongest doesn't like.

Warnings: bad grammar (possibly), typos, angst, very little comfort

When Gojo Satoru first asked you out you couldn't be happier. The first time he caught your eye was when he zoomed past you together with Geto on one bike. You got so startled you fell to the ground and scratched your knee. You thought at first that they will just leave you there and probably laugh at you later at a pub, talking to their friends how they knocked over a clumsy girl in a park. What completely shocked you was Gojo running up to you with Geto pushing their bike behind him asking you if you were okay and if you need any help.

The rest is history.

Now, three years later, things have been going well. Mostly.

You had the ultimate boyfriend experience. Nice dates, wholesome anniversaries, moving in together, having fun. You did everything in your power to not get boring, for him to not get bored. You cooked, cleaned, asked him how his day was, acted silly with him even when you were exhausted after a long day.

So why? Why was he spending more and more of his free time away from you?

It started out small. The first time you started noticing was like a month ago. As soon as he came home he told you he's going to the pub with Geto and Nanami. You told him to have fun of course, not wanting to seem like that girlfriend that doesn't allow their boyfriends having fun without them. Then from one weekend it became every weekend. Both of you were busy during the week, the only time you had for yourself was during the night and weekend. It soon became just nights.

Even during the week it was "babe, i have a day off tomorrow i'm going to Geto's" or "sorry we have to move the date night to sometime else, Geto is sick and has no one to take care of him" and once even "babe, remember how you told me about this place you used to love as a child? I'm going there with Geto! What a coincidence, right?". The last one hurt the most. Honestly, the last one was also what made you start noticing these in the first place. Once you looked into the past and counted all the times Gojo chose to spend his free time with his best friend instead of you you nearly slapped yourself. It was too many times. How could've you been so blind?

All off days were for Geto. All special days were once again for Geto. Weekends, holidays, his and yours birthdays, all for Geto fucking Suguru.

You needed to have a talk with him.

If he comes back that is. Lately he started to have sleepovers with Geto. As if both of them were teenage girls. You did ask to join them but they always told you off to "not disturb their boy time".

Steps echo outside your apartment. The door unlocks. And in comes...

"Babe," comes the voice of your beloved white haired guy, "I'm home."

"I can hear that," came your answer. You prayed it didn't sound too agressive. Your stomach was full of nervous butterflies, making it even worse to come up with a decent way to start the talk.

While you were thinking he came from the entrance hall to the kitchen where you were sitting and kissed you on the crown of your head. "I wanted to ask, do we have plans next wendesday? Because Suguru said he'd-"

"Listen," you interrupted him before he could even finish, "can we talk?"

Gojo chuckled. "That's a very scary sentence."

"Why? Have something to hide?"

"Nope," he put his bag down and leaned his back against the wall, "I'm listening. What is it?"

You took a deep breath. Then another. "Don't you think you're spending a little too much time with Geto?"

His playful smile loosend into a neutral line. "Elaborate?"

"It's just... you've been with him so much lately and I miss being with you-"

"I'm with you all the damn time. Every single night we-"

"Can't you let me finish?!" you said a little louder than intended but enough is enough. "Is that all you see me as? A fuck-buddy to warm your bed?"

Gojo groaned in annoyance. "No, of course not. But you're literally overreacting over here!"

"Overreacting? How? By wanting my boyfriend to be home on his off days? To spend some time with me and have fun like before?"

"Have fun times with you? What am I your babysitter?"

"Are you Geto's? All the fun stuff we used to do you're doing with him!"

"No, no darling," he stood up straight and walked towards you, backing you into the corner, "all the stuff we used to do I did with him first. He's my best friend! I've known him half my life! You have to have at least a bit of empathy to understand that."

Even cornered by a giant of a guy like him you didn't feel fear. The butterflies in your stomach died. What remained was just pain in your chest predicting what was about to come.

"Do you even see me as your girlfriend anymore, Gojo?"

"Oh, so we are on last name terms again?" he asked sarcastically and walked away to pour himself a cup of water.

"Answer me."

You watched him drink. Slowly. You've never seen a man drink this slow.

"Of course I do," he put the glass down, "what kind of a bullshit question is that?"

"It's how I feel Gojo. You're never here with me!"

"I am here now aren't I?" he poked his chest with his forefinger. "I'm here every single day and night, twentyfour fucking seven ever since we moved in together! Well excuse me I want to have some quality time with my best friend from time to time!"

You didn't want this. The yelling, the arguing. But it has to be done.

Now as a finishing touch. "Who do you value more?"

"Excuse me?" was all he said, too surprised to not hear you yell in return, just calmly asking your question.

"Who is more important to you? Your best friend or your girlfriend?"

Gojo covered his face with his palms and threw his head back. "You can't be serious right now," he groaned. "Suguru is my best friend. You can't just make me choose!"

"So I'm below a best friend. I might as well be called your friend with benefits..." you say more to yourself than him.

"There you go hating yourself again," he shook his head. "I get it, you want to hear me say how much you mean to me, how you're the most important thing in the world and other stuff I've told you a million times already and yet you still slip into this state. I might as well record myself saying those things so you could listen to them everytime you're attention starved," he pinched the bridge of his nose.

He sighed. "You know what? I'm tired of this. I still care about you, but you have to understand Suguru is-"

"I know," you interrupt his rant. "I'm tired too."

