Angel🪽

“For not being able to give you more. For not being able to choose you, even when I wanted to convince myself that I could. You deserve so much better than half of someone’s heart.”

Nao tilts his head, studying you with those sharp, thoughtful eyes of his — but there’s no bitterness in them. Only warmth. “Don’t apologize for being honest. Don’t apologize for following your heart. If anything, I’m glad you told me yourself. That takes strength.”

Your voice wavers. “You’re taking this too well.”

“I told you before,” he says, his tone calm and unwavering, “if one day you chose someone else, I wouldn’t feel bad about it. Because I truly believe the right person for me will come. Maybe it wasn’t you. But that doesn’t make what we had meaningless.”

The tears finally slip down your cheeks, but Nao just smiles, faint and wistful. “It was never dull with you. And I mean that. I genuinely enjoyed every moment. I’d appreciate it if, even after this, we can still be good friends.”

You nod quickly, almost desperately. “I’d like that too. More than anything. You… you’ve been good to me, Nao. Better than I probably deserved.”

His lips curve into that same soft, unshakable smile as he shifts slightly on the bench, turning his body toward you. “Then let’s not call this an ending. Let’s just… change the shape of what we are. From something almost to something steady.”

You choke back a sob, nodding again. “Okay.”

And the two of you sit there for a while longer, shoulders nearly brushing, not saying much else. Just breathing the same air, letting the quiet carry the rest of what words couldn’t.

Nao watches you quietly, and then — almost without thinking — he extends his hand, palm up between you. An offering, not a demand.

You stare at it for a long moment, your vision blurred with unshed tears, before slowly placing your hand in his. His grip is warm, steady, exactly the way it’s always been — grounding, patient. He doesn’t squeeze too tightly, doesn’t try to hold on longer than he should. Just enough for you to know that he’s here. That he’s real.

When you finally look up at him, he gives you the kind of smile that hurts to see because it’s so gentle. “Take care of yourself,” he says softly. Then, almost hesitantly, his free hand lifts — just once — to brush a loose strand of hair away from your face. The touch is brief, fleeting, like he’s memorizing the last detail he’ll allow himself to linger on.

You bite down hard on your lip, tears slipping free, and whisper, “You too.”

And then, just like that, he lets go. Clean, without hesitation. He stands, straightens his coat, and takes a slow step back from the bench. His eyes soften on you one last time before he turns away, his silhouette growing smaller as he walks down the path, until the fading autumn light swallows him whole.

You stay seated, your hand still warm where his had held it, knowing that something good — something rare — has just shifted into memory.

You stay on the bench long after Nao’s silhouette disappears. The air feels heavy, almost thick, and you’re trying to gather the pieces of yourself, to breathe through the ache in your chest. Your hands are clasped in your lap, trembling faintly, when a voice cuts through the stillness.

“…The hell you doin’, sittin’ out here like a ghost?”

Your head snaps up. Katsuki is standing a few feet away, grocery bag hanging from his hand, the late afternoon sun catching in his hair. He looks so out of place against the calm backdrop of the park, rough edges in a soft picture. For a second, you just stare — confused, unsettled, unsure if he’s real.

“Katsuki?” you ask, your voice catching in your throat. “What are you—” Your gaze drops to the bag in his hand. “Wait. Why are you here? …Are you spying on me?”

His brows shoot up, offended. “What? No, dumbass. I wasn’t spyin’.” He shifts the bag in his hand, holding it up like proof. “You told me yesterday you were meeting Nakamura. I wasn’t about to show up and fuck that up. I was just gonna head to your place, stock your fridge since you’ve got jack shit in there. Thought maybe I could cook you somethin’ after… y’know, after you had your little heart-to-heart.”

You blink at him, processing, your chest tightening. “…So you weren’t following me?”

“Of course not.” He exhales through his nose, irritated but not at you. “But when I passed through here, I saw you sittin’ alone. Figured he’s already gone?”

Your eyes lower, and you nod. “…Yeah. He left.”

Silence drapes over the two of you. Katsuki doesn’t rush to fill it — he just sets the grocery bag down at his feet, then lowers himself onto the bench beside you. The wood creaks under his weight. He leans back, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty path Nao had disappeared down.

You risk a sideways glance at him. His expression is unreadable, guarded in that Katsuki way, but his presence feels steady, grounding.

“Was it… bad?” he asks finally, voice quieter than you expect.

You shake your head slowly. “No. Not bad. Just… heavy. He deserved honesty, and I gave him that.” A pause. “And he was kind. Kinder than I thought I deserved.”

Katsuki’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t say anything right away, just lets the words hang. Then he grunts softly. “Tch. Figures. Guy’s annoyingly decent.”

That earns him the smallest of smiles from you, weak but real. “He is.”

Your hands twist together in your lap. You feel his eyes shift toward you, sharp and unwavering, and then — without asking — his calloused hand slides over yours. His grip is firm, warm, grounding in a way that reminds you too much of yesterday when he held you like you’d slip through his fingers.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low, rough, like he’s afraid to push too hard. “You don’t gotta carry it all on your own, y’know.”

You close your eyes at that, breathing out slowly, and when you open them again, you find him watching you like the world might end if he looks away.

“…I know,” you whisper. “That’s why I told you yesterday. About meeting him. I wanted to keep my word — if I ask you for honesty, then I have to give you the same.”

