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🏁 pit stop ! 𖦹 you think that katsuki bakugou cares too much. he obsesses over the little things. whether or not you've eaten, whether or not you're seeing someone else, whether or not you even like him. you can't understand why he cares so much about someone like you. after all, he isn't even your boyfriend. (6.2K)
🏁 safety car ! ⋆ not safe for work ⋆ suggestive & angst ⋆ eighteen plus only. pro hero au, characters are depicted as adults. friends with benefits, brief smut scenes, daddy kink mention, situationships, insecurity, simp katsuki, avoidant attachment styles, reader and katsuki are bad at feelings, unhappy ending, open ending. pro hero katsuki bakugou, toxic avoidant & fem reader.
🏁 team radio ! ⋆ happy birthday to me!! sharing another fic for my bday bc it is my gift to you!! for all the memories n the love n awl!! this year its blasty boy, based on this post i made ages ago. been workin on this for a while and it felt so good to explore katsuki in this way!! there may be a part two lol. thank you so much as always! hope you all enjoy and click for more.
bakugou has always been good at sensing oncoming danger. no, he didn’t have a quirk for it and no, he didn’t have to train at it. he’s always just had a penchant for knowing when peril was prowling along the horizon, he thought quick on his feet and under pressure, his instincts were killer. there’s a reason why he’s the best at what he does. saving people, stopping threats.
but then, there’s you.
they’d call you a hero level threat if they knew you, a little more then personally. an enigma that sucks the good-hearted nature out of someone and turns them into something hollow. a villain by matters of the heart rather than that of society — although a string of failed relationships and an obvious lack of commitment would argue otherwise. katsuki never sees it coming, the fatal blow you land on him, the one that shatters his very vision of how love works.
he doesn’t expect to meet you through a friend of a friend and hit it off straight away, his walls crumbling down as if they were made from nothing but sand. a somber stooge to thrashing imperial shaded waves and saltine sea water. he doesn’t anticipate falling fast, hard enough to scrape his knees on shingly tarmac. abrasive on the palms of his hands. all this, even though dynamight has never tripped or lost his cool before.
you’re disarmingly funny, smart-mouthed when it counts but you’re dedicated to your craft and fiercely loyal to the people you care about. by all means, you’re the girl of his dreams, there’s not a day that goes by where you’re not the first thing on his mind after a gruelling patrol and meetings with the hero commission.
katsuki seeks you out like a blossom winding up to find the sun, desperate to spend free time with you — dates that aren’t really dates in places hidden away from prying public eyes. late nights that lead to your legs tangled at the short end of his couch, your cheek smooshed into his chest and a hand low the small of your back. heaviness there that doesn’t seem burdensome, natural.
the two of you are too far into the comfort zone after such a short time, he doesn’t even pick up on the blaring warning signs. the dating app notifications that still pop up on your phone, the way your head dips when he leans in a little too close to kiss you.
he doesn’t see it clearly enough, the dangerous thorns that wrap around you like the stems of a blood red rose. his friends know better, you’re the type of girl who drank the blood of her enemies and ate the bones of her past lovers, stripping them bare like a carcass lost in the wastelands. they know the map of bakugou’s being well, the subtle craving for attachment and endearment that lies behind walls of flesh, muscle and a hardened exterior made up of a bit of trauma with a dash of near death. for all his gruffness and grandeur, there is a human within katsuki bakugou. one who carnally craves the simple promise of forever with someone else.
those friends who pledge a lifetime by katsuki’s side aren’t enough to satisfy his appetite and yearning inner-ego, they know that, but still — they look out for him.
“oh, relationships? i don’t do those.” you’d laughed, then, waving a hand dismissively when mina corners you on the way into the dynamight agency. a favour. a good friend willing to ask what the other can’t.
her shoulders had risen in anxiety, treading carefully as the pink haired pro prodded and pried. “then what about katsuki?”
“what about him?” you quipped, tone clipped, unwilling to fall open to her investigation. katsuki’s friends weren’t yours by any means — you were new, fresh meat in their eyes that had somehow withstood of concerned childhood classmates. “we’re not dating. just messing around?”
mina’s expression soured then. “does he know that?”
“he should. he’s a grown man, i’m sure he knows what kind of relationship he can handle.”
“a situationship.”
“a friendship that comes with added benefits.” he recalls you supplying. quick to the punch and cold like ice.
katsuki stays long enough to hear mina give you the low down. katsuki bakugou doesn’t do casual, he doesn’t mess around — his heart only goes out to some and when it’s yours, you’re supposed to take care of it. mina gives you the chance to walk away, leave him be and you fail to take it. with that minacious sense of esurience you possess.
the first time you sleep together happens after your first fight. he wants something you can’t give him, permanence, the sturdiness that reminds one of an oak tree that’s grown proud and tall over time. katsuki wants something that lasts and his heart is set on you — someone who disappears into the rolling smoke and only exists for a split second, a momentary fraction of time like when the sun and moon meet for an eclipse. you’re evanescent, almost imaginary, fleeting like a nomad who never stays for too long.
he can’t have you. not in the way that he needs to feel stabilised.
everything blows up, when you tell him that. sitting on the other side of the bed, wearing his clothes, comfortable in his penthouse where your shoes ( an impressive collection of sneakers to high heels ) are lined up by the door and you’ve got a favourite mug on the top shelf of his kitchen cabinets where only he can reach. there’s a piece of you everywhere in bakugou’s home but not a single piece you can part with long enough for him to call you his own. the fight is full of rage and pent up frustration and a hurt that’s nearly incurable — katsuki should have made you leave right then and there, emotions rising like hot air above cool. with tears building behind his red eyes that burn brightly with fury, but he can’t because you’re so intertwined with his life, it’d be like having a lung missing if you’d gone.
it’s not love, it shouldn’t be — but his heart feels anchored to you even if it’s holding you back. you let him say it, that he loves you so much it could kill him in his youthful age. he loves you while pushing into you deep, chest rising and falling in tune with yours, much like a habit you’ve picked up from one another. he loves you with your legs hiked high on his shoulders, at the weight of his shaft pressed up against your sensitive walls with his teeth and tongue marking you like you belong to him. the sex that night had felt like a confession, a love letter written in hickies and scratch marks — penned and signed into your body by rough-padded fingertips that find your clit between rolling waves of trusts, hips that hit yours like the turning tide hits the shore.
in the moment, you reciprocated. sung his praises kike they were the lyrics to your favourite song, coated in wistfulness. howled his name, katsuki, at the moon whilst the stars bore witness to the union of your souls and your bodies. struck claw marks between the muscles in his back, leaving him with a scar. a heavily ironic reminder of your presence in his life — even if you left him physically, you’d still be there in the root of his heart and in every breath he’d take from then on. he couldn’t get rid of you, not that he wanted to, not even if he tried. in every sense of the word — mind, body and soul, katsuki had decided he belonged to you. willed you to understand through every stroke of his cock into you, every gentle kiss that deepened to share hungry moans, every caress over your battle wounds and fatal flaws… that he was yours, however you wanted. whatever that looked like. he would take it.
in the morning, you were different — colder, sharper, as if the sinful hells from which your desire had risen from, had now frozen over. like the heat and passion you’d shared were nothing but a mutually beneficial exchange. pleasure for pleasure, not to be mistaken for beating hearts coming together as one. in the morning, you’d tossed katsuki aside, smiling sweet, your lips pressed against his cheek, your clothes from the night before wrinkled against your love-bruised frame. “thank you,” he remembers you saying. “same time next week?”
it’s a joke that lands as a sucker punch. worse than any hit he’s ever taken on the field.
despite that, bakugou had never wanted you more. something he couldn’t keep. a hurricane in a glass jar that he couldn’t contain. free as a bird that could fly away at a moment's notice — too dazed with desire and devotion to see the cruel limbo you were leaving him in. even then he’d have called you the girl of his dreams, perfect in every way except for your knack for avoidance. he should have walked away then.
he should walk away now. as his tired, blood red eyes look to you with a rose tinted lens. watching you sleep soundly amongst sheets you’d complain cost more than a month’s rent and won’t let katsuki buy for your own apartment. still thinking that you’re perfect for him, that you fit right into his world where you’ve made him so intrinsically part of your own. thriving in this weird symbiotic relationship where you get your needs taken care of and he gets a taste of what it’s like to be longed for. as more than a hero. as less than dynamight. just katsuki. you’d taken a sledgehammer to the pro hero’s concrete shell and sent his shield packing, now he’s no longer to build up his walls without fear of shutting you out.
friends with benefits, lovers but not quite — bakugou doesn’t care as long as he’s with you. he’d pick fights for you until he turned black and blue, rescue you from the competition because he knows it means having his way with you afterwards, let you call him your boyfriend high on life and liquor just to piss another man off. now you’re in his shirt, the warm charm of the sun spilling through his curtains to illuminate the soft slopes of your thighs and highlight every perfect imperfection on your skin. the scars you try to hide, the tiger stripes you sometimes let him love.
you look softest when you’re asleep, like you wouldn’t dare destroy someone’s self worth and ability to love. you don’t look dangerous.
he still doesn’t believe that you are.
“suki,” stretching high and wide like a little harmless — maybe even blameless — kitten lounging under the blessing of the afternoon sun. your voice calls to him — wafting through the aerosols that catch light under golden rays. they act as a smog, a performance of smoke and mirrors that hides your true intentions from the blonde. even if he were to wave his hand through the smoggy disguise, katsuki still wouldn’t be able to see your desires clearly. “my head hurts.”
“yeah?” bakugou’s bare chest rises and falls with somewhat of a brusque titter, the sound curling inward like a wisp of smoke caught within his lungs — cemented into their small branches of bronchi. it’s soft, barely noticeable, if you weren’t listening. almost as if he’s been trying to keep it a secret from you. as though his fondness were to scare you away. “want me to kiss it better?”
“mhm…” more of you emerges from cotton hills and stiff peaks of linens — a hand rubbing through the crust corned at your eyes and lips. “god it kills, what even happened last night?”
even then, despite the sleep caked into your skin and the lines carved out by creases in the sheets struck against your cheeks, disregarding the bitterness to your morning breath and the drool staining the fabric of his your sleep shirt — you’re still the most beautiful person in the world to katsuki bakugou. with all your flaws and icks and green flags he can’t help the uptick in his pulse and the pull of gravity that lures him into smiling almost school-girlishly at the sight of you rubbing the ache from your forehead, lost in the waves of his bed spread.
you’re perfect even if you don’t know it — some kind of lawless and flawless being that could do no wrong in the jewelled eyes of the beholder.
“party. didn’t invite me so i don’t know what you had.”
“it was a party, am i not supposed to drink?” a cheshire grin blooms amongst your features and compliments the mirthy spark to your sleepy stare as you reply bluntly. if there was any inclination as to how deeply katsuki feels for you, it would be the way his focus flits away from your eye contact and the manner in which rich red blood pools underneath the surface of his cheeks. a blush that catches sunlight and spreads like a flame over oil slick, creeping down to the back of katsuki’s neck.
he rubs at it — akin to how one would smooth over a scab they’re not trying to pick in fear of making it bleed — as he speaks. intent and careful. “responsibly, sure,” he’s already reaching to pull the covers back and welcome you to the land of the living. you hide, pouting like you’ve been scolded. “you were so shitfaced last night, ‘m surprised you even managed to call me to come pick you up.”
you don’t like that. the tenderness that sits between curse words and stretching through the comfortable atmosphere of the late morning. to you, katsuki is scary in the kind of way that reminds you of the buzz you feel after watching a horror movie — electric and alive, all fried nerve endings and an impending sense of doom tickling your chest. maybe it’s because he’s so handsome. in the way that causes trouble with the old ladies on floor thirty four of the apartment building or gets the girls tripping over their kitten heels at the agency. maybe it’s because he leans into this natural duty to protect or nurse strays like you back to health.
genuine fear easily takes residence in your being when bakugou cares for you in the ways you feel you don’t deserve. it’s small, fleeting — almost like the subtle beat of a butterfly's wings or the tickle of your own hair at the nape of your neck.
katsuki isn’t someone to be afraid of. he’s not some kind of predator lurking in the dark waiting to turn you into a chunk of meat. his affections lap at you in the same way ocean blue does at a sandy shoreline, in soft waves with bubbling white at the owl waiting to be absorbed into porous substrate. he waits, oh, he waits for you to accept all of him as though he were always meant to be yours.
that’s what frightens you, his gentle dedication. his tired eyes that crystallise when you walk into a room. his heart tattooed in fading ink on his sleeve, waiting for you to take a knife and pierce it with all that you’ve got.
the thought of accepting his love and returning it had your stomach turning. not because you resent the idea, but because you find yourself warming to it like a steel kettle on a hot stove or a freshly potted sapling winding towards the light in order to grow. it’s as frightening coming face to face with an animal that sees you as nothing more than prey. like a hare standing against a wolf where the odds are hardly in its favour.
“it’s too early on in the day for you to parent me katsuki and you sound like my dad,” you bite like a snake that has venom poised behind its teeth, regarding the blonde with devious merriment. “bet you like that though, gets you all riled up telling me what to do. acting like my dad. do you want to be? my daddy, katsuki?”
your banter is usually like this, the kind where the dialect crawls underneath his skin through an open wound and spreads uncomfortably in the form of a viral infection. it sticks meagerly to katsuki’s ego in a similar fashion to a postage stamp placed down wrong — where you can’t pick it up by the corner and peel it back, unable to reposition it correctly. in the moment, you’re funny — light on your feet and quick with quips that come easy and aren’t supposed to mean anything aside from serving the purpose of laughter. except, when the coals cool and the time passes you leave a sting that creeps up on the victim, dead before they even know it. straight faced by the time the day is over.
“don’t be like that.” he leans over you, wafting notes of clean pine and smoked applewood, sparking your senses awake, and pushes the side of your head playfully. his touch slides down, careful as it goes, before bakugou cups your cheeks and squishes them twice.“bein’ fuckin’ mean.”
“sorry daddy.” you grin the same as before. with the air of someone who knows exactly who they are and what they’re doing. you’re a woman who’s made a vexatious habit out of reading people — katsuki is one of them — scouring their worn, aging pages for something that makes them tick.
by now he’s caught on the game that you play, toying with the knotted mess of his feelings like a feline with her bawl of carmine coloured yarn. the iniquitous version of the red string of fate. he returns to his seat at the edge of the bed, turning away before you catch the fall in his face. as though the manner in which icarus flew too close to the sun — only to be scorned — could be captured in his expression, like an artist who carves his wages through stone.
