Proxy

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐗𝐘/ she/her/ storycrafter/ chaos enjoyer.

✚ from Kazakhstan. I write in Russian and recently started translating my texts into English. Most of my content lives on my Telegram & Ficbook (both in Russian).

✚ multifandom SFW/soft NSFW blog focused on jjk, bluelock, haikyu!! + more. expect angst, obsession, slow burns & soft darkness, funny headcanons

✚ mostly fem! & gn! readers. heavy emotional content & spoilers ahead. no fixed posting schedule. requests? maybe. vibes? always.

✚ this is my comfort zone, so sorry not sorry, but I’ll delete comments I don’t like and block users with inappropriate behavior.

— Where is my son?

— Your Grace… Lord Caleb has broken away from the riders! He is lost in the woods!

— Lost… And yet...

Into his gray beard, the Emperor brushed a lean smirk. Broken away? For his son’s temper, such a claim was foolish, loud. The scoundrel had vanished from the sight of his knights on purpose.

Rebellious, his soul begged for a storm, but two full Moons had already managed to illuminate the firmament, and Caleb had somewhat quieted his fervor.

They said that the imperial heir was tormented by dreams. A sorrowful haze had crept into the purple of his eyes; the spark of his white-toothed smile had faded.

To no one did he open his soul; to any questioning, he merely shook his head. Caleb knew how to keep secrets, and the sorrow in his heart he trusted to no one.

```

The Moon, like a one-eyed cyclops, looked down upon the thicket from its height. With a deathly pallor, its light spilled over the trodden paths, catching a lone rider on a black horse.

Caleb had been wandering the forest for a good hour already — the blizzard had led him astray, not his own whim. The horse shifted its legs wearily, snorting steam with vexation, as if to say, “It’s your fault, master, leading us into the thicket”.

It was utterly quiet in the forest. The storm had tiredly settled somewhere to the south. Like strokes of ink, the shadows of trees fell upon the canvas of snow, where Caleb saw tracks. Small, human.

Behind a tree, you hid. Not that you concealed your presence very well — with the hem of your cloak, you stirred the snow.

— Fair maiden? What are you doing in the woods alone at night?

— What are you doing in the woods alone at night, Prince?

Caleb pulled the reins, leaping into the creaking snow with youthful grace. He held the sword at his hip without malice.

In his eyes, mockery gleamed along with caution — at night, only evil spirits dance in circles, but why then was he not afraid?

As if an arrow had pierced his heart, Caleb froze. You. It was you, the stranger from his dreams.

— You…

His voice went hoarse, settling into the snowdrift. You pressed your fingers into the bark of the tree, stepping back in fright.

— It is you from my dreams! You… give me no rest to me…

— Ah, is it I? You yourself live in my dreams!

In a couple of unsteady steps, Caleb was beside you. To the tree he pressed you impetuously, his gaze nervously sweeping over your face. And over the pattern of the pendant on your neck. The last spark of his smile died.

— Dragon’s daughter… Daughter of my father's sworn enemy.

— Son of the Northern Emperor. Son of my father's sworn enemy.

A sorrowful smile lit up his face; with his fingers, he touched your clan’s crest upon the medallion — a crest that scorched his very soul. In your gaze, a knowing bitterness slipped by.

— Your Highness, you are not upon your own lands right now. You risk your freedom, for I could well take you captive.

You tossed your head back in response to the defiance — with a sharp smile, Caleb suddenly cut through the tension.

— I will not leave just like that. I will be waiting for you, heir of the Northern Lands. Tomorrow, in this very place. If you do not come — I shall find you in your dreams.

— I can do the very same to you.

Caleb noted slyly, and you flushed in embarrassment. The impudent soul, daring to win over the princess herself with the velvet of his voice!

A century-old oak was witness to your promise. The century-old oak saw that neither of you came the next day — the crown prince died at the hands of traitors, the ancient noble line cut short. And the princess, the Dragon’s Daughter, suddenly did not wake up the following day — with the son of her father's enemy, she leapt from a cliff in her dream.

Inconsolable was the old Dragon. One grief gave birth to another — into madness the father fell, into confinement he went. In a crystal coffin, he gave his only daughter upon silk to eternal sleep. Only the prince did not arrive with a kiss. His youth rested in a freshly dug grave.

Caleb, too, slept an eternal sleep.

~~~

In Shanghai, it is spring. Sakura has scattered into a flurry of petals. A warm April chased away anxious thoughts — like a cloud, they swirled over his head. Caleb was gloomy; he hadn't slept properly for about ten days.

The stranger. Smiling, gentle, and loved by him in his dreams to the point of heartache.

Her image did not fade; he remembered every mole on her face, the curve of her trembling eyelashes, and the tenderness of her peach-colored blush. The image was real to the point of a burning sensation in his chest, but where was she, and how was he to find her?

— You spilled tea on the table, you're about to get your phone wet. Are you even listening to me? Caleb?"

With a sigh, his friend pinches his lips together, and Caleb hurriedly apologizes. Blinding with the flash of his smile, he wipes the tea stain with crumpled napkins.

And his heart suddenly beats wildly. Mad, it began to pace its cage, and here, the moment — oh, turn around, Caleb!

The bell chimed with a gentle trill. The door opened modestly, and you stepped over the threshold — the stranger from his dreams.

But are you strangers? Was it merely by chance that the metro lines led you here today? Was it merely by chance that without an umbrella, you hide in this godforsaken cafe?

Not by chance do you look straight into the purple of such familiar eyes. Not by chance does Caleb see the round pendant on your neck.

All past lives flashed through his mind like a whirlwind, and he managed to read every page in a second.

A witch burned at the stake. A beloved lost to illness. An unyielding daughter of an enemy. Three lives were cut short; three — the number of mystery and redemption.

And you are no mirage; you are alive and real, standing before Caleb. Wet strands cling to your cheek, a faint recognition in your eyes — you have seen this person somewhere before.

Three times fate was merciless to you. Capricious, it slammed your history book shut with a bad ending. But the generous spring in Shanghai scattered sakura petals outside the window, touching your shoulders as a silent witness. Caleb smiled loudly, a stir rising in his broad chest: he suddenly forgot about his friend, about the spilled, unfinished tea on the table, about the wet napkins. He straightened up with a start, took a step forward.

You, too, took a step toward him.

MATCH MADE IN HELL

He buries his irritation deep into the collar of his leather jacket. Ash-grey smoke tears from his nostrils in ragged puffs, while the scarlet fire in his eyes darts across the lit windows. His gaze skims down the drainpipes, over the chips and cracks in the red brick. Over the leaves, battered and ruined by the rain.

Like Lego bricks, the concrete blocks stack before his eyes — one block, two blocks. The downpour slaps his face like open palms, plastering his blonde bangs across his forehead in a wet fan.

He’s lost all his polish. Look how far he’s fallen — showing up right under your window like a soaked-to-the-bone stray. Because if the bride won't come to Mello, Mello comes to the bride himself. He comes to conquer and take captive.