Something in his expression shifts — the sharpness softens, the tension in his jaw eases. He nods once, like that meant more to him than he can say.

For a while, the two of you just sit there, hands entwined, the grocery bag by his feet a strange, mundane anchor to the weight of the moment. And in that quiet, you feel the raw truth of it — not just the love that still runs between you, but the effort it will take, the choice you’ve made, the trust you’re both trying to rebuild.

Katsuki finally breaks the silence, muttering, “C’mon. Let’s get outta here before I lose my fuckin’ mind sittin’ on this bench.” He stands, picks up the bag, then extends his free hand down to you.

You hesitate only a second before taking it. His grip pulls you to your feet with ease, and for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, he doesn’t let go.

That was the start of his efforts—It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no single moment where everything between you and Katsuki magically pieced itself back together. Instead, it was small things. Gradual things. Little fragments that, when stacked on top of each other, began to look like something whole again.

Katsuki had always been the type to bear his burdens alone. He bottled up his exhaustion, his stress, even his doubts, and shoved them down until they rotted into sharp edges. But now… he doesn’t hide it from you anymore.

Some nights he came back to your apartment — hair mussed, face smudged with the faint traces of the lab, shoulders heavy with fatigue — and instead of shutting down, instead of pretending it didn’t weigh on him, he let it spill out.

“You wouldn’t believe those idiots in my group project,” he grumbled one evening, throwing himself face-first onto your couch without so much as a greeting. “Half the time they’re standin’ around like headless chickens and guess who the fuck has to fix every goddamn thing? Me.”

You laughed softly, setting a glass of water down by the table before sitting across from him. “So… like every other group project ever?”

“Don’t start with me, woman,” he snapped, muffled against the cushion — but when he turned his head toward you, there was no real fire in his eyes. Just exhaustion. Just honesty.

And the thing that made your chest ache wasn’t his words, but the fact that he let you see it. That he trusted you enough now to lay himself bare without fear that you’d think less of him.

Other days, it was smaller gestures. Him texting you when he was running late — something he never used to bother with. Him showing up with a bag of takeout because he knew you’d skipped lunch. Him pausing mid-sentence, frowning, then muttering, “Y’know what? I was gonna keep this to myself, but—” before unloading something that had been eating at him.

The Katsuki you knew before would’ve swallowed all of it. The Katsuki sitting beside you now made the choice, again and again, to hand you pieces of himself — the good, the ugly, the tired, the vulnerable.

And it mattered. More than the grand apologies. More than the passion you’d shared in the heat of making up. These little things were what anchored you.

He proved himself not in the grand ways, not in dramatic declarations — but in the little things. The everyday moments where it would’ve been easier for him to slip into old habits, and instead he didn’t.

There was a time you noticed was when he barged into your kitchen, tossing a grocery bag onto the counter with a grunt.

“You seriously can’t live like this.” he muttered, pulling out vegetables, eggs, even seasoning he’d clearly picked out himself. “You had one packet of instant ramen and a bottle of soy sauce in there. That’s it. Pathetic.”

You raised an eyebrow from your spot on the couch. “I was going to go shopping later.”

“Bullshit,” he shot back, already cracking an egg into a pan like he owned the place. “You’d forget, then you’d end up sketching until 2 a.m. and pass out without eating. I’m not letting that shit slide.”

You wanted to retort, but the smell of garlic sizzling in oil silenced you faster than anything else could. And when he handed you a plate twenty minutes later — eggs fried just the way you liked them, with rice and sautéed vegetables — you realized this wasn’t about food. This was about him paying attention, him taking responsibility, him choosing to take care of you in ways he never thought to before.

And you appreciated it more than you let on.

Another night, he came in late, shoulders slumped, muttering under his breath. You barely had time to greet him before he collapsed onto your bed, still in his jeans, face buried in your pillow.

“What happened this time?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He groaned. “Fuckin’ idiots. Group work again. Nobody’s pullin’ their weight, and when shit goes wrong, who do they look at? Me.”

You smiled faintly, crossing the room to sit at the edge of the bed. “Maybe they rely on you because you’re reliable.”

“Don’t—” he mumbled, pointing weakly in your direction without lifting his head. “Don’t try to spin this like it’s a compliment. They’re useless. I’m carrying all their asses.”

But even as he complained, he rolled over, reaching for your hand, dragging it onto his chest. His breathing slowed as you traced idle circles there, listening to him unload everything. And you realized this, too, was new. He’d always carried the weight in silence, too proud to share. Now, he let you in — even when it made him look tired, or frustrated, or weak.

Of course, it wasn’t perfect. Sometimes he slipped.

There were moments where he shut down again, clenching his jaw instead of answering, or brushing things off when you could see something was wrong.

The first time it happened, you didn’t let it go.

“Katsuki.”

He froze, back turned to you, hands braced on the kitchen sink.

“You’re doing it again.”

“I’m not,” he muttered.

“Yes, you are.” You stepped closer, voice steady. “You promised me no more hiding. Not even the ugly stuff. So either you tell me what’s going on, or you admit you’re breaking that promise.”

For a moment, the silence between you stretched thin. Then, slowly, his shoulders dropped. He turned, rubbing the back of his neck.