“oh shut up,” bakugou pushes again, no weight behind his hand. controlled because he’s not a man with a temper. the kind you run to when he spends a weekend out of town. “‘m not fuckin’ you ‘n i gotta go to work.”
“that’s never stopped you before.” you purr, never quite having learned how to be subtle.
hero galas and award-show after parties run rampant through katsuki’s mind — the memories without picture frames because you never stay long enough to keep. alcohol bleeds into the ink, leaving them splotchy where he’d remember the happenings if he were sober. lipstip smudge kiss that taste of plasticky makeup and the bitter pop of champagne
undeterred by your little mind games and the puzzles you make of the pro hero’s patience — he glances over at you, just for a moment. registers the presence of you helpless in his bed and then suppresses a fond smile, poking his tongue into his cheek. “you’re hungover, that’ll stop me. told you, i care about you.”
there’s a twang to katsuki’s voice that has always warmed you sweetly. much like honey and buttermilk simmering on a stove. years of drawling and pulling along the vowels braided between their intimidating consonant peers. unhurried and rough around the edges. the way he softly answers you despite the wrath and envy that hides behind the snakelike bite of your words when you speak — he tries not to be loud, in fear his speech may be taken as a curse. the last thing katsuki wants is to scare you away, especially when you make a habit of escaping from his hold like a bird from a net or a gazelle from a hunter.
you turn silent – in a manner similar to the creep of the quiet night that sneaks up on her friend, the day – shifting upright and bringing the duvet with you. “don’t need you to,” your fingers curl in the blankets until crescent moons form in your palms through the thinness. you don’t snap, that is what terrifies katsuki more. “and that doesn’t mean you have to baby me.” it’s a childish retort that you add on, one that lands in the pocket of silence beginning to brew at the center of the room. sour like the punch of a lemon when you sip on something citrus. “i’m an adult, we can fuck if i wanna.”
“but i don’t,” he feels far away when he responds, carefully unveiling his truth to you at a safe distance, to avoid the splinters of your shattering morning. “even if you’re nicer to me when you’re fucked up.”
a rare joke from him turns you into the cheshire cat.
“you think i’m mean sober. so you prefer me subdued.” you ask, a taunting tone intertwined with the cadence of a person who seeks only to get a rise out of their victim. you pass his
the blonde whips round to face you, not to yell or to “listen. you were drinkin’, i wasn’t there to look out for you and there could have been anythin’ in your system. i was worried about you.” something churns in his stomach and ties his intensities together in some kind of fatal knot guided by a sick sense of anxiety. it’s the same kind of feeling you. katsuki sighs, shoulders falling as though the strings that master them have been released. “i don’t wanna argue.”
“me either,” you quip, sensing the defeat. “my head really hurts, kats.”
he softens as you drop the topic. a change in tactics to keep him on his toes, interested in playing the game of chess you’ve laid out for the two of you. his pieces have been stolen, barely anything left on the board since you so eagerly take and take from him. “i know baby,” katsuki supplies in that sugary simple syrup manner that would have any girl twist her ankle in order to get a chance with him. “just, lemme get you some orange juice for your hangover, kay?”
“with bits in it? bleck. you know i don’t like orange juice.” he does. of course katsuki bakugou knows that you hate orange juice with the little floating pieces of fruit flesh and that you prefer the kind of squash you dilate with running water over anything else. he knows that you hate to eat breakfast in the morning because you’re never too hungry, but if he were to cook something up you’d eat it with the same appetite as a grown man. katsuki knows you like the sun burning up high, would know the familiar company of a summer’s day and a clear blue sky — in a way that’s complimentary, two souls tangled by a fine rouge thread, knotted with no loose ends.
except he finds you tugging at them as though you’re a bird caught in a net — fighting ferociously until you’re too fatigued to taste it. freedom. as though you’re frightened of the calm katsuki could offer you. he dwells on the thought, standing too still amongst a hurricane — biting fear cool against his skin because he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do when he loses your presence beside him simply because you’re not ready for something greater.
his eyes drag away from you, polarised to the wall like a magnet that attracts. “well it’s either that or tomato juice, pick your poison,” katsuki supplies, listening for your tantrum amongst cotton sheets. you settle on the bright, more-fruity counterpart ( because you’ve argued about this before at 3AM whilst he’s been in indonesia for a mission and you've been stuck here — using your spare key to get into his apartment when you’d missed him. tomato, despite its many seeds, isn’t a fruit in your eyes ) and the blonde hauls himself up from the edge of the bed to find his juicer in the kitchen. “that’s what i thought, brat.”
katsuki never leaves you without saying goodbye. a text after patrol to let you know that he’s safe, a kiss on the forehead when he moves from one room to the next, a perfectly wrapped morsel of his soul packed up into a brief, flickering moment all for you. something to keep when the regular rhythm of your body starts to fall out of tune without him, no matter how long or short the time spent apart is — katsuki always gives you something.
but this morning he leaves the bedroom with his lips pressed into a thin line and the hard set expression of a man who’s worked so much for too little in return — breaking a sweat to undo crossed wires as though there’s a time bomb ticking relentlessly between you that requires a special agent’s touch to figure you out. katsuki isn’t a spy, he isn’t a mind reader and yes, he’s super-human… but in his line of work there are just some people you can never seem to save. maybe you’re one of them and maybe that’s why he feels as though he might need to give up.
you draw your knees to your chest underneath the sheets in order to add pressure to the panic building within — he doesn’t shut you out in the manner that you do with him. katsuki always comes back to pull you out of your own mess as though you’re a wounded animal in need of tending. he’s good like that. he cares about you like that.
you’re a blender, an emotional one at that, you come with razor sharp, silvering blades that constantly whir like a looming threat. get too close and you’ll lose a piece of yourself, bleed out on cold concrete like a saviour who tried entirely too hard to save someone who didn’t want it. what seems right to him, when it comes to you, is a means to his own demise and death – in this tale, katsuki is a wolf licking crimson blood from a blade poised to kill him, worsening his own wounds inflicted by his own desire for you.
a mere twenty paces away, you listen to him clatter about in the kitchen – juicing fresh fruit for you. from scratch. just to help you feel better. It's a luxury you know that you don’t deserve, a tragedy that you know he’ll play line by line if it means being with you. for a while, you thought yourself invincible, taking advantage of the weakness of men who have hurt you before. yet, katsuki is kind, he warms you, treats you as though you’re flawless to the point where you feel as though you are a physical lie. an apple dealt to adam instead of eve, rotted on the inside and ripe on the out.
bakugou waltzes back into the bedroom not even ten minutes later, freshly squeezed orange juice and two pills in hand to ease away the pain you know doesn’t compare to what lives between each intercostal space protecting his heart and lungs. he says nothing. you say nothing. the room feels like a trap, latent hostility building between the four walls as if it had cemented them together itself.
you inhale, like you’re taking a drag of a cigarette. you don’t want the smoke to clear – you’ll see the heartache in his eyes clearer then.
“are we okay?” you ask with the uneasy focus of someone who feels like her world is out to get her – drown her in the emotional turmoil she’s built. a swig of orange juice and bitter paracetamol clings to the insides of your teeth, causing a similar discomfort to that in the atmosphere. “i feel like… things have been really weird. with you. with me.”
“no ‘m not. you’re being weird.” he delivers the line with a sharp intensity you’re completely unfamiliar with – like he’s taken on the same skillset, the same precise aim of an adroit sniper, and gone straight for your heart – forcing himself to speak over the blockage in his throat that keeps him from spilling emotions like an oil slick on clean water.
a wound to the body can easily heal, but one to the heart that keeps pumping, can last a lifetime. you don’t scream out in agony, a wounded soldier on a battlefield – no – you quickly build a defensive shield and strike a strategic attack, because your ego broils brightly underneath the surface of your skin and never settles enough to let your temper just be.
this time round, you scoff in braggart disbelief. as if you hadn’t expected this, the rain on your make believe parade. “woah okay, childish.”
observant as ever, katsuki does not miss the way you roll your eyes over the glass – the spread of your lips seeping into your cheeks as they take the form of a grim lour. something akin to kindling, a match-stick ready to set light to a bomb. this morning you’d promised not to argue, and yet, one catches in the wind that changes course. imminent and ready to detonate this faux relationship you’ve built.
“oh, like you’re not.” the blonde snaps back, sarcasm snaked between syllables.
“alright then, what’s that supposed to mean, katsuki?”
“you just — ‘m just…” bakugou grapples for a sensible sentence, something to explain away the clouds in his mind that came with you. he hates to admit it, how you unhappiness came into his world soon after you did, bringing with you bouquets of bewilderment and nights where too many things were left unsaid. “it’s okay for you to tease me and not the other way around?”
it’s unclear why that sets you off, perhaps its how accusatory bakugou sounds. when he says it like that – calls you out on how hypocritical you can be, your temper flares like a streak of red in the dead of night. a cry for help to anyone watching, to katsuki not to give up on you before you’ve properly started.
“you’re not kidding around though, it’s not funny,” spitting venomously, you let your response rain down on him like acid rain, searing through the thick and guarded armor he thought he had built strong all these years. “you keep calling me mean when that’s how i’ve always been, firey just how you like it. you treat me like i’m made of glass, like you’ve gone soft and keep looking at me like i’m gonna burst into flames!” it keeps going, this gruesome splurge of awful words used to cut at him, and you can’t stop it because you see it working. the manner in which this big, mountainous and explosive man, shrinks away from you as though it burns to be near. “like me, being here is setting you off. almost as though you don’t want me here. and if you don’t, that’s fine, i’ll go. but in the future don’t bring me over if you’re gonna act all avoidant and shit.”
katsuki sits up now, alert, as if his burns have been doused with cold water. his carmine eyes, devoid of the same cruelty you treat him with, are electrified with everything he doesn’t say. loaded with all the ways you’ve hurt him. tears that refuse to fall. “what? was i supposed to leave you there drunk with that fuckin’ asshole? the one you keep fucking when ‘m not around to give you the attention you crave.” the blonde throws a thumb your way, inculpatory. “you don’t get to do that, call me like ‘m some shitty lapdog. then c-call me that fuckin’ name and then act like it’s weird that i want to take care of you.”
“call you, what, katsuki?”
“course you don’t remember,” bakugou grumbles incredulously, standing from the bed in the same manner someone would flee from the scene of a crime. like he needs to get away from it all. from you. from the jail cell that is your fucked up relationship. “‘m not saying shit. got patrol so ‘m headin’ out.”
the blonde excuses himself weakly and reaches for his hero costume as a shield.
because maybe, right now, he needs to be dynamight instead of katsuki. he needs to be a hero to save himself.
“katsuki,” you growl to make him stay. “call you, what? say it. it’s on the tip of your tongue.”
the look he gives you is wounded and pleading. the kind only a dying animal could give whilst begging to be put out of its misery — whatever katsuki says now will be blood on your hands, his organs violently spilling into your grip since you’re the only person in his life with enough strength to rip his heart out from behind the doors to his psyche. “your boyfriend. you called me your boyfriend last night and i picked you up and i liked it.” katsuki admits from across the room, at a safe distance from you because confessing feelings to you is akin to stepping on a land mine.
he’s been fighting an internal war since figuring out that he feels for you outside of fucking, wishing like a wistful child on every lucky star that perhaps, you would be able to wave your white flag and admit the same. beyond your own facade, you could maybe trade your heart for his like you would for a trading card. if you’d wanted him the way he wanted you, you’d push your pride away just enough to let yourself believe you could love someone outside of yourself.
“i liked that you sat in my backseat, on the verge of throwing up and called me your boyfriend…” he supplies in the same way a child would when they make an attempt to be part of adult conversation — rushed in the sense that syllables land awkwardly and vowels tack themselves to the underneath of his tongue it moves around in his mouth, like there’s too much to say to you and not enough time for telling you. “i feel sick just sayin’ i liked that you let me hold your hair back when you did eventually puke your fuckin’ guts out, ‘nd let me shower you ‘nd change your clothes. let me hold you without making it weird, like we’re not supposed to do that shit just because all we do is have sex!”
with every inch he gives, you take, and the consequences nearly choke katsuki bakugou slowly to an unfair death. “i know you won’t ever let me do it again, now that you’re sober, ‘cause that’s not what you want and it’s not what we agreed to. you don’t like lookin’ like you need someone.”
“but i liked it,” bakugou rasps, vocal chords strained like an out of tune guitar — the notes wail into the tense, thickened air. “even if it was only for one fuckin’ night. when you were mine, for just one night. i liked being your boyfriend.”
he liked being wrapped around your finger, even if it were a noose.
“but you’re not,” the words of your retort are entirely too harsh and brittle, and they slip out like fine sand through fingertips before you have a chance to stop them. “you’re not my boyfriend.”
“exactly.”
“so what do we do?”
for the first time that morning. you sound scared — reality dawning on you as though you’ve woken up to nothing after dreaming about everything you could have ever wanted.
“dunno, do whatever you want,” he’s so tired of going back and forth. if he knew from the very day your eyes first met – in a similar fashion to two worlds colliding, colours mixing, flowers blooming – that this is what you’d wanted, he would have stayed far away. “you can stay. you know where your things are ‘nd i left you breakfast. in the fridge. bottom shelf where you can reach it.”
“katsuki, i–”
he shakes his head, the weight of him in your mind and head and in this very room lifting – as though he were never there. you seal your lips. your true feelings are a sullen, oppressive secret behind your teeth.
katsuki bakugou is stubborn. he always has been. to a fault. “i really gotta go, kay?”
you sink into the sheets, “okay… i’ll call you?”
the pit in the stomach tells you he’ll wait for your call, you know he will. he’s always been self destructive like that. you’re like a ticking time bomb in the centre of his bed, where he’s supposed to feel safest — just waiting to explode and send shards of shrapnel shaped like daggers directly into his scarred heart and he’s got no sense of danger. no telling of when you’re going to go off and decimate him.
“be safe.” you add.
“i will be. i–” katsuki looks back, his tongue pushed to form the shape of love that he quickly abandons as if the weight isn’t crushing his heart in his chest. “… just don’t go anywhere? we’ll talk about this later.”
you nod silently as he leaves. afraid.
you never do talk.
you never do stay.
because he’s certainly not your boyfriend and you’re not his girlfriend either.
there’s no obligation in that anyway.
