Synopsis: You, a young aristocratic lady, are betrothed to Lord Nanami, and on the faithful day, you have a picnic with him, you witness a scandelous young couple make love across the lake.
content: arranged marriage, voyeurism, accidental voyeurism, vaginal fingering, oral sex, praise kink, wife kink, eventual smut, freak4freak
(treating this shit like the ao3 tag system lol)
Your arranged marriage to Lord Nanami can be considered simply that, an arranged marriage. You are certain to some degree that he has never laid eyes upon you, but have laid your eyes on him.Â
Your father does not know that you had watched him, to some degree, from afar at some aristocrat's family ball. You had merely passed, barely presented yourself, and then left before your father could tell you something crass about being at a ball unchaperoned. Lord Nanami is described, and you do agree to a level, handsome with light blonde hair and eyes as blue as the sky.Â
Youâve never heard of any rumors, for the maids talk and talk about everything. So he must be that of all society saysâŠa handsome match. That is at least what your father says. âA handsome match for a beautiful, capable daughter of mine.â
However, you feel guilty. Your father praises your sweet and handsome ways, but you know something that all others do not. Unlike the many innocent ladies of society, thereâs something inside you that's different. You seek out pleasure in ways society does not.Â
It is unheard of for a lady to sit in the hay that feeds the horses and stare at the ceiling, imagining the stable boy forcing her to the floor and kissing her cheek. You can count how many times youâve sat on the hay, hitching your dress and harassing your skin until you sing the heavens' name.Â
âLord Nanami and his brother will be here shortly. You should make yourself presentable for your future husband.â Your maid, Eleonar, as she dresses you in a gown of sea-green sarcenet, the high empire waist cinched with a narrow ribbon.Â
The skirt falls in a slender, graceful column to your ankles, finished at the hem with delicate silver embroidery. Your arms are encased in white kid-leather gloves that met your puffed sleeves, and a simple string of pearls caught the candlelight at your throat. âI am being sent to be slaughtered.â
Your maid furrows her eyebrows, displeasure quickly taking over her face, âRubbish. You are not, Miss Y/N. You are a distinguished young lady.â And she says all that while clasping the pearl earrings, and making sure each strand in your hair is not out of place.Â
When you travel downstairs, your eyes quickly fall upon the esteemed Lord Nanami and his brother, Lord Hiromi. In truth, you enjoyed watching Lord Nanami from afar.Â
You liked how his eyes twitched once he heard something, and how he could not control his face, for he always showed his displeasure. His hands are big, and you can see the light veins running from them into his jacket.Â
But your favoriteâŠis his voice.Â
They speak in hushed voices, but thereâs a set of eyes on you, sky blue ones that trace your every movement, as if trying to see through your very thoughts.
You barely make it downstairs when your father finally waltzes to your side. âOh, and here is Y/N. Youâve finally made it down, dear.â
You lightly curtsy, âGood evening, Lord Nanami,â you say, trying to avoid his piercing eyes somehow, then turn with curtsy again, âLord Hiromi.â
Lord Hiromi smiles, âMy, your daughter has every ounce of beauty that you so humbly speak of.â
Your father gives a meek thanks, âA small picnic has been prepared for the betrothed, so I must trouble you.â
Lord Nanami doesnât say anything for a long time; he simply stares at you until he turns to your father and shakes his head, âNo trouble at all.â
You find Lord Nanamiâs voice to be that of honeysuckle and of chamomile tea. Pleasant, soft, and yet strong. He doesnât raise his voice, and he seems to always speak with a disposition that says, âI am on par with those in here, I will not shoutâ.Â
Lord Hitomi and your father begin to walk outside, and as you move to follow behind, youâre stopped by Lord Nanamiâs hand in front of you. He stares at you, blue eyes barely lit by the small rays of sunlight dashing through the unprotected windows.Â
You slide your hand into his, and itâs as though electricity has flashed through your very being, opening your soul. Youâve never encountered love, for you believe theyâre simply chemicals inside the head driving one's actions.
Desire is the same, but at least desire does not leave you dry and make you cry. But then again, youâve never fallen in love, and all youâve ever heard is of the many ladies whoâve had their hearts broken simply for âloveâ.
Lord Nanami lets you lead him. As odd as it seems, you walk in front and drag him along, not unlike a dog, but unlike a dog, he doesnât pull on the leash, wishing to release himself. Instead, he walks and walks until heâs next to you, and you can smell the faintest scent of smoke and wood.Â
You both trail behind Lord Hiromi and your father until you arrive at a small table and two chairs, while your father and Lord Hiromi move along the lake, speaking and paying no attention to you both.Â
You begin to sip on a hot cup of tea, letting your eye rest for a second on Lord Nanami. âTell me, Lord Nanami, some ladies have spoken of your desire to have a house full of laughing children. Is that true?â
Youâre a liar. Youâve never heard of such a thing. You are simply a bold lady who wants to poke and understand.
He shakes his head, eyes trained on you, âI desire what my wife desires.â
âShould she desire to never bear children, will you desire that as well?â
âIf that is what she desires,â He speaks finally, and his arms fall, and for a second, something flashes in his eyes. A hint of pityâŠa hint of disappointment, perhaps. You canât tell. Youâve never been great at reading people. âThen so be it.â
You hum, placing the cup down. Lord Nanami never takes his eyes off you, and you feel somewhat scrutinized under the weight of his sight. Itâs a pleasant feeling. To have someone like lord Nanami, picking at your every movement, trying to dissect the way you walk, speak, or move.
You feel like a bird, open though not yet pliant, lying on a dissection table, while Nanami holds a scapel, grazing the sharp edge against your thigh, neck, and stomach. You wonder for a second how his skin may feel against your stomach.
How would his nail feel digging into the flesh of your hip or calf? Is Lord Nanami a gentle lover? Is he rough? Is he loud?Â
âDo I make you nervous, Miss Y/N?â
You pick your eyes, finally staring into his, while the sun whisks into your skin and the calm wind caresses your hair. A bird chirps somewhere near you and him, its voice carried through the wind like a small angel. âYes.â
âWhy?â
You arenât sure what to say. There seem to be not enough words to describe how you feel for Lord Nanami. How his voice makes your skin quiver, and how he looks at you as though you are a cherub, about to bewitch his heart. âYou look at me as though you are seeing...through me.â
âDoes that bother you?â
âNo.â In fact, it makes you like Lord Nanami more than you should. Though he will be your husband, you are certain that he will not satisfy your unworldly appetite for your flesh is simply insatiable.
You donât realise that the sun has gone low, and the sky has turned a dark with hues of orange and pink. âI want to watch the ducklings before we end our day.â You say, and quickly walk away from Lord Nanami, glancing back to see him sitting unmoving in his chair.
Youâre not disappointed. Well, a small part of you is, but youâve always enjoyed your space, and in some way, youâre glad he does not hover. You cross into the woods, far back into the pile of tall dark oak trees, long dress smothered in dirt.Â
Youâre a good distance from Lord Nanami, and from where you are, no one can see you. Not Lord Nanami. Not your father. Not Lord Hiromi. Not the young couple, across the lake.Â
You squat down, unmoving. Your limbs feel heavy, and though you know you should get up and walk away, youâre unable to tear your eyes away from the young man, caressing the woman through her dress. They tumble from the tree to the ground, and he kisses every one of her limbs, until sheâs squealing.Â
Your body burns, and it takes too much willpower for your fingers to lie to rest on the dry grass. When the young man disappears into her long, dark blue dress, you cup your breast, pinching the bud as a lightning bolt of pain strikes your knees.Â
You donât feel him, not until he has you trapped, underneath the weight of his body. Lord Nanami holds you, strong arms wrapped around your very being, a hand quickly clasping down on your mouth, stopping you from screaming.Â
His arm tightens around your waist, and your lungs squeeze inside your ribcage. Youâre breathing too heavily, eyes still on the woman as her skin turns pink. Saliva should be coating the side of her mouth, you think, feeling the warmth of Lord Nanamiâs clothing surround your skin.Â
âDoes this excite you, Miss Y/N?â He whispers in your ear, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. The hand on your lips falls, quickly forming a fist at the end of your dress, while his right arm is still wrapped around your stomach.Â
A sigh escapes your lips as his lips crawl to the side of your neck, just behind your ear. A violent shudder crosses your flesh. âIâŠI amâŠâ
âHer pleasure will never reach the pleasure I will give you,â he whispers, and you can feel his breath travel up to your cheekbone, âFor in our wedding night, I will imprint your bones on my skin, and I will lay my heart for you.âÂ
It is indecent, the way his hand quickly twists your face to his, and the way his tongue caresses yours. He breaths in your air, stealing every ounce until your lungs feel as though they will collapse.Â
âLord Nanami,â you whisper along his cheek, as he parts from you.Â
âKento.â He says, âCall me Kento. Call me your husband. Say anything but my last name, for we will not be strangers for long, and I want to hear your voice.â
He presses your lips to the corner of his mouth, and you can now breathe in the scent of sweat and smoke, and you can see the tiny indentation of hair on his cheek. âKento.â
âSay it again.â
Again. âKento. My husband.â
A sigh, akin to a moan, falls from his lips, and your limbs quiver until a hand slips from his hold and grabs onto his first. âTouch me.â
His hand slips under your dress, nails raking against the small peach fuzz on your legs, traveling to wear your bloomers outta be. You're naked under, and a blush seeps into your cheeks. Kento does not comment on it; he lays his hand on your mound, as youâre cheek to cheek.Â
The world rotates for a second, and then youâre on the ground, green grass caressing your hair and skin. You gasp before Kento disappears under your skirt, and the feel of a tongue makes you arch. Kentoâs tongue caresses your sensitive, swollen bud, suckling and groaning against it, until blood rushes through your ear and you can barely hear yourself breathe. âKento.â
Your legs rest on top of his shoulder, while his tongue parts your folds, flat tongue licking you from the bottom up. His warm mouth closes around the nub again, and his tongue circles around it until he sucks, and the end of your heel digs into his clothing. Kento groans against your body, sensing vibrations across your skin, until each sound he pulls from you grows louder and louder, matching that of the squawking birds fluttering in around you.Â
The pit of your stomach grows hot, and your spine shakes against the earth. You hitch your dress around your stomach, gasping until your nails dig into Kentoâs blonde strands, and you rut your hips against his face. âKento,â you whimper, feeling tears prickle at the corner of your eyes.
Kento. Kento. Kento.Â
His name falls from your lips like some enchanted mantra, floating in the sky while he fucks into you, tongue slipping inside your sopping hole. You flutter against him, riding his face, while small tears begin to soak your cheek.Â
Utterly indecent and filthy.Â
âInside.â The words leave your lips, and yet they feel foreign. Everything inside you is begging for Kento to lay his claim, unabashed by societal conventions and the fact that your wedding is two days away. Your body shakes in the warmth of the grass. A heap of pleasure runs through your veins, and something inside of you runs through your body until the base of your spine shakes.Â
Your peak makes you pull on Kentoâs hair, blood traveling around your ears, while you shake and shiver, sobbing into the air. Hot tears fill your cheeks as Kento appears from your dress, mouth soaked, with dusted pink cheeks.Â
âI can not defile you before we are wed, but I want...â he breathes, capturing your lips into a blistering kiss. He takes you apart, slowly and clumsily, while a finger runs from your thigh to your mound. When he parts, he lies on your side, nose bumping your soaked cheek, â...you to feel me. Feel my fingersâŠfeel how I ache for you.â
From the side, you can feel him on your dress, like a rock pressing against your back. The finger on your mound dips between your folds, caressing the pearl, and pulling a meek whimper from your lips. Your thighs clamp up, a rush of oversensitivity setting in.Â
âFeelâŠâ you breathe out, quickly holding onto his forearm until your nails dig into the material of his clothing.Â
âItâll feel good, wife,â he whispers, rutting into the side of your dress, while he licks your hot tears, âI promise.â
A sense of fullness envelopes your stomach as he buries his finger inside you, thumb quickly caressing the swollen pearl. He thrusts it inside, humming as you gasp and bite down on your lip. Your hips buck into his fingers, as another one slides inside, and he curls them, touching an odd spot that makes you sob into his neck.Â
The pace of his fingers matches his own erratic thrust against your dress. Filthy groans and praises fall from his lips, âSo good for me,â he groans, hips jerking and twitching, while you tremble in on the grass. âIâll make such good use of your sopping cunt on ourâŠwedding day.â
A choked moan leaves your lips, and you bite down on your bottom lip as a rush of heat passes through your belly, and everything feels nice and warm. Your heels dig into the dirt, while you clench around Kentoâs fingers. Next to you, a shudder passes through his body, and a loud, strangled groan echoes in your ear as Kento rides out his own peak.Â
It also feels like an eternity after Kento slides his fingers out of you. The soft glow of the orange sky, combined with your loud, heaving breath mingling together, felt like something out of one of those filthy romance books youâve secretly read.
âIf I may speakâŠIâve never lain with anyone,â Kento begins, âThere was once an occurrence in which I was taken to a brothel, per my brother, but it never led toâŠthe action. In truth, after your father proposed the marriage, thoughts of others disappeared.â
You turn your head to him, a smile barely peeking from your cheeks, seeing a meek pink tint in his cheeks, âAre you professing your love to me Kento?â
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summary. in a city where the trains never stop sighing and the lights hum like confession, a man meets the woman he once silenced. a year has passed since she left him â since his craving for quiet turned her laughter into dust. their eyes meet across the trembling fluorescence of a subway platform, and in that gaze, he sees it: the ruin he built with careful hands. that night, he returns home to an immaculate apartment â untouched, obedient, clean â and realizes that this order is a mausoleum. that the peace he longed for is the stillness of decay. he will make tea he cannot drink, stare at books he cannot read, and wish â in the awful intimacy of regret â that he had let her bite him, bleed him, scar him, if only so her fire could remain near.
words count. 7k
triggers/warnings. angst, poetic prose, tragedy, emotional devastation, philosophical introspection, age gap relationship, quiet man / loud woman dynamic, non-sorcerer au, lost love, regret, heartbreak, existential longing, silence as violence, slow burn to silence, emotional neglect, quiet breakdown, romantic nihilism, long grief,
nanami kento was the kind of man who didnât need to raise his voice to command attention. he lived in quiet sentences and deliberate pauses, in pressed shirts and silent sighs, in the faint clink of glass as he poured himself whiskey after a long day. there was a rhythm to his existence â one that moved like the ticking of an expensive watch, steady, restrained, almost holy in its precision. he was a man who carried discipline the way others carried arrogance; not loud, not showy, just present â sharp, clean, and frighteningly consistent.
he had the sort of posture that made people straighten their own, the kind of expression that never quite gave anything away but said everything all at once. he wasnât cold, not truly, but there was something about him that made warmth feel like something you had to earn. there was tenderness under all that quiet composure, buried deep under years of solitude and work and the kind of exhaustion that clings to a person whoâs too responsible for his own good.
he was a creature of habit. same route to work, same brand of cologne, same reserved smile when the barista asked if he wanted his usual. nanami kento was order in the form of a man â the calm after a storm, the pause between breaths, the silence after an orchestra ends. and yet, somewhere under that meticulous rhythm, there was a heart that ached for something unpredictable. something alive. something that wasnât made of routine or resignation.
and that something was you.
you â with your too-loud laughter and your chipped nail polish and your hair that never stayed the way you wanted it to. you, who stumbled through life like you were dancing on uneven floors and never quite cared enough to find your balance. where nanami was structure, you were chaos in perfume and silk â running late, forgetting your keys, crying over movies youâd already watched five times.
he was the man who folded his sleeves neatly. you were the girl who left lipstick stains on coffee cups and forgot to return texts for three days because you were too busy chasing some fleeting thought that led nowhere. he thought before speaking; you spoke before thinking. he moved with quiet certainty; you ran into walls just to prove you could survive the crash.
nanami read philosophy before bed. you fell asleep with your phone still glowing beside your face. he liked the smell of rain on pavement; you liked how it drenched you until you felt raw and human again.
and yet, despite every difference â every age, every habit, every deliberate calm against your wild fire â he found himself drawn to you like it was inevitable.