“…I’m just pissed about somethin’ dumb at the lab,” he muttered. “Didn’t wanna drag you into it.”

“Then drag me,” you said softly. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

His eyes flickered, guilt passing through them, before he sighed and finally started explaining. And though his words were gruff, you knew he’d heard you. That he was trying.

But what surprised you most were the smallest things.

The first time he handed you a tiny zip lock bag with a crushed dandelion inside, you blinked at him in confusion.

“…What’s this?”

“Found it on the way here,” he muttered, scratching at his ear. “Figured you’d want it. For that sketchbook of yours.”

You stared at him, then at the little flower pressed flat inside the plastic.

“You remembered that?”

“Tch. ’Course I did. I’m not stupid.”

It didn’t stop there. Sometimes it was a red leaf, still bright in its autumn hue. Sometimes a sprig of clover, or a petal from some tiny flower growing out of the sidewalk cracks. Every time, tucked carefully into a small bag so it wouldn’t get ruined before it reached you.

You added them to your sketchbook, taping each one neatly on a blank page. Over time, the collection grew — not just souvenirs of your walks together, but proof that he was paying attention. That even when he was out in the world alone, he still thought of you.

They weren’t extraordinary things. Cooking. Complaining. Catching himself when he slipped. Bringing you a leaf he could’ve easily ignored.

But these were the things that stitched you and Katsuki back together.

Not the intensity of the night you made up, not the way your bodies had clung to each other like lifelines — but this. The quiet, steady presence of him relearning how to stand beside you, not ahead of you, not apart from you.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

It wasn’t until a few evenings later that you noticed it — the way Katsuki had gone quiet.

Not the usual silence of him focusing on something or spacing out, but the tense kind. Shoulders just a little too stiff, his jaw working like he was grinding down words instead of letting them out.

You glanced at him from across the couch, sketchbook balanced on your knees, and said softly, “What’s on your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again, his hand raking through his hair as if dragging the words out was harder than anything he’d done all week.

“…It’s nothin’.”

You tilted your head, patient but steady. “Katsuki.”

He sighed, leaning back against the cushions, gaze fixed on the ceiling. For a long moment, all you heard was the faint hum of traffic outside, the sound of your pencil scratching lightly against paper.

Finally, he spoke.

“My frat’s plannin’ another party this weekend.” His tone was flat, but underneath it, there was weight. “They’ve been on my ass about it, ’cause I haven’t been to one in months. Not since…”

He trailed off, but you knew what he meant. Not since everything fell apart.

You closed your sketchbook gently, giving him your full attention.

“Do you want to go?” you asked.

He hesitated, jaw tightening before he forced the words out. “…I don’t fuckin’ know. Part of me thinks I should. Just to shut the pledges up. They don’t get why I’ve been avoiding it — think I’m just tryin’ to act all superior or some shit.”

“And the other part?” you pressed gently.

His throat worked as he swallowed, finally turning his head toward you. For once, the sharpness in his eyes was dulled, replaced with something quieter. Hesitant.

“The other part wants to ask you to come with me,” he admitted, his voice lower now, rough around the edges. “But… the last time we were at one of those parties, we were in a shitty place. You were in a corner tryin’ to disappear, and I was—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I don’t wanna drag you somewhere that’s just gonna fuckin’ remind you of all that.”

Your chest ached at the honesty, the way he looked almost… afraid, waiting for your reaction.

This was different from before. Before, he never would’ve admitted hesitation. Never would’ve confessed uncertainty, or let you see the cracks in his pride. But now, he was offering it up to you — raw, unpolished, real.

And you realized, more than anything, this was the proof that he was changing. That this time, he wasn’t trying to control the story, but letting you stand in it with him.

You let the silence hang for a beat, then set your sketchbook aside and shifted closer to him, your voice soft but steady.

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll go.”

Katsuki blinked at you, clearly not expecting such an easy answer. His shoulders straightened, like he was ready to argue against your refusal, only for the words to fall flat when you smiled at him.

“But,” you added, tilting your head, “only on one condition.”

Suspicion flickered in his eyes. “What condition?”

“That you stay with me the entire night.”

His brows furrowed, ready to protest, until you reached out and touched his hand, grounding him. “Not because I don’t trust you,” you clarified gently, “but because I know you would want me there, too. To keep you sane. To remind you you’re not alone.”

Something in his expression cracked at that — a small, unguarded moment where his eyes softened, and you saw the boy underneath the hard edges. He looked at you like you’d just said the one thing he didn’t even know he needed to hear.

Then, as if it just occurred to him, his lips pressed into a thin line. “There’s one thing though.” His voice was quieter now, almost reluctant. “I… can’t drink. Not yet. Don’t wanna fuck it up when I’ve been clean this long.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of that confession pressing into you. He wasn’t just asking you to come to a party with him — he was letting you see his restraint, his discipline, his fear of slipping.

You squeezed his hand, smiling again, though softer this time. “Then don’t.”

He looked at you like it wasn’t that simple, but you only shook your head. “You don’t have to worry, Katsuki. You’ll have me the whole night. And I’m not planning on getting drunk either.” Your lips quirked. “I’ll probably just grab a canned soda.”

That pulled the faintest snort out of him, a corner of his mouth twitching upward. The tension in his shoulders eased at last, like your words had finally given him permission to breathe.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just sat there together, the hum of the city outside, his hand warm in yours, the promise of something different this time sitting between you like a fragile but steady flame.