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
Actionable Ideas for Challenging Infold Over Valko's Release
A lot of LADS fans are really upset over Infold's decision to shelve Valko. This is my attempt at creating action items for fans wanting to do something but are unsure where to start.
Here are some methods for giving Infold feedback:
Sign this petition and this petition
Reply to their posts on X (Twitter)
Comment on their Instagram posts
Comment on their Facebook posts
Comment on their YouTube videos
Join their official Discord Server and voice your dissatisfaction
Leave a 1-star review on the Apple App Store or the Google Play Store
Complete the survey in the Love and Deepspace app by selecting the box/pencil icon in the top right corner of the home screen
"Suggest" Valko's release in the Love and Deepspace app by going to Settings > More > Support, then select "Suggestion"
(If you want to be slightly passive-aggressive) On 9 July, go to Settings > More > Support, then select "Bug Report" and fill out the report stating that the promised Valko content is missing
Remember: if we want Infold to listen to us, we MUST remain civil and demonstrate our affection for the game. I highly doubt they will be intimidated by non-CN players, which means we are held to a different standard. What is effective for them will not be effective for us.
With that said, remember these do's and dont's:
Do repeatedly submit/post/send your feedback over the next few weeks. Email them today, in a few days, on 9 July, and in the weeks after. Post on their social media every day. Overwhelm them and show them this isn't going to go away over a few free Wishes.
Do prepare to CONTINUE submitting/posting/sending your feedback over the next few months. Infold needs to see that we won't let this issue go. Schedule emails to be sent to them over the next 3 months. Draft X posts today and copy and paste them to post in a few months time. Draft your long-form in-app feedback in preperation for the update and the upcoming banners. Create reminders to check and comment on their posts weekly. Don't let them get comfortable. Be a dog with a bone (lol).
Do maintain a polite tone in your feedback (even when you are issuing a threat like leaving the game).
Do specify your current disappointments, long-term criticisms, and expectations for the future of the game should you continue to play.
Do clearly isolate your long-term issues with the game from the current issue of Valko's release. Make it clear that those issues are not resolved by delaying or permanently canceling Valko's debut.
Do talk positively about whatever you can (ie. enjoying other LIs, enjoying the content of the Main Story itself, appreciating the worldbuilding, etc). This may feel difficult, but it demonstrates that you are a passionate player. Infold can assume that a player so invested in the game would need something drastic to push them to leave.
Don't use profanity.
Don't reference CN players.
Don't bring up Infold's past mistakes. We need to stay focused on the current issues.
Don't criticize anything about Valko's teased content. This one may be unpopular, I know. If Infold is pulling back Valko's release, I don't think it's likely that they will be willing to invest any more time and money into his development. If they continue to get more and more criticisms about him and don't care to change anything about him, they will never release him. I'm not minimizing any fan's concerns; I'm suggesting we choose a priority.
If you are unsure where to start, here are some talking points:
Express your excitement over Valko (bonus points if you give reasons why). Did you come back from a long hiatus for him?
Express your disappointment over not having Valko in the game. How will it impact your enjoyment of the game?
Describe how you prepared for his anticipated arrival.
• In-game (farm for dias, bought packs, etc)
• On your devices (created storage space, bought a new device, etc)
• Financially (budgeted for buying packs upon his release, etc)
Describe how you engaged in fandom around Valko. Did you create fanart, fanfiction, or other fanworks? How much were you consuming fanworks showcasing him? Demonstrating how beloved he was before any real content of his being released indicates a warm reception if/when he is released.
What are the current issues you experience with the game? Be specific. Describe exactly how they impact your gameplay. Suggest a concrete way those issues could be resolved. Assert that Valko's release being postponed or canceled will not resolve these issues.
Express concern for the changes to their planned story arc his absence would create. Question if those changes would be as enjoyable as their original plan.
(If you're feeling up to it) Acknowledge the amount of time, effort, and money that must have gone into creating Valko. Let them know it would disappoint you to see it go to waste.
Infold made a terrible decision. We need to take action and let Infold know that a large portion of the LADS fanbase wants Valko to be released at some point. Let's try to remain positive where we can, engage in positive fandom, and do our best to make our voices heard by Infold.
A yellow house at the end of a quiet American street.
And the terrifying possibility that some things can still be fixed.
The first thing Draco notices about America is that it feels unfair.
Unfair that the sun still rises. Unfair that people still laugh. Unfair that life continued while he forgot you.
The world should have paused. It should have waited. It should have understood that something precious had been misplaced.
Instead, years passed.
Three entire years.
Without permission. Without asking either of you.
Years of birthdays. Years of winters. Years of ordinary mornings. Years of sunsets. Years of letters. Years of loving someone who was gone.
And somehow the world had simply continued turning.
Draco hates it.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The journey takes two days.
Partly because Muggle travel is slower than magic. Partly because Draco keeps losing his nerve.
Every airport becomes an opportunity to turn around. Every layover becomes an opportunity to leave. Every hour gives doubt another chance to sink its teeth into him.
Because what if you're happy? What if you've moved on? What if the letters stopped because you finally listened to your parents? What if you don't want him anymore?
The questions follow him across an ocean, across cities, across states, all the way to your front door.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The neighborhood is quiet.
Tree-lined streets stretch beneath the summer sun. Children play in driveways. Cyclists drift lazily past. The scent of freshly cut grass hangs in the warm air.
Normal. Wonderfully, painfully normal.
You live here.
The realization keeps striking him unexpectedly.
You live here.
You walk these sidewalks. You buy groceries somewhere nearby. You probably know your neighbors. You probably have favorite cafés, favorite bookstores, favorite places to watch sunsets.
An entire life. A real life.
One he has never seen.
One he should have shared.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The house is buttercream yellow.
Not unlike the inn by the sea.
Smaller. Cozier.
Blue shutters frame the windows. Flower boxes spill color beneath them.
His chest aches immediately.
Of course.
Of course.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
A small voice interrupts his panic.
"Mister."
Draco looks down.
A child. Perhaps seven years old. Freckles. A missing front tooth. A basketball tucked beneath one arm.
The boy stares at him suspiciously.
Draco stares back.
"...Hello."
The child narrows his eyes.
"You've been standing there forever."
"I've been here six minutes."
"That's forever."
Draco cannot argue with that logic.
The boy glances at the front door, then back at Draco, then at the flowers, then at Draco again.
Judging.
Actively judging him.
"You should probably knock."
Draco blinks.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
A pause.
Then:
"Unless you're a murderer."
"I'm not."
"Good."
The boy nods seriously, then points toward the door.
"Because that would be weird."
Draco laughs despite himself.
A genuine laugh.
The first in days.
The child seems satisfied by this, then immediately sprints away.
"HEY JOSH, WATCH THIS!"
And vanishes into a neighboring yard.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Draco stares at the front door.
His heart is pounding so violently he feels sick. The flowers tremble in his grip. His palms are sweating.
He suddenly understands why people flee battles. Why people run from dragons. Why people avoid impossible things.
Because this—
This is terrifying.
The possibility of hope always is.
Slowly. Carefully.
He knocks.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Nothing happens.
For several seconds.
Then footsteps.
Inside.
Approaching.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Draco forgets how to breathe.
The handle turns.
The door opens.
And the universe ends.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
You.
Just you.
Standing there.
Alive.
Real.
Not a photograph. Not a memory. Not a letter. Not a dream.
You.
A pale sundress drifting around your knees. Sunlight tangled in your hair.
Your eyes widen slowly, unbelievably, as though your mind physically cannot process what it is seeing.
Neither can his.
Years.
Years, and somehow you're still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Neither of you speak.
Not immediately.
The silence stretches between you, fragile and impossible.
Then the flowers slip from his fingers.
They hit the porch.
And suddenly your expression changes.
Shock disappears.
Disbelief disappears.
Hope disappears.
Leaving only fury.
Pure. Magnificent. Fury.
"Oh."
Draco opens his mouth.
"Oh?"
You laugh.
A horrible laugh.
The sort people make right before committing murder.
"Oh."
The front door slams directly in his face.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Silence.
Then—
"MOTHERFUCKER!"
The scream echoes through the entire house.
Draco blinks.
Inside, something crashes.
Then another thing.
Then something that sounds suspiciously like a pillow being assaulted.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
"MOTHERFUCKER!"
Another crash.
Draco winces.
A neighbor peeks through their curtains, then immediately disappears again.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
"I SWEAR TO GOD—"
THUMP.
"YOU STUPID—"
CRASH.
"SELF-SACRIFICING—"
BANG.
"IDIOT!"
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Draco closes his eyes.
Relief crashes through him so hard it almost hurts.
Because you're angry.
Furious.
Enraged.
But you're here.
You're here.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The front door flies open again.
You stand there breathing hard, hair slightly disheveled, eyes bright with tears.
The sight nearly destroys him.
For one perfect second neither of you move.
Then a book hits him directly in the chest.
"Ow."
"THAT WAS FOR THREE YEARS AGO."
Another object follows.
A cushion.
Less painful. Yet somehow more devastating.
"AND THAT WAS FOR THE LETTERS."
Draco catches it.
"I deserved that."
"I KNOW."
Something else flies at his head.
A shoe.
A very impressive throw.
He narrowly avoids it.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
"You forgot me!"
The words crack apart.
Raw. Broken. Years old.
"You forgot me."
Draco's chest caves inward.
Because beneath the anger, there it is.
The wound.
The real wound.
The one neither of you survived properly.
"I know."
His voice breaks.
"I know."
Tears spill down your cheeks.
Immediate. Unstoppable.
"I waited."
The words hit harder than anything you've thrown.
Harder than any curse.
Harder than the war.
Because he knows.
Three hundred and twelve letters.
Years.
You waited.
"I know."
You make a strangled noise, somewhere between a sob and a scream.
Then suddenly you're moving.
Running.
Launching yourself off the porch.
Straight at him.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Draco barely has time to react before you're in his arms.
Exactly where you belong.
The force nearly knocks him backward.
Your arms wrap around his neck. His lock around your waist.
And then you're kissing him.
Desperately. Furiously. Crying the entire time.
The sort of kiss that belongs to people who have spent too much time apart. The sort of kiss built from grief and relief and longing and rage and love.
So much love.
Too much love.
Enough love for three hundred and twelve unanswered letters.
Enough love for forgotten memories.
Enough love for two ruined children who somehow survived becoming adults.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
"I looked for you."
The confession breaks from him.
Raw. Desperate.
"I remembered and I looked for you."
You pull back just enough to see his face.
Your eyes are red.
Wet.
Beautiful.
"You forgot."
The words aren't angry.
Just wounded.
Draco nods.
A tear slips free.
"I know."
You stare at him.
Searching. Judging. Trying to determine if he's real. Trying to determine if this is another cruel trick.
Then your hands rise to cup his face.
And suddenly you're kissing him again.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Draco forgets how to breathe.
The kiss is desperate. Messy. Eight years overdue.
You kiss him like you're angry. Like you're relieved. Like you're heartbroken. Like you're home.
And perhaps all of those things are true.
He kisses you back immediately.
Hopelessly. Completely.
As if the last decade never happened. As if every missing year collapses between one heartbeat and the next. As if memory itself bends around you.
When you finally separate, both of you are crying.
Both of you are laughing.
Neither of you know which is happening anymore.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The neighborhood remains stubbornly alive around you.
Sprinklers running. Dogs barking. Children shouting.
Life continuing.
And from somewhere down the street comes a familiar voice.
The little boy.
The one with the basketball.
"OH."
A pause.
Then, loudly:
"I THINK THEY KNOW EACH OTHER."
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The sound that escapes you is half laugh, half sob.
Draco starts laughing too.
Properly laughing.
The kind he hasn't managed in years.
You look up at him.
Sunlight warms your skin. Tears still glitter on your lashes. Your sundress moves softly in the breeze.
The same girl.
No.
Not the same girl.
Older.
Stronger.
Real.
His.
If you'll still have him.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Your forehead rests against his.
The world quiets.
Finally.
At last.
After years of searching. After years of forgetting. After years of waiting.
You smile.
Small. Tender. Wonderfully familiar.
And Draco realizes something.
The war stole years. The memory charm stole years. Fear stole years.
But not this.
Not you.
Not this moment.
Not the future stretching before both of you.
Because some things survive distance.
Some things survive grief.
Some things even survive oblivion.
And when you whisper, "Took you long enough, Malfoy,"
Draco smiles through tears.
Pulls you closer.
And answers with the truth.
The truth he carried across an ocean. The truth he wrote to himself years ago. The truth that survived even forgetting.
He reads them at the inn. He reads them beside the sea. He reads them until his eyes burn and his head throbs and his heart feels like it might split open beneath his ribs.
Three hundred and twelve letters. Three hundred and twelve pieces of you. Three hundred and twelve chances to hear your voice again.
And Draco is greedy.
He devours every word. Every crossed-out sentence. Every smudge of ink. Every joke. Every complaint. Every declaration of love.
Because for years he had nothing.
And now suddenly he has too much.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The second year of letters is somehow worse.
Because that is when your hope begins to hurt.
Not disappear. Never disappear.
Just hurt.
Draco,
I bought a new coat today.
You would've hated it.
Which is exactly why I bought it.
It's yellow.
Mother says it looks lovely.
Father says I resemble a very determined canary.
I think he's jealous.
A laugh escapes him.
Despite everything. Despite the tears. Despite the grief.
He can hear your triumphant grin.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
And slowly, painfully, the memories begin returning.
Not all at once. Never all at once.
Fragments. Moments. Pieces.
Like shards of glass rising from the bottom of a lake.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
You are standing in Glenda's kitchen, sleeves rolled up, flour dusted across your nose.
The morning sun spills through the windows, the sea visible beyond them. Everything feels golden. Warm. Safe.
Home.
You are attempting to teach Draco how to make pancakes.
Attempting being the important word.
Because Draco is absolutely convinced he knows what he's doing.
He does not.
"You're doing it wrong."
"I assure you I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"Based on what expertise?"
"I've made pancakes before."
"I've eaten pancakes before."
"That isn't the same thing."
"I think you'll find it is."
"It really isn't."
You stare at him.
Then dramatically take the mixing bowl away.
"No privileges."
"What?"
"No pancake privileges."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now."
He gapes.
Actually gapes.
You point toward a chair.
"Go sit."
"I am not a child."