Even the weather today is pure shit, perfectly matching his mood. He’d love to smash someone's skull against the asphalt, to sweetly splatter their brains, but there is a very specific reason for his agitation.

You. And Mello promised not to touch you. Snarl all he wanted — yes, but you, you little witch, you knew that behind his sharp-toothed grin lay absolutely nothing. The bravado at his fingertips, the prickly glares in private held no real power. The power belonged to you, and Mello would melt like chocolate whenever you ruffled his golden hair. And the promises not to touch you would scatter like dry leaves from a tree.

His precious, beautiful viper. A snake warmed against his chest.

You wouldn't pick up the phone when he called from a different number. You blocked him in the chat.

Bitch. Dead girl walking. Goddamn kamikaze. May the devils drag you straight to hell.

Just another fight. Mello — a struck match, you — a jerrycan of gasoline. You short-circuited each other with a violent spark, but that evening you doused him in virtual ice, dropping a brief, "It’s over."

Nothing is over, you naive girl. Does Mello ever let go of something he’s sunk his teeth into? He doesn't know defeat; he will never let what's his slip away.

Nine in the evening, the ripe, heavy darkness of November. Your third-floor window glows with a cozy warmth behind the glass — no doubt you’ve turned off the overhead light and are reading your goddamn classics by the nightlight. The lampshade separates you and your shadow; it nestles at your feet like a dark, quiet pet.

The shadows get to kiss you, but he doesn't. What an absolute injustice.

Mello spat out the bitterness of his frustration along with his cigarette butt. His fury was so volatile it instantly traced a perfectly straight trajectory — flicked off his thumb, right into the trash can.

Heavy boots crush the thin ice beneath them, then the dust of the stairwell. A dozen steps up, a lock picked with a pocketknife.

The door creaked open, and Mello stepped into the apartment like a shadow of the night.

You were asleep. Morpheus had smoothed your hair, knocking your reading glasses askew. Your mouth was innocently parted, Kafka crumpled in your embrace.

What absolute garbage you read, princess...

His little kitten. You should be wearing a collar, yet you’ve dug your claws straight into his heart.

Satan himself brought you two together, and Mello swallowed his pride time and time again whenever he lost you.

You aren't sugar; you're blue electrolyte in a bottle. He isn't a blooming garden; he's a dense, pitch-black forest, and you’ve been hopelessly lost in it for a long time.

Codependency. And there is no ball of yarn to lead you out of the thicket, where Mello is waiting for you with an axe.

A battle of wits, the raw, visceral biology of their relationship — you used to leave burning slaps on his pale cheeks, he used to lock handcuffs around your wrists until they bruised.

"Sleeping, you little bitch," he whispers, a tender malice in his voice. He licks the raindrops from his lips and brushes a kiss against your temple.

You rustle in your sleepy motion. The book slips from your palm — Mello catches it mid-air, flips through the pages. He places it noiselessly on the nightstand. Holding back the rattling chains on his pants, he sinks heavily into the armchair.

Sleep has bound you in its chains, and the loyal hound remains to guard the dreams of his wicked cat.

The lines of his tattoos hide in the wild swirls of cigarette smoke. They map his bare torso, twisting into intricate patterns, and you blush, unable to look away.

To wake up in the same bed as Enjin? To feel the warmth of a stranger’s presence seep into the veins and skin of your slender wrist come morning — were you ready for that? Your reckless bravery from yesterday has now turned crimson — the color of your shame.

And how confidently the demons tempted you last night, how insistently they nudged you toward sin, and you clung to his lips like stubborn chewing gum. Enjin was surprised but didn’t push you away — he only tightened his grip around your waist, pulling you closer, greedily. And then — nothing.

Because after that, there’s only fog. A thick, hazy stupor clouded your mind, leaving no memory of the intimacy you’d longed for. Now, like a timid mouse, you scurry around, searching for your clothes. And you find them. All washed, hanging shamelessly on the balcony — your shirt, your loose shorts, fluttering in the breeze. And you stand there in nothing but your underwear.

Enjin smokes lazily on the balcony as the sun bathes in the gold of his hair.

“I hear you’re awake,” Enjin says, stretching his back, cigarette pinched between his lips as he turns to you. His gaze pierces you before softening into a knowing, almost oily wink.

“Well, little drunk. You come on strong, I’ll give you that. And you throw up just as well.” He grumbles the words between drags of his cigarette, laying bare every humiliating detail of your night: how you tried to peel off his pants, then his shoes, how you got sick. How he washed your clothes, then held you as you sobbed, before finally falling asleep beside you.

“I’m… so ashamed.” Three words are enough to capture the whole nightmare. Your cheeks burn so hot your eyes water. Pathetic. A mess. How can you even look him in the eye?

“But now I’m curious.” Enjin walks back in from the balcony, the edge of the bed groaning under his weight as he sits beside you, his warmth searing your thigh. He moves the hand holding the cigarette away, the other gently cupping your cheek.

OH, MY LITTLE PRETTY BOY

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Denji’s love for you:

— Crumpled love notes in his pockets. His handwriting is a scrawled mess, but the words overflow with sincerity. He even shyly draws a little heart on the back of the message—trying his hand at romance, hoping to make you like him just a little more.

— "I'll bring this for her to eat "— that's his love language. A tasty pastry? He'll get an extra one, just for you. A gum with your favorite flavor? He'll buy a whole pack to give you when you meet.

— Denji will be waiting for you after school. He always forgets your schedule, so he shows up way too early. Sometimes he stands by the school gates for over an hour. Kicking pebbles, counting crows. And you watch from the window as he, tousle-haired and distracted, paces around the schoolyard, counting down the minutes until he sees you. The sweetest, dearest boy. ♡

— He gives you four-leaf clovers he's found. He carries them carefully in his pocket, wrapped in a tissue so they don't get crushed. He says they're for luck, though he doesn't really believe it himself— he just knows you like them.

The warmth of his breath fell on your neck again, and in that moment you felt what you feared most: in this body, there were two of them. One — the remnant of your Hikaru, trembling with desire for you. A small remnant, just a drop in the ocean of memory, but it was your Hikaru, and the realization of his presence almost brought you to tears. The other Hikaru was a nameless Someone. An ancient entity, it pulsed dully within you. And if the first one wanted to touch you with his whole body, to kiss you with boyish frenzy, the second one imperiously invaded your very essence with its entire being. Amalgamation. The creature itself didn't know where to lead your intimacy. You, a human girl in its nets, sometimes muttered something incoherently, sometimes scratched the ribbed tatami loudly with your nails, sometimes clutched at someone else's t-shirt.

I’m planning to upload translations of these to AO3, and future works will live there too. For example, work with Hikaru.

I’m not sure I’ll keep this Tumblr — I mostly posted translations of my little headcanons and mini texts here anyway.

Either way, you’re all invited to my AO3.