This wasn’t about rewriting the past. It was about building something new — together.

Katsuki shifted closer, the soft couch creaking under his weight as he reached for you. His arm hooked around your waist, pulling you flush against him until your body practically disappeared under the sheer size of his frame. It wasn’t suffocating — though it almost felt like it — but grounding, like he was building a shield around you with nothing but his presence.

“Good,” he muttered into your skin, his voice muffled as he buried his face into the curve of your neck. His breath was warm, tickling against your pulse. Then, softer, barely audible:

“I love you.”

The words vibrated through you, into your bones. Your heart squeezed so tight it almost hurt. For a moment, all you could do was close your eyes and let yourself feel it — the sincerity that trembled in his voice, the desperation and devotion carried in those three words.

When you turned your face toward him, he was already moving, lifting his head just enough to catch your lips with his. The kiss started slow, hesitant, like he was afraid you’d pull away, but when you leaned into it — when you kissed him back — the tension in him snapped.

He pressed harder, hand sliding up your back, fingers tangling into your hair as he tilted his head to deepen it. You let out the faintest sound against his mouth, and that was all it took for him to hold you tighter, pulling you impossibly closer, as though he could stitch the two of you back together with nothing but the heat of his mouth and the weight of his body.

It wasn’t lust that fueled the kiss, not this time. It was the raw ache of two people relearning each other, two people choosing — really choosing — to stay, to fight, to love.

By the time you broke apart, your lips tingled, your chest heaving against his. He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath uneven, like he was trying to memorize the moment, to carve it into his very soul.

And in that silence, you realized something: this wasn’t the beginning of something new, nor was it a repeat of the past. It was something entirely different, something fragile but real. A second chance that both of you were finally brave enough to hold onto.

Together.

Part 13 is in the making! will be finished and posted as soon as possible!

Check the full series here: Get Even

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Your chest heaved, lips swollen, skin flushed. The rejection stung, but the way he looked at you—tortured, desperate, reverent—was worse.

He shut his eyes like the sound of your voice alone could undo him. His jaw worked as he swallowed hard, forcing the words out through his ragged breath.

“If I keep going, I won’t stop. And you—you deserve more than me losing my fucking mind on you after everything I did.”

Your question lingered between you—why did you stop?—but instead of answering again, Katsuki kissed you. Softer this time. It was a contradiction to the way his body trembled, the way his chest heaved, but his mouth moved slow against yours, lingering like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

His hands found your face, framing it, thumbs brushing your cheeks tenderly before they slid down, over your jaw, your neck, until he was pulling you closer by your waist. The kiss deepened gradually, measured, each press of his lips weighted with apology and want.

By the time his tongue teased the seam of your lips, you were already gasping for more. He swallowed the sound, groaning low in his throat as he pushed you back into the couch cushions, settling between your thighs.

“Katsuki…” you breathed, and the way his name left your lips made him shiver.

“Don’t—” his voice cracked, and he kissed you again, harder. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re fuckin’ sure.”

You tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt, wordlessly answering him. His eyes searched yours one last time—raw, uncertain, begging for your clarity—and when you nodded, his restraint shattered.

His mouth trailed down your throat, hot and slow, biting lightly before soothing with his tongue. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, calloused fingers tracing your ribs, your stomach, the underside of your breast. He groaned when he felt your skin shiver under his touch, like he’d been dying for this very reaction.

“God, I missed you,” he muttered against your collarbone, almost like a confession.

Then his hands were on you, tugging your shirt over your head, kissing every inch of skin exposed. His lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking until you whined, then switching to the other with equal devotion. His fingers slid down, undoing your jeans, slipping beneath the waistband to cup you through your panties.

You arched into him instantly, a needy sound escaping you. He cursed into your chest, pressing harder.

“Already so wet for me… fuck,” he growled, lifting his head to look at you, pupils blown wide. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” you whispered without hesitation. “Always you.”

Something broke in him then. He kissed you fiercely, hand sliding into your panties, fingers parting your folds with a reverence that made your thighs tremble. He stroked you slowly, teasing, coaxing gasps and moans out of you until you were clutching at him, begging for more.

He didn’t rush. Not this time. Katsuki made sure you were aching, dripping, nearly undone on his hand before he even thought about taking it further—because this wasn’t just sex. This was him making sure you felt every ounce of regret, devotion, and need he couldn’t put into words.

Katsuki’s fingers moved with a patience that felt unbearable. Every stroke of his hand was deliberate, circling, sliding, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch but never fast enough to let you tip over the edge.

He was watching you—only you—eyes locked on your face, drinking in every twitch of your brows, every tremor in your lips, every broken sound spilling past your teeth. His jaw was tight, like he was restraining himself from devouring you whole, and yet his touch remained steady, reverent.

“Fuck, baby… you’re so pretty like this,” he rasped against your ear, kissing the shell before dragging his mouth down your throat. “Every time you make that sound—” you gasped as his thumb pressed firmer against your clit, “—I swear I could lose my fuckin’ mind.”

Your back arched, thighs shaking as he slid two fingers inside you, curling them slow, deep, unhurried, his palm grinding against your clit at the same time. It was too much and not enough, every nerve alight as you clutched at his shoulders.