you were twenty-two, all youth and noise and color. reckless, with a laugh that could slice through his silence, with words that sometimes hurt but always meant something. you didnât fit into his world, didnât belong to the stillness heâd built for himself, but god, you made it feel alive again.
you were the chaos he pretended he didnât want.
and he â he was the quiet you didnât know you needed.
sometimes, a loud he craves can be too much for the silence he has lived in. you are that loud, that thunderstorm in his otherwise muted sky â the kind that smells of rain before it falls, beautiful and reckless, cleansing and destructive all the same. nanami kento was a man who adored quiet, the kind of silence that hummed softly against his ribs, the stillness that lived in dimly lit rooms where pages turned and clocks ticked. but you â you were sound. the pulse of music spilling from the bathroom when you got ready, laughter echoing through the kitchen at odd hours, the sound of your heels clicking too fast on marble floors, like life itself refused to slow down around you.
and yet, when work became too much, when the city had screamed its noise into his skull and the world had demanded too much of his bones, he found himself craving the stillness he once lived for â silence, comfort, warmth, maybe a cup of tea and his old copy of dostoevsky, alone. not because he wanted to be without you, but because sometimes love, no matter how tender, still burns too bright.
donât get him wrong â the man loved you, too much. he loved the way your laughter filled a room like sunlight, careless and pure. he loved the way you threw your head back when you found something truly funny, how the sound would break into a small snort when it became too much, and how youâd clutch your stomach, gasping for air with cheeks flushed pink and eyes bright with life. he loved the way you kissed him â urgently, messily, like you were terrified heâd disappear if you didnât anchor him to you. he loved your affection, the way you were never afraid to express it, to say âi love youâ out loud instead of letting it rot in your chest.
but love, sometimes, is heavy.
he sat in his car long after heâd parked, the engine long dead, the hum of the city dulled behind glass. his hands tightened around the steering wheel, the leather creaking softly under the tension in his palms. he inhaled deeply â slow, controlled, the way a soldier might before battle â and for a moment, it felt like that. like war, but the kind that happened quietly, behind closed doors, inside the tender chambers of the heart.
he thought of your face, the way it always lit up when you saw him, how your smile stretched too wide, like the world had been waiting for him to arrive. he thought of your voice, how it filled the silence he once worshipped. and even then, even while imagining that familiar warmth, his chest felt heavy. like something inside him was quietly collapsing, folding into itself, worn down by the weight of loving so deeply, so loudly.
the quiet was shattered by the buzz of his phone.
he blinked once, twice, then reached into the pocket of his slacks, pulling the device out with a kind of reluctant grace. the bright screen illuminated the tired lines under his eyes, and there it was â your name, glowing up at him, followed by a small heart. the one youâd insisted he add beside your name âjust because.â because you said it looked lonely without it.
youâd texted him again, asking if he was on his way.
his thumb hovered over the screen. for a moment â just a moment â he hesitated. youâd texted him more than usual today; he knew it, could feel the cling of your attention even through words on a screen. youâd asked how his day was, if heâd eaten, when heâd be home, if he missed you. all questions wrapped in affection, but somehow, they pressed on the ache in his chest.
he loved you. and yet, tonight, the thought of answering â of pulling himself together to wear that gentle, patient tone he always reserved for you â felt like walking barefoot on glass.
his breath trembled faintly as he exhaled. the air in the car felt dense, almost thick enough to drink. his fingers curled tighter around the phone before he finally locked it, shoving it back into his pocket like hiding a confession he wasnât ready to make.
for the first time in a long while, he didnât text back.
he sat there for another minute, staring at nothing, at the faint reflection of his own face in the window â the tired eyes, the loosened tie, the faint scruff along his jaw. he looked like a man on the edge of something â not quite breaking, but bending.
eventually, he grabbed his bag from the passenger seat, turned the key, and stepped out. the sound of the door shutting echoed softly across the empty parking ground, a hollow sound swallowed by the concrete walls.
his shoes clicked faintly against the floor as he walked toward the elevator, each step methodical, measured. the fluorescent lights above flickered â too bright, too sterile â washing the world in a kind of cold stillness.
inside the elevator, he pressed the button for his floor. the doors slid shut, sealing him into that narrow, mirrored box that smelled faintly of steel and dust and someoneâs cologne from earlier. he stared at his reflection. he looked composed â as always â but his eyes told another story.
a quiet exhaustion. a faint sadness.
he tilted his head slightly, adjusted his tie, and closed his eyes. the hum of the elevator filled the silence, mechanical, steady. he thought of you again â your hair tangled from sleep, your laugh echoing in his kitchen, the way you looked at him like he hung the stars himself. he thought of the way your hands always found him, how your voice always asked if he was okay, even when you already knew the answer.
and god, he loved you for that.
but still â he longed for quiet. not forever. not always. just tonight. just enough to find himself again before your warmth drowned him in its beauty.
the elevator dinged softly. the doors slid open. nanami stepped out, shoulders squared, his heart heavy with a love too loud for the silence he once called home.
he stood in front of his door longer than necessary, hand resting on the doorknob, the metal cool against his palm. the faint hum of music seeped through the door â muffled, alive, careless. that alone told him everything: you were here.
lately, youâd been here more than not. lately, your perfume lingered on his pillows longer than the night allowed, your toothbrush stood beside his like an unspoken promise, your sweaters folded neatly in the corner of his drawers where order used to reign alone. lately, your laughter filled the corners of his quiet life, loud enough to echo long after you were gone. and lately, youâd been clinging to him â more texts, more calls, more where are you? when are you coming home? do you miss me?
he found it endearing, at first. the way you sought him out like he was air and you were lungs that didnât know how to stop breathing. he loved you, god, he did. but lately, your love felt like silk tied too tightly around his throat â beautiful, soft, deadly. you wrapped around him the way ivy climbs stone, inch by inch, without malice, without intent, until the stone forgot what it was to stand alone.
and nanami, for all his quiet endurance, was starting to forget how to breathe.
he closed his eyes, took a slow breath â once, twice â before turning the key, the click loud in the hallway. the door opened, and the first thing he saw were your shoes. they were scattered across the floor in front of the door, careless, defiant. the sight of them â reckless, unclean â tugged at the thin thread of patience holding his exhaustion together.
he sighed. quietly, resignedly. setting his own shoes aside, neatly aligned, he bent down to place yours properly beside his, as if proximity could turn chaos into order.
when he straightened up, the apartment greeted him with noise. music, loud and beating against the walls, layered with the faint clang of metal and your voice â singing, half-off tune, laced with laughter and profanity.
he followed the sound, slow steps through the dim hallway, the faint smell of something burnt hanging in the air.
it was almost funny, almost. except today, he didnât have the energy to laugh.
today, the circle felt cruel â you breaking, him fixing, over and over again. the orbit of your love sometimes spun too fast for him to keep up, and he was tired of patching the holes life made in both of you.
his voice came out softer than he expected, almost tender in its exhaustion.
âwhat are you doing?â
you jumped, startled, the pan slipping from your hand. it clattered, half-caught, half-fallen â until it landed wrong, metal edge scraping your forearm before tumbling to the floor.
the sound of your scream sliced through him like a blade.
he was moving before he could think â quick steps, heart hammering in his chest. he reached you in seconds, his hands catching yours, pulling you toward the sink.
âhold still,â he said, voice low, firm, steady despite the panic clawing up his throat.
you didnât. you squirmed, wincing as the water hit the red mark blooming across your skin. he adjusted the tap, gentled it to a cool stream, and held your arm under it, thumb trembling faintly where it rested against your wrist.
the water hissed softly as it met the burn, and for a moment, that was the only sound â the rush of running water, the faint hum of the still-playing music behind you, your shallow breaths.
he looked down at your arm, watched the way your skin flushed angry pink. you bit your lip, trying not to cry, and he felt something ache deep inside his chest â that familiar pull between wanting to scold you and wanting to hold you until you stopped trembling.
he did neither.
instead, he said your name quietly, the syllables heavy with unspoken things.
you looked up, and in your eyes, he saw confusion, guilt, love â all mixed together, all too much. you opened your mouth to say something, maybe sorry, maybe i was trying to make you dinner, but he shook his head before you could speak.
âdonât,â he murmured. âjust⊠stay still.â
his voice broke on the edges, softer than he intended, and the sound of it made your throat tighten.
he could feel it â your need to explain, to fill the silence, to make this moment something less heavy than it was. but for once, you didnât. maybe you felt it too â the weight in the air, the exhaustion in his touch, the quiet kind of sorrow that no longer needed words.
he reached for the towel hanging by the sink, gently patting your arm dry before wrapping it, careful not to hurt you.
âyou shouldâve waited for me,â he said, almost under his breath.
âi wanted to surprise you,â you whispered, voice trembling, small.
he nodded once, jaw tightening. âyou did.â
you flinched â not because of the burn, but because of the way he said it. softly. tiredly. as if love itself had become something too heavy to hold without hurting.
he exhaled, the sound shaky, and for a second, he looked at you â really looked. your messy hair, your tear-streaked cheeks, the small trembling of your hands in his. you were everything he loved and everything that frightened him in one body, and he didnât know how to hold that contradiction anymore.
his thumb brushed your knuckles, gentle.
âyouâre okay now,â he said, and it sounded more like a plea than reassurance.
and you, still shaking, nodded, whispering his name like it was both apology and prayer.
he didnât answer. he just stood there â a man who loved too quietly, holding the girl who loved too loud, both of you caught in the fragile space between tenderness and exhaustion, where love no longer felt like a miracle but like a wound you kept reopening just to prove it still bled.
you call his name â soft, fragile, the kind of sound that comes from somewhere deep in the chest, from the place that aches the most. kento. it comes out half-broken, half-plea, and he lifts his eyes at you as if waking from a dream heâd been trying not to remember. his face is calm, as always, unbearably calm, but thereâs something behind that quiet, a faint tremor in the way his eyes flicker down to your hand still trembling under the towel.
âitâs okay,â he says, the words leaving his lips like smoke â faint, warm, fleeting. itâs okay, as though the phrase could heal burns or patch the invisible fissures forming between two people who still love each other but are beginning to realize that love sometimes isnât enough.
he reaches for your arm again, adjusts the towel, presses lightly to check if the water has done its job. his touch is gentle â always gentle â the way one handles something thatâs already been broken once before. his fingers are cool, slow, deliberate, as if trying to memorize the shape of you through caution alone.
you look at him â really look â and he seems distant in a way that hurts. not detached, not cold, but far, like the moonlight that touches you through glass: visible, close enough to see, too far to hold. his face is weary, but kind, soft in its restraint, his lips parted slightly as if caught between saying iâm here and please donât ask me to be right now.
you reach for his sleeve, your smaller hand curling around his arm. he doesnât move at first. the fabric of his shirt feels warm from his skin beneath, and you grip it tighter, desperate to bridge whatever invisible distance has begun to stretch between you.
âiâm sorry,â you whisper, and the words tremble the way candle flames do before dying out.
he looks down at you, eyes tired but tender, and for a second â just one â you think he might say something cruel, something final, something that would end this tension before it could devour you both. but nanami kento has never been cruel. heâs too kind, too deliberate in his love, too careful even in disappointment.
his free hand reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. his fingers trail against your temple, the touch light enough to break you.
âdonât be,â he murmurs, voice low, like a confession to the quiet room rather than to you. âitâs not your fault.â
but you can see it â the hesitation, the exhaustion buried deep in the folds of his gentleness. itâs in the way his shoulders curve ever so slightly, in the way he canât quite hold your gaze for too long. heâs still here, still holding you, still caring for you in the way a man does when leaving isnât an option he can bear to take.
and thatâs what hurts â that he loves you so deeply, so softly, even when his heart is gasping for air.
you whisper his name again, and he hums in response, the faintest sound, his thumb brushing across your knuckles now. you can feel the tremor under his skin.
âkento, look at me,â you breathe, and he does.
his eyes, warm honey under dim kitchen light, are unreadable â a language you used to know, one thatâs begun to change meaning.
you want to tell him you know. that you see the way he sits a little longer in his car before coming upstairs, the way he sighs when you talk too loud, the way his smile doesnât reach his eyes anymore. you want to tell him youâve been trying â god, youâve been trying so hard â to be softer, quieter, easier to love.
but instead, all you manage is another broken iâm sorry.
and he â he just smiles.
a small one. tired, beautiful, devastating.
âyou donât have to apologize for being yourself,â he says softly. âyou never have to.â
it sounds like forgiveness. it sounds like love. and yet, somewhere between his tone and the trembling hush that follows, it feels like goodbye.
you lower your head, eyes stinging, and he exhales, the sound heavy, strained. he leans forward, pressing a kiss â brief, feather-light â to your forehead. his lips linger there, unmoving, as if to apologize for something neither of you can name.
when he pulls back, you catch a faint tremor in his jaw, the kind that comes when a man is trying too hard not to fall apart.
âyou should rest,â he murmurs, reaching behind you to turn off the stove, to silence the chaos youâd made in your desperate attempt to love him in the only way you knew how â loudly, clumsily, wholeheartedly.
and as the music fades into the background, and the lights hum softly against the silence, you realize that his love has always been quiet â the kind that fixes, not fights, that endures, not demands.
he cups your face again before he steps away. âlet me make you some tea,â he says, because itâs easier than saying iâm scared of what weâre becoming.
and you let him. you let him move through the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, movements precise, every gesture a poem about restraint. you watch his back, the way his shoulders move with the weight of unspoken love, and your heart aches with something that feels like both grief and worship.
you donât say another word.
and neither does he.
only the sound of boiling water, the faint clink of porcelain cups, and the quiet truth that sometimes, the gentlest love in the world can still break you â not because itâs cruel, but because itâs tired.
you stand there, hovering â a ghost of yourself, arms folded tight around your own ribs as if you could hold yourself together by sheer force of will. heâs moving through the kitchen with quiet, deliberate gestures, the way he always does, except now each movement feels like a wall being built â between you, around him, out of reach. he kneels slightly, grabbing a napkin, cleaning the spill you made, methodical, every fold and swipe like penance. the light pools over him in that soft, golden hue that only makes the distance worse; he looks beautiful, unbearably so, and you donât know what to do with it â with him, with this, with the ache expanding inside your chest like something feral.
you whisper, let me help, because the silence is too loud.
he doesnât look up. âitâs okay,â he says, soft but clipped.
you try again, stepping closer, the floor creaking under your foot, your voice smaller now â please, let me help, kento.
and again, âitâs okay.â firmer this time.
but you are stubborn, and you have always been â maybe because you think if you keep insisting, if you keep standing close enough, maybe heâll remember youâre here, remember the home you tried to build out of your chaos and his calm, remember how you loved him, loudly, recklessly, enough for the both of you.
âi said itâs okay,â he says again, sharper, the edge of it cutting through the air like glass splitting in slow motion.
you freeze, but something inside you refuses to stop. your hands tremble as you reach for the towel in his hand, and you laugh â nervous, too bright â trying to diffuse the tension crawling up both your spines. you tell him you just want to help, but the words come out more desperate than you intend.
and then it happens â a small, stupid accident, almost cruel in its ordinariness. he shifts too fast, the sharp corner of his elbow colliding with the side of your face. a flash of pain bursts in your eye, and you stumble back, hand flying to your face.
the sound that leaves you is half-gasp, half-laugh, awkward, trembling. âowâ itâs fine, itâs fine,â you try to say, blinking away tears, trying to smile through the sting.
but heâs already turned, wide-eyed, breath caught â and then something breaks in him, snaps, uncoils.