• His love language is physical touch. Denji grew up completely isolated from affection - what even is it, what's it for? The very concept of affection was warped for him since childhood, so the slightest show of care was probably perceived by him as love. Naive, he was often deceived, but he never understood where he went wrong. However, Denji never had time to be upset either - he would run like a happy dog to wherever he was called again by a deceptively kind gesture of a palm. You were perplexed as to why Denji never got burned by human betrayal, and he would note philosophically: "They gave me care, and I took it. We're even, and it's stupid to be offended by that."

• No matter how embarrassing it is to admit, at first you were driven by pity for the guy. Your feelings blossomed later - Denji fell for you first. Because you were the first one to hug him warmly and didn't try to break his ribs in the embrace. You just stroked him shyly, feeling the heat and his lovesick heartbeat through his shirt. For Denji, touch had always been the highest manifestation of trust, but with you came understanding. It became his sacred truth and an immutable law - your touches gave him love. He felt them as the color pink, as a long-awaited spring, as cute kittens with milk on their faces. An unknown feeling, so warm. At first, he even wanted to vomit out his madly beating heart, to tear open his wrists where his pulse hammered in his veins at a frantic rhythm. Denji first thought he was sick. Only later did he understand that he was sick with you.

• Later, he will understand that you are his cure. He will constantly seek physical contact with you: his hand will search for your palm in the semi-darkness of a movie theater just to gently intertwine fingers; he will shyly press his cheek to your shoulder and guiltily kiss your collarbone; he will fall asleep with his head on your chest because your breathing and heartbeat are the most soothing sound Denji knows. All the chaos he has experienced leaves his nightmares as soon as he listens to your steady breathing.

• Denji is logically jealous. Logically - because having gotten something truly valuable for the first time in his life with such difficulty, having tasted peace, he will fight for it to the death. And that's not even a joke. He won't shout that he's your noble knight, he won't throw around pompous words for a beautiful gesture - no, he will undoubtedly answer for every word he says. And if Denji said right now that he would smash someone's head for daring to flirt with you, then that is a very real threat.

• He won't give you flowers and candy. He will bring you what is valuable in his universe. A perfectly honed tiny gear from his chainsaw, resembling a shiny trinket. Denji will try to find a chain for it so you can wear his symbol of devotion to you around your neck. He will drag in the most beautiful, in his opinion, pebble he found during patrol. A can of his favorite meat - something that once seemed impossibly unattainable and expensive to him. These things are treasures to Denji, and he gives them to you because he wants you to have the very best.

• Denji would recognize your smell out of a thousand. The scent of your body - light fruit perfume, your own natural scent - is the most intoxicating drug for him, overshadowing even the smell of blood. He might come to you at night just to press his face against your neck or hair. Denji's special meditation is to nuzzle his nose into that alluring hollow of your neck, taking a deep breath of your scent to calm down.

Bakugo Katsuki x fem reader

"Damn it, you're burning up," Bakugou grumbles, pressing his chapped lips to your forehead.

He frowns when he feels the heat radiating from your skin. Katsuki's own skin trembles slightly — this is worry he'd never admit out loud. He yanks off his hoodie (the one that smells like smoke and explosives) so roughly you hear fabric strain. His fingers move in quick, impatient jerks. A moment later, you're wrapped in his clothes — warm and heavy, still carrying his sharp scent mixed with nitroglycerin and something unmistakably masculine, like the charged air before a storm. He shoves a water bottle into your hands — cool and beaded with condensation.

He sees your lips — chapped, cracked, reddened by fever. A shadow passes over Katsuki's face — anger and concern mixed together. How long had you been fighting this fever alone?

"Drink," his voice is hoarse and brooks no argument. Fire burns in his eyes, his own heat flaring with worry. His pupils are dilated, the ruby irises darker than usual.

You lean sleepily toward him, but he firmly holds you back. His hands — hardened from constant training — create an immovable barrier between you. Your flushed cheeks beg to be kissed, but Bakugou resists. His jaw tenses, veins throbbing beneath his skin like a volcano about to erupt.

"Drink, I said. Don't be stupid. Water first."

You obediently take a few sips. The cool water on your inflamed throat almost burns. Wincing, you hand the bottle back. Only then does he let you settle against his chest. His rough fingers unexpectedly turn gentle as they comb through your hair, carefully untangling the knots. His strong heartbeat thuds steadily beneath your cheek — deep, calming. His breath carries a faint caramel scent that tickles your temple, a strange contrast to the heat coming off your body.

"Sleep, dummy," Katsuki grumbles, but the edge is gone from his voice. It's softer now, the tension betraying his concern. "I'm here. Not going anywhere."

For several minutes he just lies there, listening to your ragged, wheezing breaths. His own breathing deepens, as if trying to match your rhythm. The muscles in his back stay tense beneath his thin t-shirt — ready to spring up at any moment if you get worse. Then, with an irritated sigh, he reaches for the nightstand, rummaging through medicine boxes. Lids snap open, bottles clink together. He can't stand it — he needs you better right now. Every movement, every annoyed exhale radiates impatience.

"Goddamn paracetamol, where'd you put it?" he mutters under his breath, but then you tug his sleeve weakly.

"Later... Katsuki... I already took some..."

He clicks his tongue quietly, the sound echoing in the silent bedroom, but lies back down and pulls you close, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist. Heavy. Strong. Reliable — like an anchor keeping you safe.

"I'll find it tomorrow. Just sleep now."

He holds you a little tighter, as if trying to take all your fever into himself. His skin is cooler than yours, and you instinctively press closer, seeking relief. His breathing grows deeper, more even, more rhythmic — he's falling asleep, but even in sleep his protective grip doesn't loosen.

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮

Toji kneads the bouquet of wildflowers in his hands. He glances nervously at his watch. Fifteen minutes until the meeting, and he’s already here, by the fountain in the park.

"Too early."

He adjusts his shirt collar — uncomfortably tight around his broad shoulders. A little more, and the fabric might tear at the seams. Or the buttons might pop off like bullets. Why didn’t he wear something simpler? In these clothes, he feels like a circus bear. The collar digs into his neck, prickly and stiff. Everything feels off today.

People pass by, throwing curious glances at Fushiguro. Of course — a two-meter-tall guy with scars, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot with a bunch of daisies. Comical, frightening. Not a man, but a walking grotesque.

But then he finally spots her in the distance — recognizes her light step, the flowery sundress, the hair fluttering in the wind. She’s so… fragile. Toji swallows the bitter thought, but it lingers. Yeah, next to her, he’s like a tank beside a porcelain figurine.

She notices him and smiles, waving cheerfully. Everyone turns to stare as Toji tries to smile back. But his face won’t obey, and what comes out is something between a grin and a grimace.

He holds out the bouquet, clumsily placing the flowers into her hands.

— These are for you. Nothing special. Just saw them on the way.