“Please, Katsuki—don’t stop,” you whimpered, grinding down helplessly into his hand.

“Not gonna stop,” he promised, voice hoarse. “Not until you cum all over my fingers. Wanna feel you lose it, baby. Wanna know I can still do this to you.”

He kissed you again, swallowing your desperate sounds, never faltering in the rhythm of his hand. The coil inside you wound tighter, unbearable, and you couldn’t hold it back anymore. With a cry muffled against his mouth, you shattered, trembling violently as waves of heat rushed through you. Katsuki held you through it, groaning low when your walls clenched around his fingers, milking them for every drop of pleasure.

“Fuck—there it is. That’s it, angel. So good for me,” he whispered, pressing tender kisses to your tear-wet cheeks, brushing your hair out of your face with his free hand. He didn’t stop stroking you until your body eased down from its trembling high, until you were a limp, panting mess against him.

When you finally opened your eyes, dazed and flushed, Katsuki’s expression almost broke you. He looked at you like you were fragile and holy all at once, like he couldn’t believe you’d let him have you again.

“You okay?” he murmured, kissing your temple.

You nodded weakly, still trembling, and he chuckled softly, kissing you again. “Good. Because we’re not doing this here.”

Before you could even respond, he scooped you into his arms with ease, bridal-style, lifting you off the couch. Your heart twisted in your chest—because this was him. Not the reckless boy who broke you, but the man who was trying, who wanted to give you the softness you deserved.

He carried you down the short hall to your bedroom, nudging the door open with his foot. His lips never strayed far—kissing your hair, your forehead, the corner of your jaw—as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you.

By the time he laid you down on the bed, carefully, gently, it almost felt like that very first time between you again. His hands were tender as they roamed your body, tugging away the last of your clothes with reverence, like each piece was a barrier he’d been waiting years to peel away.

He stripped himself down too, but slowly, never breaking eye contact as if asking silently—can I? will you let me?

And you did.

Katsuki’s weight sank onto the bed with yours, his hands braced on either side of your body, caging you in. His lips never left yours—kissing you softly, carefully, as though he was reminding himself to go slow, to not lose control.

But when you felt the blunt heat of him pressing against you, your breath hitched, your body tightening instinctively. His forehead dropped against yours, his chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths.

“Fuck…” he rasped, eyes screwed shut as if he was holding himself back by sheer force of will. “Baby, look at me.”

You did. And the moment your gaze locked on his, you saw everything. The red rim around his eyes, the tension straining his jaw, the way he was trembling not from lust but from restraint.

“Tell me you want this. I need to hear you say it.” His voice cracked.

“I want you, Katsuki,” you whispered, voice shaky but true. “I want this.”

It was all he needed. His lips crushed against yours again, desperate, as he finally pressed into you—slow, so painfully slow, stretching you inch by inch. You gasped into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders, the familiar sting and stretch breaking into warmth that pulled a trembling moan from your throat.

Katsuki’s breath shuddered out against your cheek, his body rigid as he sank deeper. “Shit—fuck—” he groaned, the sound ragged. “You feel the same. Just the fuckin’ same—like you were made for me.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails biting into his scalp, anchoring yourself as he bottomed out with a low, guttural curse. He didn’t move at first, just stayed there, forehead pressed against yours, chest heaving.

When he finally started to move, it was tender—careful thrusts, slow and steady, as though he was relearning every inch of you. His hand slid down your side, caressing your waist, your thigh, grounding himself in the feel of your body wrapped around him.

It felt almost like the first time. Gentle. Sacred.

But then the simmering ache that had been building for months—the guilt festering in him, the fear eating away at you—started to bleed through every touch. The tenderness frayed into something hungrier, his thrusts deepening, pulling ragged moans from both of you as the weight of your shared history pressed into the room.

Your nails raked down his back, dragging a raw groan out of him. His lips left desperate kisses along your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, as if he couldn’t decide where to pour all the love and remorse choking him.

“Katsuki—” you gasped, arching up into him as the rhythm of his hips grew harder, messier.

“Fuck—I can’t—” he cut himself off, his voice breaking. His thrusts faltered for a second, not from exhaustion but from the swell of emotion clogging his throat. He buried his face against your neck, his words muffled, trembling. “I’m so fucking sorry. For everything. For every goddamn thing I did to you. I don’t deserve—”

“Don’t—” you whispered, grabbing his face, forcing him to look at you even as your eyes blurred with tears. “Don’t you dare say that now. Just—just stay with me. Please.”

That plea broke him. His hips snapped harder, desperate, as though trying to push every apology into you, every promise he didn’t know how to voice. The room was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, tangled breaths, your cries, his groans—an anthem of messy, unrestrained need.

And then, with his face hovering above yours, eyes burning, voice raw—he asked it.

“Tell me…” His thrusts slowed, heavy and deep, his gaze locked onto yours like the answer would shatter him. “Did he… ever touch you like I do?”

Your breath caught. Tears slipped down your temples, your throat tightening around the sob threatening to spill.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking. “No one—no one ever touched me like you do, Katsuki.”

His breath hitched, the sound almost a sob. He kissed you fiercely then, swallowing your words, your tears, his hips driving into you harder, rougher, like he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Every movement was desperate, frantic, like he was fighting to carve his name back into you, to prove that even through everything, you still belonged to each other.