"You just put a disgusting amount of salt in the pancake batter."
Silence.
"You didn't tell me not to."
"I thought that was implied."
"You should never assume."
You burst into laughter.
The sound fills the kitchen, bright and impossible and beautiful.
And before you can stop him, he catches your wrist, pulls you closer, and kisses flour-covered cheeks, forehead, nose—anywhere he can reach while you shriek in protest.
The entire kitchen smells like pancakes.
And happiness.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The memory vanishes.
Leaving him clutching the edge of the kitchen table.
Glenda watches quietly, understanding.
Not interrupting.
Never interrupting.
Because she knows.
She knows every recovered memory costs him something.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The third year of letters contains a blind date.
The moment Draco reads the first sentence, he already hates it.
Mother attempted matchmaking today.
I know.
I know.
Believe me, I had the same reaction.
His eye twitches immediately.
Draco narrows his eyes at the parchment as though the man in question can somehow still offend him years later.
Apparently there was a very nice wizard from Boston.
Apparently he was handsome.
Apparently he was intelligent.
Apparently he owned a successful bookstore.
Apparently I was supposed to be impressed.
His jaw tightens.
Unreasonably. Possessively. Ridiculously.
The ache returns immediately.
Sharp.
Merciless.
I lasted forty-three minutes.
Because every time he smiled I thought about you.
Every time he laughed I thought about you.
Every time he spoke I compared him to you.
And eventually I realized the poor man never had a chance.
Because he wasn't Draco.
Which is a completely unfair standard for another human being.
But there it is.
Then he reaches the final lines.
It's not fair, you know.
People keep telling me I'll find someone else.
But I don't want someone else.
I want you.
I wanted you when I was sixteen.
I wanted you when I was seventeen.
I still want you now.
Which is honestly becoming quite inconvenient.
Draco closes his eyes.
And remembers.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Snow falls outside a Hogwarts window.
Your head rests against his shoulder.
Quiet. Peaceful. Safe.
For once.
You look up from your book.
"Do you ever think about the future?"
"Constantly."
You snort.
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"You absolutely don't."
He rolls his eyes.
"What brought this on?"
You study him softly, like you're seeing something precious.
"I think I'd like growing old with you."
The memory shatters.
Draco nearly drops the letter.
Because it wasn't some grand declaration. No dramatic speech. No perfect moment.
Just you.
Just honesty.
Just love.
The kind so natural you spoke it without realizing how much power it carried.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Days pass.
The pile of unread letters shrinks.
The pile beside Draco grows.
Years of your life stacking around him. Years he missed. Years you spent writing into silence.
And still—
Still you never stopped.
The letters become different. Older. Sadder.
But never hopeless.
Never.
Not once.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Then he reaches the final box.
The final year.
The most recent letters.
His hands begin shaking because suddenly the distance between then and now disappears.
These aren't ancient history anymore.
These aren't relics.
These are recent.
Current.
Real.
You exist somewhere in the world right now.
Breathing.
Laughing.
Living.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The final letter is dated three months ago.
Three months.
Draco unfolds it carefully.
Terrified.
Hopeful.
Destroyed.
The handwriting is older, more confident, yet unmistakably yours.
Draco,
Glenda says I should probably stop.
She's being very kind about it, which somehow makes it worse.
I think she worries about me.
Which is fair.
I worry about me too sometimes.
His throat tightens.
The next line nearly breaks him.
But every time I decide this will be the last letter, something happens and I think of you.
And unfortunately everything keeps happening.
His vision blurs.
The ocean looked pretty today.
Thought of you.
Saw a ferret.
Thought of you.
Someone complained about the weather for twenty minutes.
Thought of you.
A broken laugh escapes him.
The tears come immediately afterward.
Maybe that's the problem.
You're everywhere.
The final paragraph is written more carefully. More softly.
As though every word matters.
I hope you're happy.
Wherever you are.
I hope someone reminds you to eat breakfast.
I hope someone argues with you when you're being ridiculous.
I hope someone loves you enough to tell you when you're wrong.
Draco can barely breathe.
The last lines are almost impossible to read through tears.
I still love you.
I think I'll always love you.
Which is inconvenient.
But there are worse things.
Still yours.
His hand covers his mouth.
A sound escapes him.
Broken.
Raw.
Human.
Because after everything—
After three years.
After silence.
After forgetting.
You never stopped signing your letters the same way.
Still yours.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Three days later, Glenda finds the wardrobe empty.
Every letter read.
Every memory recovered.
Every wound reopened.
Draco stands in the garden among the forget-me-nots, looking toward the sea.
The wind pulls at his coat.
For a long time neither speaks.
Then Glenda quietly asks, "Do you remember everything now?"
Draco thinks about it.
The train rides. The inn. The pancakes. The arguments. The kisses. The promises.
The first time you said you loved him.
The last time he saw you.
The way you cried when he chose oblivion.
The way he cried after.
The answer comes easily.
"Almost."
Glenda nods as though she expected that.
Then she notices the suitcase beside him.
Not large.
Just enough for a trip.
Her eyes widen slowly.
"Oh."
Draco smiles.
The first genuine smile he's worn in years.
"I remembered something else."
"What?"
His gaze drifts toward the horizon.
Toward America.
Toward you.
Toward home.
And suddenly, a scene unfolds.
One final memory.
You standing on the inn's porch years ago, grinning at him, wind tangled in your hair, asking a simple question.
"If we ever lose each other, what then?"
And Draco answering immediately.
Without hesitation.
Without doubt.
"Then I'll find you again."
The memory fades.
The promise remains.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The plane rattles gently.
A child laughs somewhere behind him.
A flight attendant pushes a cart down the aisle.
Outside the small oval window, clouds stretch endlessly across the sky.
White.
Bright.
Infinite.
Draco looks down at the final letter in his hands, the edges worn from rereading.
Three months old.
Three months too late.
Yet not too late.
Not yet.
Never yet.
He folds it carefully and places it inside his jacket, over his heart.
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Three hundred and twelve reasons Draco Malfoy will never forgive himself.
The wardrobe is upstairs.
Glenda doesn't tell him what's inside. She simply leads him down a narrow hallway and stops before a white-painted door.
Her hand rests against the knob for a long moment.
As though she is gathering courage.
As though opening it might hurt.
"She kept writing."
Draco frowns.
"What do you mean?"
Glenda's eyes glisten.
And suddenly he knows.
Not the details.
Not yet.
But enough.
Enough for dread to begin coiling in his stomach. Enough for his pulse to quicken. Enough for his hands to start shaking.
Slowly, Glenda opens the door.
And Draco's entire world stops.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Letters.
Hundreds of them.
Hundreds.
The wardrobe shelves are sagging beneath their weight. Stacks upon stacks upon stacks. Boxes overflowing. Bundles tied with ribbon. Envelopes organized by year, by season, by month, by date.
The sheer volume is impossible.
Absurd.
Heartbreaking.
His knees nearly give out.
"No."
The word leaves him as a whisper.
"No..."
Because it isn't ten letters. Or twenty. Or fifty.
It is years.
Years of writing.
Years of waiting.
Years of hope.
An entire life preserved in paper.
Glenda's voice breaks.
"There are three hundred and twelve."
Draco closes his eyes.
Three hundred and twelve.
Three hundred and twelve letters.
Three hundred and twelve times you sat down and wrote to him.
Three hundred and twelve times you believed he might still answer.
Three hundred and twelve times he never did.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
His throat feels raw.
"Why are they here?"
Glenda looks at him sadly.
"Because this was your address."
The words hit harder than they should.
His address.
Not Malfoy Manor.
Not Hogwarts.
Not Britain.
This cottage.
The house by the sea.
The place hidden in train tickets.
The place hidden in memories.
The place hidden in dreams.
Their place.
The realization nearly steals the air from his lungs.
"You arranged it before she left."
Draco's eyes lift.
Glenda continues quietly.
"You thought your mail would be monitored."
The war.
Of course.
The war.
Death Eaters. The Ministry. Everyone watching. Everyone listening. Everyone looking for weaknesses.
And you—
You had become his greatest weakness.
His greatest treasure.
His greatest fear.
So he had chosen a safe place. A hidden place. A place nobody would interfere. A place where your letters could wait.
Until he came back.
Only he never did.
Because he forgot.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The first letter is dated four days after you returned to America.
Draco sits on the floor, cross-legged, like a child.
The envelope trembles in his hands.
The seal breaks.
And suddenly, after eight years of silence—
He hears your voice.
Draco,
I know you're angry.
I know you're hurting.
I know you think you're protecting me.
But I wish you had let me choose.
You stupid, stubborn idiot.
I love you.
I'm still angry.
But I love you.
His vision blurs instantly.
Because he can hear it.
The affection hidden beneath the irritation. The tenderness buried beneath the anger. The way you always called him an idiot when you were worried. The way you always forgave him before he deserved it.
A memory flashes.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The Room of Requirement.
The two of you sitting on an ancient sofa, your feet draped over his lap. A book balanced against your knees.
You look up suddenly.
Expression thoughtful.
Serious.
Which is unusual.
You are rarely serious.
Draco lowers his own book.
"What?"
"I think I love you."
The words are delivered with all the casualness of commenting on the weather.
His stomach drops.
"What?"
You blink.
"I said I think I love you."
"What do you mean you think?"
A laugh escapes you.
"I mean I'm pretty sure."
"Pretty sure?"
"Well, I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Been in love."
The book falls from his hands.
You immediately start laughing.
Actually laughing.
Because Draco Malfoy is staring at you like you've just informed him the moon dropped out of the sky.
"Say something."
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
You grin.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You've known."
"No."
"You have."
"I haven't."
"You've known for months."
"I absolutely have not."
"You are such a liar."
And then—
Then his face betrays him.
Because you see it.
The truth.
The fact that he has loved you for so long he no longer remembers what it feels like not to.
Your smile softens.
Becomes something gentler.
Something devastating.
You reach over.
Take his hand.
"I love you."
And for the first time in his life—
Draco Malfoy cannot think of a single clever thing to say.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The memory vanishes.
Leaving him gasping.
Tears sliding down his face.
The letter trembles in his hands.
"Oh, God."
It’s been three years.
Three years and he forgot that.
Forgot the moment you told him you loved him.
Forgot your smile.
Forgot your voice.
Forgot your hand in his.
Forgot everything.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
He opens another letter.
Then another.
Then another.
Hours disappear.
Time disappears.
He reads until sunrise.
Then keeps reading.
And slowly a life unfolds before him.
A life he never got to live.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
My mother says I should give you time.
My father says I should stop writing altogether.
They're both probably right.
Unfortunately I've never listened to either of them before, so I don't see why I'd start now.
A wet laugh escapes him.
Because yes.
That sounds exactly like you.
Stubborn.
Hopeless.
Wonderful.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Months later.
Mother says you'll move on eventually.
I informed her that she clearly hasn't met you.
Father says I'm wasting my time.
I informed him that I've spent two years listening to Draco Malfoy complain about Quidditch referees.
Trust me, I know what wasting time looks like.
Draco laughs.
Actually laughs.
For the first time in days.
Then immediately starts crying again.
Because he can picture it.
Can hear your voice.
Can see the eye roll.
The grin.
The impossible affection hidden inside every word.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The letters never stop loving him.
Not once.
Not even when you're angry.
Not even when you're heartbroken.
Not even when years begin passing.
There are furious letters. Letters accusing him of abandoning you. Letters demanding answers. Letters written through tears. Letters where your handwriting digs so deeply into the parchment it nearly tears.
Yet every single one ends the same way.
I love you.
Or:
Still yours.
Or:
Write back, idiot.
Or:
I'm still waiting.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Then he finds the letter written three years after the last time you saw him.
The paper is crumpled.
As though rewritten several times.
I hate you today.
The sentence makes his stomach twist.
I know I don't mean it.
But I hate you today.
I hate that you're not here.
I hate that I don't know if you're alive.
I hate that I still check the mailbox every morning.
I hate that I still dream about you.
The next line is stained.
Water damage.
Tears.
Maybe both.
Most of all I hate that if you knocked on my door right now, I'd forgive you immediately.
Draco presses a hand over his mouth.
Because somewhere across an ocean—
You were hurting exactly as much as he was.
Neither of you knew it.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
"It's perfect."
Your voice.
Bright with excitement.
The inn’s garden.
Summer sunlight.
Forget-me-nots dancing in the wind.
Draco staring suspiciously at the tiny seaside house.
"It's in the middle of nowhere."
"Exactly."
"That isn't usually considered a positive feature."
"It is if we're hiding."
You beam.
He groans.
"You are impossible."
"And yet."
You slip your hand into his.
Smile up at him.
"And yet you followed me all the way here."
Draco looks around.
The sea.
The flowers.
The cliffs.
The house.
The future.
And realizes with horrifying certainty—
He had planned to spend the rest of his life here.
With you.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The memory fades.
Leaving devastation behind.
Because now he understands.
The train tickets.
The flowers.
The letters.
The hidden address.
The box.
The inn wasn't just somewhere you visited.
It wasn't a hideout.
It wasn't a secret meeting place.
It was home.
Or at least—
It was supposed to be.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Night falls.
The wardrobe remains nearly full.
Hundreds of letters still unread.
Hundreds.
An entire lifetime waiting for him.
Glenda finds him sitting on the floor surrounded by opened envelopes, crying too hard to hide it anymore.
She says nothing.
Simply places a blanket around his shoulders.
Like she used to do for you.
Like she used to do for both of you.
And as Draco clutches another letter against his chest, a terrible realization settles over him.
He had spent years grieving a loss he couldn't remember.
And you had spent years loving someone who never wrote back.
Not because he stopped loving you.
Not because he forgot to care.
But because the only thing stronger than his love for you—
Had been his determination to keep you alive.
And suddenly Draco understands that remembering may hurt.
Draco Malfoy finds the journal he wrote before he erased the love of his life.
Unfortunately for him, the boy in those pages remembers everything.
Lost memories, unopened letters, and a love story in reverse.
The woman’s name is Glenda Zachary.
And she knew you.
Not casually. Not distantly.
She knew you the way people know family—the way people know someone who sat at their kitchen table and stole biscuits while waiting for tea to cool. The way people know someone whose laughter still lingers in empty rooms years after they've left.
She invites Draco inside.
Neither of them speak much.
The inn is warm. Painfully warm.
Every surface is covered in evidence of a life. Books stacked crookedly. Blankets draped over armchairs. Pressed flowers hanging from drying racks.