Her delicate fingers brush against his massive palm, gliding over calluses and the faint ridges of old scars. A moment of clarity for Toji — they’re too different. Can they even match? Her grace, his brute strength. Her soft laughter, his rough voice. Like Quasimodo next to Esmeralda.

— They’re beautiful, — she says, inhaling the scent of the flowers, her voice ringing with genuine delight. — How did you know daisies are my favorite?

Toji didn’t know. He just didn’t dare go into a flower shop. But now, watching her eyes sparkle, he flushes faintly at the ears — she deserves every flower in the world.

— Want some ice cream? — He scrambles to ease the awkwardness, desperate for an excuse. Something timid flickers in his green eyes, and his movements, usually sharp, suddenly turn clumsy.

She nods, and they walk side by side. Not shoulder to shoulder — he’s much taller, looming over her like a tower. Fushiguro tries to take smaller steps, slowing down so he doesn’t outpace her. He feels like an elephant trying to dance with a butterfly. He barely breathes — afraid one exhale might rip the damn shirt constricting his muscles.

His thoughts are frantic, chaotic. She’s not for him, and there’s no place for him beside her.

— To catch him early in the morning beside you on a weekday is a rare thing. Aki leaves for work early, leaving behind crumpled sheets and the lingering ghosts of his warmth and scent. Your heart aches for him in those moments: you love the tousled mess of his ashen hair scattered across the pillow, the absence of worry in his blue eyes, that sternness hidden beneath the sleepy flutter of his dark lashes. Disheveled and drowsy, he looks almost younger then, before the weight of daily life and fractured memories have a chance to sour his mood.

— Hayakawa loves to read. Somehow it became a habit for him to buy two copies of books he wants to read — one for himself, one for you. He enjoys discussing the plot over dinner, listening to your theories. You never argue about the texts; your perspectives are too different. Where Hayakawa’s thoughts drift toward philosophy, yours pulse with pragmatism and raw emotion.

— You have your "reading wars." Though, to be fair, you’re always the aggressor… Hayakawa never pressures you if you don’t want to read something from his list, but you fight dirty — draping yourself dramatically over his legs, pouting, even nipping at his palm. Not hard, of course, but you relish riling him up. All because he refused to read some manga with you. Aki could probably recite the whole plot — he knows your tastes too well. Hayakawa stands firm seven times out of ten. If he says he won’t read it, he won’t. But he’ll never protest listening to your gushing reviews in the evening, arms wrapped around you, face buried in the warmth of your chest as you card fingers through his hair and rant about the heroine’s poor life choices.

— He walks around the apartment barefoot and loses his temper if anyone wears outdoor shoes past the entryway. Aki owns several pairs of house slippers— he dislikes wearing the same ones and is fastidious about hygiene. He airs them out, washes them, dries them meticulously. His socks are always paired and sorted by color in the dresser drawer.

— Not that Aki is obsessively tidy. Chaos finds him too. But where there’s cleanliness, there’s order in his mind. Where the outside isn’t cluttered, the inside won’t rot. A subtle philosophy, hard to explain and harder to understand. Hayakawa simply loves his home, this place where his body and soul rest. The hunter has a bond with this space — as if the walls harbor a living organism, and neglect would invite decay. And Aki has seen enough decay in his life to develop a permanent allergy to it.

— Aki usually cooks simple dishes but with deft hands: his omelets are always flawlessly fluffy, his rice never clumps. Yours, meanwhile, could glue wallpaper. So he never burdened you with the task. No discussion, no hints — he just naturally reached the stove faster than you. And he chops vegetables quicker. And nothing ever burns… So…

— He also cooks silently and cleanly — never slams cabinets, never clatters utensils, always wipes spills immediately. The kitchen stays spotless. Once, he called cooking his meditation, and leaving a mess "disrupted harmony." You snorted, thinking Aki was just a Japanese man with domestic traditions hardwired into him. But it’s so woven into his character, you’d never question it.

— No matter how chaotic work gets, Aki never forgets the grocery list. He rarely buys extras, meticulously planning portions days ahead — he prefers everything fresh, says food tastes better that way. Old-fashioned, he writes lists in a dedicated notepad kept on the fridge with a tiny pen. Grumbles when forced to go digital.

— On Sundays, armed with a vacuum, Aki moves every piece of furniture to reach every corner. He uses every attachment, while you’re too embarrassed to admit you don’t know what half of them are for…

— Aki has separate cloths for every surface — never mixes them. One for glass (streak-free), another for furniture (soft, scratch-proof). His cleaning supplies are minimal but deliberate: wood polish here, multipurpose sink cleaner there.

— He folds towels into perfect rectangles and silently refolds them when someone ruins the symmetry. It also infuriates him when people leave crumpled chaos on the oven door instead of the neatly hung kitchen towel HE PUT THERE FOR A REASON.

— The apartment is minimally furnished — everything has its place, nothing excess. Nothing disrupts Hayakawa’s design. Emptiness isn’t bad; sometimes it just means everything is where it should be.

— Evenings are softly lit by ambient lamps. Aki avoids harsh overhead lights, preferring the warmth of table lamps.

— He spares no expense on bedding — always high-thread-count, freshly laundered. It smells faintly of fabric softener and the lavender oil he mixes with water to spritz before bed. Read somewhere it aids sleep. Plagued by insomnia, he’ll try anything to avoid staring at the ceiling half the night. So yes, the pillows carry traces of detergent and barely-there lavender.

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

Hikaru x fem reader

On the steps of the old school, behind the shadows of new buildings, where summer twilight blurs the line between reality and delirium, you sit hip-to-hip with the one who wears the name and face of Hikaru. His profile is motionless, frozen like a statue. Only the faint tremble of his pale lashes betrays something alive beneath that mask.

Flushed. Uneven patches of red bloom across his pallid cheeks, creeping down his neck, scorching the tips of his ears.

How strange…

Hikaru ran five laps earlier, yet now he barely seems to breathe — though normally he’d be complaining about his throat parched dry, gulping water so greedily his Adam’s apple would leap like a wild thing.

"You’re breathing weird. I mean — you’re not breathing at all, really." Your voice betrays your unease, but this conversation was inevitable. Four months have passed since Hikaru returned. Four months since Hikaru returned. Four months since Hikaru changed — and you noticed.

It was all in the smallest, stupidest details. The pressure of his pencil wrong when he writes your name, the slant of the letters unfamiliar. The way he wrinkles his nose now, the pattern of creases around his bright eyes not quite right.

Phantom things, barely there, but the web they weave is undeniable — and you watch from the sidelines as the threads multiply: his habits unlearned, his jokes misfiring, his childish whims sometimes tipping into something beyond.

Even Yoshiki didn’t notice at first.

A silence falls between you, so thick even a bird can’t bear its weight — it startles upward with a trill, snapping Hikaru from his daze.