âjustâ just sit the fuck down,â he says, voice raised, cracking, trembling at the edges. âjustâ stop. please. justâ youâve done enough mess today, iâllâ iâll clean this up, iâll make you tea, iâll make dinner, justâ sit the fuck down.â
the words hit like thunder.
you go still. the air goes still.
it isnât the words themselves â itâs him. because nanami kento doesnât curse. nanami kento doesnât raise his voice. and yet here he is, standing in the wreckage of the kitchen, breathing hard, veins pulsing faintly in his neck, his face shadowed by something that looks too much like defeat.
he exhales sharply, long and heavy, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes squeezed shut like heâs trying to bury whatever has just clawed out of him. for a moment, he looks almost relieved, like saying it â being loud, being human, being fallible â was a kind of release he didnât know he was craving. but the relief is sour. it leaves the air between you thick with shame.
youâre stunned, breath lodged somewhere between ribs and throat. your hand still rests against your left eye, and you can feel the dull throb there, pulsing in rhythm with the silence that follows his words.
his back is turned now, shoulders heaving once, twice. âiâm tired,â he says finally, quieter, the words falling heavy as stones. âi just want to make dinner. iâllâ iâll make you tea. just sit down. please.â
he adds that last word like itâs a thread holding everything together.
you nod, even though he isnât looking. your throat feels like itâs filled with sand. you swallow, but it doesnât go away.
âokay,â you stammer, the word trembling, barely sound.
and you sit. you sit because you donât know what else to do, because the air feels dangerous to move through, because you donât know where to put your hands anymore. you find the stool by the counter and lower yourself slowly, the sound of the chair scraping the floor unbearably loud.
he moves around you again â measured, restrained, as though every motion is a test of control. the kettle hums. the soft sound of running water, of drawers opening, of utensils clinking. all normal, all routine, except the world has cracked somewhere you canât reach.
you watch him â the man you love, the man who never yelled, the man who once told you he believed in quiet love because it was the only kind that lasts â and you think how strange it is that even now, you still find him beautiful. even now, as tears sting your eyes and your body shakes, he is still beauty to you.
you think of how his love used to feel like warmth on cold skin. now it feels like standing too close to fire â bright, consuming, and suddenly, you canât tell if itâs keeping you alive or burning you alive.
you rest your chin on your knees, watching his back as he reaches for the tea cups, the slow, deliberate way he moves â the rhythm of a man forcing the world back into order.
you whisper his name once, just to see if heâll turn.
he doesnât.
and so you sit there in that golden kitchen, wrapped in silence and the smell of burnt oil, and you realize how terrifying it is to watch love unravel not in storms or screams â but in the quiet exhaustion of a man too tired to be gentle, and a girl too young to know how to stop trying.
dinner comes like a ghost slipping through the doorway â quiet, shapeless, heavy. the air hums with the faint echo of the kettle thatâs already gone still, the clink of plates and cutlery arranged too neatly on the table. you sit, your knees pressed together under the soft linen, hands resting on your lap as if afraid that any movement might disturb the fragile peace thatâs settled over the apartment.
he places your plate in front of you, as he always does. a portion of rice, vegetables, something simple, something he knows youâll eat even if youâre too sad to swallow much of it. beside it, your glass of water, your chopsticks aligned perfectly parallel. itâs all the same choreography youâve memorized over time â except for the one thing that isnât.
he doesnât lean down to kiss your forehead.
he doesnât murmur that quiet, teasing question â âdo you love it already?â â before you even take the first bite, his lips brushing your skin, his laugh trailing behind. that used to be your favorite part of the night, that small ritual of his affection, the way he couldnât help but linger in your orbit as if loving you was his second nature.
but tonight, he doesnât even glance your way.
his expression remains still, almost serene, but hollow around the edges. he just places your meal gently on the table and walks to his chair â across from you. not beside you, not where his knee could brush against yours or where his hand could find your thigh under the table like it always used to when words failed him.
no, tonight, he sits across from you.
and that small distance â barely an armâs reach â feels like an entire ocean between two people who once shared the same breath.
you look up at him, searching for something in his face, some flicker of warmth, some sign that the man who adored you still lives there behind that tired stillness. but he doesnât look back. his gaze remains on his plate, his hand steady as he lifts his chopsticks.
you bite your lip, the tremor of it betraying you. your vision blurs faintly, though no tears fall yet. the silence stretches thin, taut, ready to break, and it feels unbearable â that quiet that used to mean comfort now tastes like exile.
you stare down at your food, the smell of it turning faintly metallic in your throat. and then it escapes you â a soft, broken sound, a small gasp, the kind that slips out when the heart forgets how to contain itself.
your eyes lift again, searching for him like a compass reaching for north, but heâs still there, motionless, chewing, breathing, existing. he might as well be miles away.
you say his name, softly at first. it trembles as it leaves your lips. âkentoâŠâ
he pauses, briefly, chopsticks midair, and for a fleeting moment, you think maybe heâll look at you. maybe heâll smile the way he used to, maybe heâll reach across the table and tuck that loose strand of hair behind your ear like nothing ever cracked.
but he doesnât.
he exhales through his nose, the faintest sound, before placing the chopsticks down carefully beside his plate. he sits back in his chair, hands folded on the table. his posture is perfect â always perfect â even now, when everything else isnât.
âyes?â he answers, voice soft, polite, distant â like a stranger asking if you need directions.
you hesitate, your throat thick, words tangled. âwhy didnât you⊠sit next to me?â you manage, almost childlike in the way you ask it, like the question itself is too fragile to survive the air.
thereâs a small silence after that â the kind that doesnât fill the room but drains it. he blinks once, slow, and lowers his gaze to the table again.
âi thought this would be more comfortable,â he says quietly, his tone measured, stripped of emotion. âyou need space to eat.â
the answer makes no sense, and yet it explains everything.
because it isnât about the space between the plates. itâs about the space between the hearts â the kind that starts small, invisible, then grows until you can feel the draft of it every time he breathes.
you donât reply. you just nod, though your throat burns. your eyes fall to your food again, to the steam curling up like ghostly ribbons, fading before they reach you. you pick up your chopsticks, your fingers trembling slightly, and try to eat. the food tastes fine â it always does when he cooks â but it feels wrong in your mouth, like eating memories.
he eats too, slow and quiet. his movements are precise, his manners impeccable, the kind of restraint that feels like punishment.
at one point, his gaze flickers up, and for a second, your eyes meet. but itâs only for a second â long enough for your chest to ache, short enough to pretend it didnât happen. he looks away, back to his food.
you stare at him still, memorizing the small details â the faint line between his brows, the way the light catches his wristwatch, the slight downturn of his mouth that wasnât there before. you wonder when his presence started to feel like absence.
you used to think love was loud â the laughter, the touches, the inside jokes. now, youâre learning that love can also die quietly, not in fights or slammed doors, but in dinners shared across a table too wide, in a man too kind to stop caring and too tired to keep trying.
when you finally speak again, your voice is barely audible. âyouâre so far away,â you whisper.
he closes his eyes for a brief moment, the muscles in his jaw tightening, then relaxing. he sets his chopsticks down again, exhales, and when he speaks, his voice is soft â unbearably soft.
âiâm still here,â he says.
and somehow, those three words hurt worse than silence.
because heâs right â he is here. but not in the way he used to be. not in the way that warms, not in the way that saves. heâs here like the echo of something that once was â a gentle ghost of love, polite and fading, sitting across from you at the dinner table, hands steady, heart quietly slipping away.
âiâm still here.â the words escape his lips like smoke in winter airâvisible, shapeless, cold before it even settles. they hang between you both for a moment, trembling in their own fragility, a lie so soft it sounds like a lullaby. even he can hear it: the hollow ring of it, the way the syllables fall wrong in his mouth. the tone doesnât sound like him, doesnât sound like love, doesnât sound like the man who once whispered sonnets into your skin as though you were scripture.
and he thinks, what have i become?
who is this man sitting across from you, speaking with the voice of a stranger, wearing the hands of someone who still cooks for you, still folds your towel after every shower, still leaves the lamp on your side of the bed just in case you come home late? who is this ghost pretending to be himâso careful, so polite, so unbearably distant? he used to think heâd die before heâd raise his voice at you, before heâd let the world bruise you. he used to think that if death ever took you, heâd summon you from the grave itself, break his body against the gates of the afterlife if it meant hearing you laugh again.
but now he sits here, and you are alive, right in front of himâand somehow, he feels like heâs already lost you.
he loves you. he is in love.
orâgod help himâis it he was?
or worse, he is supposed to be?
he stares at the pattern of wood on the table, tracing invisible lines with his eyes, and it feels as though his heart has turned to glassâstill, transparent, fragile enough to shatter under its own reflection. he risks a glance, only a brief one, because to look too long would be unbearable. but in that split second, he sees everything.
your lips pressed together, trembling as though holding back an earthquake. your fingers tracing the edge of your plate, your eyesâgod, your eyes, bright and wounded, reflecting him like a mirror heâs too ashamed to face. he sees himself there, painted in your sadness, and itâs worse than anything the world could have done to him.
your silence breaks first. not the air, not the worldâjust the thin thread holding him upright.
âdid i do something wrong?â you ask, voice trembling, small, unbearably sincere.
he looks up, startled by the sound of it. your question pierces him, slow and clean, and for the first time, he feels the sting of his own cruelty like a physical wound.
he shakes his head immediately, the motion too quick, too desperate. his lips twitch upward into something that almost resembles a smile, though it falters before it can fully form. âno, my love,â he murmurs.
my love.
two words that used to sound like worship, now muttered like confession.
and yetâoh, you.
you, who refuse to bow before sadness, whoâve always met pain with defiance, who never learned how to bleed quietly. you, the girl made of fireworks and thunder, the one whose heart burns too bright for the quiet world heâs built. he used to love that about youâthe chaos in your laughter, the way your emotions bloomed wild, unfiltered, unstoppable. you never hid your heart; you wore it like a medal, messy and sincere, and he adored you for it.
but tonight, your fire flares in confusion.
your brows knit together, your mouth curlingânot from anger, but from disbelief, from the ache of being unseen. you let out a short, bitter laugh that cuts the air like a blade. âno, kento. i mustâve done something.â your tone is sharp, cracked porcelain. âyou donât justâ act like this for no reason. i know you.â
he blinks, taken aback, but you donât stop. you canât. the silence between you feels like drowning, and youâve never been the kind to die quietly.
you lean forward, elbows pressing into the table, voice trembling but fierce. âyou always say iâm dramatic, but iâm not blind. i can feel it. youâre different. you wonât even look at me.â
he opens his mouthâperhaps to deny it, perhaps to sootheâbut nothing comes out.
because youâre right.
and in your eyes, he sees the ghost of himself reflected back: the man who once touched you like you were a miracle, the man who kissed you with patience, the man who used to smile when you burned the rice, who used to press his lips to your temple and say, âi love that you try.â
what happened to him? what poisoned that quiet love until it turned into thisâthis fatigue, this distance, this unbearable politeness between two people who once couldnât stop touching each other?
his throat tightens. his heart stammers in his chest like itâs trying to run from him.
you sigh, long and shaky, and whisper, âyou could just tell me, you know. whatever it is. i can take it.â
and thatâs what undoes himâthe way you say it, soft and brave, even as your eyes glisten.
he looks at you then. really looks. the flicker of candlelight against your cheek, the small tremor in your fingers, the stubborn set of your jaw. youâre beautiful, unbearably so, and he thinksâhow dare I be the one to hurt this?
his mouth opens, but the words die before they reach you.
because what would he even say? iâm tired? i love you, but itâs heavy? i want silence, but not from you? what kind of man admits that the very thing he prayed forâthe warmth, the love, the life in youâis now too much for him to hold?
he swallows hard, looks down again, and instead of truth, he gives you something gentler, something cowardly.
âyou didnât do anything wrong,â he repeats, quieter, more brittle. âsometimes people just⊠get tired.â
and the way he says it, you know heâs not talking about work.
the light flickers. your breath catches. and in the silence that follows, you both sit thereâtwo souls still in love, but out of rhythm, staring at the same meal, the same table, the same shared past, and realizing, with quiet devastation, that love can decay softly, beautifully, like the end of a song you didnât realize had stopped playing.
and now love doesnât feel right. not the kind that poets promised, not the kind that healed â no, this one feels like your ribs have been pried open, like something holy inside you has been exposed and nanami himself is the bulldozer wrecking the home he once built within you. itâs fucking painful. unbearably, quietly, endlessly painful.
you look at him â or try to â and itâs like staring at a ruin that used to be sacred. the walls are still there, the windows still hold the light, but the warmth that used to live in it has gone missing. and isnât that worse? to see what you once called love still standing, but hollow, stripped of its soul?
your throat feels dry, the back of your tongue tastes like rust. you murmur, almost to yourself, âiâm not hungry.â your voice is small, thin, trembling like a single thread stretched to its limit.
you push your chair back, the sound scraping against the floor â loud, jarring, too alive in a room thatâs gone dead. you force yourself to stand, though your knees feel unsteady. you crave distance, absurdly so. the one thing youâve feared most, the one thing that always terrified you â being away from him â now feels like the only way to breathe again.
he looks up at you, confusion flickering faintly in his tired eyes. âyou didnât even touch your food,â he says, the words leaving his mouth gently, like heâs afraid to provoke another wound.
but you canât bear it.
âi canât even stand to look at you right now,â you snap, voice breaking halfway through. âand i donât even know whyââ
you stop yourself, swallowing the words that taste like blood. âit used to hurt not to look at you,â you whisper, âbut now it hurts to. so, yeah. iâm not hungry.â
his hand twitches faintly where it rests on the table. you can see him searching for words, the kind man he is â always trying to find something to fix, to soothe, to hold together. but you donât wait. you donât want him to fix it. you donât even think he could.
you turn before he can speak, the floor cold beneath your bare feet as you walk toward his bedroom. every step feels wrong â trespass, intrusion, memory. you know this room like your own heartbeat: the smell of his cologne on the pillowcase, the quiet hum of the air conditioner, the faint dent on the side of the bed where he reads late into the night. it used to feel like safety. now it feels like walking into a museum of something that used to love you.
you sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring at the soft folds of the blanket, and the strangest thought crosses your mind â you shouldnât be here. this space that used to be half yours now feels foreign, borrowed, undeserved. you can feel it in the air: the heavy silence, the ghost of his patience lingering like the scent of tea after itâs gone cold.
you lie back, staring at the ceiling. it looks endless, empty, almost accusing. the moonlight from the half-drawn curtains spills faintly across the room, pale and cold, like a wound that refuses to close. you glare at it because thereâs no one else to blame.
and beneath it all, the ache sits â low and heavy, gnawing. itâs not just heartbreak; itâs the loss of certainty. itâs the unbearable suspicion that love, no matter how true, can rot.
you donât cry. not because youâre strong, but because the pain has gone beyond tears.
time passes â an hour, maybe two, maybe four. it doesnât matter. time has lost its meaning when all you can do is count the seconds between silences.
he doesnât come.
and you donât go.
you imagine him still at the table, hands clasped, eyes on the half-eaten meal. you imagine him standing, pacing, maybe thinking of what to say, maybe thinking of saying nothing at all. the thought makes your stomach twist, but so does the idea of leaving. because if you walk out that door, if you step into the quiet night outside, thereâs a possibility youâll never see him again. and that possibility â that haunting, heavy what if â claws at your chest until you stay.
so you stay. in his room, on his bed, surrounded by everything that reminds you of him â the faint scent of cedar and ink, the pressed lines of his folded shirts, the steady hum of a life thatâs begun to exclude you.
meanwhile, in the living room, nanami kento sits in the dark.
he hasnât turned the lights on. he doesnât need to. the city outside paints him in blue-gray â a ghost of a man sitting before his own reflection in the glass window. the skyline burns faintly in the distance, the sound of traffic like a faraway pulse.
he sits there with his chin resting against his fist, the bone pressing against his jaw until it aches. heâs craving the pain now â anything to make him feel less numb.
and it hits him, slowly, terribly: heâs become the thing he always swore heâd never be.
the man who made you cry.
the man who turned love into something youâd have to survive.
he looks at the faint shadow of your figure reflected in the glass â the outline of your absence glowing faintly in the light of the city â and he thinks, what have I done?
he presses his palm to his face, the sound of his own breathing too loud in the dark. he thinks of the way you looked at him before you left the table â that mixture of anger and sorrow, of wanting to stay and wanting to disappear. he thinks of how small your voice sounded when you said you couldnât look at him.
and something inside him cracks.