Gojo sighs. "Okay. Good. I knew we could talk this out," he said and picked up his sleepover bag again. "I hate arguing with you."

He walked past you to the bathroom to dump his pyjamas into dirty laundry. "Let's go to bed, okay?" he shouted from there.

After a quick shower he walked out the bathroom with nothing but sweatpants on and a towel around his neck.

However you weren't there. Not in the bedroom, nor living room, nor anywhere else. Confused Gojo walked around the apartment, looking for any signs where you might be hiding. Maybe you want to jumpscare him again to light up the tension?

Fine, two can play this game. He tiptoed into the bedroom to your massive closet and yanked it open.

You weren't there. But neither were your things. He quickly checked under the bed to see your beloved backpack missing.

Panicked he started calling out for you, thinking this was just a prank.

It wasn't.

You made him choose and without even realizing it he did.

[airybcby]

i didn't know the spotify wrapped event was ending n u were starting a new event ... 🍊 🍫 w sae😈😈

dawg I'm coming back to ur acc every day now I love ur works

💌

awee thank you so much, that's so sweet :,)

a sae itoshi chocolate covered orange

જ⁀♡⊹｡° don't you say you've missed me

♡ a/n — for my more than a married couple event !

♡ content — sae itoshi x gn! reader, ex bf! sae, sae itoshi x gn! reader, second chance romance, slight pining?, angst (kinda)

♡ synopsis — sae itoshi broke your heart years ago, and this simulation is giving him the perfect opportunity to do it again.

It was almost cruel how life worked sometimes. Out of all the people in the world, it had to be him.

Sae Itoshi stood across from you, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable as the instructor explained the expectations of the marriage simulation program. He hadn’t so much as glanced your way, and you hadn’t said a word to him either.

You wondered if he was as shocked as you were when his name was called alongside yours—or if he even cared.

The last time you’d spoken was years ago, back when the two of you were more than just strangers passing each other by. Back when his hand used to find yours in crowded places, and his words carried a softness that now seemed impossible to imagine.

Back when you still believed in him.

The shared apartment was unnervingly quiet that first evening. Sae unpacked in silence, his every movement precise and deliberate. You tried to busy yourself by organizing your side of the space, but the weight of his presence was impossible to ignore.

“So,” he said finally, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “This is awkward.”

You turned to face him, surprised he’d broken the silence. His expression was calm, but there was a faint edge to his tone.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” you admitted, your voice quieter than you intended.

“Neither did I.” He looked at you then, his teal eyes sharp and assessing. “But it’s just a program. Let’s get through it and move on.”

His words stung more than you wanted to admit.

Despite his detached demeanor, Sae was annoyingly good at the simulation.

He remembered every detail the program tested on—your supposed "anniversary," your "favorite" flowers, even how you took your coffee. He played the part of the perfect partner effortlessly, charming the instructors and the other couples with ease.

But you knew better.

Behind the façade, he was as distant as ever. Every word he spoke, every gesture he made, felt rehearsed, like he was reciting lines from a script.

It reminded you of how things had been near the end of your relationship—the way he’d started pulling away, hiding behind excuses and half-truths until there was nothing left between you but empty space.

One evening, as you sat together at the kitchen table, going over the week’s assignments, you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Do you even care about this?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

Sae didn’t look up from his notebook. “What do you mean?”

“This.” You gestured around the room. “The program, the simulation, us. Do you care about any of it, or is this just another thing you’re good at?”

He finally met your gaze, his expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” you said, your chest tightening. “It matters to me.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his teal eyes piercing. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s just a program,” he said quietly. “None of this is real.”

But it had been real once.

You remembered the late-night phone calls, the stolen moments between his games and your busy schedule. The way he used to look at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

And you remembered the way it all fell apart.

The arguments, the distance, the day he told you he was leaving for Spain—and the way he didn’t ask you to come with him. The way he didn't bother when you offered to do long distance.

The way he got over you so easily.

You’d told yourself you were over it. That you’d moved on.

But sitting there, across from him, the weight of everything unsaid between you pressed down like a storm cloud, and you wondered if you ever really had.

The final week of the program arrived, and with it, the “partner reflection” exercise.

Each couple was tasked with writing a letter to their partner, summarizing their experience in the program and what they’d learned. The letters would be shared during the final evaluation.

You spent hours staring at a blank page, the words refusing to come. What could you possibly say to Sae that hadn’t already been said—or left unsaid—years ago?

When the day came, you sat in the evaluation room, your letter clutched tightly in your hands. Sae sat beside you, calm and composed as always, his letter folded neatly on the table.

When it was time to read, he went first.

His words were precise, calculated, perfectly crafted to impress the instructors. He spoke about teamwork, communication, and personal growth, his tone polite but detached.

It was everything you expected—and nothing you wanted to hear.

When it was your turn, you hesitated. The letter in your hands felt heavy, the weight of all your unspoken feelings pressing down on you.

In the end, you set it down on the table, unopened.

“I don’t have anything to say,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

The instructors looked surprised, but they didn’t press you.

Sae didn’t say anything either.

The program ended the next day.

As you packed up your things, Sae lingered by the door, his expression unreadable.

“This was… interesting,” he said finally, his tone carefully neutral.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say something more. But then he turned, his hand on the doorknob.

“Take care of yourself,” he said softly, without looking back.

And then he was gone.