And photographs.
Photographs everywhere.
Draco cannot stop staring at them because you are in nearly all of them.
Older than the Hogwarts photographs.
Healthier.
Happier.
Standing in gardens. Standing on cliffs. Standing beside Glenda.
Smiling.
Always smiling.
As though nobody had ever hurt you. As though nobody had ever tortured you. As though nobody had ever shattered your life apart.
His stomach twists.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Glenda watches him quietly, waiting. Perhaps recognizing the same haunted expression she saw years ago.
Finally she speaks.
"You really don't remember."
It isn't a question.
Draco swallows.
"No."
The word sounds pathetic. Small. Ashamed.
"I remember pieces."
His gaze drifts toward a photograph on the mantle. You sitting atop a stone wall, laughing, looking directly at whoever held the camera.
Looking directly at him.
"I remember enough to know I loved her."
The silence stretches.
Then Glenda nods.
"As much as breathing."
His heart stops.
Because she says it without hesitation. Without thinking. As though it was simply a fact.
Like the sea outside.
Like gravity.
Like sunlight.
As much as breathing.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The inn holds pieces of you. Pieces Draco never knew existed.
A worn mug with your initials scratched into the glaze. A collection of American novels. A knitted scarf. A pressed four-leaf clover tucked into a frame.
Tiny fragments of a life.
A life that continued after Hogwarts.
A life that continued after him.
The realization hurts.
It shouldn't.
Yet it does.
Because he missed it.
All of it.
Every birthday. Every summer. Every winter. Every ordinary Tuesday.
Gone.
Lost.
Stolen.
Or perhaps surrendered.
He still doesn't know which.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Glenda eventually disappears upstairs, returning with a small wooden box.
Draco immediately recognizes it.
The same dark wood. The same craftsmanship. The same protective wards.
His pulse quickens.
"This belonged to you."
The words strike like a physical blow.
"What?"
She places it carefully on the table.
"You left it here."
His throat tightens.
"When?"
Glenda looks away, and suddenly the room feels colder.
"Some plenty years ago."
The box sits between them.
Silent.
Waiting.
Draco stares at it, a terrible feeling unfurling inside his chest.
Because he already knows.
Whatever answers lie inside—
They are not going to be kind.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
His hands shake as he opens it.
Inside rests a journal.
Nothing else.
Just a journal.
Black leather. Worn corners. A familiar silver clasp.
Draco recognizes it instantly.
His journal from his last few years of schooling.
The one he thought lost during the war.
The one he had searched for endlessly.
The one containing the worst year of his life.
The clasp clicks open.
The pages smell faintly of dust and seawater.
The first half contains exactly what he expected.
Fear.
Panic.
Desperation.
His Parents. The Dark Mark. The impossible task.
The slow collapse of a fifteen-year-old boy.
Then something changes.
The writing becomes lighter. Less frantic. Hopeful.
The date catches his eye.
September 14th.
His sixth year.
A simple entry.
Met the new transfer student today.
Draco freezes.
The room disappears.
His eyes race onward.
American.
Gryffindor.
Completely insufferable.
His breath catches.
She laughed when I insulted her. Who does that?
The next entry comes two days later.
She stole my seat in Potions.
Another.
She called me dramatic.
Another.
I think she's doing this on purpose.
And another.
Why am I looking for her in hallways?
A strange noise escapes his throat. Something between a laugh and a sob.
Because he knows.
He knows exactly where this is heading.
And somehow it hurts more than if he didn't.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Hours pass.
Glenda leaves him alone.
The sky darkens beyond the windows. The sea crashes against distant cliffs.
And Draco reads.
Every page.
Every word.
Every moment.
He watches himself fall in love.
Slowly.
Hopelessly.
Inevitably.
The entries grow longer. Messier. Filled with observations.
Things nobody else would notice.
She always reads the last page of books first.
She steals peaches from breakfast.
She hates thunderstorms but pretends not to.
She talks in her sleep.
She smiles when she's lying.
She snores a little.
The words blur.
Because suddenly she feels real.
Not a mystery.
Not a ghost.
A person.
A girl.
His girl.
The love of his life.
And he cannot remember the sound of your voice.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Near midnight he reaches the final entries.
The final months before the war.
The writing changes again.
Hope disappears.
Fear returns.
A different kind this time.
The desperate fear of someone with something to lose.
They know.
The words nearly stop his heart.
Someone saw us.
The next page.
Father doesn't know.
Mother doesn't know.
A shaking breath leaves him.
His parents.
Of course.
They never knew.
Never knew the secret relationship. Never knew about you. Never knew why Draco disappeared for entire weekends. Never knew why he smiled at letters. Never knew why he kept buying train tickets.
Never knew he had built an entire life around someone.
The realization makes him ache.
Because if Narcissa had known—
If Lucius had known—
Perhaps things would have been different.
Or perhaps worse.
He doesn't know.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The next pages become nearly unreadable.
Ink smeared.
Handwriting frantic.
They found her.
The words punch straight through him.
Merlin forgive me.
They found her.
The room spins.
His vision blurs.
He turns the page.
I couldn't stop them.
Another.
I couldn't stop them.
Another.
I couldn't stop them.
The same sentence.
Over and over.
As though writing it enough times might somehow change reality.
Draco's hands tremble violently.
The next page is stained.
Water.
Or tears.
Probably tears.
He already knows they are his.
Then—
The final entry.
The final night.
The night everything ended.
The night he chose oblivion.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The handwriting is barely recognizable.
Every word carved into the parchment.
Desperate.
Broken.
Dying.
She survived.
Relief floods him.
Briefly.
Then disappears.
Because there is more.
So much more.
Her parents are taking her home.
America.
Tomorrow.
His chest tightens painfully.
Tomorrow.
One day.
One day left.
One day before losing everything.
The next lines make his eyes burn.
She begged me to come with her.
I almost did.
A sob lodges somewhere behind his ribs.
Because he remembered it.
Remembered you asking.
Remembered himself wanting nothing more.
Remembered the impossible choice.
Family.
Or you.
Britain.
Or you.
Everything he had ever known.
Or you.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The final paragraph is written crookedly, as though his hand would not stop shaking.
I can't leave.
I can't stay.
I can't protect her.
Every time I close my eyes I hear them hurting her.
Every time I look at her I remember what they did.
If I remember, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to find her.
And if I find her, they'll find her too.
The room goes silent.
Draco already knows what's coming.
Yet it still destroys him.
So tomorrow I am going to erase her.
Not because I stopped loving her.
Because I never will.
The tears finally come.
Hot.
Unwanted.
Relentless.
Dropping onto yellowed pages.
The final line swims before his eyes.
Barely legible.
A farewell written by a boy destroying himself.
If forgetting her is the price of keeping her alive, then I'll pay it.
Draco closes the journal.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like a coffin.
The inn feels impossibly quiet. The sea beyond the windows sounds distant. Muted. Gone.
Because somewhere years ago, a seventeen-year-old boy had loved someone so completely that he chose to lose her forever.
And for the first time since finding the box, Draco understands.
Not why he forgot.
Not completely.
But why he believed he had to.
The question now is far worse.
Because as Glenda quietly returns to the room, she looks at him with heartbreaking pity and says,
The problem is that she isn't here to tell him what happened next.
The photograph sits on Draco's desk for two weeks before he can bear to look at it for longer than a few seconds.
Not because he does not want to.
Because he wants to too much.
Every glance feels like touching an exposed nerve. Every glimpse threatens to tear something open inside him.
So he studies her in pieces.
The curve of her shoulder. The sleeve of her Gryffindor jumper. The shape of her hands. The sunlight tangled in her hair.
Anything except her face.
Because her face hurts.
Her face feels familiar.
And Draco is beginning to understand that familiar things are dangerous.
The girl in the photograph is laughing.
Not smiling.
Laughing.
Her head tilted backward, eyes half-closed, one hand gripping the front of Draco's robes as though she had been laughing so hard she needed something to steady herself.
And Draco—
Draco is looking at her.
Not the camera. Not whoever took the photograph.
Her.
Only her.
The realization makes him physically ill.
Because he has never seen himself look at someone that way before. Not even in childhood photographs. Not even before the war.
There is something devastatingly open about his expression. Unprotected. Young. Hopelessly in love.
Draco spends nearly an hour staring at himself, trying to reconcile the boy in the picture with the man he became. Trying to understand how someone could look at another person like they hung the stars. Trying to understand how he forgot.
A sharp pain erupts behind his eyes.
Sudden.
Violent.
The photograph slips from his fingers.
The room tilts.
The floor vanishes.
And the memory comes.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Rain.
Endless rain.
Cold. Heavy. Merciless.
The sky is black. The world is black. Everything smells like wet earth and stormwater.
Draco stands in the middle of a deserted alleyway. Eighteen years old. Thin. Exhausted. Terrified.
The Dark Mark burns beneath his sleeve, fresh and raw and painful.
Across from him—
You.
Drenched. Shaking. Your hair plastered against your face. Your Gryffindor scarf soaked through with rain. Your eyes red from crying.
“No.”
Your voice breaks.
“No, Draco.”
The memory hits with devastating clarity.
Not fragments.
Not flashes.
Everything.
He remembers everything.
The way your hands trembled. The way your breath caught. The way your shoulders shook. You were crying so hard you could barely speak.
“Please.”
Rain runs down your cheeks, mixing with tears.
“Please come with me.”
Draco remembers his own silence.
His own fear.
The certainty that he was already trapped. Already doomed. Already lost.
You take another step forward.
Then another.
Then suddenly—
You drop to your knees.
Right there in the mud.
In the pouring rain.
Begging.
The memory tears through him. Brutal. Unforgiving.
“Please.”
Your voice cracks completely.
“Please, Draco.”
The desperation in it nearly destroys him.
Even now.
Years later.
“Come with me.”
You reach for him, your hands cold and freezing.
“Come to America.”
The rain hammers the ground. Thunder rolls overhead.
But Draco remembers hearing every word.
Every single one.
“We can leave.”
You are sobbing openly now, the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep enough to break bones.
“We can disappear.”
A laugh escapes you.
Broken.
Hopeless.
“We can get jobs.”
Another sob.
“Live in a tiny apartment.”
You grip his hands harder.
“As long as you're there.”
Draco remembers wanting to say yes.
Merlin.
He remembers it.
He remembers wanting nothing else.
No Death Eaters.
No war.
No expectations.
Just you.
A small apartment somewhere across an ocean.
Your laugh.
Your voice.
Your hand in his.
Freedom.
He wanted it so badly it physically hurt.
But he couldn't.
Because by then the war had already wrapped itself around his throat.
Because his parents were still inside it.
Because leaving meant condemning them.
Because staying meant losing you.
And Draco Malfoy has always been terrible at choosing.
Your face crumples when he doesn't answer.
The memory becomes unbearable.
“Please.”
One final time.
One final desperate plea.
“Choose me.”
Draco remembers the exact moment your heart broke. The exact second hope died in your eyes. The exact instant you realized he wasn't coming.
The memory shatters.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The fevers return.
Worse this time.
Much worse.
On the seventeenth day after finding the box, Narcissa discovers him wandering the east wing at three in the morning.
Barefoot.
Half-conscious.
Burning with fever.
“Draco.”
He doesn't answer.
His eyes remain fixed on the darkened windows.
Searching.
Always searching.
“Draco.”
She takes his arm.
He jerks away violently.
“Have you seen her?”
The words leave him before he can stop them.
Narcissa freezes.
Her breath catches.
“Seen who?”
His chest aches.
The answer feels obvious.
Important.
Necessary.
Yet the name remains frustratingly out of reach, like a word resting on the tip of his tongue.
“The girl.”
His voice cracks.
“The American girl.”
Silence.
The kind that makes his stomach drop.
Because his mother looks confused.
Truly confused.
Not hiding something.
Not lying.
Confused.
“I don't know who you're talking about.”
The desperation that follows nearly crushes him.
“No.”
His voice sounds strange.
Broken.
“She was here.”
Narcissa's expression softens.
“Oh, darling.”
The pity hurts more than confusion.
“Nobody was here.”
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Three days later he discovers the train tickets.
Hidden between old letters.
Dozens of them.
Worn with age.
Repeated journeys.
The same destination.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
A coastal village. Small enough that Draco has never heard of it.
The name means nothing to him.
Yet his chest tightens the moment he reads it, as though some buried part of him recognizes it immediately.
He spreads the tickets across his desk.
Most are from Hogwarts years.
Some from holidays.
Some from weekends.
Several purchased under false names.
The dates span nearly a year.
A year of visits.
A year of journeys.
A year of memories.
And Draco remembers none of them.
The address comes from a letter.
A faded envelope.
One he nearly misses.
His hands freeze the moment he reads it.
Because the handwriting is not his.
It is hers.
He knows it instantly.
Even though he has never seen it before.
Even though he cannot remember her.
Somehow he knows.
The address is written in blue ink.
A small inn.
The same village as the train tickets.
The same village that keeps appearing throughout the box.
The same place that makes his heart race.
Beneath the address are three words.
Come find me.
The date is years old.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Draco leaves the next morning.
He tells nobody.
Not because he is hiding it.
Because he cannot explain it.
How does he tell his parents he is chasing the ghost of a girl he cannot remember?
How does he explain that every instinct inside him is screaming to go?
That every night he dreams of laughter and sunlight and red robes?
That every morning he wakes feeling abandoned by someone whose name he does not know?
He doesn't.
Instead, he leaves a note.
Gone for the day.
Don't worry.
Love,
Draco
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The train ride lasts four hours.
Long enough for regret.
Long enough for second thoughts.
Long enough for reason to catch up.
Yet neither comes.
The closer he gets to the coast, the worse the feeling becomes.
A pressure building beneath his skin.
Like approaching a memory.
Like approaching a grave.
The village appears shortly before sunset.
Small.
Quiet.
Windswept.
The sea stretches endlessly beyond the cliffs.
Grey water beneath a grey sky.
Beautiful.
Lonely.
Familiar.
Draco steps onto the platform and nearly stumbles.
A memory strikes without warning.
A flash.
Salt air.
Your laughter.
His hand in yours.
Gone.
He grips the railing until the dizziness passes.
Then follows the address.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The inn stands alone at the edge of the cliffs.
White walls.
Blue shutters.
A garden overflowing with wildflowers.
Forget-me-nots.
Hundreds of forget-me-nots.