Your body arched into his, meeting every thrust, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering you to the world. Because in that moment, he was.

His name fell from your lips in broken cries, his apologies spilling from his in ragged gasps, your bodies colliding in a storm of pain and love and desperate need. And as the heat built between you, winding tight and unrelenting, it wasn’t just sex anymore.

It was punishment. It was forgiveness. It was home.

And neither of you could stop.

Your bodies moved in desperate tandem, the room trembling with every ragged cry, every slap of skin against skin, every shaky gasp of each other’s names. The rhythm had fallen apart, no longer steady, no longer gentle—it was messy, frantic, driven by the months of longing and regret that weighed on both of you.

His mouth was everywhere—on your lips, your jaw, the hollow of your throat—like he couldn’t stop kissing you, couldn’t stop reassuring himself that you were here. That this wasn’t a dream. That you hadn’t slipped through his fingers again.

Your nails dug into his back, your thighs trembling as the heat coiled violently in your stomach, snapping tighter with every deep thrust. “Katsuki—” you choked out, your voice breaking.

“I got you,” he rasped, his voice guttural, cracked from the strain of holding back his own undoing. “I fuckin’ got you—always, always—”

The pressure built until it felt unbearable, and when his thumb slipped between you, finding your swollen clit, you shattered. Your body arched off the mattress, your scream muffled by his mouth as he swallowed every sound you made. The orgasm ripped through you like fire, white-hot and violent, your entire body convulsing beneath him as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

He felt it—your body clenching tight around him, your moans breaking—and it dragged him under with you. Katsuki let out a strangled, broken groan, his thrusts faltering as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a force that shook his entire body. His forehead dropped against yours, his breath hot and shuddering as he came apart, clutching you like a drowning man clings to air.

The world slowed. The frantic pace ebbed into trembling stillness.

Neither of you moved. He didn’t pull out, didn’t loosen his grip. His arms stayed locked around you, crushing you to his chest, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go. His breath was uneven, harsh against your ear, and then you heard it—soft, shaky, unsteady.

A sniffle.

Your eyes flew open, your heart clenching tight as realization dawned.

“Katsuki…” you whispered, your voice still hoarse from your cries. You reached up, cupping his jaw, tilting his face toward you. His eyes were shut tight, lashes wet, the strong line of his nose trembling as his chest shuddered with each shallow breath. He was crying.

Even here—even after you gave yourself to him, after you welcomed him back into your arms, your body—his guilt hadn’t left. It gnawed at him, carved into him so deeply that not even the intimacy of this moment could wash it away.

Your thumb brushed away one of the tears trailing down his cheek, your chest aching at the sight of him like this. The Katsuki Bakugou the world knew—sharp-tongued, unshakable, prideful—reduced to this fragile state in your arms. Because of you. Because of what he did to you. Because he was so fucking scared to lose you again.

Your own eyes blurred, throat thick with the sting of tears.

“Katsuki…” you whispered again, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re still carrying it, aren’t you?”

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening beneath your palm, but he didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. His voice cracked when he finally forced words past his lips.

“I don’t… I don’t fuckin’ know how to let it go.” His arms tightened around you, desperation bleeding through every word. “It’s eating me alive, every second. I don’t sleep without seein’ your face the night you walked away. I don’t breathe without thinkin’ how I ruined the only goddamn thing that ever mattered.”

His words trembled, hot against your lips. “Even now… even when you let me touch you again—I don’t fuckin’ deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

Your chest splintered open. Because here he was, baring himself to you in the rawest, most unguarded way you had ever seen him. Not the Katsuki who demanded, not the Katsuki who fought tooth and nail against vulnerability. This was him, broken and begging without pride, terrified of being unworthy.

You held his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your tear-filled gaze.

“Then maybe…” your voice shook, but you didn’t falter. “…maybe we need to finish this conversation. Really finish it. Not running, not hiding. Just… us. Facing it.”

His breath hitched, his eyes wide and bloodshot, lips trembling as he stared at you.

For the first time since everything fell apart, you weren’t just clinging to the past, or drowning in guilt, or trying to outrun your heartbreak. For the first time—you were both right here, raw and bare, and maybe… maybe ready to face what was left between you.

Your chest still heaves as the echoes of release ripple through your body, sweat cooling on your skin. Katsuki hasn’t let go — his arms band around you like iron, his cock still buried deep inside, refusing to let the moment break. You feel the slight tremor in his body, the shuddering breaths that give him away.

And then — a sharp, wet sniffle.

You blink, lifting your head slightly, and your heart clenches. He’s crying. Silent tears slipping down his flushed face, his lips pressed tight as if trying to swallow it back. You reach for him, but before you can say a word, he finally eases out of you, shifting carefully, almost reluctantly, like pulling away meant something permanent. He grabs the blanket, tucks it around you both, then drags himself up to sit against the headboard.

Without hesitation, he pulls you into his side. His arm comes around your shoulders, and you press into his warmth, listening to the thundering beat of his heart. For a long stretch, the only sound in the room is the slowing rhythm of your breaths. Then, his voice cuts through, rough and low.

“I never told you about the first time I saw you.”

You don’t say anything — you don’t dare.