he realizes love isnât a quiet room anymore. itâs a battlefield littered with all the things you both tried to say and couldnât.
heâs tired â god, heâs so tired â but not of you. never of you. just of this distance he built with his own hands, brick by brick, out of silence and restraint.
the moonlight carves the sharp edge of his jaw, his tired eyes glinting faintly, and he feels it then â that strange, unbearable tenderness that comes after cruelty. that desire to take every harsh word back, to kneel, to beg, to gather you in his arms and say itâs not you, itâs just the weight of the world, itâs me trying and failing to carry it.
but he doesnât move. he just sits there, in the quiet, a man whoâs built his whole life on composure, now cracking beneath it.
the city outside hums, the sky vast and indifferent.
and somewhere behind the wall, in his own bed, the woman he loves lies awake, staring at the same moonlight that touches his face â both of you breathing the same air, both of you suffocating under the same silence.
love was supposed to be salvation.
tonight, it feels like penance.
his head turns at the faint sound of your footsteps â that soft, tender rhythm he could recognize in a dream. and there you are, standing beneath the same blue shadow of the moon, your figure painted by its pale melancholy, your face bathed in silver light.
and god, you look eternal. you look like sorrow dressed in beauty, like the last echo of something divine that the world forgot to worship. your hair catches the light like a prayer unraveling, your eyes heavy with something unspoken â two wounded stars still burning though the sky has given up on night. your lips tremble with gentleness and ruin alike, and to him, you are not a woman anymore but a memory made flesh â the memory of joy he fears he will never touch again.
she is beautiful, he thinks â you are beautiful â but in the way all vanishing things are. beauty that hurts to look at. beauty that already belongs to the past.
you move toward him slowly, the floor creaking under the weight of what remains unsaid, and he cannot bring himself to breathe. his heart, that patient servant, stumbles; he feels it â that deep, muted ache of a man who knows heâs seeing something for the last time.
you stop before him, and then, quietly, you lower yourself, sitting sideways across his lap. the movement is small, fragile, sacred, like the last petal falling from a dying flower.
your forehead finds his, your breath mingles with his own â that familiar rhythm that once kept him alive. your hands rise to his nape, fingers trembling as they weave into his hair, brushing the back of his neck. and his arms, instinctively, find their way around you â the same embrace heâs given you a thousand times, only now it feels like mourning.
the silence between you stretches thin, sacred, almost holy in its fragility. your thumb strokes his cheek, tracing the faint line of fatigue that the moonlight makes visible. he closes his eyes â not from peace, but from the unbearable tenderness of being this close to you again.
you try to laugh â or maybe you try not to collapse entirely. either way, itâs difficult, like breathing underwater. the sound catches in your throat, soft, raw, and you whisper, voice trembling against his skin, âwhy does it feel like tonightâs the last time weâll be together?â
the words pierce the air like a needle through silk â delicate, fatal.
he flinches, almost imperceptibly, and his arms tighten around you, his breath stuttering against your hair.
you try again to laugh, to dismiss your own prophecy, but the tears come too quickly. they blur the world, they smear the outlines of his face until heâs just light and shadow and sorrow. you blink through the blur, desperate to see him â to remember him.
his face â the face that was once home. you study it through tears, memorizing the small, tender details you used to take for granted: the faint crease beside his nose when he half-smiles, the tiny mole just below his lip that always distracted you mid-conversation, the gentle slope of his jaw that you loved to trace with your fingers when the night was kind.
you used to want to kiss him there â on that small, absurdly beautiful imperfection near his mouth. now the thought of it hurts, because it feels like kissing a ghost.
his hands, large and warm, hold you like you are something fragile and irreplaceable. but they are heavy now, trembling faintly as if carrying a weight that love alone cannot lift.
you whisper his name â once, twice â and the sound makes his chest tremble.
he presses his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his eyes closed. and then, softly, almost inaudibly, the words slip out, so quiet they nearly dissolve before reaching your ears.
âiâm sorry.â
just that.
not an explanation. not a plea. just a quiet, hopeless apology â the kind that knows it has arrived too late.
his voice cracks under the gentleness of it, and you can feel it â that breaking point hiding under his restraint, that love still alive but dying under the weight of its own tenderness.
and in that moment, with your tears wetting his skin and his heartbeat trembling beneath your palms, you both understand something neither of you dares to say aloud â
that love does not always die in hatred or betrayal. sometimes, it dies in gentleness.
in apologies whispered against the skin of someone you still adore. in the quiet acceptance that two souls can love each other completely and still not find their way back home.
and so you stay like that â your forehead against his, your fingers in his hair, his arms a sanctuary that no longer feels like heaven but still feels like safety.
and the moon watches, silent and cruel, as two lovers who never stopped loving each other sit under its indifferent light, holding on just long enough to feel what itâs like to let go.
âwhat the fuck are you sorry for?â
your voice fractures between a sob and a gasp. it isnât loud, not quite â it trembles, pleading, almost begging him to deny what you already feel clawing beneath the silence. you wait for him to say nothing, for him to say donât be ridiculous, for him to smile that tired, patient smile and pull you closer, to tell you that of course he isnât leaving, that youâre just tired, that love doesnât end like this.
but he doesnât.
his eyes fall shut, his breath uneven, as though the mere act of existing near you has become too heavy. the muscles in his jaw shift beneath your palms. and when he opens his mouth again, his voice sounds ancient â like it has carried too many winters, too much restraint.
âbecause,â he says, softly, âi think iâve made you believe something that isnât meant to last.â
you pull back just far enough to look at him, eyes wide, disbelieving, wet with tears that sting like salt. âdonât say that.â
âi have to.â
âno, you fucking donât.â
he doesnât flinch at your words. he only lowers his gaze, as if the sight of you â trembling, furious, heart laid bare â is too bright for him to bear. âyouâre young,â he says quietly, almost kindly. âyou still have so much to burn through. and iâŠâ he stops, breath catching, âi donât have it in me to keep up with fire anymore.â
you shake your head, violent, helpless. âthatâs bullshit.â
âit isnât.â
âit is. youâre supposed to love me â we promisedââ
âand i do.â his voice cracks, so gentle it hurts. âbut love isnât always enough. not when the world feels too loud, when every day bleeds into the next, and i wake up wanting quiet. i want peace, and youââ
he looks at you now, eyes wet, almost desperate â âyou are everything but peace.â
the words fall heavy between you, brutal in their truth, tender in their cruelty.
you blink, a soundless laugh breaking from your throat, half-mad, half-broken. âso what? youâre leaving me because iâm loud? because i laugh too hard? because i fucking feel too much?â
he closes his eyes, and his hand finds yours, trembling. âbecause you deserve someone who can meet you there. someone who isnât too tired to keep dancing in the fire with you.â
you tear your hand from his, your voice rising, brittle with grief. âdonât talk to me like youâre some wise old man writing poetry about my youth. youâre not that old, kento. youâre just scared.â
he exhales, a shudder in the sound. âi am scared. but not of you. of what i become beside you. of how much i love you, and how small it makes me feel to realize i canât give you the life you deserve.â
you stare at him, trembling. âyouâre supposed to fight for it.â
his lips twist into a sad smile, the kind that looks like surrender disguised as kindness. âfighting is for the young, my love. you still have the strength for it. iâve lost mine.â
the tears come now, unrestrained, choking. you canât even see him clearly anymore, his face melting into shadow and light, the shape of him becoming memory even as he sits right in front of you.
âyou donât mean it,â you whisper. âyou canât mean it.â
he reaches for you then â his hand against your cheek, warm, shaking. âi do.â
you press your forehead to his again, breath mingling, the air thick with heartbreak. âyouâre lying,â you murmur. âyouâre just tired. youâll sleep and youâll wake up and itâll be fine, itâs always fine after a fightââ
he swallows hard, the motion visible in the moonlight. âyouâre right. iâm tired. but itâs not the kind of tired sleep can fix.â
you choke on a sob, your hands clutching at his shirt as if your fingers could anchor him to the world you built together. âyou canât do this to me.â
his lips find your hair, a trembling kiss. âi already have.â
and for a moment, the world goes still â utterly, painfully still.
you feel it then: the quiet unthreading of something vast and tender, the slow death of a love that was too loud for the silence he craved. you, the wildfire. he, the man who wanted only calm seas. and yet somehow, even now, you love him enough to understand.
you pull back just enough to see him â really see him â and it hurts because heâs beautiful in the way all goodbyes are. gentle, necessary, unbearable.
you whisper, âso thatâs it?â
he nods once, his eyes glassy. âyou were the light, my love. but i am only made for dusk.â
and the night, merciless and vast, takes the words from both your mouths, leaving only the sound of your breaths colliding â the last remnants of something that once set the world on fire.
your hands find his face like they are remembering something holy. trembling, desperate, reverent â as though they must memorize every inch of him before the world snatches him away. your palms cradle his jaw, your fingertips trace the weary outline of his lips, the curve of his cheek, the faint shadow of his temple, the ridge of his nose. you map him like a dying man tracing the borders of a country he will never return to. your fingers tremble over the skin that once meant home, that still means it, even as the roof collapses above you.
you cannot breathe. you cannot think. you bite your lower lip, hard enough to taste blood, just to stop yourself from sobbing â from collapsing entirely into the ruin of him. you feel stripped bare, hollowed out, your heart turned inside out like a wound shown to god. the sorrow between you is vast and rotting, and it lives inside your ribs like something feral. you can almost smell it â the decay of something that used to bloom, the faint echo of joy turning into dust.
you whisper through it. your voice is cracked, uneven, trembling like a prayer recited by someone who has already lost faith. you tell him you can be quiet. you swear it. youâll learn. youâll fold yourself into silence if thatâs what he needs, youâll love him softly, calmly, neatly â not the way you do now, not with the noise and the laughter and the chaos that spills out of you without asking permission. you beg him. if he still loves you, if thereâs even a flicker left, youâll change.
âbeing loud is all iâve ever known,â you whisper, your breath shaking against his skin. âif the loud makes you leave me, i donât know how to love anymore. pleaseâ donât take that from me. donât take the only way i know how to love.â
and as he listens, something within him breaks in a way that can never be repaired. oh, you, he thinks â oh, you. he looks at you and feels a grief so profound that it almost resembles worship. to him, in that moment, you are not merely human â you are divine. he doesnât believe in god, not truly, never has. and yet looking at you now, your face streaked with tears, your trembling hands pressed against him as if you could anchor him to the earth â you are the closest thing to god he has ever seen.
and he, poor mortal creature that he is, would give you anything. everything. his blood, his ribs, the very marrow of his being. every pulse in his body beats your name. every breath he exhales has been shaped by you. you live within him â in the soft machinery of his heart, in the tired rhythm of his lungs, in the language of his touch. he has built his entire existence around your laughter, your warmth, the chaos of your affection. he is a man made entirely of you.
and yet, he thinks, i am only human. a man of flesh and error, of fear and longing. a man who loves you so deeply that it terrifies him, that it threatens to consume him whole.
his thumb brushes your cheekbone, wiping the wetness that wonât stop falling. his voice, when it comes, is barely more than a whisper â tender, trembling, resolute.
âyou shouldnât have to change for love,â he says. ânot for me. not for anyone. if i ask you to quiet yourself, to make yourself small, to unlearn the way you burn â then i am no better than the world that never understood you. you donât deserve someone who teaches you shame for your own light. and i⊠i am that someone.â
your eyes widen, glistening, as though heâs struck you.
he continues, slowly, with the unbearable gentleness of a man confessing his own death. âiâd rather swallow every rot that lives in me â my doubts, my exhaustion, my cowardice â than ever make you dim what makes you alive. because if you stay with me, my love, you wonât just dim. youâll disappear. and i couldnât live knowing i was the reason your fire went out.â
his fingers linger against your face, tracing your tears, memorizing your trembling. âyou deserve to shine,â he murmurs, voice trembling. âto burn so bright that someone, somewhere, will gladly go blind just to watch you exist.â
then, slowly, painfully, he leans forward and presses his lips to your forehead â that sacred kiss that feels both like blessing and goodbye. his breath shakes as he whispers against your skin, âi would rather have my throat between your teeth than your heart in my hands, you look pretty in red, anyway . . .â
and somehow you understand â it is his way of saying heâd rather die by your love than live as the one who destroyed it.
his hands, trembling and red in the moonlight, look almost beautiful on you. tragic, holy, almost ceremonial â the touch of a man offering up his ruin as apology.
and then the sound leaves you â a sob so raw it feels like a scream torn from the center of the earth. your body shakes, your fingers clutch at his collar, your breath breaking against his shoulder. you wail, you crumble, you unravel entirely, and he holds you through it â silent, steadfast, dying inside.
and he thinks, so this is love.
not the kind that saves. not the kind that stays. but the kind that ruins both the giver and the receiver, the kind that ends with one bleeding into the other until thereâs nothing left to separate them.
you cry until you canât, until the world is nothing but the sound of your grief and the rhythm of his breathing. and when silence finally comes, it isnât peace. itâs the sound of everything that once was â slipping, dissolving, fading into the night.
outside, the city continues â indifferent, glittering, eternal.
and in that blue light of the dying moon, nanami kento sits with the only god he has ever known, her tears drying on his skin â her love still burning, his heart still bleeding â and between them, the wreckage of something that was once holy, now too beautiful to survive.
you peeled yourself off him slowly, like skin coming away from old bone â like a creature that has been wrung out; your body makes the small, animal sounds of grief â sobs, soft whimpers that shiver along your ribs like broken strings, trembling, reluctant, dragging the last of your warmth from his lap as though parting from something that had once been holy. each sob that left you sounded like an animal thatâs learned too late that love can wound worse than any fang. your breath hitched in broken little hiccups, the sound of a creature whoâs learned that grief, when pure enough, begins to sound almost human.
you breathe in three long, ragged pulls, each one an attempt to gather yourself into a shape that words might hold. for a moment you want to claw at him, to sink your teeth into his throat and demand an accounting â is it worth it, the tearing, the quiet massacres he has enacted with his distance? but the animal in you subsides: there is a better violence in the tongue and the voice than in the fang; there is promise and vengeance in language, and you are the sort of woman who will use it.
you stood before him, your body swaying with the exhaustion that only heartbreak can give â that feverish stillness between collapse and rage. his eyes found you in the dim light. they were open, wide, hollow. you could see him watching you as one watches something precious being destroyed in slow motion â helpless, reverent, condemned to witness.
you inhaled once, twice, once more â deep, uneven breaths that scraped against your ribs. your lungs were heavy with all the words you had swallowed for him, all the times you had chosen silence over pride, forgiveness over fury. the air stung when it entered you, as though even breathing in front of him now was an act of rebellion.
you wanted to bite him. to lean forward, press your mouth against his throat, and tear the apology from him â tear it raw, bloody, and real. you wanted to ask him if it was worth it, the breaking, the ruin, the slow unraveling of what you were. was his peace worth your noise? was his silence worth your laughter? was his calm worth your chaos?
but you didnât.
you only stood there, shaking, every muscle in your body screaming for the violence of truth, and yet you restrained yourself â the way women always do, the way love teaches you to fold your rage into something more palatable.
you wiped your face with the back of your hand, the tears leaving a faint sheen across your cheeks the way one wipes dust from a relic, as if the salt of your tears were a sacrament. then, with the slow, ceremonial clarity of someone making an oath. when you finally spoke, your voice was hoarse, trembling, unrecognizable.
âi wish you everything you deserve,â you said slowly, each word cracking like glass under your tongue. âi wish you get everything you ever wanted. every goddamn thing. and when you do â when you finally have it all â i wish you never feel enough. i wish it burns you alive, the way this burned me.â your voice at first is small, bleached by grief, but it hardens as you go on, like iron drawn from flame â wish him everything â but not the gentle, trembling wish of a woman who hopes for anotherâs happiness; your words are forged from a darker metal. you wish him the full measure of what he has always wanted, all the comforts and silences he chased, all the peace he thought he could tuck into the pockets of his days. you wish for his satisfactions to be complete and satisfying in their cruelty. may he have what he wants, you tell the dark room, and may it never fill him.
you looked at him then, really looked. he sat there â his jaw tense, his eyes lowered, his fingers digging into his palms. the silence between you was dense, like air before lightning.