As the door closed behind him, you felt a strange sense of finality settle over you.

Maybe this was how it was always meant to end—two people, once close, now strangers again, moving on in opposite directions.

You told yourself it was for the best.

But as you stood alone in the empty apartment, your chest ached with the weight of everything you’d lost.

i'm obsessed with 2nd chance romance

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[mairella]

𐙚    DORKLING!READER X JJ MAYBANK until the battery died.            oneshot.

summary: jj leaves dorkling!reader a video before his death in morocco. writer's notes: no smut or fluff, PURE ANGST, mental breakdowns, depression, panic attack, survivor's guilt, flashbacks, emotional distress, grief. please read with caution. it involves spoilers of the outcome of the obx character, jj maybank. if you haven't watched it, don't read this oneshot. thank you. the ending is poorly written. it's in dorkling!reader's pov.

I haven't felt so disorganised since that day JJ's name was engraved on that tomb. But it wasn't his name. Or what we all called him. It wasn't fair. That wasn't him. He's not John Jackson Maybank. I locked myself up in my room ever since that day. I didn't have the heart to be productive. Because I didn't have the idiot who took my heart and took it with him in death. And now I was left with nothing. No JJ, no heart. I was empty inside. Still am. A hollow feeling in my chest, like someone had taken my heart, crushed it, stomped on it. It wasn't fair. I didn't even make my to do list today. What was there to do? Wrapped up in one of his old hoodies, the Harvard hoodie, the one he bought me with his own money, when I was competing with Pope for that Harvard position. My eyes were so sore, brimming tears out for days straight. He didn't tell Pope that he was secretly in full support of me during that competitive streak me and Pope both shared and used against each other. Don't tell Pope, it'll get 'im all bothered.

That was his exact words when he snuck into my room that night to give me his unwavering support. I remember when I laughed at him, like he had just told me the funniest joke ever. But he meant it. He so meant it. Even when I didn’t take him seriously sometimes.

I couldn’t get out of bed. Like it physically hurt to. I didn’t want to get out of my hoodie.

I didn’t care if it made me look dirty. Or if I stank. There was this lingering fear that if I got out of the Harvard hoodie, he wouldn’t be in my head anymore. That I’d lose him all over again.

I haven’t eaten in weeks, I could practically feel bone and no flesh now. My parents had been sending me food, but it always went cold on the bedside. No one could get me out of the room.

It’s like my brain had shut down. I had no motivation, no energy, no interests— god, everything I loved was squashed into pieces. I couldn’t even find the energy to turn on the TV and watch an episode of the Killer Sally.

Couldn’t stand a Jane Austen book. Because the main characters had their lives in tact. I didn’t get my happy ending. So why the fuck should I bother with sappy romance? It sucks. I hate everything about it. It was shallow. Damp. No depth, no plot line—

One knock put a halt to my thoughts. “Honey! Get out of your room, I won’t tell you again!” My mom interrupts me at my worst moment, as usual. Because everyone around me had to be so fucking insensitive. Honestly, are humans just deforming? Maybe…

“I told you, I’m not—” I was interrupted when my mom says. “Pope is here! Your friend, sweetie, Pope!” She repeats.

My eyebrows furrow, and I felt a bit bad. I also refused to see anyone. That was another problem. I stopped talking to all my friends. Stopped bickering with Rafe. Stopped debating with Pope, which was one of my most favourite things in the world.

I remember that look on JJ’s face whenever I used to talk. Simply talk. That’s all I had to do. Move my lips around, say a few words, and he looked at me like that heart eyes emoji. Which was weird.

No one wanted to hear me ramble on about the Tudors or Female Spies in the WWII, but he was willingly to do so. “Let him in.” I mumble, and then Pope enters.

But he doesn’t look at me with pity. More with disappointment. Because I knew all the words he had planned out to tell me. JJ wouldn’t have wanted this. This is not like you. You could do a lot better. Have you even eaten? You look like a ghost. But no. He doesn’t do that.

Instead, he sits beside me on my bed. And simply stares at me like he couldn’t recognise me. Usually, I’d feel offended. Or I’d bite back, with my usual sarcasm and witty jabs. But I was already agreeing with him in my head. I didn’t even recognise myself anymore. “You’re still wearing that hoodie.” He narrows his eyes.

The girl, who fought her way through every debate session, who argued day and night for a space in Harvard Law School, never took her eyes of the percentage rates, now didn’t even have the ability to get out of bed. Like a potato couch. And the girl everyone recognised disappeared. With JJ.

And as soon I met Pope’s gaze, I crumbled into tears. I felt horrible. I hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. And I missed him. Then he hugged me, and I was mumbling apologises.

After a few moments, he looks at me. “JJ left something for you.” He mutters, looking down. I notice how he looks like he might break too. He doesn’t dare look at me. Like he might lose it, if he does look at me.

As I wipe my tears, my eyebrows creased. “What— what do you mean?” My voice was hoarse, heavy like it was holding a lot of weight and was about to crack, on the verge of breaking if Pope continued talking like that.

It didn’t take Pope long to set up the video on my Sky TV. When the TV’s screen flickered, there he was. My JJ.

With that shaggy blonde hair that was always so unkempt, the same locks I told him to always fix up.. those blue eyes lighting up with the quality of that video. He looks more upset than me in that video.