Too long. Too unnaturally still. A person would have turned to you, laughed, asked, "What are you talking about?" But this thing hasn’t yet learned how to answer you properly. It must sense the memory of the real Hikaru living in your heart— and it, this impostor in his skin, only stirs dread. Bitter, perhaps, that your love belongs to the one who’s gone, not to it. It wears his identity like ill-fitting clothes, watches you through his eyes, but in their depths yawns a terrifying abyss. Not your boy. Not yours.

“Hikaru?"

"Huh?!" The same bright, brassy tone, perfectly pitched — yet an icy finger trails down your spine, pressing into each vertebra. "How am I not breathing?! You’re imagining things… Just spaced out, that’s all."

You nod, feigning understanding, fingers pleating the folds of your skirt. No matter how it tries, you’ve unraveled its secret. Somewhere deep, in a place untouched by reason, you’ve known for a while: the real Hikaru died that summer. But how it hurts when this thing turns to you with his smile, when it says "good morning" or "see you later" with his lips. A stupid heart refuses to accept loss, refuses to understand — not when his fingers, so warm and alive, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

How can he be dead?

The dead are cold to the bone. They reek of rot and decay. They rest in the earth’s belly, visited only by worms in eternal silence. The dead don’t breathe, don’t scrawl your name crookedly on chalkboards. Their eyes are glassy, extinguished — but this, this thing wearing Hikaru, stares at you with vivid confusion, almost childlike. It sends you silly texts, spits watermelon seeds, tugs your braids — what kind of corpse does that?

You fell in love with Hikaru, yet keep loving his shadow. Is that fair to this Hikaru? Whatever took his place has memories, feelings — it’s alive, and it reaches for you too. Yes, its nature is untamed, its essence mad — but how can you resist when it smiles with lips that once kissed your cheeks and whispered "I love you"?

"Hikaru," you murmur, squinting slyly, leaning close. You note how it stiffens, bares teeth in response. "I want to kiss you."

Hikaru snorts, pausing. Cicadas rasp their endless song below; above, the first stars flicker to life. He worries his lower lip, scans your face with a gaze so unnervingly intent your cheeks burn with shame. Boldness withers under eyes that seem ready to devour you.

"You sure?" His voice is hoarse, threaded with hunger. In his mind, wild, fractured thoughts thrash: Kiss me, kiss only me, never want anyone else.

Your answer is a timid brush of lips. A strange kiss— yours too cautious, his too greedy. A clash of contradictions, but the taste of Hikaru’s mouth drowns your fear.

Cool mint burns your lips; dizzying vanilla soothes. His mouth is soft, sweet…

Shame floods your chest with warmth, tenderness pinching beneath your ribs. Hikaru is relentless, yet there’s fragility in his hunger. As if starved. As if he’s wanted you indecently long. As if he’s done holding back—but terrified of scaring you away.

Heat sears your mouth, then plunges into abyssal dark. A wet, hollow click — and viscous, clinging coolness envelops you like a shroud of impatience. What kisses you now isn’t Hikaru, but something ancient and ravenous, craving ownership. Your palms flatten against his chest, fingers twisting his school shirt in spasms.

Eyelids shut, lashes trembling—you’re too afraid to open them. For a single, fleeting moment, Hikaru’s mask cracks. Something alien, dark, grazes your cheek — like an echo of the voids mystics whisper of.

A shadow-flame dances, nothing like human fire. Chaotic, cloying, it resembles the Hell described in holy texts. The abyss touches your cheek with a boy’s tender fingers.

"More," it whispers in a voice no longer human. That hot breath pleads, craves — yet beneath it lingers Hikaru’s ordinary curiosity.

You should recoil. You should flee. But against your own will, you press into his swollen lips again. Kiss with the recklessness of the doomed, drunk on how something cold and inhuman responds with a rapture beyond mortal limits.

And you cradle yourself in sweet lies — that you still love Hikaru, even as your heart surrenders to the monster. The worst part? You don’t resist. Better this Hikaru than emptiness…

Love always holds something predatory—we long to consume the ones we adore. But what happens when your beloved has already been consumed by another?

𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

Nanami Kento x fem reader

Tarot cards with their worn edges and faded images, horoscopes in glossy magazines that smelled of fresh printer’s ink, midnight fortune-telling sessions by flickering candlelight — all of it had ever only drawn a condescending smirk from you. You scoffed, watching in the mirror as your friends huddled together in a tight circle, giggling and peering into darkened glass, trying to glimpse the ghostly silhouette of a future lover. Their whispers mingled with the crackle of melting wax, while you, arms crossed, remained an unshakable bastion of rationality.

But soon, your skepticism began to crack — and the culprit was numbers. Those dry, emotionless digits, the steadfast companions of facts and scientific truth, suddenly turned against you like mocking conspirators. It started simply: repeating numbers chased you with the persistence of a hunter. The moment your gaze absently dropped to the cold glow of your wristwatch, paired digits flashed before your eyes like neon signs in a night city. At first, it felt like a game of hide-and-seek, the numbers choosing the most unexpected moments to appear.

Eleven eleven.

Angel numbers — that’s what believers called them. They haunted you like an earworm, a melody stuck in your head. Anxiety crawled up your spine with icy fingers, your stomach tightening with dread every time those damned numbers flickered into view. Everywhere: on the massive airport displays, blinking among flight schedules; on your laptop screen as you worked late; even on the tiny timer of a child’s toy in a store you passed by.

"Enough already!” you exhaled in irritation, fingers drumming against the tabletop. "Am I losing my mind? Is this even normal?"

Your friend only smiled softly, cradling a warm cup of tea in her hands, steam curling with the scent of bergamot.

"Why get mad? Just make a wish already," she said, disarmingly simple in her solutions — unlike you.

"Just like that?" You shot her a skeptical glance, but her armor wasn’t so easily pierced.

"I don’t know, but maybe if you tell the universe 'enough,' it’ll stop?" There was no mockery in her voice, only genuine concern mixed with her signature laid-back attitude.

"I don’t believe in this stuff," you brushed her off, but doubt crept into your tone.

"Then just try it once. What’s the worst that could happen? You’re the one who says it’s not serious anyway."

You slowly licked your lips, the stickiness of sweet soda lingering. Thoughtfully, your gaze shifted from your friend to the antique clock on the café wall — its polished copper hands mercilessly counting time.

"Fine…" Your voice trembled faintly with resolve. "Then tomorrow, at exactly eleven-eleven, let something happen that puts an end to this! Something I’ll know is the answer! And —" Catching your friend’s warning look, you hastily added, "Something good!"

And just like that, you forgot about the wish, the way dreams vanish with the morning light. Life carried on, night draped the city in its dark blanket, smoothing out the chaos of your thoughts. Your mind buzzed with mundane worries — unpaid bills stamped in red, broken headphones that left you with only the city’s noise, mud-stained laces on brand-new sneakers. There was no room left for that impulsive, half-hearted wish you’d tossed into the air.

But somewhere in the celestial spheres, the gears of the universe hummed softly, the great mechanism turning— your wish had been filed in the right place, stamped with the necessary seals.