Azure against green.
Draco stops breathing.
Something inside him recognizes it instantly.
The flowers.
The pressed flowers.
The ones hidden in his books.
The ones preserved in letters.
The ones scattered throughout the box.
Forget-me-nots.
Always forget-me-nots.
His legs feel weak.
The cottage is real.
You are real.
Everything is real.
His hand trembles as he approaches.
The front gate creaks.
The garden sways softly in the sea breeze.
And suddenly—
A memory.
Not a flash.
Not a fragment.
A real memory.
You kneeling among the flowers. Dirt on your hands, laughing because Draco refuses to touch a gardening shovel.
“You are the least practical person I've ever met.”
“We have house-elves for this.”
“That's not an excuse.”
“It absolutely is.”
Your laughter.
Merlin.
Your laughter.
The memory shatters.
Draco doubles over, gasping.
Tears spring unexpectedly to his eyes.
Not from pain.
From grief.
Because for one perfect second—
He remembered.
And losing the memory again feels unbearable.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The inn’s door opens.
Draco freezes.
An elderly witch steps outside.
Silver-haired.
Kind-eyed.
Entirely unfamiliar.
She studies him for several seconds.
Then her face goes pale.
The watering can slips from her fingers, crashing into the garden path.
“Oh.”
Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Oh, Merlin.”
Draco's pulse pounds.
The witch stares at him like she's seen a ghost.
“No.”
She takes a step forward, eyes wide with disbelief.
“No, no, no.”
His throat tightens.
“Do you know me?”
The woman's expression crumples.
And somehow that hurts more than anything else.
Because she looks heartbroken.
Absolutely heartbroken.
“You came back.”
The words barely reach him.
“What?”
Tears fill her eyes.
“You actually came back, child.”
A horrible feeling settles in his stomach.
Cold.
Heavy.
Terrifying.
The woman looks past him.
Scanning the empty road.
Searching.
Waiting.
Then her face falls.
And Draco knows.
Before she speaks.
Before the words leave her mouth.
Some part of him already knows.
“Where is she?”
The world stops.
The sea.
The wind.
The sky.
Everything.
Stops.
The witch begins to cry.
And Draco realizes, with mounting horror, that this woman expected him to arrive with you.
Not alone.
Not years late.
Not broken.
Together.
As if that was how the story was supposed to end.
And suddenly he is terrified of what happened to make it end differently.
Draco Malfoy keeps dreaming about a girl he cannot remember.
The letter in his own handwriting insists she was real.
The deeper he digs, the more terrifying forgetting becomes.
Draco waits three days.
Three entire days.
Three days of carrying the letter in his pocket. Three days of setting it on his bedside table and staring at it before sleep. Three days of convincing himself not to open it.
Because opening it makes everything real.
The pressed forget-me-not could be explained away. The train tickets. The photographs. The flowers. Even the box. All of it could be dismissed as remnants of some friendship he no longer remembered, some insignificant attachment distorted by curiosity.
But the letter—
The letter is proof.
The letter means he knew. The letter means he expected this. The letter means the missing pieces are not an accident.
And that terrifies him.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
On the first day, he nearly burns it.
Not intentionally. He merely stands before the fireplace in the drawing room with the folded parchment in his hands, watching the flames and thinking.
The fire crackles softly. Orange light dances across the room. The letter feels heavier than paper should, as though it contains something alive. Something waiting.
A truth.
Draco has learned to fear truths.
The war taught him that.
Sometimes ignorance is safer. Sometimes memories are wounds that never stop bleeding.
His fingers tighten. The parchment bends.
And for one fleeting moment he considers throwing it into the fire. Destroying it. Returning to whatever miserable peace he had before.
Then he notices the handwriting.
His own.
For when you forget.
Not if.
When.
A chill runs through him.
And he returns the letter to his pocket.
Unopened.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
On the second day, he dreams.
Not a fever. Just a dream. The kind ordinary people have.
Yet it leaves him shaken.
A train platform. Rain. Steam billowing from scarlet carriages.
Someone running toward him.
A red and gold striped sweater. Wind-blown hair. A grin.
Brilliant.
Blinding.
Familiar.
He wakes before seeing her face.
The loss hurts more than he expects, as though he has been abandoned all over again.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
On the third day, Narcissa finds him in the library.
The letter rests unopened beside a stack of books. Draco doesn't realize she's entered until she speaks.
"You've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes."
He looks up.
His mother smiles faintly.
Not amused.
Concerned.
Just concerned.
Always concerned.
The war left scars on all of them. Draco thinks his mother's might be the deepest.
She crosses the room and sits opposite him. The morning sun catches silver threads in her hair.
For a moment neither speaks.
Then her gaze lands on the parchment.
"What is it?"
Draco hesitates.
"I found something."
"Something?"
"A box."
The concern deepens instantly.
"A box?"
"Hidden beneath my floorboards."
Narcissa blinks.
"Draco, I assure you, I did not hide anything beneath your floorboards."
Despite himself, he nearly laughs.
"No."
A pause.
"It was mine."
That gets her attention.
Her brows knit together.
"What was inside?"
The words leave him before he can stop them.
"I don't know."
"How can you not know?"
"Because I haven't opened it fully."
Narcissa stares.
Then stares harder.
"Draco."
He rubs a hand over his face.
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
Her voice is gentle. Dangerously gentle. The voice she uses when he is being ridiculous.
"You found a mysterious box hidden beneath your floorboards."
"Yes."
"Filled with presumably your possessions."
"Yes."
"And a letter written by you."
"Yes."
"You've had it three days."
"Yes."
"And you haven't opened it."
"..."
"..."
Draco sighs.
"It feels important."
Her expression softens immediately.
"Oh."
The single word holds all the understanding in the world.
Because she knows.
Not about the box. Not about the letter.
But about the fear.
The fear of remembering.
The fear of discovering something worse than what already exists.
She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand, the same way she used to when he was a child.
"You survived the truth once."
His throat tightens.
"So did you."
For a second her eyes glisten.
Then she smiles.
Small.
Sad.
Beautiful.
"My brave boy."
Draco nearly looks away.
He still isn't accustomed to kindness.
Not after everything.
Not from himself.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
That evening he opens the letter.
Not in the library. Not by the fire. Not anywhere public.
He takes it to his room, locks the door, and sits on the floor beside his bed.
The box waits nearby.
Silent.
Patient.
The parchment feels worn from years hidden underground.
His pulse pounds louder with every second.
Then finally—
He unfolds it.
The handwriting is unmistakably his. Messier than usual. Written in frantic strokes, as though the author had been running out of time.
The first line makes his blood run cold.
If you're reading this, then it worked.
Draco's stomach drops.
His eyes race onward.
You forgot her.
Good.
That means you're alive.
Alive.
The word echoes through him.
I know you'll hate me for this.
I know you'll try to remember.
You always were stubborn.
For one absurd moment he can almost hear himself speaking. Can almost hear the sarcastic drawl and fond exasperation, as though he had known exactly who would eventually read this.
Before you continue, understand one thing.
Everything I did, I did for her.
His heart stutters.
Her.
The girl.
The missing girl.
The invisible shape haunting every fever, every dream, every ache.
If you've found the box, then you've already started remembering.
The flowers.
The photographs.
The notes.
I'm sorry.
I couldn't destroy them.
Draco's hands begin shaking.
I tried.
Merlin, I tried.
Draco waits three days.
Three entire days.
Three days of carrying the letter in his pocket. Three days of setting it on his bedside table and staring at it before sleep. Three days of convincing himself not to open it.
Because opening it makes everything real.
The pressed forget-me-not could be explained away. The train tickets. The photographs. The flowers. Even the box. All of it could be dismissed as remnants of some friendship he no longer remembered, some insignificant attachment distorted by curiosity.
But the letter—
The letter is proof.
The letter means he knew. The letter means he expected this. The letter means the missing pieces are not an accident.
And that terrifies him.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
On the first day, he nearly burns it.
Not intentionally. He merely stands before the fireplace in the drawing room with the folded parchment in his hands, watching the flames and thinking.
The fire crackles softly. Orange light dances across the room. The letter feels heavier than paper should, as though it contains something alive. Something waiting.
A truth.
Draco has learned to fear truths.
The war taught him that.
Sometimes ignorance is safer. Sometimes memories are wounds that never stop bleeding.
His fingers tighten. The parchment bends.
And for one fleeting moment he considers throwing it into the fire. Destroying it. Returning to whatever miserable peace he had before.
Then he notices the handwriting.
His own.
For when you forget.
Not if.
When.
A chill runs through him.
And he returns the letter to his pocket.
Unopened.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
On the second day, he dreams.
Not a fever. Just a dream. The kind ordinary people have.
Yet it leaves him shaken.
A train platform. Rain. Steam billowing from scarlet carriages.
Someone running toward him.
A red and gold striped sweater. Wind-blown hair. A grin.
Brilliant.
Blinding.
Familiar.
He wakes before seeing her face.
The loss hurts more than he expects, as though he has been abandoned all over again.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
On the third day, Narcissa finds him in the library.
The letter rests unopened beside a stack of books. Draco doesn't realize she's entered until she speaks.
"You've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes."
He looks up.
His mother smiles faintly.
Not amused.
Concerned.
Just concerned.
Always concerned.
The war left scars on all of them. Draco thinks his mother's might be the deepest.
She crosses the room and sits opposite him. The morning sun catches silver threads in her hair.
For a moment neither speaks.
Then her gaze lands on the parchment.
"What is it?"
Draco hesitates.
"I found something."
"Something?"
"A box."
The concern deepens instantly.
"A box?"
"Hidden beneath my floorboards."
Narcissa blinks.
"Draco, I assure you, I did not hide anything beneath your floorboards."
Despite himself, he nearly laughs.
"No."
A pause.
"It was mine."
That gets her attention.
Her brows knit together.
"What was inside?"
The words leave him before he can stop them.
"I don't know."
"How can you not know?"
"Because I haven't opened it fully."
Narcissa stares.
Then stares harder.
"Draco."
He rubs a hand over his face.
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
Her voice is gentle. Dangerously gentle. The voice she uses when he is being ridiculous.
"You found a mysterious box hidden beneath your floorboards."
"Yes."
"Filled with presumably your possessions."
"Yes."
"And a letter written by you."
"Yes."
"You've had it three days."
"Yes."
"And you haven't opened it."
"..."
"..."
Draco sighs.
"It feels important."
Her expression softens immediately.
"Oh."
The single word holds all the understanding in the world.
Because she knows.
Not about the box. Not about the letter.
But about the fear.
The fear of remembering.
The fear of discovering something worse than what already exists.
She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand, the same way she used to when he was a child.
"You survived the truth once."
His throat tightens.
"So did you."
For a second her eyes glisten.
Then she smiles.
Small.
Sad.
Beautiful.
"My brave boy."
Draco nearly looks away.
He still isn't accustomed to kindness.
Not after everything.
Not from himself.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
That evening he opens the letter.
Not in the library. Not by the fire. Not anywhere public.
He takes it to his room, locks the door, and sits on the floor beside his bed.
The box waits nearby.
Silent.
Patient.
The parchment feels worn from years hidden underground.
His pulse pounds louder with every second.
Then finally—
He unfolds it.
The handwriting is unmistakably his. Messier than usual. Written in frantic strokes, as though the author had been running out of time.
The first line makes his blood run cold.
If you're reading this, then it worked.
Draco's stomach drops.
His eyes race onward.
You forgot her.
Good.
That means you're alive.
Alive.
The word echoes through him.
I know you'll hate me for this.
I know you'll try to remember.
You always were stubborn.
For one absurd moment he can almost hear himself speaking. Can almost hear the sarcastic drawl and fond exasperation, as though he had known exactly who would eventually read this.
Before you continue, understand one thing.
Everything I did, I did for her.
His heart stutters.
Her.
The girl.
The missing girl.
The invisible shape haunting every fever, every dream, every ache.
If you've found the box, then you've already started remembering.
The flowers.
The photographs.
The notes.
I'm sorry.
I couldn't destroy them.
Draco's hands begin shaking.
I tried.
Merlin, I tried.
But loving her ruined me for anyone else.
His breath catches.
The room suddenly feels too small.
Too warm.
Too bright.
The next sentence is written darker, as though the quill dug into the parchment.
You were supposed to forget her forever.
A memory flashes.
A hand in his.
Laughter.
Sunlight.
Gone.
He grips the paper harder.
Do not go looking for her.
Do not try to find her.
Do not contact her.
If she is safe, leave her safe.
His pulse roars.
Safe from what?
Safe from who?
Why?
The final lines are nearly illegible, written by a hand trembling with panic.
They found out.
They hurt her.
I can still hear her screaming.
The world stops.
Everything stops.
The room.
The air.
His heartbeat.
His breathing.
All of it.
Gone.
Only those words remain.
They hurt her.
A violent pain explodes behind his eyes.
Sudden.
Blinding.
His vision swims.
Another memory tears loose.
Dungeon walls.
Blood.
A girl curled on a stone floor.
Someone screaming.
Someone crying.
Someone begging.
And Draco—
Draco pounding against a locked door until his hands split open.
The memory vanishes immediately.
But the horror remains.
Raw.
Fresh.
Breathing.
"No."
The whisper escapes him.
"No."
His chest hurts.
Something inside him is breaking apart.
If you're reading this, the final line says, then I've already failed.
The letter ends there.
No signature.
No explanation.
No name.
Nothing.
Only silence.
Draco stares at the parchment for a long time.
Minutes.
Hours.
He doesn't know.
His eyes eventually drift toward the box. Toward the hundreds of mementos of their life, photographs and letters still waiting inside.
Waiting patiently.
Like ghosts.
And for the first time, a question forms that terrifies him more than any memory.
Not who was she?
Not what happened?
Not why did I forget?
But—
If he loved her enough to erase her from his own mind...
How much did it hurt to lose her?
And why does it feel like he is losing her all over again?
Far below the floorboards of Malfoy Manor, buried beneath years of dust and silence, a forgotten photograph shifts loose from the bottom of the box.
The image finally turns face up.
For the first time in years.
And reveals a smiling Gryffindor girl standing beside Draco Malfoy beneath a summer sky.
idk how to comment lol but ur latest, the vampire fic is so good i cried 🥹
thank you so much 😭 i have the social instincts of a startled woodland creature and/or bigfoot or something, so interaction is genuinely terrifying to me and that's why i had some restrictions on comments, but knowing people are enjoying the fic enough to want to tell me about it makes me ridiculously grateful, so i'll go ahead and remove them for you guys. i'm so happy you enjoyed my writing, now you're going to make me cry too 😭
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Now all he has are clues, dreams, and a terrible feeling that he is already too late.