âi hope it eats you,â you whispered. âthe satisfaction you were chasing. i hope it consumes you so slowly that one day, youâll wake up and wish youâd just taken my teeth instead.â
you hope his wants will be infinite â a banquet he can never finish, a thirst he can never slake. you wish that each small victory he attains will only fan his appetite and make him hunger with a new, more exquisite ache. it is not malice â or perhaps, it is malice, but of the kind that is honed by injustice: you want him to taste the hollow at the center of the things he craves, the way he made you taste the hollow at the center of his love. you want him to walk through gardens of everything he thought would comfort him and find them barren at the roots. you want his triumphs to be glass houses that reflect only his loneliness back at him.
his gaze flickered to you, and for the briefest moment, you thought you saw something crack in him â a flicker of guilt, of devastation, of the man who once swore that he would never let your heart bleed without his hands catching it. but it passed. it always passed.
you laughed â dry, bitter, the kind of laugh that doesnât sound like joy but like the breaking of glass underfoot. âyou take everything, you know that?â
his throat moved, but he said nothing.
âyou take everything,â you repeated, louder now, your voice shaking with fury. âyou took my noise. you took my softness. you took the parts of me that didnât know how to whisper. at twenty-two, you made me wish i was small â quiet, flickering â when all i ever was, all i ever wanted to be, was a fucking fireworks show.â
you spat the words like they burned your tongue. âand i hope you get everything you ever wanted. every ounce of calm, every breath of silence, every inch of peace. and after that â after youâve got it all â letâs see how fucking fantastic it feels to have my throat between your teeth. letâs see how it feels to taste your own ruin while i lick the blood from my teeth.â
you breathe, and you name the wound. you tell him that at twenty-two he has made you small, that his slow retreat turned you inward until you began to believe that quiet might be safety, that smallness might be love. you expose the theft plainly: you have taken everything from me. this is not an accusation of theft in the cheap sense, but a salvage of truth â he took the rooms of you and furnished them with absence, he occupied your days with a kind of patient weathering that left your outsides raw. you map it for him like an inventory of losses: laughter traded for restraint; fireworks dulled into meek candles; sentences swallowed to keep peace. your voice, once warbling with hurt, now burns with a righteous, terrible heat.
he has made you wish to be small â a frightened, wavering ember â rather than the wild, incandescent conflagration you are by nature. and you hate what he has done. not because he left you, but because in leaving he taught you to want less of yourself; he taught you to believe that your brightest colors were somehow crimes that would scar the people you loved. you speak this with the fury of someone whose own palette has been stolen, and in your fury there is grief and there is the cold, exact intelligence of one who knows what she has lost.
the words that follow make him flinch as if you have slapped him, though you only speakâ maybe conscience, maybe memory. you saw his lips part, but nothing came out. his silence was worse than any denial, worse than any defense. it was the silence of a man who knows he is guilty and cannot bear to name it. you tell him, with a venom that is almost tender in its precision, that you wish he never feels enough.
may he be perpetually unsatisfied, forever anxious before his own feast, forever restless amid the comforts he sought. may his contentment be a mirage, you murmur, and may he spend the rest of his days chasing the horizon of it. you crown the wish with a cruelty that is ecclesiastical in its finality: may this gnawing, this penchant for wanting, burn him â let it consume him inwardly until he weeps and when he finally understands the taste of wanting without end, may he remember you and wish he had burned your teeth instead of your heart.
the air between you seemed to tremble. the city beyond the window carried on â indifferent, eternal. a car passed below, headlights slicing the room into halves of blue and gold, and for an instant, the light caught his face â that face you had loved so tenderly, so stupidly â and he looked almost like a stranger, someone you might pass on a street and never turn for again.
and so you turned first.
you didnât slam the door. you didnât scream. you only turned and walked â the sound of your footsteps soft, steady, echoing against the marble of his quiet life. you walked through the apartment like you were peeling yourself out of a life you no longer fit into.
and he sat there.
nanami kento, composed, calm, beloved of the quiet â he sat there in the wreckage of his peace, staring at the place you had been. he didnât follow. he didnât call. he only listened to the door close and let the sound settle into the hollow of his chest.
the room smelled faintly of burnt oil and your perfume. the glass on the table caught a sliver of moonlight and fractured it into pieces. he stared at it and thought, so this is what it means to break something you loved.
he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely before him. the air was thick. even breathing felt like confession. and for the first time, he truly understood the word irrevocable.
he wasnât a murderer. he had never raised a hand against you. and yet â god, and yet â your blood was on his hands. invisible but present, pulsing beneath the skin, staining everything he touched from here on out.
it wasnât red. it wasnât visible. but he could feel it â in the tremor in his fingers, in the ache that had settled somewhere beneath his ribs. it was your laughter gone silent, your noise extinguished, your light dimmed.
he imagined your voice echoing in some distant part of his mind â loud, bright, alive â and the silence that followed was unbearable.
his peace had come at the price of your fire, and now even his peace felt tainted, as though every breath he took was borrowed from you.
the night grew colder.
outside, the world moved on.
inside, he sat in the half-light â his palms open, his heart heavy â and understood that the quiet he had longed for all his life would now sound, forever, like your absence.
a year â or a year that stretches and contracts like an old accordion played by indifferent hands â slides between the two of you and then, without preface or ceremony, the world arranges a meeting neither of you asked to stage. it is in the subway, that subterranean artery where the city exhales and children clutch their parentsâ sleeves and strangers press their loneliness into the same carriage like winter coats hung on the same peg. you are there â unmistakable even among a hundred faces â because you move as you always have moved: a small rebellion of motion, the kind of presence that makes the air rearrange itself around it. when he sees you, something in him that has been beige and ordered and practiced for years unseals; a long, thin terror runs through him, holy and crushing at once.
you see him too. you do not look away. you do not perform shock or flinch or the tidy civility of ignoring. you meet his gaze like a verdict. there is no scene â no dramatic words, no contrived reconciliation â only the simple refusal to turn your eyes aside, and that refusal cracks his world with a sound like glass. in that precise instant, the life he had been building of small comforts and careful margins collapses into a single unbearable understanding: despite every excuse he ever constructed for himself, despite the gentle rhetoric of weariness and the patient appetite for peace he had used to justify his retreat, he has done something irrevocable to you. he has been the man who taught your brightness to be ashamed. he has been, in the polite way of the disciplined, a murderer of light.
it is a discovery that finds him without melodrama and with all the force of the unavoidable. he watches you standing among the press of commuters; his chest contracts as if tightened by an unseen hand. you do not cross to him. perhaps pride keeps you, or perhaps the memory of all the nights you spent explaining and forgiving and being asked gently to dim yourself has taught you that there are some returns that must remain unattempted. the carriage breathes; the train lurches; the advertisement lights blink overhead; everyone else goes on with their small, extraordinary lives. but for him, time cleaves into before and after the moment he sees you and you will not look away.
and there it is, utterly simple and ruinous: you are not merely a person who walked from his life; you are proof â luminous and accusing â that the life he chose has a cost. he registers it like a ledger that finally balances: every silence, every small insistence on calm, every withheld tenderness added up to a theft. he sees you and, in your face, reads the catalogue of what he taught you to hide: your unbuttoned laughter, the extravagant, unnecessary way you loved things, the careless insistence that life should be loud enough to prick the moon. and he knows â with the certain, cold clarity of a man who has finally been measured by his shadow â that he, with all his orderly intentions, killed that.
regret arrives not like a single lightning flash but as a crowded, compound sensation. at first there is a burn behind his eyes, a sudden dryness that makes his throat feel ancient. then a weight settles into the hollows of his chest, slow and dense as wet clay. his limbs feel unpracticed, as if the muscles that once obeyed him now answer only the command of panic. he watches you step into the carriage and the doors close between you like the soft fall of a curtain. the glass slides by and the movement is terrible because it is final in the small way the city permits final things to be final: brief, bureaucratic, utterly unprivate.
he stands on the platform and watches the lights of the carriage bleed into the tunnel, until you are a figure receding among windows, until the train is a bright thread vanishing into the dark. every second of that retreat is a punishment. he does not move. the crowd swallows him like a mouth; heads nod and phones glow; somewhere a child laughs and he hates the sound because it is light that he no longer feels worthy to hear. the fact that you did not cry aloud, that you did not throw yourself into dramatic pleas, that you simply held his gaze and let the world continue â this modest, stoic refusal is worse than any theatrical collapse. it is an indictment in the quietest register. it proves to him, more ruthlessly than any confession, that he has killed what once burned for him.
afterwards he walks home. the apartment is the same as he left it the day she walked out â immaculate, ordered, faithful to its idea of peace. there is a clarity to every surface, a theology of tidiness he once thought noble. his coat hangs where it always hangs; the books line the shelf in their patient row, spines like columns that promise solidity. there is a cup on the kitchen counter, still drying in a place he would not have chosen to leave it but left nonetheless, as if his habits had not yet learned to accommodate absence. he moves from room to room with a noviceâs clumsiness, as though each item might accuse him if he handled it with the wrong wrist.
and yet there are no boxes, no discarded sweaters, no scarf looped over a chair, no toothbrush in a glass by the sink. she did not bother to take the objects that would mark the space as hers; she left it as if proximity were a contagion, as if the very act of packing would shatter some last, fragile fidelity to what had been. this fact â the neatness of her departure â becomes for him its own accusation. she had not made a scene; she had left him the worst sort of evidence: the proof that she had simply walked away from a place now rendered sterile by his choice. he realizes that she did not bother with the small, messy business of retrieval because even her belongings might prove that she had once been near him, and perhaps she would not risk that memory lingering like a parasite on the furniture he loved.
the silence that fills the rooms is not a comfortable silence; it is a silence that multiplies, hollows out, becomes cathedralic. it is the silence of a house where every possible sound is a reminder of absence. he sits down in the chair she once favored and the upholstery remembers the shape of her; his hand finds a place where her elbow would have rested and the memory snaps like a taut string. the phone on the table is mute; there are no messages waiting with silly little pet names and small reports of trivial misfortunes. he is surrounded by the apparatus of a life he cultivated to avoid nervousness, to avoid the jagged edges of feeling. now that life is a museum exhibit, polished and labeled, and the label reads, quietly, empty.
the realization unfolds then as a slow, torturous geometry. he wanted calm â yes â but he had imagined calm as something that would coexist with the living warmth of human entanglement, not as a condition purchased by the quieting of someone elseâs spirit. the comfort he had sought was a soft armor; it allowed him to preserve himself by erasing what he could not bear to change. now the armor reveals itself as a cell. every precaution, every compromise in the name of peace, is visible to him as a small, committed cruelty. he had not hit or shouted; he had used subtler instruments: the withholding of full attention, the polite correction of exuberance into neatness, the steady insistence on restraint as a moral good. and these quiet violences had been sufficient to muffle you until the brightness you were turned into ash.
a peculiar sense of hunger rises in him â not for food or for simple comforts, but for proof that the thing he loved still exists in some immediate, tangible way. he wants the evidence of her presence the way a penitent wants a bleeding wound to prove he is alive. in some awful, private thought, he imagines what he once said in bitter hyperbole â the grotesque, intimate image of her teeth around his throat â and now, stripped of irony, it feels like a form of penance he would accept. better to bear the visible sign of being loved and harmed than to sit in this immaculate emptiness where nothing testifies to what once was. he thinks, with a clarity so tender it borders on the obscene: i would prefer to have you here, even if you bit me, even if you bled on me, than to go on owning a house that only proves how cleanly you left.
that thought is not noble; it is animal and true. he has learned in the merciless school of absence that proximity, even if it wounds, is preferable to the silent varnish of empire. he wants the proof of pain because pain would mean proof of life. better to be marked than to be immaculate and lonely. better to have his throat pressed by your teeth than to be left with the knowledge that his restraint extinguished you like a candle.
he moves through the apartment as if searching for the last trace of you â a thread on the sofa, a receipt, the smell of a shampoo. the rooms offer him nothing but their clean surfaces and the echo of mechanical living. even the bed, made with the precise folds he once found restful, feels obscene in its order. the sheets remember heat, but the heat is only memory and it offers him no comfort. he puts on a kettle and the sound of boiling water is theatrical and meaningless; when he pours into a cup, the ceramic ring is a small, private gong that does nothing to fill the cavernous ache.
regret is a patient beast; it does not rage so much as it gnaws, and as night deepens the gnawing becomes the steady cadence of his existence. he thinks of the moments he told himself he was being reasonable â the times he asked you to lower your voice, to choose calm, to be less of a spectacle â and each memory becomes a small, precise indictment. he replays conversations with the scalpel of the conscience: sentences where he corrected the shape of your laughter, evenings when he sat too long in the car before walking up to the apartment, nights when he declined to soothe because he wanted quiet for the sake of his own tired bones. he sees now how cruelty need not be loud; it can be a pattern that wears a person down slowly until they stop being themselves to keep the peace.
regret breeds a particular longing: the desire for atonement so immediate that it includes the possibility of being hurt for it. he would accept a wound as recompense â that is the strange, perverse humility of his remorse. he imagines, with a clarity unlike the cowardice that led to this void, that if she had sat in his lap and bared her teeth and bled on his breast, he would have felt less empty because the evidence of her fire would still be present upon him. that proof would mean that his house had once been inhabited by a light that could not be dimmed without retribution. the thought is obscene and tender in the same breath: to bear anotherâs blood is to be a curator of their existence.
and then the city goes on being indifferent; someone laughs in the building across the way; a late tram passes the window with a metallic cry; the moon hangs over the roofs like a cool, impartial witness. he cannot make a speech to repentance, cannot write the perfect apology that would suffice. language feels like a poor instrument when the fault concerns the vivacity of another personâs life. he kneels, unasked, before the hum of his electric stove, as if the small act of wistful domesticity could be prayer. he is a man who wanted peace and has traded it for a desert where nothing grows.
the knowledge that he killed your light will follow him, patient and resistant. it will graze him in the quiet moments: in the taste of his tea, in the way a smile no longer comes easily, in how the day loses color without your laugh to tint it. he will not be a melodramatic remorse; he will be the quieter kind â the kind that makes small compromises with himself until those compromises are the architecture of every evening. he will measure his life in the ways he cannot wind back time: the dinners unsaid, the touches withheld, the nights he chose his comfort over the risk of being consumed.
if there is a benediction in his pain, it is that it is true and uncompromising. the regret is not a theatrical repentance seeking absolution; it is a neighbor to shame, inexorable as a law of nature. and in that ineradicable ache he will spend the rest of his beautifully ordered days learning what he should have been brave enough to learn sooner â that to love fully often means to be scorched, that to choose safety above the otherâs fire is to extinguish something sacred, and that some losses cannot be compensated by the tidy comforts of an otherwise well-kept life.
so he lives then amid the silence he hired himself to maintain, haunted by the image of you in the subway who would not look away. the sight of you becomes the metric by which he measures his failure: a single, fatal remonstrance against his own cowardice. and sometimes, in the small hours when the city is quiet and the apartmentâs neatness is an honest accusation, he finds himself whispering a wish that is obscene in its simplicity â that she would return, not to forgive him, but to mark him: to bite, to bleed, to prove that the world once held her and that he still bears the stain of that holding. better a scar than this immaculate, persecuting emptiness â better to be marked and remembered than to be the owner of a life that only proves how completely he let someone radiant go out.
God I cried. This love is devastating. It is rot. I felt this on a visceral level. And it was written beautifully. And you hope she finds her fire, and he finds his peaceâŠ..
(yandere! choso x Reader, psychological thriller/romance series)
summary ; in which after a terrible accident you lost all of your memories. when you lose them you wake up in the hospital.. where a handsome man awaits for you claiming to be your husband.
previous chapter
â§Ë° â ïž c/w ˰⧠this series contains dark yandere themes â obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, captivity, stalking, blood play, and identity corruption. expect dubcon, breeding kink, rough intimacy, praise/degradation, and explicit sexual content. also includes violence, emotional coercion, and toxic romance. read at your own risk âĄ
Youâre running. Your feet pound against uneven ground, lungs burning as cold air tears through your chest. Branches whip past your arms, scratching at your skin as you shove through thick brush without thinking, without looking back. You donât know where you are.