Soon, everything would be decided.

~~~~~

The gloomy morning offered no comfort — November’s sky, heavy and gray, poured relentless cold rain onto the streets. You’d forgotten your umbrella, and now you were doomed to be soaked to the bone.

No headphones, the subway far away, all that remained was the radio station of your own disgruntled thoughts: your carefully styled hair now ruined, your supposedly waterproof mascara betraying you in black streaks down your cheeks. You were the least prepared for a wish to come true — but that’s fate’s irony. It always delivers when you least expect it.

An umbrella snapped open above your head with a rich, almost ceremonious sound — smooth, like silk. You looked up, meeting the gaze of a kind stranger. A tall man with noble features, his eyes holding the calm of a still lake — no trace of sleazy pickup lines or cheap flirtation.

"Thanks…" you murmured, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. Your eyes dropped to your feet, where you noticed — with fresh annoyance — that your shoelaces were dirty again.

"Don’t mention it. Not pleasant to get drenched, and the subway’s still a ways off. You’re headed there, right?" His voice was deep, enveloping, like good whiskey. "By the way, do you happen to know the time? I’m afraid I might be late."

"The time? Oh, right…" You slowly raised your wrist, then blinked, disbelieving. "Eleven minutes past eleven…"

The words hung in the air, heavy with realization. You lowered your hand, something clicking into place, though you still couldn’t quite believe it.

The stranger nodded gratefully, adjusting his grip on the umbrella handle. Silence settled between you, broken only by your synchronized footsteps—not rushed, but steady. The rain kept up its monotonous song against the black nylon.

"So, do you…" you began cautiously, surprising yourself with your own boldness, "believe in signs? Like… fateful encounters?"

You couldn’t believe your own ears — you sounded like a complete charlatan. But you needed to know: was this your wish coming true? And worse, the question sounded like the most awkward attempt at flirting in history, making you blush like an overripe tomato.

The rain intensified, hammering against the fabric in a sudden downpour. The man’s silence wasn’t uncomfortable — it felt thoughtful, as if he were weighing each word carefully.

"I’m quite skeptical about many things, but…" His gaze drifted forward, then back to you. You could feel him looking at you — studying your ear, your cheek — so palpably, so unnervingly warm. "I’ll admit, lately I’ve been thinking about signs. I couldn’t ignore the repeating numbers on the clock. Maybe it does mean something?"

You burned from your roots to your ears, which now glowed like Christmas lights. Your heart pounded violently, heat flooding your face.

You didn’t get a chance to finish your thought — the stranger spoke again, his voice softer now. Not polite small talk, but something warmer. Something like genuine interest.

"My name is Kento Nanami. And yours? We’ve still got a long walk to the subway…"

Maybe the universe really does listen when someone asks sincerely.

Or maybe it’s all just a stupid coincidence—how hard could it be, in a city this big, to find someone who thinks even a little like you?

Everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.

Mark Twain.

Yoichi Isagi has a dirty little secret, and he hides it masterfully beneath layers of shadows cast by his flawless reputation.

An innocent blue-eyed boy in a snow-white shirt, yet beneath his sleeves lie hundreds of tricks and a card sharp’s sleight of hand. A cherubic face straight from a Renaissance painting — delicate, almost soft features, as if molded from church candle wax. His emotions are easy to read, and Isagi doesn’t bother hiding them: the blush on his cheeks and his flustered expression betray an innate modesty, while his wide, shining eyes glow with such pristine purity that you want to both protect and defile him at the same time.

A dazzling, untouched naivety — terrifying to taint, yet so tempting to stain with sweet sin.

His youthful propriety is a suit tailored by his own hands. Not a single wrinkle out of place, every button fastened primly up to his throat. The armor of his manners gleams like that of a noble knight — Isagi is a statue carved from white marble, flawless in every way. His classmates clap him on the shoulder with careless camaraderie; his teachers have nothing to say about him except “model student"; the girls in his year adore him for his politeness.

Obedient. Well-mannered. An impeccable boy. Not a speck of dirt on the canvas of his reputation.

To them, he will forever remain trapped behind this mask of perfection, this obedient reflection of others’ expectations — the kind of boy who blushes at the mere hint of something forbidden, like a schoolboy after his first kiss.

But you — you are the sole keeper of his secret and his primary accomplice in sin. You alone know the other Isagi.

The one who burns your neck with impatient breaths. The one whose usual calm, dark lake-like eyes turn into bottomless abysses the moment the curtain of intimacy falls between you. The other Isagi — the one whose silence speaks louder than words, whose gaze scorches your skin like a tangible touch.

In these moments, the porcelain facade of propriety shatters. The marble of his manners cracks, revealing the shapeshifter beneath the saintly mask. His hesitant gestures — the ones that make his classmates smile indulgently — turn into the predatory movements of someone who knows exactly which strings to pull to wrench a desperate, pleading gasp from your lips. A sinner, he knows the score of your body by heart and plays it with virtuosic precision, ruthlessly coaxing out notes you never knew existed. And Yoichi tolerates no false notes.

Your name on his lips is a sinner’s prayer, one that seeks no redemption. His fingers read you like a blind man reads Braille — slowly, deliberately, missing not a single impression on the thick paper.

Isagi’s favorite pastime is muffling your moans, one after another, with the soft press of his palm over your mouth. How criminally sweet it is to pin you against the wall of this dusty storage room, whispering filth into your ear that soaks your underwear in seconds.

Your secret game had no name, but it had rules — you tell no one about the real Isagi, and he tells no one how submissive and pliant you become when he orders you to lift your skirt.

A saint in public, a devil in private — Isagi murmurs obscenities in an angel’s voice, making you beg for sin and repent for it all at once. And that is his true nature: the immaculate shell of the "perfect boy" is just a thin veneer. Deceptively white, fragile — but scratch it just a little, and beneath the cracks, you’ll find molten steel.

But your game is nearing its end today. Your breathing steadies, with only the flush on your cheeks as evidence of your sin. Isagi smooths your ragged breaths with kisses to your forehead, like a priest granting absolution. As if *he* weren’t the reason you needed it in the first place…

Flustered, he adjusts the collar of his school shirt — wrinkled by your hands — and dons his everyday halo of innocence, transforming back into the boy who’ll blush when you call him *"cutie"* in front of everyone.

To the rest of the world, he’s an old riddle with a known answer. *Yoichi Isagi?* A polite young man who flusters at a simple compliment, helps carry your heavy bags home, and lets you copy his notes.

Tomorrow, he’ll be the model Isagi again. He’ll stutter, blush, avert his gaze — pretending not to notice how your pulse races under his fingers as they brush your wrist. His gaze will skim the curve of your neck with deceptive innocence, searching for the marks of his teeth, the accidental evidence left behind by the beast beneath. And you, staring into the endless blue of his guileless eyes, will quickly look away.