The first thing Draco Malfoy notices is the fever.
Not the memories. Not the gaps.
The fever.
Because it always begins the same way: a heat beneath his skin, a dull ache behind his eyes, the sensation that something is clawing against the inside of his skull, desperate to get out.
Then comes the dreaming.
Always the dreaming.
A girl. Golden sunlight. Laughter. Red robes flashing through castle corridors. A hand in his. A voice saying his name.
Draco.
Not the clipped, mocking drawl his classmates once used. Not the fearful whispers that followed him through Ministry hearings. Not the disgusted mutters from witches and wizards who still believed the Malfoys deserved Azkaban.
No.
This voice says his name like something precious. Something beloved. Something worth saving.
And every time he wakes, he cannot remember her face.
Only the feeling.
The unbearable feeling.
As though someone has reached inside his chest and hollowed him out.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
"Draco."
His mother's voice drifts through the haze, soft and careful. He feels a cool hand against his forehead.
"He's burning up again."
A second voice mutters something he can't quite make out. His father.
Quieter than Draco remembers him ever being before the war.
Silence follows.
The kind of silence that means something. The kind nobody explains.
Draco forces his eyes open.
The world swims. The curtains of Malfoy Manor blur into pale streaks. His mother sits beside him, silver-blonde hair catching the morning light.
She looks exhausted.
Worried.
The sight makes something twist painfully in his chest.
Narcissa Malfoy has spent the better part of a decade looking worried. Ever since the war began. Ever since her only son returned home half-starved, wandless, and broken.
"Mother?"
Her expression immediately softens.
"There you are."
His voice emerges rough.
"What happened?"
The familiar question.
The same question every fever.
Because every fever steals pieces of him.
Every fever leaves behind fragments he cannot reach.
"You were ill."
Draco frowns.
"Again?"
"Again."
His father stands near the doorway, hands folded behind his back.
Watching.
Always watching.
Lucius Malfoy has aged years since the war. The white streaks in his hair seem brighter now, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper. Yet every morning he still comes to check on Draco.
Every morning.
Without fail.
Draco wonders if guilt can become a habit.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
By afternoon, the fever begins to fade.
As it always does.
And the dreams fade with it.
The girl vanishes. The warmth disappears. The ache settles back into its usual place beneath his ribs, leaving only confusion and emptiness behind.
Draco sits in the library with his mother's shawl draped around his shoulders. A Ministry file lies open before him.
His file.
He hates reading it.
But sometimes he feels compelled.
As though the Ministry knows more about him than he does.
Subject: Draco Lucius Malfoy.
Status: Probationary Monitoring.
Wand Privileges Revoked.
Revoked Apparition Rights.
Monthly Evaluations Required.
Continued Observation Recommended.
The words blur together.
A summary of a life dismantled.
His trial. The interrogations. The endless questioning. The testimonies. His failures. His cowardice. His redemption—or whatever fragile version of redemption the Ministry had decided to grant him.
He closes the file hard.
The sound echoes through the room.
And something falls from a shelf.
A book.
Draco blinks.
The worn spine lands against the carpet.
The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
Odd.
He doesn't remember leaving it there.
With a sigh, he bends to retrieve it.
The pages fan open.
Something slips free.
A flower.
A pressed forget-me-not.
Azure petals preserved between yellowed parchment.
Draco freezes.
The room suddenly feels very still.
Very quiet.
The flower is ancient. Fragile. Carefully kept.
His fingers tremble as he lifts it.
Why?
Why would he keep this?
He turns the page.
And finds writing.
Not printed text.
Handwriting.
His handwriting.
Messy. Hurried.
Hidden near the margin.
Three words.
Three impossible words.
Find her again.
The breath leaves his lungs slowly.
"What?"
The room offers no answer.
Only silence.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
That night, he cannot stop staring at the flower.
He takes it to bed.
Ridiculous.
Childish.
Yet something about it feels important.
Like standing on the edge of a forgotten dream.
He lies awake long after midnight, turning the forget-me-not between his fingers, searching for a memory that refuses to come.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Then—
A flash.
A corridor.
Scarlet robes.
A girl laughing.
The smell of rain.
Legs tangled with his.
A kiss against his cheek.
Gone.
Draco bolts upright.
His heart pounds violently.
The vision vanishes instantly, leaving him gasping and shaking.
"Who are you?"
The question escapes before he can stop it.
His room remains empty.
Moonlight spills across the floorboards.
Quiet.
Still.
Yet for the first time in years, he is absolutely certain.
The girl exists.
Not a fever dream.
Not imagination.
Not madness.
Someone erased her.
Or worse.
Someone convinced everyone else she had never mattered.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Three days later, Draco finds the box.
Pure accident.
The floorboard beneath his bed has always creaked.
He has simply never investigated.
Until now.
Until the forget-me-not.
Until the handwriting.
Until the certainty gnawing inside him.
The board lifts easier than expected, as though someone intended him to find it.
Beneath lies a small wooden chest.
Dust-covered.
Ward-covered.
Hidden.
His pulse quickens.
The wards recognize him immediately.
They unravel at his touch.
Not defensive wards.
Protective ones.
Placed by the owner.
Placed by him.
Draco stares.
Then slowly lifts the lid.
And forgets how to breathe.
Inside are hundreds of symbols of love.
Photographs.
Train tickets.
Flowers.
Tiny treasures accumulated over years.
A life preserved.
A love preserved.
And resting on top—
A folded piece of parchment.
Addressed in his own handwriting.
For when you forget.
Draco's hands shake so violently he nearly drops it.
Somewhere deep inside him—past the missing memories, past the fever, past the oblivion—something begins to scream.
little announcement! to celebrate hitting my goal of 50 followers, and then smashing that goal with 60 and now 70, i have a little special event planned starting tomorrow! i know that draco is my bread and butter and you all love him so much, so i have a 7 part draco series that i'll be dropping every day for the next week! you all are absolutely the highlight of my day when i get to publish my silly little fics for you to consume so thank you so much and i'll see you for the first part tomorrow!!!
꒰ 𓈒 ׁ ︎ ︎ ✿ GOOD @ GOODBYES ! ㅅ `͈ 𓏼 )ა
first kiss 𝑤. ͏͏ sukuna ac. su2kuna ಎ
⎯⎯ ✉️ awky ⨍ reader 2.2k
the only shocking thing about ryomen sukuna was that he was a surprisingly good boyfriend. like, embarrassingly good to you.
he was still the occasional dickhead, obviously. but at least he nice about it. he always went at your pace, never pushed when you got shy or overwhelmed, never made you feel stupid for needing reassurance. hell, he even showed up with a bouquet of lilies for your first “official” date with him.
and the date itself wasn’t anything extravagant either. no fancy rooftop reservation, no over the top attempt to sweep you off your feet. just a quiet little restaurant tucked between buildings, warm lighting spilling across wooden tables while soft music played somewhere overhead.
simple. intimate. perfect for you.
a secluded booth in the corner, sukuna sitting across from you with an unfairly soft look in his eyes whenever you got shy and toyed with your food.
and you were doing fairly well. right up until the date ended that is.
because now here you were, heart hammering violently against your ribs, butterflies wrecking your stomach as you hurried, nearly ran, toward your apartment door, leaving behind one very confused sukuna standing a few steps away.
which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the smoothest way to end a date with your boyfriend.
“oi.”
you froze with your hand on your purse, about to reach for your keys, head snapping up at his voice as he made his way toward you, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
you turned your head slowly, eyes trailing up his tall frame, though looking at him only made things worse; his pink, coral strands faintly glowing under the streetlight, tan skin catching the light, black markings accentuating the sharpness of his features.
yeah. you didn’t stand a chance.
“. . . what?”
he scoffed. “what?” he mimicked under his breath, head tilting slightly, eyes sharp and fixed on you. “you forgetting something?”
your brain only buffered, eyes darting between his face and everything else: left, right, anywhere but him. “no..?” — humming under your breath as you dug through your purse.
lip gloss.
receipt.
wires.
a sonny angel, for some reason . . ?
everything but your keys.
normally, you weren’t this awkward. you just weren’t used to this. dates with people you actually found attractive. emotionally. intellectually. physically. romantically. sexually—
“you regret comin’ out with me?”
oh . . .
for a second you almost forgot he was there. well not really. sure, you tuned him out but you could definitely feel him. you could never really ignore ryomen sukuna; the sound of his breathing, the shift of his weight, his presence pressing against your senses, it was all there.
“what?” you blurted, finally looking at him in the eye.
sukuna leaned against the wall beside your door, pink hair shifting against his forehead, his expression unreadable, save for the faint amusement in his eyes.
“you heard me.”
your brows knitted together, mouth opening, then closing, before finally speaking: “no…”, your voice coming out a soft whisper.
his slitted eyebrow only cocked up at you, a faint laugh escaping his throat. “no?” the single word rolled off his tongue slowly, thick with amusement as he watched you, heat crawling higher up your neck under his stare, your movements growing clumsier the longer he looked at you.
“you’ve been diggin’ through that bag for, what, five minutes now. plus you nearly jumped outta a moving vehicle.” he continued lazily, pushing himself off the wall beside your door. “it makes a man wonder.”
“i’m not doing anything,” you said, quieter now, finally meeting his eyes for half a second before looking away again. “you’re the one who keeps staring me down.”
“mm,” he hummed, “so, lookin’ at you’s the issue.” his eyes flickering over your face once more, slow and unhurried. “that right?”
well, yes, that was part of the problem. but it wasn’t thee problem. because the actual problem was much worse. the actual problem was that you liked sukuna. like. like-liked. and he liked you too.
“well, no! i just—” what an insufferable man. “i really liked going out with you,” voice going a mile a minute before taking a deep breath, lacing your fingers together in front of you, fidgeting under his gaze. “i loved it.. actually.. i’m not trying to run from you or anything.”
“just nervous.”
“nervous?” he repeats after you, the word foreign on his tongue, “that’s what we’re callin’ it? you’re just embarrassed ‘cause you’ve got it bad for your boyfriend.”
your heart nearly jumps out of your chest, heat flooding your face all at once. “what?! no! don’t put words in my mouth.” you blurt, your hand flying up to shove his chest with a dull thud.
sukuna only lets out a low laugh before his hand comes up quickly to close around your wrist mid motion; his grip gentle but firm, holding you there as his other hand stays buried in his pocket. barely trying.
“so… you gonna say bye properly now?”
you gulp, your hand relaxing in his soft grip. “well… how do you want me to say bye?”
sukuna doesn’t answer, instead, he gently lowers your hand between you, scarlet eyes locking onto your softer, pliant eyes.
“your call.”
and the space between you two seems to freeze, soft silence of the night stretching between the two of you. easy on his end, unbearable on yours.
“w—well…” your eyes flick between his for a second before betraying you entirely, dipping down to his lips without meaning to. “i—” you huff. your throat feels dry, yet it feels unreasonable. sukuna wouldn’t judge you, you hope.
“i wanna kiss you… goodbye...”
“platonically,” you added after a moment.
. . .
his brows lifted slowly.
“you wanna kiss me. platonically?”
“um.” your voice came out smaller than intended. “yes.”
“yeah? and i’m sure those pretty little eyes of yours are lookin’ at me real platonically too.”
“that too.”
silence.
then sukuna hummed low in his throat, all amusement, already taking a step back.
“ah. got it.” he turned slightly, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. “well, in that case— have a nice night.”
your eyes widened immediately. “wait—”
he kept walking.
not far. just enough to be annoying.
“sukunaaa,” you whined, hurrying after him before your fingers caught around his forearm, dragging him back to your doorstep. “not like that.”
a soft huff escapes him, his mouth quirking upwards, canines softly refracting the dim light — not quite a smile, but rather satisfaction. “hm?” he glanced down at your hand on his arm. “so now it’s not like that?”
your grip tightens for a second before you realize it and quickly loosen your hand, heat rushing straight to your face. “i—no, i mean—just—don’t pretend you don’t know what i mean…”
his gaze flicks over your face for a second, slow and unreadable, before he scoffs “you’re the one makin’ it complicated.”
“shut up,” you mutter instantly, but there’s no real bite to it, just embarrassment as you finally tug him a little closer.
his hand comes up, settling near your jaw, thumb resting against your warm cheek. your fingers catch lightly at the front of his shirt as you rise onto your toes.
before you could overthink, your lips meet his.
it’s quick. chaste. shy even.
his eyes flutter shut a moment after, his free hand coming out of his pocket to steady you by the waist, warm and heavy, yet restrained, seeping through your clothes.
he doesn’t kiss you back immediately, letting you mold against him. he tilted his head, lips pressing gently against yours; warm, and embarrassingly sweet.
you pull off his lips slowly, a hesitant look in your eyes, your breath catching lightly as you settle back down flat on your feet, hands still gripping the fabric of his shirt.
your heart was beating so hard you were sure he could hear it. did he like it? did he think you were a bad kisser? to be fair, you didn’t kiss many people. or often. but what if—
“hell,” he mutters, like he didn’t expect that, “you even kiss cute. kinda sweet.”
you pant, “what does that even mean?”
his gaze flicks back to your mouth and the slight furrow of your eyebrows.
the way your fingers still cling lightly to his shirt, the shy warmth clinging to your skin, even that stupid little clip tucked into your hair.
a quiet exhale leaves him through his nose, almost a laugh.
he lets out a soft laugh, leaning down slightly to your height. “i’m annoying?”
you only nod, biting down on the plush of your lip before looking away again, suddenly very interested in anything but him.
except before you could give an actual rebuttal, his lips meet yours deeper this time, no longer testing the waters. still gentle, but an unspoken certainty lingering in the way he kissed you. his mouth warm against yours, moving slow and unhurried, giving you all the time in the world to keep up, hell, even backout if you wanted to, the space between you disappearing.
his hand shifts from your waist up to your jaw, cradling your face and simply holding you in place for the moment. his other arm staying firm at your side, keeping you close without pulling too hard, steadying your wobbly steps against him.
you swallow down a gasp before your eyes slip shut, your nose bumping lightly against his, the angle a little awkward, a little clumsy, yet perfectly you.
it only makes him breathe out something softer against your mouth, amused, as if it’s exactly what he expected from you.
the kiss deepens for a few more seconds — slow, and warm — until it didn’t feel like teasing anymore. just a need held taut beneath careful restraint.
then he pulls back just slightly, just enough for air, his thumb still lingering at your cheek, in no rush to let you go.