You donât know why youâre running. You only know that youâre terrified. Your heart races so fast it feels like it might rupture, every beat loud in your ears. The forest is dense and endless, trees towering over you like dark silhouettes clawing at the sky. Leaves crunch violently beneath each step, the sound echoing far too loud in the stillness.
CrackâŠ.A branch snaps somewhere behind you. Your breath stutters and then you run faster. Twigs break underfoot. Branches scrape your shoulders. Something wet brushes against your calf and you gasp, nearly tripping as panic floods your veins. The air smells like damp earth and rot, thick and suffocating, filling your mouth with every ragged breath. Run.
The word screams in your head even though you donât remember hearing it. Your legs begin to ache, muscles screaming in protest. Your vision blurs at the edges, darkness creeping in like itâs trying to swallow you whole. Still, you donât stopânot until your lungs feel like theyâre about to collapse. Then suddenlyâYou do.
You skid to a halt, chest heaving, hands braced against your knees as you gasp for air. The silence crashes down instantly, heavy and unnatural, swallowing the sound of your breathing whole. Too quiet. You straighten slowly, heart still hammering. Why⊠was I running? The thought slips in, soft and uncertain. You look around and the forest stands perfectly still now. No footsteps. No breaking branches. No sound except the low rush of blood in your ears. Moonlight barely pierces the canopy above, thin slivers of silver casting long, warped shadows across the ground.
Your skin prickles as you turn in a slow circle, scanning the darkness between the trees. Every shadow looks deeper than the last. Every space feels like itâs hiding something just out of reach. What was I so afraid of? Your breathing slows, confusion replacing the sharp edge of panic. The fear is still thereâthick and clingingâbut suddenly it feels⊠directionless. Like youâve forgotten the reason but not the feeling.
You take a hesitant step backward. A twig snaps. Not behind you. Right beside you. Your breath catches painfully in your throat. The woods feel closer now. The trees loom inward, their branches tangled like grasping fingers. The darkness between them pulses, alive in a way that makes your skin crawl. You canât see anything. But you feel it. Something is here. Not chasing. Not rushing. Waiting. Your heart slams again, dread sinking deep into your chest as a horrible realization settles over you:
You werenât running away from something. You were running because you were being followed. And wherever you are nowâYouâve stopped right where it wanted you. The woods donât change right away. Youâre still standing there, chest heaving, heart hammering so hard it hurtsâbut something is wrong. The fear hasnât left. Itâs pooled inside you, thick and heavy, and then you feel itâWetness on your cheeks. Youâre crying.
You hadnât noticed when it started, but tears spill freely now, sliding down your face, dripping from your chin. Your breath shakes with quiet, broken sobs you donât remember making. You lift a trembling hand to wipe them away and your fingers brush something soft.
Petals.
Rose petals cling to your skin, pale and delicate, plastered to your arms and shoulders like theyâve grown there. More drift down from above, sticking to your hair, your collarbone, your cheeks. Theyâre beautiful. Too beautiful. âNo,â you whisper. You try to brush them away, but they donât fall. They stick. Like bandages pressed down too firmly, like theyâve bonded to you. Panic surges again as you claw at one on your arm, nails scraping desperately until it finally peels freeâPain explodes.
You scream, the sound tearing out of your chest as skin comes away with it. Flesh burns raw beneath the petal, blood welling instantly, warm and slick as it slides down your arm. You sob harder, clutching yourself, breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Blood drips from your fingers. You look down. The ground beneath you isnât dirt anymore.
Itâs stained dark, slick with red, and sitting between your feet is a metal bucketâold, dentedâquietly collecting every drop that falls from you. Your stomach churns. You step closer, drawn despite yourself, knees weakening as you peer inside. The surface of the blood ripples softly⊠and at the bottom, gleaming faintly through the redâ A gold ring. Your ring. Your wedding ring. Your breath catches painfully in your throat. âNo⊠no, noââ You sink to your knees, hands shaking as you reach into the bucket. The blood is warm around your fingers as they close around the ring, lifting it slowly, reverentlyâ A sharp, violent pain detonates at the back of your head. White-hot. Blinding.
You scream. The woods shatter. The pain rips you apartâ
And then âŠ. you wake up screaming, body jerking violently in the hospital bed, lungs dragging in air like youâve been underwater too long. Your heart pounds wildly, sweat soaking your skin, tears streaming down your face as the echo of your own scream lingers in the room. Your hand flies to the back of your head. Bandages. You gasp, sobbing, chest rising and falling uncontrollably as the image burns behind your eyes. The door slammed open.
You barely registered itâonly the sudden rush of movement, the sharp intake of someone elseâs breath as the room filled with voices and light. âHeyâhey, itâs okay,â the nurse said urgently, crossing the room in seconds. âYouâre safe. Youâre in the hospital. Youâre awake.â Her hands were on you now, firm but gentle, grounding in a way your own body refused to be. Your chest burned as you tried to breathe, air catching painfully in your throat like it didnât know where to go.
âIâcanâtââ you gasped, fingers clawing at the sheets. âI canât breathe.â
âYes, you can,â she said, steady and practiced. âLook at me. Right here.â
She crouched beside the bed so her face was level with yours, eyes locked onto you. You could see her lips moving, but the words blurred together, drowned out by the roar of your pulse in your ears. Your hands shook violently. Your vision tunneled. The dream clung to youâŠpetals stuck to your skin, blood on your hands, the ring sinking into redâand no matter how hard you tried, you couldnât tell where it ended and where this began.
âItâs a panic attack,â the nurse said, glancing over her shoulder as she pressed a button on the wall. âGet the doctor.â Your body curled inward on itself as another wave hit, lungs spasming uselessly. You sucked in shallow breaths that did nothing, chest fluttering helplessly as tears streamed unchecked down your face.
âIâm dying,â you whispered, terrified. âSomethingâs wrongâpleaseââ
âYouâre not dying,â she said firmly, one hand braced on your shoulder, the other guiding your wrist. âYouâre having a trauma response. Listen to my voice.â Footsteps thundered into the room. A doctor appeared at your side, calm but quick, eyes scanning monitors, then you. âWhat happened?â
âShe woke up from a nightmare,â the nurse replied. âHyperventilating, heart rate spiked.â
âOkay,â the doctor said. âSweetheart, I need you to look at me.â
You tried. You really did. But everything felt too close, too loud, too much. Your chest heaved as you fought for air that refused to fill you.
âCount with me,â the nurse said, squeezing your hand. âIn through your nose. Slow. One⊠twoâŠâ You sobbed instead, head shaking weakly.
âThatâs okay,â she said, not missing a beat. âWeâll do it together.â The doctor adjusted something on your IV, voice low as he spoke to the nurse. âIâm giving her something mild. Just to take the edge off.â A cool sensation crept up your arm moments later. Your breaths came ragged at first, then unevenâthen, slowly, reluctantly, they began to deepen. The tight band around your chest loosened just enough for air to slip in without pain. Your heart still raced, but it no longer felt like it was trying to tear you apart from the inside.
âThatâs it,â the nurse murmured. âGood. Youâre doing so good.â Your eyelids fluttered, exhaustion crashing over you all at once. The room stopped spinning. The terror dulled, fading to a distant ache instead of a scream. You clutched the blanket weakly, voice hoarse and small. âI saw somethingâŠâ
âI know,â she said softly. âDreams can feel very real after a head injury. Especially ones tied to stress.â You nodded faintly, though nothing about it felt like just a dream. The doctor stepped back, satisfied. âWeâll keep monitoring her,â he said. âTry to rest.â As they moved around the room, adjusting equipment, checking vitals, your gaze drifted to the door. Part of you expected him to be there. Watching. Waiting.
But the doorway remained empty. And somehow, that thought unsettled you just as much as the scream that had woken the whole floor.
ââââââ
The room is dim when he comes back. Night has settled softly over the hospital floor, lights lowered, machines humming at a gentler rhythm. Youâre asleep againâfinallyâyour body spent from the panic, the medication, the emotional whiplash of waking and forgetting and remembering nothing at all.
Choso pauses just inside the doorway and he takes you in slowly. You look smaller than you did earlier, swallowed by the bed, the thin hospital blanket rising and falling with each shallow breath. Dark lashes rest against your cheeks, tear tracks faint but still there, your face drawn with exhaustion that makes his chest tighten.
He exhales through his nose seeing youâŠso depleted. He steps closer, quiet as a shadow, stopping at your bedside. For a moment, he just watchesâeyes tracing the lines of you with a patience that borders on reverence. From your face, to the bandages wrapped carefully around your head. To the slope of your shoulder beneath the hospital gown. To your hands, curled loosely near your chest.
His gaze lingers. Longer. His mouth curves into a slow, satisfied grinânot cruel, not rushed. Something deeper. Something possessive. He reaches out and gently brushes your hair back, fingers slipping behind your shoulder. The fabric of the gown shifts slightly with the motionâand there it is. Ink.
Just a glimpse. Cursive script etched delicately into your skin, peeking from beneath the collar like a secret only he knows how to read. Choso. His name. His thumb hovers over it but doesnât touch. Not yet. His eyes darken, something pleased and dangerous flickering behind them.
âYou still wear me,â he murmurs under his breath. As if summoned by the weight of his stare, your body stirs. Your brows knit faintly. Your breathing changes. Slowly, your eyes flutter open. For a second, youâre disorientedâcaught between sleep and waking, between dream and reality. The room swims back into focus⊠and then you see him. Standing there. Watching you. Your heart skips.
âOh,â you whisper, voice rough from sleep. He straightens instantly, the grin gone, replaced with something softer. Concerned. Careful. Like heâs been caught doing something he shouldnâtâthough his hand remains where it is, hovering near your shoulder. âI didnât mean to wake you,â he says quietly. âYou needed rest.â He steps back, already turning slightly toward the door. âIâll come back later.â
âNoââ The word leaves you before you can stop it. Your hand shoots out, fingers wrapping weakly but urgently around his wrist. âStay,â you whisper. The contact is briefâbut electric. Choso freezes and he looks down at where youâre holding him, your grip unsure, trembling, like youâre afraid heâll disappear if you let go. Slowly, he turns back to face you, eyes searching yours.
âYou sure?â he asks gently. You nod, swallowing. âPlease.â For a moment, he doesnât move. Then his hand turns in yours, fingers sliding between your own, lacing together with deliberate slowness. He sits back down in the chair beside your bed, still holding on. âIâm here,â he says softly. âIâm not going anywhere.â Your body relaxes a fraction at his words, exhaustion pulling at you again. Your grip loosens but doesnât let go entirely. As your eyes drift closed once more, you feel his thumb brushing lightly over your knucklesâfamiliar, grounding, dangerous in how safe it feels. And Choso watches you fall asleep again. This time, he doesnât look away.
ââââââââ
The soup is warm and not hotâjust enough to send gentle heat through your hands as you cradle the bowl with both palms. Choso sits close beside you, one knee angled toward the bed, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he lifts the spoon. âSlow,â he murmurs. âYou donât want to rush it.â
You nod and open your mouth obediently, letting him guide the spoon to your lips. The broth tastes mild, comforting, like something meant to heal rather than impress. Your hands shake faintly as you swallow. Across the room, the door opens. âGood morning.â
You look up just as a man in a white coat steps inside, clipboard tucked under his arm. He smiles professionally, eyes flicking briefly to the monitors before landing on you. âHow are we feeling today?â he asks.
âTired,â you admit softly. âBut⊠better than before.â
âThatâs expected,â he says, nodding. âYouâve been through quite a bit.â
He glances toward Choso. âAnd I see youâve got excellent support.â Choso offers a polite smile, setting the spoon down carefully. âShe hasnât had much of an appetite,â he says. âBut soup seems to go down easier.â The doctor hums approvingly. âGood call.â You feel strangely small as they talk around you, but not ignoredâmore like⊠handled. Managed.
The doctor flips a page on his clipboard. âWeâre happy with your neurological progress,â he continues. âYour scans are stable, and youâre forming new memories without issue.â You stiffen slightly. âBut,â he adds, âyour bodyâs still recovering. Three weeks in bed does a number on muscle strength and balance.â Chosoâs hand settles lightly on your back.
âWeâd like to start the rehab process,â the doctor says gently. âPhysical therapy. Occupational therapy. Just to help you regain confidence and mobility.â Rehab. The word makes your stomach flutter. âI⊠I can walk, right?â you ask quietly. âYes,â he reassures. âYou know how to walk. But your endurance is low, and your balance may be compromised. Thatâs completely normal.â
Choso squeezes your hand. âIâll be here,â he says softly, as if that alone should settle your nerves. The doctor smiles. âGood. Support makes all the difference.â He gestures toward the door. âThe physical therapist will be in shortly. Weâll start very small. Standing. A few steps. Nothing strenuous.â
You nod, though your heart has already begun to race. A short while later, the therapist arrivesâa woman with calm eyes and a steady voice. She explains everything carefully, helping you swing your legs over the side of the bed. The moment your feet touch the floor, your body reacts. Cold shoots up through your soles. Your legs feel⊠wrong. Heavy. Weak. Like they donât quite belong to you. âTake your time,â the therapist says. âNo rush.â
Choso stands directly in front of you, close enough that you can feel his warmth. âIâm right here,â he murmurs. You grip the bed rail and push. The room tilts instantly. Your knees tremble violently, muscles screaming as panic surges up your spine. The floor seems too far away. The ceiling too close. âIâI canâtââ you gasp. âEasy,â the therapist says, but her voice sounds distant. âJust breathe.â
You take one step. Then another. Your vision blurs. Suddenly, your legs give out completely. You donât even scream. Strong arms catch you before you hit the ground. Choso.
He lifts you effortlessly, one arm under your knees, the other wrapped securely around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. Your face presses into his shoulder as your body shakes, breath hitching in embarrassed sobs. âIâve got you,â he says immediately, firm and steady. âYouâre okay.â Your fingers clutch into his shirt like a lifeline. âIâm sorry,â you whisper. âI thought I couldââÂ
âDonât apologize,â he says softly. âYou did great.â
The therapist nods. âThatâs enough for today,â she says. âFirst attempts are always the hardest.âChoso carries you back to the bed without hesitation, lowering you gently, carefully, as if youâre something precious. He doesnât let go right away. His hand stays on your arm, grounding you as your breathing slowly evens out. âYouâre safe,â he murmurs again, almost like a promise.
Your cheeks burn with humiliationâbut beneath it, something else settles in your chest. Relief. Because when your body failed you⊠he didnât. And as the therapist and doctor quietly discuss next steps, you lie there, exhausted, shaken, and clinging to the undeniable truth your body seems to understand far better than your mind: You canât do this alone. And Choso knows it.
âââââââââââ
The next morning arrives softly.
Gray light filters through the narrow gap in the blinds, washing the room in a muted calm that feels almost deceptive. Youâre awake before the nurse comes inâawake and tired, limbs heavy, head still aching dully from the effort of yesterday. Choso is already there.
Sitting in the same chair as always. Same position. Same quiet vigilance. He looks up the moment your breathing changes, as if heâd been counting it while you slept. âMorning,â he says gently. Your lips curve faintly. âYou didnât leave.â He shakes his head. âDidnât want to.â
The nurse comes in not long after, cheerful and familiar now. She checks your vitals, adjusts your IV, then glances between the two of you with a knowing smile. âHow are we feeling today?â she asks. You hesitate. âSore. Weak.âÂ
âThatâs normal,â she says easily. âYou did great yesterday.â She looks at Choso. âAnd youâthank you for being so attentive. We wish every patient had a partner like you.â Choso nods politely, but you feel his hand settle more firmly over yours at the praise. The physical therapist arrives shortly after.
Same calm voice. Same steady presence. She helps you sit at the edge of the bed again, your legs dangling uselessly for a moment before you brace yourself. Choso stands immediately. âIâll stay close,â he says, already positioning himself behind you. The therapist watches the interaction, then nods approvingly. âThatâs perfect.â You rise slowly this time, guided by practiced handsâhers instructing, his supporting. Your legs shake, but you donât collapse. You manage three steps.