You’ll smile to yourself.

Denji x fem reader

- As an adult, Denji has grown cautious. He’s learned to read people and become less trusting. His old recklessness has morphed into a kind of street-smart audacity — the sort that helps those who grew up rough survive. He rarely charges headfirst into fights anymore; most of the time, he avoids physical confrontations altogether, intimidating others with just a glare and his aura. There’s a lingering skepticism in his eyes — sad as it is to admit, Denji has grown up, hardened against his will, and armored himself against the world. The pain of losing those close to him has locked his heart away behind seven locks.

- He often has nightmares. He wakes up drenched in sweat, tangled in the sheets, sometimes screaming. Gasping for air, he trembles through the aftershocks before crawling into your arms. You stroke his light hair, whisper soothing words — and only then does he drift back to sleep. You often suggest seeing a doctor to help him, but he just scowls and insists he’s fine. He sees no point — he’s memorized every one of his nightmares by now.

- Adult Denji has learned to save money. Not because he’s become some financially savvy Wall Street wolf — he just realized how nice it feels to buy ice cream without a second thought. That became his motivation. It’s comforting to know he can afford bread tomorrow, or slightly fancier shampoo. Over time, he got the hang of it and realized that managing money right means he can take his girl on nice dates or buy her little trinkets that make her smile.

- In his head, he often talks to Power. Not that she’s some kind of authority — those honors would probably go to Aki. It’s just that sometimes, he misses his old self — the carefree, scrawny idiot with sharp elbows and ribs visible under his skin. So he bickers with Power in his mind and brags to her that he’s finally touched real boobs.

- He still works as a hunter, but half-heartedly, cutting corners and skipping shifts. He prefers normal, human jobs — sometimes as a mover, sometimes a janitor. All he wants is to live decently: not starve, sleep peacefully, and, of course, have love in his life. He’d rather go to the movies with you than lie in a pool of blood after a brawl. His priorities shifted around age nineteen — Denji realized he promised Pochita to live his best life, and in his eyes, the best life is a quiet, well-fed one.

- Dating girls… was tricky. Sure, Denji has learned to understand emotions, but he still says out loud what others wouldn’t even dare think. His tongue is a razor, and he couldn’t care less about taboos. Sometimes he realizes too late that he’s said too much — but by then, the damage is done.

- The way he fell for you… was strange. At first, it was your looks — he liked your hair. He wanted to bury his nose in it, run his fingers through it. But the real world isn’t all sunshine: you snapped at him for staring, he shot back with "Can’t I?", and you ended up fighting over nothing. Then it turned out he was your neighbor…

- Denji is incredibly affectionate. Yeah, he looks like a sharp-toothed jackal, but he still kisses hesitantly, as if asking for permission — even months into your relationship.

- His sexuality is a mix of desire and awkwardness. His persistence and the way he whispers tenderly in your ear drives you wild. "I want you, but… you sure you want this too? ‘Cause I—I mean, just say if you change your mind, okay?" He hates pressuring people — dominance isn’t his thing. After craving human warmth for so long, forcing affection is the last thing he’d ever do.

- Surprisingly tender when caring for you. He’ll nurse you back to health, feed you soup, carry you to the bath if needed. He’ll wash you, change you into clean clothes, reheat broth. Sometimes he stays awake just to lazily trace the back of your hand with his finger or swap out the compress on your forehead. He hardly ever gets sick himself — wounds heal fast, colds avoid him. Even if he goes out in a T-shirt in winter, the flu steers clear.

- You remember your first time. Despite Denji’s efforts, it was a disaster. But that’s love — it teaches patience, so you didn’t laugh, just decided to teach him the delicate art of intimacy. Over time, he became more attentive in bed. Awkwardness gave way to confidence — Denji’s a good student. He aced the theory; now he’s acing the practice.

- Denji loves kissing — for hours, even. To him, it’s a form of relaxation that doesn’t have to lead to sex. But there’s one moment that always sparks the prelude — when, at your request, he pulls off his T-shirt, and you stare at his messy hair and flushed cheeks.

- He adores when you touch his hair. He goes pliant, even closes his eyes, letting out quiet, teeth-clenched moans. He gets flustered but turned on when he hears your sounds. "Don’t stay quiet," he pleads, sometimes holding back just to watch your face and listen to you.

- If you’re on top, he stares at you, spellbound. His gaze is hot but full of adoration — almost puppy-like. It embarrasses you to no end, but it also drives you crazy.

- Addicted to cola. Later became addicted to Fanta. Loves soda to death, especially trying new flavors. Those neon-blue drinks? Fascinating. When you grumble that it’s pure chemicals, he grumbles back, "It’s blackberry Fanta, okay?!"

- Sleeps naked in summer—"natural ventilation" and all that. In winter? Strictly pajamas. His body still remembers those freezing nights in that rickety old house, so some habits won’t die. It’s sad — you’d think enough time has passed.

- Surprisingly, Denji’s got golden hands. He can build a sturdy stool following a YouTube tutorial, fix a leaky faucet, or replace a cracked kitchen backsplash tile. He’s baffled by your amazement. "It’s not that hard," he says.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆ Bakugou Katsuki x fem reader ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆

To you, heavy with intoxication and shamelessly reckless, it seemed as though sensual music was pouring from the very walls. In reality, it was just your battered old speaker blaring — your downstairs neighbor banged on the radiator a couple of times before giving up, realizing it was pointless. The singer’s sultry voice lured you to the center of the room—you wanted to sway your hips, toss your hair, melt into the song about tender love and jealousy.

The pulse of the melody matched your uneven breathing — alcohol had been whispering through your veins for hours, blurring the edges of reality, turning your room into a neon-lit dance floor of drunken fantasies. Out of nowhere, neon lights stabbed your vision, mirrors reflected hazy violet glows, and you were catastrophically giddy — until your gaze landed on Bakugou, your sober and very displeased bodyguard, brooding in the corner. His aura of irritation shattered your carefree mood like an axe splitting wood — mercilessly, into splinters.

The lamp cast soft, hazy shapes across the walls, making your tiny room feel unnaturally large — or was it just the alcohol warping space? You slumped against the wall with a drunken grin — oh, how nice, the cool surface soothing your burning cheeks. Your head spun, thoughts trickling like a slow, careless waterfall into nothingness. Nothing matters. Nowhere to be. No one to bother you…

Except Bakugou. Oh, he bothered you. Not with words, just his presence alone. His gaze burned your skin like midday sun, like the spark of a firework — sharp, searing. He sat in his corner, a silent judge of your revelry, and for some reason, it only made you want to dance more wildly.

Bakugou wasn’t just looming — he had you by the scruff like a misbehaving kitten, saying more with his silence than words ever could. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

"Don’t look at me like that, Katsuki! I don’t wanna sober up… C’mon, dance with me?"