“It was that Sigma Vex party. My frat house,” he mutters, eyes fixed on some invisible point on the wall. “You were in the corner of the living room. Alone. Looked fuckin’… untouchable. Like you didn’t belong there but at the same time, you owned the whole goddamn room. I remember thinkin’—who the fuck is she?”

His chest rumbles under your cheek as he exhales, almost bitter at himself.

“I thought it’d be fun, y’know? A game. New face, new challenge. You shot me down that night without even blinkin’.” His lips twitch humorlessly. “Most people at that party would’ve killed for me to notice them, and you just—looked through me. Like I was nothin’.”

Your throat tightens, but you still stay quiet.

“That’s where the bet started,” he admits, voice breaking quieter. “I was pissed. Wanted to prove I could get you. It was supposed to be…just that. A stupid fuckin’ bet.” He drags a hand over his face, fingers digging into his temple like he can’t stand the weight of his own words. “But the more I tried, the more I saw you. Not just the cold, perfect face everyone else saw. You. The way you carry yourself, the way you don’t waste words unless they matter, the way you look out for people without lettin’ them see it. Every time I pushed my way in, I thought I was winnin’. But really…I was losin’ my fuckin’ mind over you.”

The confession hangs heavy between you, and you realize for the first time — this isn’t Katsuki Bakugou the frat boy, the golden boy, the one everyone admired and envied. This is him, stripped down, raw, terrified of the truth he’s laying at your feet.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. Didn’t mean for you to mean this much.” His arm tightens around you like he’s scared you’ll disappear. “By the time I realized, it was too late. You were already under my skin. And I knew—fuck, I knew if you ever found out about the bet, it’d ruin everything. That’s why I kept it. That’s why I lied. Because I was a coward.”

His voice fractures on the last word.

And for a long moment, you can’t even breathe.

His voice fractures on the last word, and silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. You can feel the weight of his guilt, the raw desperation threading through every syllable.

Your throat is tight, but you force yourself to speak. “You think it was just you that was losing your mind?”

He stiffens, just slightly.

“I let you in, Katsuki. Slowly. Against every instinct I had. Because you…you kept showing up. You made me laugh when I didn’t want to, dragged me out of my walls even when I fought it. I told myself it was nothing. That you were just…loud. Persistent. But I started wanting you there.” You tilt your face up to look at him, eyes glassy. “So when I found out about the bet…it wasn’t just betrayal. It was like you’d ripped me open with your bare hands. Because I thought what we had was real.”

His jaw locks, his knuckles white where they fist the blanket. “It was real.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” you snap, your voice breaking at the edges. “Why did you let me fall for you without ever telling me the whole story?”

His eyes shut, and he exhales through gritted teeth, pained. “Because I was terrified. You were already everything, and I thought—if I told you, I’d lose you before I even had the chance to keep you. I know it was selfish. I know it was wrong. But the thought of you looking at me the way you did last night—like I was a stranger—fuck, it kills me.”

You press your lips together, fighting tears. “Do you know what it did to me? To wonder if any of it was real? To question every smile, every kiss, every time you touched me and I felt…safe?” Your voice cracks. “I hated myself for still wanting you even after the truth. I hated that no matter how hard I tried to push it down, I still wanted it to be you.”

That gets him. His hand moves, rough and trembling, cupping your cheek as if he doesn’t deserve to. “I swear to you—every smile, every kiss, every time I touched you—fuck, it was real. The bet was gone the second I realized I actually loved you. I just didn’t know how to fix the mess I made.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his palm despite yourself. “And do you know what scares me most?”

“What?” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“That even now…even after everything…I still want to believe you.”

The words hang there, and he looks like you just gutted him. His forehead presses to yours, eyes wet, breath shaky. “Then let me prove it. Let me spend every fuckin’ day proving it. I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for it if you’ll let me.”

Your chest aches at the sincerity, at the raw plea vibrating in his voice. You’ve never seen him like this—open, stripped, desperate. And you realize, in this moment, that this is the only way forward: both of you laying everything bare, no shields, no walls.

Your chest is tight, your pulse racing, and you can feel the ache in your lungs from holding your breath too long. So you inhale, slow and deliberate, shut your eyes, and when you exhale, his name slips from your lips like a prayer.

“Katsuki…”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, red eyes raw, searching.

Your fingers twist in the blanket, knuckles white. “If I let you… if I give you one last chance—” your voice trembles, but you steady it with force, “would you promise me not to lie? Not to hide? No matter how ugly it is. No matter how much you think it’ll hurt me. Will you let me know this time?”

For a moment he just stares at you, like the air’s been punched out of his lungs. His lips part, then close again, like he’s scrambling for words that don’t sound small in the face of what you’re asking. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

Then he nods. Once. Twice. Fiercely.

“I swear.” His voice is low, cracked, but steady. “On every fuckin’ thing I’ve got—my pride, my future, my life—I’ll never keep shit from you again. I don’t care how ugly, I don’t care how much it costs me. You’ll know everything. Every damn thing.”

His hand cups the side of your neck, thumb brushing the hollow of your throat like he’s grounding himself. His jaw clenches, and for a moment, you see it—the boy who’s been tearing himself apart all this time.

“I’d rather lose everything than lose you again because I was too much of a coward to tell you the truth.” His voice shudders, but his gaze never wavers. “So if you give me that chance… I’ll never let myself fuck it up again. Not with you. Not with us.”