Then four. Your breath comes fast, chest tight, panic threatening to riseâbut Chosoâs hands are there, firm at your waist, grounding you. âBreathe,â he murmurs near your ear. âIâve got you. You believe him. When your knees buckle this time, itâs not sudden. He feels it before you do, adjusting instantly, pulling you back against his chest so you donât fall at all. âThatâs enough,â the therapist says. âExcellent progress.â She turns to Choso, professional and direct. âYouâre going to be very important in her recovery.â
Your heart skips. âSheâll need help with transportation for outpatient therapy,â the therapist continues. âPhysical support at home. Someone to help monitor her fatigue, dizziness, emotional regulation.â She glances at you kindly. âMemory loss can be disorienting. She may struggle to communicate what she needs.â Choso nods without hesitation. âI understand.â
âYouâll also be her translator,â the therapist adds. âBetween her and the world. At least for now. Translator. The word settles into you strangely. The nurse smiles again. âHonestly? Sheâs lucky to have you.â Choso looks down at you then, expression softening. âIâm the lucky one.â Your cheeks warm. Later, when the room is quiet again and youâre lying back against the pillows, exhaustion weighing you down, you break the silence.
âThey keep talking like⊠like I belong to you,â you say quietly. He stiffens for just a fraction of a second. âYou donât have to belong to anyone,â he says carefully. âBut you donât have to do this alone either.â You stare at the ceiling, swallowing. âI donât know how to do anything,â you admit. âI donât even know who I was.â His hand finds yours again, thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles. âYouâre still you,â he says. âAnd until you remember⊠Iâll hold the pieces.â
The words should scare you. Instead, they make your chest ache with something dangerously close to comfort. You turn your head toward him. âPromise you wonât leave?â He doesnât answer immediately. Then: âI wonât.â
And the worst partâthe part you donât yet recognize as the trapâis how relieved you feel when he says it.
It starts out small. Subtle enough that he can pretend itâs just one big coincidence. Different routes through the dorms, staying in his room longer, choosing the training yard when he knows youâll be in the common room, choosing the common room when he knows youâll already be out and about. He frames it as space.
His way of restraint.
As the smart thing to do after everything that was said and everything that wasnât. You didnât look angry when you left.
You looked⊠quiet. You accepted it. He hated that you accepted it.
Like something had been pressed flat inside you, folded carefully and tucked away where it wouldnât cause trouble. Bakugou has seen that look on soldiers after the wars in those history text books, on people who learned how to endure instead of argue.
It bothers him more than if youâd yelled.
So he gives you distance instead. Thatâs the best he could think of. If he avoided you, youâd feel better, he guessed. Thatâs what he was best at anyways. Avoiding everything and everyone.
The string does nothing. Thereâs no reaction whatsoever. No pull, no tug.
For days, Bakugou keeps waiting for it. The irritating, undeniable presence curled around his pinky like a reminder he didnât ask for. He half-expects it to tighten in irritation, to flare when youâre close, to buzz when he storms past you in the hall without looking.
It doesnât. It doesnât do anything. Can it tell you and him are just not feeling it? He wonders what goes through the universeâs head when it forces people to confront and then gives them space like this. Like whiplash.
â.Ë âŸâ.Ë
By the third day, itâs like it was never there at all.
He stares at his hand longer than he should, flexing his fingers, turning his wrist, jaw tight. Nothing. No warmth. No pressure. No glow at the edge of his vision. Just skin and bone and the faint scar from training accidents that never healed right.
Good, he tells himself. This is what you wanted. This is what he wanted all along anyways. Isnât it?
The thought tastes bitter.
He still notices you, though. Distance doesnât make you disappearâ it just sharpens the way you exist in the gaps. He hates that he notices. Heâs terribly observant, always a silent people watcher.
He notices youâre quieter now. You always were calm, but now thereâs a carefulness to you, like youâre constantly measuring how much of yourself is allowed in a room.
You sit farther away from everyone. Laugh a second later than everyone else. When someone asks how youâre doing, you answer politely, vaguely, and then redirect the conversation.
You donât look at him. Good. Thatâs good.
Bakugou tells himself thatâs good. Thatâs what space looks like. Fuck. Fuck space. He hates space like this.
It isnât mutual. Heâs the one watching. Heâs always watching. FUCK SPACE. Suddenly, he hates space.
Late one night, Bakugou steps out of his room for water and freezes halfway down the hall. Light spills faintly from the common room, low and warm instead of the usual harsh. No voices are heard. No games from Kaminari or Sero or Kirishima. No laughter from Ashido, Uraraka, and the other girls. No Mineta yelling with Kaminari about girls itself, no Todoroki and Midoriya studying in the dining room.
Youâre alone.
Curled on one end of the couch, knees drawn up, a blanket pulled around your shoulders even though itâs not cold. Thereâs a mug on the table, steam long gone, and your notebook is open on your lap.
Heâs seen that notebook before in class. Itâs filled with cramped handwriting, margins crowded with notes like youâre trying to make the page hold more than itâs meant to.
Your hair is loose, messy. Your eyes are shadowed and tired. He doesnât move. He doesnât register his brain to make him move.
Bakugou watches the clock without meaning to. Midnight ticks by. He meant to only get a glass of water, but he didnât want to disturb your piece. He shouldnât be here, he should leave.
You donât move much. All you did was write, pause, rub your eyes, and go right back to writing again.
When you finally stand, itâs slow, like gravity weighs more on you at this hour. You stretch, wince faintly, then gather your things with quiet efficiency. No lingering. Youâve learned how to exist without taking up space.
Bakugou steps back into the shadows before you notice him. He hates the way his chest feels afterward. Too tight, too restless. It feels wrong.
It becomes a pattern.
You staying up later than everyone else and he notices. He canât sleep so he gives up and sees if youâre up late too.
Sometimes youâre studying. Sometimes youâre just staring at nothing, mug cooling untouched in your hands. He always smells the aroma of hot cocoa or coffee or tea. Sometimes youâre sitting on the floor with your back against the couch, knees hugged to your chest, eyes fixed on the window like the sky might answer something you havenât asked out loud.
The string never reacts.
Not when heâs ten feet away. Not when he storms past you in the hall. Not when you sit on opposite sides of the same room like strangers sharing air.
Itâs gone.
Bakugou realizes soon enough though, that it didnât disappear. It withdrew. Something hurt it. Maybe that was the two of you. Maybe it feels the hurt between you two and is just as hurt, feeling both of your emotions.
He remembers the way it used to feelâ insistent, irritating, alive. How it tugged when he ignored it. How it buzzed when he got too close. How it tightened when emotions ran high, like it was trying to drag truth out of him whether he wanted it or not.
Now itâs silent.
Bakugou clenches his fists in his pockets when he sees you yawn through class the next day, eyes rimmed red, posture still straight but brittle. You answer questions correctly. You participate when called on. You donât complain.
You never complain. You never ever complained.
He overhears Ashido asking if youâre okay. You smile and say youâre just fine. Uraraka offers to hang out. You say maybe another time. Kirishima waves you over to join a game. You shake your head, apologetic.
Bakugou watches all of it like itâs happening behind glass. This is what you look like when he gives you space and he hates it.
He hates that you seem smaller now. He never meant for it to end up like this. You folded yourself inward so thereâd be less to reject. He hates that you didnât fight him. Didnât demand answers. Didnât pull the string when he stepped away.
You just⊠let him go.
â.Ë âŸâ.Ë
That night, he finds you again in the common room at nearly three in the morning. This time, youâre not studying. Youâre just sitting there, blanket around your shoulders again, eyes unfocused. The TV is on mute, casting flickering light across your face.
You look tired in a way sleep doesnât fix.
Bakugou stays in the doorway longer than he should. His pinky feels empty. Heavy. Like a phantom limb.
He thinks about saying something. Anything.
Your name. An insult. A question. An apology he doesnât know how to shape.
The distance is his fault and stepping into it now feels like trespassing.
So he turns away. He turns away and it leaves you turning around to see his retreating figure. You knew he was watching you, always, but you didnât wanna bring it up.
â.Ë âŸâ.Ë
Back in his room, Bakugou lies awake staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He keeps flexing his hand like he can force the string to come back by sheer will.
art belongs to: kawaiilumiichan â story concept and writing belongs to cozmowrites/cosmowrites â do not steal
âŸ
a/n: i've been going through a lot over the last time i updated this but i have been feeling better and am continuing to once again come back, slowly, to things :)
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CHAPTER 51- Title: âFire, Flash, and the Falloutâ
Scene â Morning Broadcasts, Citywide
The fallout hit faster than anyone expected.
News stations ran loops of hospital footage captured by a security leak. In the quiet still of grainy surveillance, a slow zoom centered on a private room windowâinside, Bakugo sitting beside your hospital bed, one hand over yours, the other pressed gently to the swell of your belly as you slept.
âDynamight at her side after late-night admissionâsources confirm she was unconscious, baby remains stableâŠâ
Kirishima saw the footage from his locker.
He stood still. Every hair along his neck prickledânot just at Bakugoâs hand on you, or the soft gaze that felt too personalâbut the invasion itself.
You werenât a headline. You were hurt. And someone had sold that moment for clicks.
His hands curled into fists.
---
Scene â Hospital Edge, Distant Grassy Field
Katsuki didnât ask why he was being followed when Kirishima showed up. He just knewâknew from the look in his eyes that it needed to happen.
They found a patch of open field behind the med-wing, scarred from training drills. No one else in sight.
Kirishima cracked his neck. âI saw it.â
âNot my fault they sold it,â Bakugo said lowly. âI didnât even know I was being recorded.â
âYou shouldnâtâve touched her like that.â
âShe was crying in her sleep. I wasnât trying to replace you.â
Kirishima charged first.
The fight wasnât cleanâit was loud, grounded, messy. Earth shifted beneath them, punches thrown without quirks, without fanfare. Just muscle and fury.
By the time both men were breathing hard and dirt-smeared, they stood several feet apart, tension carved into their bodies.
âShe picked you,â Katsuki said at last, chest heaving. âAnd yeah it fucking hurts. But we made peace.â
Kirishima didnât answer.
âIâm not walking away from my kid,â Katsuki continued. âIâm here. Thatâs permanent. And if you ever mess this upâŠâ
He stepped forward once, voice sharp as shrapnel.
ââŠIâm not asking permission next time.â
Kirishima stared back, wiped a smear of blood from his lip.
âNot a chance,â he said simply.
And for the first time in weeks⊠they didnât hate each other.
They just hurt.
---
Scene â U.A. HR Department, Two Days Later
You walked between themâKirishima on your left, Katsuki on your rightâevery step into the HR building dragging behind you like a weighted coat.
Inside the room, tension sharpened as soon as the folders hit the desk.
âYou are both reinstated, effective immediately,â the HR officer said to Katsuki and Kirishima.
You turned slightly, hopeful.
ââŠBut [Hero Name], given your current status and the continued media visibility, we are placing you on medical leave, indefinite. Until this storm settles.â
Katsuki slammed his hand on the table. âAre you kidding me?â
âShe didnât ask to be targeted,â Katsuki growled, âbut youâre gonna bench her while sheâs the one who got assaulted? What kind of fucking logic is that?â
âIâm sorry,â the HR rep said, too calm, âbut if we donât protect the agencyâs image, there wonât be a roster to come back to.â
Bakugo was halfway out of his chair. âIâll show you some fucking imageâ!â
You reached for his wrist. âItâs fine,â you said softly. âI need the time anyway.â
Katsuki didnât sit down.
But he didnât throw the table either.
Progress, barely.
---
Scene â U.A. Courtyard, Departing
The three of you walked out through the main campus gate.
Sunlight filtered through low clouds. It should have felt like relief.
ThenâRivet.
Leaning against a bench, smiling like a man whoâd been waiting.
âWell, if it isnât the golden trio,â he drawled. âGot your maternity medal yet? Or do you still need the dads to fight over naming rights?â
Katsuki froze.
Kirishimaâs eyes narrowed.
Rivet smirked, arms crossed.
âYouâre a cautionary tale, [Hero Name],â he added. âHeroes like you always break in the middle.â
Thatâs when the ground vibrated.
Katsukiâs palms lit orange. Shoulder already turning as if winding for the kill.
âBakugoââ you warned.
But Kirishima stepped firstâhis arm unbreakable, catching Katsukiâs wrist mid-air.
âNot here,â he said low.
The heat eased.
But not the fury.
Katsuki looked between you both.
âWeâre not done with him,â he said.
âNo,â you said softly. âBut weâre done today.â
And togetherâbruised, exhausted, and not quite wholeâthe three of you walked on.
Scene â Your Apartment, That Evening
You sat on the couch with a blanket draped over your lap, the warm glow of the lamp casting soft light across the room. Kirishima stood by the windows for a beat, arms crossed loosely, jaw setânot angry at you, but holding something back.
âI saw the photo,â he said quietly. âThe one of Bakugo⊠holding you. While you slept.â
You looked down for a moment, then gestured gently for him to come closer. He did.
âNothing happened,â you said, voice steady. âI was overwhelmed. He was⊠trying to be there. But I was asleep, Kiri. I didnât know he touched me like that. I wouldnât have asked him to.â
His brow softened, gaze dropping to your joined hands.
âI shouldâve told you sooner,â you said gently. âBut everythingâs been moving so fast. The fallout, the HR meeting, this baby kicking like heâs ready for high school alreadyâŠâ
Kirishima chuckledâjust onceâbut it eased the tension.
You reached up, cradled his face between your palms.
âIâm with you,â you said, firm now. âYou. That hasnât changed. Itâs not going to. Iâm your girlfriend. Youâre the man I trust with all of thisânot because itâs easy, but because you stayed. You keep staying.â
He leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours. âItâs just hard, you know? Seeing someone else get a piece of you⊠even a small one. Especially when all I want is to protect every inch of who you are.â
You smiled, pulling him onto the couch beside you and resting your head against his shoulder.
âI get it,â you murmured. âBut no piece of me is going anywhere.â
And for a while, he just held you. No more questions. No more fear. Just the steady rhythm of two hearts still choosing each other.
đŹ 0  đ 0  â€ïž 0 · CHAPTER 52- Title: âPromises, Cracks, and Cannon Fireâ
Scene â Your Apartment, Later That Night
The city beyond your
The second the door opened and you saw Kirishimaâs face, your strength cracked in half.
âKiriââ Your voice broke as you reached toward him with trembling hands.
He was across the room in two strides, scooping you gently into his arms where you sat propped in the bed. You collapsed against his chest, sobbing from a place so deep it felt like it had been waiting all day to be touched.
âI was scared,â you whispered. âI didnât care what they did to me, I just⊠I kept thinking pleaseâlet my baby be okay. Let my son be okay.â
Kirishima held you tighter, voice thick. âYouâre both here. And youâre not alone. Not ever again.â
His mouth brushed your temple. âI swear to youâIâm never leaving your side. Youâll never face anything like that by yourself again.â
You nodded into his collar, clinging to him like he was the only safe ground left after an earthquake.
Because maybe he was.
Scene â Hospital Break Area
Denki rubbed the back of his neck as Katsuki paced like a bomb with no timer. A news replay played muted overheadâflashes, your fall, the shouts of people who werenât trying to help.
âThey got into her private garage,â Katsuki growled. âThatâs not a lucky guess. Thatâs someone giving them access.â
Denki frowned. âSecurity breach maybe?â
Katsuki shook his head. âNo. That garage is badge-locked and mapped. Someone gave them access.â
His fists trembled, eyes dark. âAnd now sheâs got another scar because of it.â
Scene â Corridor Outside Recovery, Later That Night
A nurse approached Kirishima softly. âVisiting hours are over. Weâll have to ask you to return tomorrow.â
Kiri kissed your hand once more. âIâll be back first thing.â
He stepped into the hallway, just as Katsuki exited from the other end. They met halfwayâreluctantly.