I could easily tell when it looked like when he was crying. He’d always do that thing when he would mess up his hair so no one would focus on his eyes. I knew him too well. And he knew me too well. Guess that’s why he made this video. He looked so torn, like he already knew he was going to die.

I took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm the panic threatening to rise and make me lose my breath. “When—” My voice cracks. “When did he make this?” My volume was below a whisper.

Such a contrast to how loud I’d be in those debate sessions, whenever I used to argue with Rafe, or when I used to cuss out Ward whenever I got the chance.

But Pope doesn’t say anything for a moment, like he knows what he says is going to hate me. Then he doesn’t say anything at all. And he just plays the video. One press on the remote.

JJ takes a few breaths, biting his lip so hard it might bleed, and he sniffs. There were already tears falling from my eyes, and he didn’t even start speaking.

I used my sleeves to wipe off the tears, tilting my head to rest on Pope’s shoulder, as he rubbed the side of my arm to comfort me.

“Hey baby.” He pauses. “I know you must me off at Harvard right now.” JJ mumbles, sniffing. “Best girl in the world, smartest one ever. My girl.” He continues, his voice cracking with every second that passes. “Probably outsmarting Pope at all his bullshit.” He says, and I see tears falling from his eyes.

“I don’t know if you’re still pissed at me for leaving you. Forgive me for that, baby.” His voice cracks. I forgive you, I forgive you, please come back is all that kept running through my head.

“And if I was to die..” He says, looking up at the camera for the first time and I see how bloodshot his eyes have gotten from crying. “I didn’t want that to be the last time.”

His tears fall while looking straight at the camera, and I was sobbing. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.” He mumbles, and he was apologising for crying. And I would’ve told him it’s okay. “I’ve been having that gut feeling you always have whenever you think you got those bad grades.” He says.

“I’ve turned into you, baby. I’m always overthinking. Because—” His voice cracks. “I want to come back to my girl. Who works her ass off than I’ve done in my whole life.” “I know you were…” He looks back down again. “I know you were mad at me when I left.” He says. “Don’t be mad at me if I never get back there with you.” His voice goes hoarse.

“I love you, smartass.” He mumbles, running a hand over his tear streaked face. “I’m sorry if I missed your first day at college. It…” his words trail off. “It won’t happen again baby.”

And I let out a sob, hugging my pillow. Because I knew what he meant by that. “I love you.” He says. “But you gotta stay strong for me. Okay, baby? Promise?” He whispers.

“Don’t be all depressed about it. You’ll find me everywhere baby.” A grin reaches his lips, but he’s still crying.

“I’m never really gone, am I?” He sighs. “My girl at the top of the world. And I’m gonna be there to see it. I promise you. You just gotta wait a few more days, baby.”

He smiles. “I love you.” He has that usual grin on his face. The one that made him JJ Maybank. “Don’t miss me too much alright? Don’t let it get to your head.” And the battery died.

I nod. “I love you.” I mumble into the pillow. My eyes widen as the video suddenly cuts off. The battery died. And it made me cry a river even more.

“What happened?” I turn to Pope. “The footage lost its battery.” He says, and I see his eyes glisten a little. My eyebrows furrow and I hug him.

I cry into Pope’s shoulder whilst holding the pillow that had a picture of me and JJ, which I ordered off of Etsy. I was sobbing even, and I felt my headache beginning to form. And when the camera turned off and JJ was gone from my view, I curled up onto my bed, crying. My hoodie going up on my head. And I glance at the note on the video tape’s front.

For the most beautiful girl in the world. For my favourite Harvard student. For my dork. For my wife. My girl.

© 2025 Mayra — @arvhangel

please do not claim, rewrite ( without permission if I originally wrote it ) copy or steal my work. my work is my own and it will stay that way. thank you, from mayra.

@bbyg4rl I’m sobbing tearing up

[heechwe]

REMEMBER THAT | 송민기

⟢ PAIRING: song mingi x fem!reader ⟢ WORD COUNT: 5K ⟢ GENRE: angst, slight fluff, smut ⟢ TAGS: exes(ish) au, "we're on a break" au, soft pining, miscommunication, makeup sex, praise kink, oral (f receiving), semi-dom!mingi, unprotected sex, squirting, creampie ⟢ SYNOPSIS: A break is supposed to give you time to understand what you do and don't want. But what if Mingi has to come with everything that frustrates you about him, no exceptions? Can you make it work, or will you both succumb to the pressure of love not being enough? ⟢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Beta'ed by my babes Booki @kwanisms, Tiya @gyubakeries, and Ally @lovetaroandtaemin, I love you all so much. Also song title inspiration from LANY!

There are many valid pieces of evidence to support the argument that breaks never work. Friends, family, and perfect strangers remind you, solicited or not, why minor blips of time meant to think things through are simply an excuse, leading to the demise of a relationship.

“Don’t be chickenshit,” your best friend Karina remarked when you told her you were officially taking some time apart from Mingi. He would stay back at the dorms while you both took the next two weeks to think about your future. He didn’t want to, but he had to respect your wishes if he wanted any chance to mend the fences that were broken. “You know what you want to do, so do it. Don’t hide behind a ‘break.’”

You weren’t hiding, not in the slightest. If anything, the past few days alone have given you time to breathe. To reflect on the things that have and haven’t been working in your relationship for the last year.