Stumbling but stubborn, you reached for the volume knob — louder, louder, your grip on sanity slipping further. The rhythm was intoxicating, your body moving on its own, legs blissfully numb. Your mind floated in a sweet, toxic haze — while Katsuki glared daggers at you. He definitely wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of hauling your drunk ass home from whatever bar you’d celebrated who-the-hell-knows-what in.

"Fucking idiot," Bakugou thought, watching your clumsy movements. "Could’ve at least warned me you were planning to get wasted. Now I’m stuck cleaning up."

But even through his irritation, he couldn’t look away — something about your looseness, your stupid, reckless abandon, hooked him deeper than he’d ever admit.

"Bakugoooo, dance with me!" you purred, swaying toward him.

"Dance by yourself!" he barked back. You just laughed.

Right now, his name wasn’t Katsuki Bakugo — it was Displeasure Incarnate. A deep scowl cut between his brows as you staggered dangerously close to the sharp edge of the dresser. Finally, with an exaggerated eye-roll and a grunt, he slapped his palm over the offending corner. Damn it all.

Of course, you didn’t notice. In your drunken haze, you thought he was reaching to change the song. With a delighted squea — too energetic for someone this plastered —you grabbed his wrist and hit skip on the speaker.

The music shifted — slow, heavy bass thrummed through your chest, pulling you into a lazy spin. You swayed, but your legs betrayed you, forcing you to grab at walls, furniture — Bakugou. The alcohol’s effects were shifting: where it had once buzzed through you, now it dragged at your limbs, weighing down your eyelids.

But you weren’t about to surrender.

"Oooh, such a sexy song! Hey, I wanted to waltz with you, Katsukiii… Wait, no—hic!—ugh, stupid hiccups! I meant, like… a striptease? No — waltz! A waltz!"

Bakugou watched your flailing with the expression of a man sentenced to suffer the consequences of someone else’s fun. His irritation was etched into the tight line of his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders — and then, just to test him, you grabbed his hands and planted them on your waist.

The blond flushed to his roots. His throat went dry, palms sweating instantly.

"The hell is she doing?!" His mind short-circuited, little explosions popping behind his eyes. Your touch burned through him, your gaze too trusting, too close.

He was used to your sober sarcasm, your sharp tongue, the way you bickered until you were both hoarse. But now? You were looking at him like he was —

What was he to you, anyway? You called him a friend, but since when did friends cling like this? Since when did you drunk-dial him first to whine? Since when did you grope his knees in a taxi, cackling like a lunatic? Not very fucking friendly.

Doubt flickered in his eyes, and Bakugou stiffened. Enough. It was past midnight, and you still wouldn’t quit. He’d laugh at you tomorrow when you woke up mortified.

"Dance? Hell no! Turn this shit off, now!"

He lunged for the speaker. Silence crashed over the room, dousing you like ice water. Without the music, your ragged breathing and pounding heart were deafening. Sweat-damp strands stuck to your forehead, your cheeks flushed, your body uselessly drunk.

Reality crept back in, hammering your skull with the realization that you could barely stand. Bakugou loomed over you in the dim light, and suddenly, you felt small.

"Goddammit… You’re piss-drunk, and you still wanna dance? You’re gonna puke, and guess who’s cleaning it up? Not you."

His hands slid from your waist to your shoulders — firm, not rough, forcing you to focus through the fog. His responsibility for you pricked like a mosquito, trying to pierce your drunken armor. You stared at him, but were you even seeing him? His lips moved, but your ears were stuffed with cotton. Your brain supplied only one thought: “Wow… Katsuki’s so damn pretty, even when he’s mad…"

Bakugou, oblivious to your admiration, was still lecturing. He was fuming, every inch of him tense — why were you so…

Clueless. Naive. With those big fucking eyes— how was he supposed to stay mad?

A defeated sigh.

"Listen up, brat. You’re a drunk vegetable now, so you’re gonna drink water and pass out. Tomorrow’s gonna suck — prepare yourself."

It was clear you weren’t processing anything. And why were you looking at him like that? Lips parted, eyes wide and trusting — something twisted in his chest. Unfamiliar. Annoying. He looked away sharply.

"Go the fuck to sleep. Now."

Steel laced his voice. He yanked your sheets straight, fluffed your pillow with aggressive precision. You crawled into bed with a pout, limbs tangling in the blankets.

"Please… tuck me in…"

Bakugou watched, counting to ten in his head. How did he always end up babysitting drunk idiots?

The mattress dipped as he sat beside you. Unbelievable — you had the nerve to pout when he was indulging you!

"Fine. But if you don’t sleep immediately, I’m leaving."

Your shoes hit the wall with a thud — he’d tugged them off gently, then thrown them like they’d personally offended him. The blanket was tucked with military precision, which you immediately kicked off. Useless struggle.

"Sleep, damn you," he muttered, his voice softening against his will. "Lucky I put up with your drunk ass at all."

The nightlight bathed the room in warm shadows, your face almost peaceful in the glow. Almost innocent. He stood, reaching for the switch.

“Just be sober by morning, dumbass."

“Don’t go…"

You grabbed his sleeve with surprising strength. “Stay with me… You’re cozy!"

Bakugou froze, thanking every god that the dark hid his burning ears. What kind of nonsense was that? You were his friend — since when was he cozy? Last night, you’d tried to kick him in the shin!

“Have you lost your damn mind?!" he snapped automatically. “I’m not lying here with you! The fuck’s wrong with you?!"

His words said one thing — his traitorous legs said another, carrying him back to the bed. Whatever. If he left, you might choke on your own vomit. Someone had to watch you.

“Fine. But if you don’t pass out in two seconds, I’m gone. Got it?"

His jacket hit the chair with a thump. He flopped onto the blanket, careful to keep distance — just in case.

“In case she pukes on me," he decided, satisfied with his logic.

“Idiot…" he grumbled at the ceiling.

“Idiot… sleeping now…" Your voice was slurred, exhaustion finally winning. The alcohol pressed down, heavy and warm.

Bakugou shifted, ready to bolt the second you were out. “Just stay still," he told himself. “Leave when she’s asleep." But your warmth beside him, your breath against his neck — when had you ever been this close?And why didn’t it feel wrong?

“The hell’s wrong with me?"

Sleep took you slowly. First, your hand slipped off the pillow, brushing his shoulder. Then, instinctively, you curled toward his heat. Bakugou stiffened when you nestled against his side, your breath steadying against his collarbone. Finally asleep.

He lay like a statue. Every exhale against his neck sent a pulse through him. His ears rang, cheeks burning. Your body fit too well against his. And against all logic, his arm slid around your waist.

“Drunk idiot," he whispered — no bite, just something aching and tender. An admission.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending you were just friends.

His fingers traced your side through the fabric, pulling the blanket up like a shield against the cold. His ruby eyes gleamed in the dark, fixed on your tranquil face. This quiet, this closeness — it felt right, in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Sweet dreams, dumbass."

Tomorrow, he’d curse himself for this weakness. He’d rage at the lines he’d crossed. But tonight, wrapped in darkness and your trust, he didn’t care.

Guess you were done playing friends.