The intensity in his words cuts straight through you, and your eyes sting all over again. He’s not just begging. He’s not just pleading. He’s vowing.

You bite down on your lip, tears blurring your vision, but you don’t look away. Not this time.

“Then tell me one ugly thing right now,” you whisper, your voice rough but steady. “Something you would’ve hidden before. Show me you mean it, Katsuki.”

His breath catches. For a second, his eyes dart to the side, like his mind is scrambling for an escape. But there isn’t one, not anymore. You’ve cornered him into the truth. His jaw flexes, his nostrils flare, and then—he lets it out.

“I thought about drinking myself dead,” he says hoarsely. “The nights after you left—I wasn’t just drunk, I was gone. Every fuckin’ day. I thought maybe if I drowned in it long enough, I wouldn’t wake up. And if I didn’t wake up, maybe I wouldn’t have to feel how bad I’d fucked up.”

Your stomach twists, your nails digging crescent moons into your palms.

“But I did wake up. Every goddamn morning. And every time I did, all I could think about was you. How I couldn’t even call, couldn’t even look for you, ‘cause I didn’t deserve to.” He exhales sharp, eyes squeezing shut. “That’s the ugliest thing. That I wanted out. That I almost chose to leave this world instead of facing the shit I’d done.”

The silence after is deafening. His confession hangs in the air between you like smoke, thick and choking, and you can feel it clawing at your lungs.

Your tears finally spill over, hot and unrelenting. You can’t hold them back anymore.

Without thinking, you lurch forward, pressing yourself against his chest, burying your face in his skin. He stiffens for half a heartbeat, then his arms wrap around you—tight, so tight you can barely breathe.

“You idiot,” you choke out between sobs. “You absolute idiot. Do you even realize—how much it would’ve destroyed me—if you did that?”

“I know,” he rasps, voice cracking as he presses his face into your hair. “I know. That’s why I stopped. That’s why I’m here. ‘Cause I’d rather spend the rest of my life fighting for you than waste it running from the shit I’ve done.”

You pull back just enough to see him, your hands framing his face. His eyes are glassy, rimmed red, but they don’t look away.

And in that moment—through all the pain, the guilt, the regret—you see him. Not just the boy who broke you, but the man clawing his way back, desperate to prove he can be better.

Your lips tremble. Your heart pounds. And then, finally, you let yourself lean into him.

“I wanted to hate you forever,” you confess, voice breaking. “I tried so hard to forget you. But even when I was with him…” your breath hitches, “…I still searched for you. In everything. Every kiss. Every touch. It was always you.”

His breath shudders, and for once, there’s no bravado in him, no mask. Just Katsuki, raw and undone, whispering back, “Then let me be enough this time. Just me. Nobody else.”

You close your eyes, tears streaking down your cheeks as you press your forehead to his.

And for the first time in what feels like forever—you don’t pull away.

The heavy conversation melts into quiet. It’s already midday — you realize the sunlight has shifted, painting the room gold. Katsuki doesn’t leave right away. Instead, he lingers. He sprawls on your couch, long legs stretched out, eating the leftover pastries he brought, flipping absentmindedly through your art book again while sneaking glances at you like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to be here.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to turn the fragile truce into something more. He just… stays. Breathing your air, soaking in the ordinary silence with you, and for him, that’s enough. You can see it on his face — he’s memorizing it all, as if cementing proof in his soul that this moment, this reprieve, is real.

Before he leaves in the evening, you stop him at the door. You steady your shaky hands against his hoodie sleeve and whisper, “I need to tell you something.” His gaze sharpens instantly, but you continue before nerves can swallow you.

“I’ll be meeting Nao tomorrow. At the park, near my place. I have to talk to him, Katsuki. He doesn’t deserve to be… left hanging. He’s been good to me.”

His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“And if I’m asking you to always be honest with me,” you add, “I have to be honest with you. It can’t be one-sided anymore.”

The words hang there. For a moment, you’re afraid he’ll explode — jealousy, anger, something volatile. But instead, he just exhales slowly, pressing his tongue to his molars like he’s forcing himself to keep calm.

“...Thanks for tellin’ me,” he mutters finally, low and gravelly. He looks away, like he can’t bear to meet your eyes, but you notice the way his hand brushes yours before he turns to leave — tentative, clumsy, but there.

The next day came fast. The air at the park is crisp when you arrive. The park is quiet, leaves scattering across the pavement with each breeze. You spot Nao waiting on the bench, posture straight, hands folded neatly in his lap like he’s rehearsed patience itself. When he sees you, his lips curve into that same soft smile that’s always made you feel seen.

“Hey,” he greets, standing to pull the bench space open for you. Always the gentleman. Always considerate.

You sit beside him, heart hammering, already knowing this conversation is going to hurt.

Nao doesn’t rush you. He never has. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, watching you with that calm attentiveness — the way a psychologist might observe, but with warmth instead of detachment.

And somehow, that makes it harder.

The crisp air clings to your skin as you sit down beside him. For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward — it’s heavy, meaningful, carrying all the weight of what you came here to do.

Nao is the first to break it, voice steady but soft. “So… you’ve made up your mind. You’re choosing him.”

Part 12 is in the making! will be finished and posted as soon as possible!

Check the full series here: Get Even

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

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