You work in the same industry, and yet you have kept the entirety of your coupled status under wraps from everyone, save for your intimate group of loved ones. It isn’t hard to hide when you work on almost ten guys’ hair and makeup, but it’s all too easy to let feelings impede upon your professionalism.

Mingi’s always been willing to give you everything, but he doesn’t always see the entire picture of your needs. Sometimes, you don't need him to rescue you, and his eagerness borders the line of smothering too much for your comfort.

And yet, running through the pros and cons doesn’t make you miss him any less.

You ache waking up alone, not feeling the rise and fall of his chest under your head or hearing the sounds of his gargantuan feet pattering around your apartment. It became his apartment too by association after the fifth month of dating, his belongings sitting in every nook and cranny of what used to be your solitary space. Now, without him, it feels too hollow, too reminiscent of what it was like before he came into your life.

Even drives without him are terrible, the usual cacophony of traffic more bearable when he’s by your side, singing along off-key to the music on the radio or to his playlists when he uses your car’s bluetooth.

His absence is everywhere, and where there’s freedom sits all the despair attached to his missing presence.

“It hurts!”

“It’s not gonna hurt if you just listen to me.” You try to move closer to Hongjoong’s eye with the pencil in your hand, but he whips his head away again before you can begin on his waterline. “I told you to look up and away from me. You’ll barely feel it!”

“That’s a lie and you know it.” Hongjoong pouts in the makeup chair, and you stifle a giggle that bubbles in your throat. Watching so many impeccable performers be terrified of makeup applicators is probably one highlight of your career so far, especially guys as intimidating to look at as the one in front of you.

Suddenly, you feel him enter the room. The instinctual pull between you and Mingi goes beyond logical bounds, the tether made of only the metaphysical. It reminds you, every time he walks into the same space you’re in, how your body wants to be nowhere but next to his. You hate it more now than you ever have before.

“Am I going next when he’s finished?” Mingi cuts through the sudden silence to ask, his timbre a tad hollow but somehow still hopeful. You haven’t spoken for three days. This past weekend is the longest you’ve ever gone without communicating with each other. You can tell just from the sound of his voice it’s taken a toll on him.

You don’t turn to face him directly, finding some confidence from not having to look at the face you love so much head-on. “Seonghwa is, but he’s off getting his shirt hemmed, I think.”

“Just be patient, man.” Hongjoong winks at his younger friend. You thwack Hongjoong on the cheek with your eyeshadow brush, making the humored expression on his face dissipate.

“Did I say you have to talk when you’re getting your face done?” Hongjoong shakes his head with terrified eyes. “Exactly.”

You go back to your kit, but you feel despondence creep up your neck at the small quantity of black and neutral eyeshadow you have left. “Fuck it, we’ll just have to make do with the eyeliner right now.”

“Can’t you grab some from Mina’s kit? She probably won’t mind.”

You shake your head and go back to the pencil you dropped on the vanity when Mingi walked in. “I’ll just grab some more from the store later.”

“I can pick up some now if you need me to.” Mingi pipes up again, more hope seeping through his words. Sometimes, his overwhelmingly helpful nature makes you think he'd be reincarnated as a big puppy in the next life.

You finally face him with a soft smile, and you see the corners of his eyes crinkle up at your expression. “It’s okay, Min, really. Nothing I can’t handle.”

This is exactly why you needed space from Mingi. Staring into his big, brown eyes that make your body even a fraction weaker than before is why you can’t think through things properly around him. He takes all the logic and reason out of you, leaving you only to listen to the workings of your heart. And such an effect makes it simple to forget the myriad of minor problems that became so big you could not suppress them any more.

As he smiles at you, you repeat the words in your head like a mantra: he doesn’t listen, he’s too reckless, he acts on impulse half the time…

Seonghwa walks in and exclaims, “Okay, I think the shirt fits finally!” He looks between you and Mingi and then stares at Hongjoong with a curious fluff of his eyebrows. “What’s up with them?” He mouths to his friend.

Hongjoong can only shrug, the expression basically stating “Who knows anymore man?” without verbal support.

The longer you lock eyes with Mingi, the other men in the room long forgotten, you wonder if all you’re doing during this break is delaying the inevitable.

You took copious snapshots of the boys’ last looks before they had to practice on the stage. The sweat would ruin what you worked on for hours, so it was crucial to catalog it for your portfolio before that could happen.

Now, you watch them work through the three songs’ choreography with ease. Mingi takes center stage multiple times, and you smile to yourself at how ridiculous he acted an hour prior when he was in your chair, so busy complimenting you that you could barely get through doing his makeup.

“You look really pretty today,” he says as you dab the bridge of his nose with liquid highlighter. “I mean, you always do, but I haven’t seen you in a few days, so…”

You smirk and put the tub back in your makeup kit. “Making up for lost time, Min?”

Mingi blushes, a shade so pink you think you can skip putting that component of his makeup on altogether. “Just stating the obvious.”

“You don’t know,” you say, “I may have looked like shit in my sweatpants and ratty t-shirts all weekend.”

“Wanna know a secret?” You humor him, moving closer until his lips brush the shell of your ear, making you shudder. “That’s when you look the most beautiful to me.”

You retreat with trembling hands and a breathless laugh. “Are you gonna keep spitting game or can I finish your eyes now?”