“okay . . . was that . . a good goodbye?” you murmur, breathless, still a little dazed as you finally force yourself to step back.
he lets out a low “hm” under his breath, his thumb dragging lightly against your cheek. “yeah. it was good.”
“s’pose i can let you go now.” removing his hands from your sides, drawing a small, inward pout from you.
your hands went back to your purse, fingers already digging through it again—until sukuna stopped you.
“here.”
you pause.
and there they were.
your keys, dangling right in front of your face from his fingers with a soft jingle, cute, colorful keychains swinging in the quiet night air. you gasp before snatching them immediately.
“you bastard! you saw me looking for them!”
he lets out a soft huff of laughter, not even trying to defend himself. “you dropped them while you were busy runnin’ from me,” he hums, shifting his weight back against the brick wall beside him, a faint, sly smirk settling in on that stupidly handsome face of his, “when i asked if you forgot somethin’, you said no.”
you scoff before rolling your eyes, “well! i thought you were talking about saying bye?!”
his gaze flicks over you, steady and thoroughly amused. “two things can be true at once.”
you make a small sound of frustration and snatch the keys tighter in your hand, glaring up at him through your lashes anyway.
“…thanks,” you mutter.
“…go on,” he murmurs, voice low. “before i change my mind and keep you right here.”
and you knew he wasn’t joking. that man was about one breath from devouring you right then and there.
you turn quickly, fumbling with the lock, the soft jingle of your keys echoing in the stillness, his presence still radiating from behind you. his gaze dropped briefly to your hands . . .
“you alright?”
“yes.”
“you’ve missed your keyhole three times now.”
“i know!” you shoot back immediately.
the door unlocked with a soft click, warm light spilling out into the hallway.
“ okay . . . ” you hummed.
“okay,” he repeated, looking down at you expectantly, waiting for you to head inside.
but instead, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist.
a low, rough laugh rumbled out of him before his arms circled around you instantly, strong biceps trapping your head against his chest. his scent, a deep, clean mix of cologne, so distinctly him, filling up your senses and making your head feel all dizzy.
despite his rough exterior, sukuna was soft, surprisingly so. maybe it was the steady weight of his chest against your body, or maybe it was the quiet way he held you that made it hard to think. either way.
you liked it.
you pulled away first with a small cough and an awkward straightening of your clothes, cheeks warm enough to burn through metal.
“okay! um— bye, sukuna,” you blurted awkwardly, already backing toward your apartment door.
except your shoulder clipped the doorframe on the way in.
“fuck—”
you fumbled with the handle in a panic before practically stumbling inside. “bye! goodnight!”
and then, you’re gone.
the door shutting a little too hard behind you, a muffled “ow!” coming from behind the door.
outside, sukuna exhales through his nose, shaking his head as the corner of his mouth curled upward.
hello cuties!! i just wanted to sincerely thank each and every one of you for all the love and support you've given me, 50+ followers is just insane to me and i want to give each and every one of you the biggest smooch on the head. when i get back from work tonight i really have to get caught up on all the comments and asks that i've gotten from the creation of the blog till now, i promise i didn't mean to neglect any of you cuties.
trust me i have so much planned and i'd love to do a little 50 follower celebration next week most likely, which i'll post more about this week, but if anyone has any little requests please please please shoot them my way. thank you all for staying and dreaming with me for a little bit each week, bye bye love ya!!!
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hello cuties!! i just wanted to sincerely thank each and every one of you for all the love and support you've given me, 50+ followers is just insane to me and i want to give each and every one of you the biggest smooch on the head. when i get back from work tonight i really have to get caught up on all the comments and asks that i've gotten from the creation of the blog till now, i promise i didn't mean to neglect any of you cuties.
trust me i have so much planned and i'd love to do a little 50 follower celebration next week most likely, which i'll post more about this week, but if anyone has any little requests please please please shoot them my way. thank you all for staying and dreaming with me for a little bit each week, bye bye love ya!!!
Longing, self-destruction, and the terrifying reality of being loved back.
(author's note: back again with another song inspired fic, this time with the one by rosewater park!)
The first sign should have been the way time kept slipping through your fingers.
Not dramatically. Not in the tragic, obvious way novels described it. There were no forgotten anniversaries circled in red, no concerned interventions, no breakdowns in crowded kitchens.
It was quieter than that.
More like waking from a dream every few hours only to realize life had continued without asking permission first.
You spent most mornings in bed long after waking, staring at the cracks in the ceiling of your flat while London moved outside your windows in gray waves. Dust drifted lazily through beams of pale light. Somewhere downstairs, Mrs. Alderton watered her flowers. Somewhere across the street, a wizard argued with a newspaper stand because the moving photographs kept insulting him.
And somewhere, always somewhere, people kept living.
But your mind wandered too far to notice.
You imagined impossible things instead.
You imagined living in some tiny apartment in Paris where the ceiling leaked and you were terribly poor but terribly happy. Warm hands around your waist.
A life that felt cinematic and endless and devastatingly beautiful.
Sometimes the fantasies were so vivid they hurt. Entire conversations bloomed inside your head while the kettle screamed itself empty in the kitchen. You’d blink and realize twenty minutes had passed with your tea untouched and gone cold.
You were always elsewhere.
Daydreaming on the Underground.
Daydreaming in cafés.
Daydreaming while people spoke directly to you.
Especially when Draco Malfoy was involved.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
“You’re doing it again.”
You blinked.
The world sharpened slowly into focus.
Pansy stood across your kitchen island in deep emerald silk, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Behind her, enchanted ribbons floated around half-opened engagement gifts.
Engagement gifts.
Right.
Her engagement party.
Your stomach twisted.
“Oh,” you said faintly. “Shit.”
Pansy stared at you for another moment before sighing dramatically and dropping into the chair beside you.
“You missed the toast.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You disappeared an hour ago.”
You looked toward the window. Rain slid down the glass in silver streaks. Your reflection looked distant. Half-awake.
“I only meant to step out for air.”
Pansy softened slightly.
“You were gone long enough that Theo thought you’d apparated home.”
At the mention of Theo, guilt pricked sharper. Theo’s birthday had been two weeks ago. You’d shown up late carrying an unwrapped book and flowers you’d bought from a witch outside the Leaky Cauldron because you’d forgotten to get him anything beforehand.
Theo had laughed it off.
But you remembered the look on his face when everyone else recounted memories from the past year and you realized, halfway through dinner, that you barely remembered any of it.
Not because your memory was failing.
Because you simply… hadn’t been present.
“You know,” Pansy said carefully, “sometimes I genuinely cannot tell where you go.”
You tried to smile.
“Nowhere.”
But that wasn’t true.
You went everywhere except here.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Draco noticed before anyone else did.
Of course he did.
He always noticed things about you in the most infuriatingly quiet ways.
The first time he realized something was wrong, you were sitting across from him at Theo’s birthday dinner while Blaise argued semantics with Daphne.
Everyone was laughing.
Everyone except you.
Not because you were upset.
You simply weren’t there.
Your fingers traced circles against the stem of your wineglass while your gaze fixed somewhere over everyone’s shoulders. Your expression had gone soft and distant in a way Draco had begun associating with absence.
Like your soul kept wandering away from your body.
“Earth to darling,” Theo teased, snapping his fingers in front of your face.
You startled.
“Hm?”
Theo grinned. “Thank you for joining us.”
You laughed automatically, but Draco watched the confusion flash behind your eyes as you tried piecing together the last few minutes of conversation.
And for some reason, it unsettled him deeply.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The truth was, you didn’t realize anything was wrong because this was how you’d always survived.
Ever since the war.
Ever since the funerals.
Ever since the silence afterward.
Your mind became softer around the edges. Easier to escape into than reality itself.
Reality was sharp.
Reality was ugly.
Reality kept moving forward without caring whether you were ready.
So you learned to live in imagined futures instead.
In fantasies.
In yearning.
In Draco.
Especially Draco.
God.
Draco Malfoy had become the centerpiece of every impossible thought you’d ever had.
He existed in your head in fragments.
The line of his throat beneath an undone collar.
The silver rings on his fingers.
His tired eyes late at night.
The way he touched you like he was always moments away from losing control.
You built entire worlds around him.
Worlds where he loved you recklessly.
Worlds where he needed you enough to ruin himself.
Worlds where you could finally stop drifting because someone had chosen you so completely there was nowhere left to disappear.
But real life was different.
Real life was terrifying.
Because in real life, Draco Malfoy could hurt you.
And you thought he eventually would.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
“You pretend not to care,” Draco said one night quietly.
The two of you sat on the floor of his sitting room while rain battered the windows. Half-finished whiskey glasses rested abandoned beside the sofa.
You looked up from where your head rested against the cushions.
“What?”
His gaze lingered on you too long.
“You disappear whenever things become real.”
Your pulse skipped.
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
His voice remained maddeningly calm.
“You flirt with me endlessly. You look at me like you’re starving half the time.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And then the second I get close enough to touch you, you vanish.”
You laughed softly, trying to deflect.
“Very dramatic.”
But Draco didn’t smile.
“You act like you’re watching your own life happen from somewhere else.”
The room suddenly felt too warm.
Too small.
You looked away first.
Outside, thunder rolled across the city.
“I just think too much.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You feel too much.”
The words struck somewhere deep enough to hurt.
You hated that he saw through you so easily.
You hated that part of you wanted him to.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Draco had his own problems.
You knew that.
Everyone did after the war.
But Draco carried loneliness like an expensive coat—elegantly, beautifully, and always visibly if someone looked close enough.
Sometimes you caught him staring at groups of laughing strangers with an expression so unbearably detached it made your chest ache.
You understood him in ways that frightened you.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because wanting Draco Malfoy felt less like falling in love and more like standing too close to a cliff edge knowing eventually you would jump.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
The first time he kissed you, you nearly cried.
Not because it was gentle.
It wasn’t.
It was desperate.
Messy.
Weeks of tension collapsing at once.
His hands framed your face so tightly it almost hurt as he backed you into the wall of his kitchen. Your breath tangled together. Your thoughts vanished entirely for the first time in months.
No drifting.
No daydreaming.
Only him.
Draco kissed like he was angry about needing anyone.
And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting years.
When his hand slid around your throat, not enough to harm but enough to ground you there in your own body, a sharp breath escaped you.
His forehead rested against yours afterward.
“You’re shaking.”
You laughed weakly.
“I know.”
His thumb brushed your jaw.
“No,” he murmured. “I mean all the time.”
Something in you cracked open.
Because he noticed.
He always noticed.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
After that, things became dangerous.
Not officially.
Not publicly.
But privately, between midnight conversations and wandering hands and long silences, the obsession grew teeth.
You thought about him constantly.
In bed.
In the shower.
While reading.
While staring blankly through windows as entire afternoons disappeared unnoticed.
And the worst part was how carefully you hid it.
You pretended indifference because needing someone that badly felt humiliating.
So you pulled away whenever things became too intimate.
Ignored his texts for days.
Acted unaffected when he touched you in public.
Spoke casually about other men just to watch jealousy flash in his eyes.
You told yourself it was self-protection.
If Draco knew how deeply he could hurt you, surely he eventually would.
But one night, he cornered you after another party you barely remembered attending.
“You keep reeling me back in,” he said coldly.
The hallway spun slightly from champagne and exhaustion.
“What?”
“You vanish. Then you look at me like that again.”
Your throat tightened.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”
The silence stretched.
Draco stepped closer.
“And maybe I could survive that,” he said quietly. “If you’d stop pretending you don’t.”
Your chest hurt.
Because the truth was unbearable.
You did want him.
In every terrible, consuming, aching way possible.
Not the fantasy version.
Not the dream.
Him.
Real Draco.
With all his sharp edges and loneliness and fear.
And maybe that terrified you more than anything else.
‧₊˚ 🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆
Weeks later, you forgot lunch with Pansy entirely.
Forgot Theo’s exhibition opening.
Forgot three separate owled letters sitting unanswered on your kitchen counter.
You spent the entire day in bed staring at sunlight moving across the ceiling while imaginary futures bloomed endlessly inside your head.
You barely noticed evening arrive.
Barely noticed the knock at your door.
But then Draco walked in carrying takeaway boxes and irritation.
“You’re alive.”
You pushed yourself upright slowly.
“I think so.”
His eyes scanned the room.
Curtains closed.
Books stacked untouched.
Cold tea beside the bed.
Something shifted in his expression.
“You haven’t left this flat today.”
You tried joking. “How investigative of you.”
“I’m serious.”
The gentleness in his voice almost undid you.
Draco sat beside you carefully.
Not touching.
Just there.
“You keep fading away.”
Your vision blurred unexpectedly.
“I don’t mean to.”
“I know.”
And somehow that made it worse.
Because there was no accusation in his voice.
Only concern.
Real concern.
The kind you didn’t know what to do with.
You looked down at your hands.
“Sometimes I feel like everyone else learned how to keep living after the war,” you admitted softly. “And I didn’t.”
The confession hung heavily between you.
Outside, the city hummed on.
Alive.
Moving.
Always moving.
Draco was quiet for a long moment before speaking.
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you’ve spent so long surviving inside your own head that reality feels unbearable now.”
Tears burned suddenly behind your eyes.
Because yes.
Yes.
That was exactly it.
Your fantasies were safer.
Dreams couldn’t abandon you.
Dreams couldn’t wake up one morning and decide you were too much.
But real people could.
Real Draco could.
As though sensing the thought, he reached for you slowly.
Giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
His hand cupped your face gently.
“I’m here,” he said.
Simple words.
Devastating ones.
You looked at him then really looked at him—pale hair falling loose across his forehead, exhaustion beneath his eyes, the uncertainty he tried hiding.
Not perfect.
Not fantasy.
Real.
And somehow more beautiful for it.
“You scare me,” you whispered.
A sad smile touched his mouth.
“You terrify me.”
You laughed shakily through tears.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye.
“But I’m still here.”
The room felt painfully quiet.
Your mind tried drifting again toward imagined futures, toward hypothetical heartbreaks and catastrophic endings and all the ways this could destroy you.
But Draco pulled you back before you could disappear.