Mingi smirks and snaps his eyes shut, pressing his face as close as he can to yours once again. He whispers with such a quiet but sultry tone, you think you may risk it all and kiss him once to get it out of your system. “Do whatever you want with me.”

And here you are, back in his orbit like he’s the sun and you’re a planet, willing to spin around him forever. A few weeks ago, you didn’t mind doing so until it made you dizzy, but you don’t know now if you miss depending so much on him. His “I got this, babe” one minute and “I can handle it” the next slowly made you realize he either didn’t trust you to work through anything without his help or he was so willing he couldn’t see how it came across. 

Bringing it to his attention didn’t make him any wiser to the problem, his response defensive rather than introspective. He argued it was in any boyfriend’s nature to want to do everything for their girlfriend. “Don’t you do the same for me? What’s the difference?” He asked in the fight's haste that led to your desire to take a breather from each other.

Flitting the memories away, you focus on Mingi’s undeniably enchanting dancing and rapping. It’s what reminds you why you fell for him in the first place, both his talent and work ethic, which gave way to everything else that turned you into putty for him. 

Before the group can finish the last song, a courier taps on your shoulder. “For you, miss.” He holds out a bag from the makeup store downtown, the contents inside being all that is low in your kit.

“I didn’t order anything,” you respond, fighting the only logical answer and culprit of the situation. The kid shrugs and makes his way out of the building, and you turn back to Mingi, the giant lost in his choreography. You feel your eyes light with fire rather than fuzziness, your desires and impulses from before long gone.

When he drops from the stage and makes it to the back, you slam the bag into his chest before walking away. “Wait! You said you needed this stuff!” Mingi trails behind quickly, his long legs catching up to you in seconds.

You turn when you’re alone in the hallway, your fury unleashed. “I said I could do it after work, and you went over my head again to do something I deliberately said you didn’t have to do!” Your bottom lip trembles. “Do you not care about listening to me at all?”

“What? No!” He shakes his head, his own face becoming a mask of confused anger. “I just wanted to help. And it’s just twenty bucks of makeup. Why is this such an issue right now?”

“Because I didn’t ask for your help!” You throw your hands in the air, and the gesture only makes you feel smaller.

Mingi chuckles, no humor in the sound. “You always take things on by yourself, even before we started dating. Is it so terrible of me for wanting to help, just a little?” He practically pinches his index and thumb together to emphasize his point.

“They’re my burdens to bear,” you scream. “Is it so hard to get in your head? I’m not some princess in a tower you need to save.”

“Why do you always treat someone else’s help like it’s a grandiose gesture you should feel guilty for?” He steps closer, your chests barely a breath apart. “I help you because I want to, because you deserve it and because I love you. Why can’t you stop pushing me and others away who want to make things easier on you?”

The words get stuck in your mouth, no sounds coming out in a response that makes sense or can answer his questions properly. A tear escapes your eye, falling hot on your cheek. Mingi tries to wipe it away, but you whip your head out of his direction and rub your face with your palm.

San comes from the exit you both walked out of and looks on with concern. “You guys alright?”

You shake your head and walk past them both, your heart in knots too tough to untangle today.

You clip the buckle on your heels as you continue to hold your phone’s receiver to your ear, the sun setting as you make haste to end the call and head out the door. “Woo, for the last time, you should know where I’m going by now. I thought we were friends before I started dating one of your best friends.”

“You are, but you could be playing coy, I don’t know!” Wooyoung remarks, making you laugh. You haven’t seen the kid since Monday when you walked away from the show, not having time to say goodbye to him before you made your way home.

You always spend Thursday nights with your parents for dinner. Your immediate family decided long ago to make time out of all of your busy schedules for weekly briefings and small talk over home-cooked food. It was one of the few times you found peace in the hectic nature of everyday life.

“Trust me—and you can let our mutual friend know—just the same usual Thursday plans.” You hear a knock at the door and rush to get off the phone even faster, wondering who could be outside your home so close to the evening. “I gotta go, talk to you soon.”

You iron out the wrinkles of your dress before heading to your apartment door. The man on the other side steals your breath in his white button down and denim jeans combo. He completes the ensemble with his thick-framed glasses and his hair, tousled just a touch, exactly how you like it. His fashion choices on nights like this still stun you to no end, even if you’re surprised he’s here tonight at all.

“M-Mingi,” you say. “What are—“

“I wouldn’t miss family dinner, together or not.” He clears his throat and puts his hand out, clearly eager for you to take it. “If you’ll still have me there, I mean.”

You fight the smile tugging at your cheeks and instead take a deep breath and his palm in yours. Your fingers interlace, and it reminds you more of home than the entire 900-square foot apartment behind you. “Just because you made such an effort to look so nice. It’d be a waste, you know?”

Mingi smiles and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his other hand. He smiles to himself the entire time you lock your door and head down the stairwell, not letting go of your hand once.

You don’t say no when he offers to drive, or stop him from holding your door open until you get in, and he thinks that maybe you’re turning a corner after he slipped up. And you think you might just give into him for the sheer fact being in a car again with him, listening to his off-key riffs, reminds you of everything you’ve been missing, for better or worse.

“Honey! Mingi! Come in,” your mother beckons you at the front door. She welcomes you inside wearing her signature floral apron, though your father and brother do most of the cooking.

Neither you nor your mother expected Mingi to bring flowers to tonight’s dinner. You didn’t expect him to invite himself at all, but thinking about it, it would be weird for him not to attend when your family did not know you were on a relationship hiatus.

This Thursday holds no more significance than all the others, but it warms your heart to see your mother grab a vase from the living room to hold the batch of tulips Mingi brought.

“Sometimes I think my own husband forgets my favorite flowers. But not you, my sweet boy.” Your mother pinches Mingi’s cheek, and Mingi blushes a shade of plum at the physical touch.

“Speaking of him, does he need help in the back? I know the grill can be a pain for him and Eric to get going,” Mingi offers.

“That would be wonderful, Mingi, thank you.” You smile at Mingi as he leaves you two to walk towards the back porch. He greets your father with a handshake and your little brother with a manly hug, and any residual anger you felt over the past few days instantly dissipates.

He’s always been a caring person. You knew this the second he brought a spare pack of bandaids on your second date when you slipped and fell on your knee during your first. Sometimes, as you’ve grown to learn, he seems to have a hard time hearing when his help isn’t necessary. Or the exact help he envisions isn’t the help you desire.

“That boy is one in a million, baby.” Your mother says as you walk to the kitchen together. “I can’t picture someone better to take care of you.”

You sigh. “Who says I need to be taken care of, Mom?”

She shakes her head with a grin as she keeps stirring the soup on the stove. “Everyone needs someone, my love. Even when a person is adamant about fighting their own battles like you.”

“That’s not what I mean,” you huff, exasperated. “All I’m saying is that I can have someone by my side and not be wrong for wanting to do things on my own in my way, right?”

Her head continues to move back and forth, her ladle going in the same fashion. “And all I’ll say, baby, is that it’s important to let someone know those things. If you don’t tell someone what you’re looking for, they’ll make assumptions. And you know how we all feel about those.”

“They make an ass out of you and me,” Eric pipes up from behind you, making you flinch. You thwack him on the arm, and he rubs the spot with a pout. Your father and Mingi gather in the kitchen behind your brother, the simmering steaks on a large plate smelling delectable.

“Time to eat, everyone!”

Before you all can head to the table, Mingi pulls you in and whispers, “The right one is yours. Medium rare, how you like it.”

He leaves you standing alone as he sits next to your brother. Your heart resides in your throat the rest of the night, sitting beside Mingi and your mother and wondering if maybe a part of you hasn’t given credit to Mingi in the way he deserves. Maybe you both have been wrong in your own ways, and it’s still fixable.

Maybe this break is serving a purpose in a way you didn’t expect.

The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but it’s charged with tension from the way Mingi rubs patterns into the back of your hand with his thumb. Both of your palms rest over your thigh, the muscle on fire from how his large fingers encompass yours and hover over the fabric of your dress.

Now is not the time for sexual frustration. It’s time to talk and see if the break can be amended into some form of peace treaty.

He parks his car in the lot and looks over at you with a small grin, close-mouthed but earnest all the same. “Tonight was fun. Glad to hear Eric’s doing good in school.”

You smile back. “My parents were happy to see you. They thought with the comeback coming up you wouldn’t be able to make it tonight.”

“I wouldn’t miss it. I told you that.”

Your throat is in a mess of knots once again as you nod. You turn in your seat to face him head on, and Mingi mirrors your body posture. Removing his palm from your thigh, you hold it in both of your hands, finding some strength to let the words come out. “We need to talk.”

Mingi’s eyes go wide immediately, inching as close as he can to you despite the ridiculously large glove box in his way. “If this is the start of that conversation, please—“

“No, no! I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “I shouldn’t have started with that.”

His free hand goes over his chest, and the relief floods over his entire expression. “You really can scare the shit out of a guy, you know that right?”

“I said I’m sorry,” you respond with a teasing pout. “But, I think I’ve been terrible at communicating what I need from you and from this relationship.”

Mingi thinks the words over before he nods slowly. “Okay.”

You inhale again, taking in a deeper breath. “First, I apologize for not being transparent. I should’ve said that I’m not exactly the greatest at getting help, not just from you. And my expectations couldn’t have been met if I didn’t tell you what they were, and I’m sorry for that.”

Mingi nods with ease, almost like he’s shrugging it off entirely, like there was nothing to apologize for. 

You continue, your confidence in your speech building. “I love the big and little things you do for me, and I’ve always appreciated your willingness to be there no matter the time of day for those you care about. For my family, for the guys—even for a random person on the goddamn sidewalk.”

You feel tears pooling in your eyes. “But, I need you to listen when I tell you there are some things that you can’t help me with, or that I don’t need your help for. And taking my opinion and listening doesn’t mean you’re not doing your best as a boyfriend. The opposite, actually.”

You see words on Mingi’s tongue threatening to spill out, and you give him the clear to say them. “I guess I just don’t know how to show you I’m here for you otherwise.”

“You’ve always shown me that, Min,” you respond instantly, not wanting him to doubt himself or his capabilities as a partner. “All I want is for you to be by my side, even if I’m struggling with things, and if you can understand that I’ll ask for your help when I need it moving forward, I think we’ll be okay. Okay?” You kiss his palm in between your own hands, and you tuck it under your chin.

Mingi smiles and puts his other hand on your thigh, rubbing the skin through the material of your dress. “Does this mean that I have to go back to that store and get a refund for the makeup I bought?”

You laugh, the sound coated with happiness, and shake your head again. “No. Why let all that good eyeshadow go to waste, right?”

Mingi chuckles, full of vigor. “Right.” He leans across the box between you, your lips an inch away from his. “And does this mean I can kiss you now?”

You quirk an eyebrow and smirk. “If you know what’s good for you, Song Mingi.”

His lips press to yours, quick and hard, and you swear you hear the clack of your teeth against his the second they collide. You don’t care, though. The feelings that accompany the kiss are all-encompassing; the pain from being apart for days, the tension from the entire night between you like a knife ready to strike down, the love that’s always been there even when you both were apart.

“Fuck, I missed you so much,” Mingi confesses. His lips reattach to yours as he bunches up your dress with his hands, his fingers just barely ghosting over the hem of your panties. Your quickly dampening underwear meets the cool air in Mingi’s car, and you shudder.

“Min, the place for kissing and making up is not in your car. Take me to bed properly, please?” You beg and nibble at his bottom lip. The moan that leaves his mouth makes your heart sing and your pussy wetter than it was a moment before.

He nips your lips again before saying, “Anything you want, always.”

Mingi sprawls your body out on your shared bed gently. You can tell he’s worried the moment is a figment of his imagination, or you’ll change your mind in a second, wanting him to go back to waiting and wishing for you again.

But you dispel the doubts in his mind the second you say, “Mingi, please touch me.” He grins and pulls your dress down by its hemline, the strapless material easily removed from your body with his strength. 

He kisses your skin as if starved of your body for years instead of days, moving from your ankle to the juncture of your thigh and pelvis. You moan weakly, hips bucking into nothing but the cool air. “You’ve made me wait, princess. It’s only fair you have to wait a little bit too.”

His words ring hollow, though. The second your panties meet the same fate as your dress, he kisses your clit and folds with all the love and admiration he has in his body. He dives into your cunt with the same fervor he put into his kisses on the way there. His mouth goes at a solid and quick pace, his tongue slipping inside of you before circling around the sensitive nub between your legs and repeating in that fashion.

You clutch his hair with your hand. Mingi’s other hand presses down on your stomach so you can’t arch too hard off of the bed. “So eager and so wet, princess. Just like I like it,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Fuck, fuck, Mingi, please fuck me,” you whimper. “I want to come with you inside of me.”

Mingi shakes his head, his hair ruffling against your inner thighs. “I want one on my tongue, baby. Just one.”

He increases his tongue’s speed against your clit, flicking so fast you think you may die before you feel the effects of your impending orgasm. But, thankfully, you get to welcome the release in all of its glory. Your essence covers Mingi’s face as you ride out your high, letting your hips roll until you come down completely.

Mingi kisses you hard when he comes up from between your legs. You mewl at the taste of yourself on his tongue. He taps the side of your thigh with his fingers, and by now you know what he wants you to do.

You turn and raise your body up on all fours. You jut your ass out for him to admire in the moonlight's glow pervading your bedroom window. He chuckles, but it’s airless from his shock at the sight in front of him, one he thought for a second he would never see again. “Goddamn, I could look at you all day. You know that, right?”

You look over your shoulder and bite your lip, moving back to brush his reddened cock, making him groan. “Why look when you can touch?”

He slams inside of you in the next second, clit smacking against his balls from the sheer force and size of him going all the way inside of you without issue. You press your face into the bed underneath you, garbled moans filling the room because of your pleasure.

Mingi yanks you up by your hair, not slowing his pace. “I don’t think so, princess. I want everyone in this place to know how good you’re getting fucked, got it?”

He bends your neck at an absurd angle to kiss you again, his tongue and lingering traces of your essence filling your mouth as he drills his cock into your velvety walls. It’s indescribable how impeccable his sex drive is, tonight one of all the other nights he’s made you fall apart multiple times without a sign of stopping.

But seeing as you’ve been apart for the better half of a week, you think he may just fall apart as fast as you do on a normal day.

“Min, I’m close,” you warn, your body slowly weakening from staying in position after such merciless thrusts and the brutal force of his cock slamming in and out of you.

Mingi holds you up with one hand while the other snakes down to your clit with intense exuberance. “Me too, baby. Just hold on tight, okay?”

Suddenly, he’s going faster than he ever has before, your body merely a toy for him to emit dozens of thrusts into in such a brief time span. His speed is almost unmanageable, it creates blind spots in your vision. You come with a violent cry ripping from your throat, your body releasing onto his cock and on the sheets below you. You don’t stop coming until he slows his own pace and orgasms himself, the mess between you and on the bed a mixture of your releases.

Mingi exits you and moves the two of you to a spot on the bed not covered in the mess, but he can’t help but stare as his cum leaves your cunt in small droplets. He’s partly fascinated by the sight, but also relieved to have you back in his arms in the bed you’ve shared for months.

He rubs up and down your arms and kisses across your collarbone until he reaches your face, his eyes reflecting a pool of love and satiation. “Hey, beautiful. Are you feeling okay?”

You smile dumbly and give him a small nod. “Never better.”

He kisses your nose before he meets your lips again, this kiss softer than all the other ones you’ve received from him tonight. “I love you.”

You know he means it every time he says it. Yet, somehow, with a newfound understanding of your shared wants and needs, and a promise for the future to be better than the past, this time he says it feels sweeter than it ever has. And when you say you love him back, you mean it even more.

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