âYou sticking around to make your next move?â Katsuki asked, voice low.
Kirishimaâs jaw tightened. âYou got something to say?â
Katsuki didnât bark this time. He sounded⊠tired.
âI know I lost my shot. I know I screwed it up. And I know you didnât want it to be like this.â
Kiri blinked, caught off guard by the weight in his voice.
âBut sheâs the mother of my son,â Bakugo said. âThatâs not something you get to ignore just âcause your feelings are shiny and new. Iâm not telling you to leave. Iâm asking you to respect the line.â
âAnd what line is that?â
âThat I canât sit back and pretend itâs easy to watch this happen. Not when I havenât even figured out how to forgive myself.â
For onceâthey didnât explode.
They just stood in the rubble of what neither of them had the tools to fix.
Scene â Recovery Room, Later
You sat quietly, cradling your swollen belly, thumb brushing over the skin beneath the blanket. The moment hit without warningâa sob escaping your throat before you could breathe through it.
Katsuki appeared in the doorway just then.
His face fell. âHeyâwhatâs wrong?â
You couldnât answer. Just wept harder.
He rushed to your side, dropping to one knee. âYouâre okay. Youâre okay. Heâs okay.â His hand pressed to your bump. âWeâre okay.â
You leaned into him, tears soaking his collar.
âIâm sorry,â he murmured into your hair. âFor every moment I wasnât there. For every word I threw at you when I shouldâve just listened.â
He let his forehead rest against your belly.
âIâll do better,â he whispered. âFor him. For you. Even if itâs hard. Even if I donât get it perfect.â
You laughed through your tears. âIâll try to be less hormonal.â
He huffed. âYouâve got a baby inside you. You get to cry about fruit if you want.â
That made you laugh harder. Then⊠the stillness shifted. His hand moved to your cheek.
And you kissed. It was instinctualâgentle at first, then slowly rising into something full of memory and ache.
[Flashback: His POV]
That night⊠youâd come to his apartment soaked in rain and exhaustion. The fight had just ended. Youâd let him inâone conversation, one breath at a time.
When you kissed him that night, he remembered thinking this isnât just heatâitâs history. The press of your lips had been slow and searching, his hands finding your waist like he had a right to remember how you fit there.
He remembered how you trembledânot out of fear, but fragility. Youâd let him take his time with you. Heâd worshipped every inch like an apology he was too proud to speak.
The morning after, you smiled like you wanted to forgive himâbut hadnât decided yet.
And he hadnât earned it anyway.
[Flashback: Your POV]
You remembered thinking maybeâmaybe this meant something.
He was quiet that night in a way Katsuki never was. He hadnât gripped you out of hunger. Heâd held you like he was afraid youâd vanish.
You remembered how you curled against his chest after. How you wanted to believe heâd wake up softer. But morning came. And so did the wall between you.
[Back to Now]
The kiss deepenedâfingers curling, breath catching. But you pulled back, a hand on his chest.
âI canât.â He stilled. Didnât move. Just stared at you.
âI love you,â you whispered. âI always will. But not like I love Kiri.â His eyes dropped. You reached for his hand. Placed it over your belly.
âWe share a son. And for that, for him, Iâll always have love for what we had. Even if it hurt at first.â
Katsuki swallowed. Nodded once. The tears didnât fall. But they were there.
đŹ 0  đ 2  â€ïž 0 · CHAPTER 51- Title: âFire, Flash, and the Falloutâ
Scene â Morning Broadcasts, Citywide
The fallout hit faster than
You slammed the car door harder than intended, jaw clenched tight from the sting of earlier words that hadnât fully stopped echoing. The elevator to your apartment was just ahead.
Then a flash.
Then another.
Voices rose behind you. More aggressive than usual.
Three paparazzi stepped out from behind support beamsâin the private garage.
âMiss [Hero Name]! Just one quoteââ
âAre you seeing Red Riot and Dynamight?â
âIs it true you seducedââ
You turned sharply, clutching your bag tighter and hurrying your steps. But they swarmed, moving faster than expected. Too close.
You shoved past one of themâbut another grabbed your elbow.
âDonât touch me!â
The world tilted.
Your boot caught the edge of the ramp. You staggered, tried to catch yourselfâbut the grip on your arm yanked you backward.
Your shoulder twisted. Your head cracked against the concrete.
Whiteness.
Gasps. Someone cursed. A voice said, âSheâs bleedingâoh my Godââ
And then it all went black.
---
Scene Two â Katsukiâs Apartment
Katsuki stood in his living room, pacing. Still too hot. Still too keyed up.
Why the hell would she be with him?
Why now?
Why does it feel like Iâm chasing my own shadow?
He rubbed his jaw where youâd slapped him.
Then his phone vibrated. A news push notification lit the screen:
âBREAKING: Pregnant Pro Hero Falls During Altercation with Paparazzi. Caught on Video.â
He tapped.
The footage loadedâyour scream, the stumble, the sickening thud as your body hit the pavement.
Blood.
And thenâhis phone rang.
âEmergency contact for [Hero Name], this is U.A. Medicalââ
He was already out the door before they finished the sentence.
---
Scene Three â City Streets
Kirishima walked alongside Denki on patrol, dragging his fingers across a phone screen when Denki cursed under his breath.
âBroâturn on the news.â
Kiri looked. His heart dropped.
The image on screen was youâsurrounded, falling, unmoving.
He didnât wait.
He ran.
---
Scene Four â Hospital, Recovery Bay
The beeping was steady.
You floated in and out, hearing voices but feeling like you were under water.
ââŠminor head trauma. No skull fractureâŠâ
ââŠfetal monitoring, initiating scanââ
Katsuki burst into the room, eyes wild, voice almost breaking.
âIs she okay? What about the babyâis he okay?â
A doctor placed a hand on his chest, guiding him back. âVitals are stable. Weâre running the full scan nowâplease stay back.â
The door opened again.
âIs sheââ Kiri began, breathless.
But the nurse stopped him. âFamily only. And the childâs biological father.â
Kiri stepped forward. âIâm her boyfriendââ
âShe doesnât need you in here,â Katsuki snapped, stepping into view.
âShe wants me here,â Kiri growled.
âYou think this is about you? Get out.â
A tense pause.
Kirishima stepped back. No words. Just a glare hot enough to peel paint.
---
Scene Five â Waiting Area
Kirishima threw the chair back, running both hands through his hair. Ari was at his side. Kaminari, too.
âShe couldâve died,â Kiri muttered, fist clenched. âThey dragged her down like she was prey.â
Denki offered a cold bottle of water. âSheâs in good hands, man.â
âAm I?â Kiri muttered. âNot even allowed in the fucking room.â
Katsuki was at your side in a second, voice low, hand at your cheek. âHeyâhey, youâre safe. Itâs just me. Youâre okay. The babyâs okay.â
Your breathing slowed.
Tears welled. You curled in on yourself. âI thought I lost him.â
âYou didnât,â he said, still holding your hand. âHeâs strong. Just like you.â
You met his eyes. Quiet.
Then gently: âCan you get Kirishima?â
Katsuki didnât move for a second.
Then he nodded.
Left the room with clenched fists.
And told the waiting room in a low, hoarse voice: âSheâs awake. The babyâs okay. You can go in now.â
Kirishima didnât speak.
He just moved.
Straight into the room.
And the door closed behind him.
đŹ 0  đ 0  â€ïž 0 · CHAPTER 50- Title: âFaultlines & First Vowsâ
Scene â Recovery Room
The second the door opened and you saw Kirishimaâs fac
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Older wolf!hybrid roomate that lets you stay rent free as long as he can grope and fondle your tits every once in a while uninterrupted.
Heâs gotten to the age where heâs not really interested in going out to meet new people. Heâs content getting to take one of your nipples into into his mouth and jerk off while you scroll on your phone.
If you let him fuck your tits heâll even pay for your nails and groceries for the month. Licking the tip or letting him cum on your face means heâll treat you to a trip out of town.
Youâve let him fuck your doughy thighs once and he made a mess all over them almost immediatelyâŠ
He wouldnât call himself your sugar daddy. Heâs not exactly rich and doesnât pamper you like he wants to, but youâre taken care of and heâs grown quite fond of you.
Heâs been saving up so he can knot that pretty, fat cunt of yours at some point⊠he just doesnât know youâd let him do it for free if he just asked.
please give me alpha kirishimaâŠâŠ i need itâŠâŠ pleaseâŠ. just friendly neighborhood hero red riot that everyone loves for his manliness helping a sweet omega home heâs seen around and already thought he was attracted too and then her heat comes and sheâs trying to make it home and whoâs the best person to help none other than red riot
(bonus if heâs on patrol with katsuki, and katsuki likes the needy lil omega he wouldnât mind helping which makes kiriâs primal spike since another big alpha is interested)
love u sm
Alpha!Kirishima x Omega!Reader
CW, MDNI â p in v, reader is in heat, unprotected, language, mating press, jealous Kiri, possessive Kiri, size kink
a/n: hiii! i loved this request and hope i did it justice (˶ËáËË”) i have been on holiday so i am now catching up on things in my inbox! ALSO, i wanted to mention that i love poly!kiribaku x reader if anyone ever wants something of that sort :3 xoxo, vivi đŁČ
It wasnât supposed to happen like this. Your heat wasnât due for another week and a half, and youâd been so careful. You always were. Taking your suppressants, tracking your mood, avoiding crowded areas â the full nine.
But here you were, wandering down the dark alley dizzily, your core pulsing with need, begging to be filled. Your pheromones hung heavy in the air, the aroma of your slick sweet and all too inviting.Â
Itâd been a long day at work â being a crime reporter was harder than the average person recognized. It wasnât for the weak; trying to keep up with heroes' constant feats, being in close proximity with villains, staying late at the office to finish your stories. You clutch your purse tighter, your keys digging into your palm as you try to focus on getting to your apartment.
Thatâs when you hear itâthe familiar, friendly voice that makes your heart skip a beat even through the haze of your heat.
âHey,â His steps slow as he recognizes you. âOh, hey! You okay over there?â
You look up, and there he was â Red Riot, his crimson hair bright against the darkening sky. And Jesus, heâs fucking massive. You knew he was big â you had seen him in action and at hero press conferences plenty of times after all. But seeing him this close? Fuck, it has you clenching against nothing.Â
Heâd noticed you before, you knew that. As a journalist, youâd filmed him a few times during his hero work, and heâd always been friendly, striking up brief conversations that left you flustered and more than a little attracted. But now? Now, with your heat raging, his proximity was torture and heaven, all at once.
âRed Riot,â you breath, relief and something you didnât want to acknowledge bleeding through the daze. âHey⊠um. Iâm⊠fine. Just trying to get home.â
His bright smile falters as he gets closer. Then he notices it. Your trembling hands. The pink flush of your cheeks. Your fucking scent. It permeates the air; hints of vanilla, creamy jasmine and rose. Â
Kirishima had been through a lot â from extensive hero training to fighting in the fucking war and yet nothing, nothing, compared to the pain of his restraint in this moment. His primal urges were screaming at him to reach out, pull you flush against him, bend you over, and fuck you right here. His fists ball, nails digging into his palms.Â
âYou donât look fine,â he says, his voice dropping to a lower, rougher register that sends a shiver down your spine. âLet me help you home. Itâs not safe for an omega to be alone like this.â
Before you could protest â or jump on him â another voice cut through the air. It was sharp, impatient and instantly recognizable.Â
âWhatâs the hold-up, shitty hair? We donât have all damn day toâŠ,â Katsuki Bakugo, or rather Dynamite, rounds the corner, scowl firmly in place. But his words die on his tongue the moment he sees you. His crimson eyes flick from your flushed out face to Kirishama's rigid posture and then the scent of your heat hits him.Â
You see the exact moment his alpha instincts roared to life. He wasn't just annoyed; he was interested.
Bakugo had been on patrol with Kirishima, and while heâd initially been annoyed by Kiri wandering off, he could see why now. He takes in your state, licking his bottom lip. You are a fucking sight to behold.Â
Kirishimaâs jaw tightens at Bakugo's obvious interest in you, his primal instincts spiking hard. AÂ surge of possessiveness jolts through him, his hardening quirk threatens to activate as he fights the urge to stake his claim right here and now
âBack off, Bakugo,â Kirishima growls, his voice unrecognizably low, dangerous and possessive â a far cry from the friendly neighborhood hero the world knew him as.Â
âI can handle this Bakugo,â Kiri says.Â
Bakugo smirks, his crimson eyes glinting in the dim light.Â
âHandle this? Looks like youâre about to pop a vein, shitty hair. Youâre gonna scare the little reporter.â He takes a deliberate step closer, inhaling deeply, a low groan rumbling in his chest. âFuck, she smells good.â
That was his fucking breaking point. The already thin thread of Kirishimaâs control snaps. A low, guttural growl tears from his throat. It was primal â the snarl of an alpha protecting what was his.Â
What belonged to him.
âI said back off,â Kirishima snarls, stepping between you and Bakugo, completely shielding you from view. âThis oneâs different,â he rasps, quieter.Â
Bakugoâs eyes widened slightly, his damn smirk finally faltering. Heâd seen Kirishima angry, frustrated, determinedâŠbut never this. This was raw, unfiltered possessiveness.Â
âDifferent? How do you mean?âÂ
Kirishimaâs voice was a dangerous rumble, a stark contrast to his usual cheerful tone.Â
âSheâs not a fucking hook-up. Iâve watched her, talked to her. Sheâs got a fire in her, a passion and drive that has nothing to do with her being an omega. And Iâm not letting you anywhere near her.â The conviction in his voice was absolute.
Bakugo wanted to argue â if not for his arousal then his unwavering pride. But the look in Kirishimaâs eyes was a fierce, unwavering claim. He lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand over his face.Â
âTch. Fine. Have it your way.âÂ
He shoots you one last, lingering glance over Kirishimaâs shoulder. âDonât break him, reporter.â
And then he was gone, leaving the air filled with the pounding of your own heart. Kirishima was on you in two seconds. His big hands rest on your waist, anchoring you.Â
âAre you okay? Did he scare you?â
You could only manage to shake your head, his smell overwhelming you. It was spicy and clean, something reminiscent of cinnamon and fresh rain. The effect it had on you was pathetic, the slick between your legs increasing.Â
He breathed heavily, his gaze dropping to your lips. âIâm taking you home. My home. Now.â
Everything passed in a blur. He carried you effortlessly, one stupidly ripped arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, holding you securely against his chest. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent, a desperate whine escaping your throat. You couldnât help the way your legs squeezed together as he took you up to his penthouse apartment, the door clicking shut behind him as he set you down.Â
âEijiro, need you,â you whimper, reaching for him.
He caught your hands, his grip firm but not aggressive. He led you to his bedroom, the king-sized bed overlooking the city. He stopped at the edge of the bed, turning to face you. His eyes, usually so bright and friendly, were dark with lust and something else. Something tender that made your chest ache.
âLast chance,â he says, his voice thick and rough. âIf we do this⊠thereâs no going back. No stopping. I will claim you.â
Your body heats as you reach for his neck, trying to pull him in for a kiss. He grabs your wrists, pushing you onto the bed and pinning your hands as he hovers over you.Â
âI need you to use your words, Princess,â he says, voice rough with desire that mirrored the throbbing of your core. âOnce I start, I won't be able to stop. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. Forever. Every one of your smiles, laughs, orgasms will be from me, and only me, from now on. You will be completely at my mercy. Do you understand?â
âYes, Eijiro,â you gasp against his stupidly soft lips. âI want it. All of it. Want you.â
âFuck, babyâ he curses, his control finally shattering. Your clothes were gone in an instant, ripped from your body with a desperate urgency that thrilled you. You were naked and vulnerable under him, your skin flushed and slick with arousal.Â
His gaze flickers down your body, lingering at every part of you â the sharp ridge of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, curve of your waistâŠ
His eyes land on your core, pulsing and impossibly wet. A pathetic sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper escapes his throat.Â
âJesus baby,â he groans, running a hand down his face. âYou are going to be the death of me.â
His lips find yours, soft and passionate.Â
But you donât have time for soft and passionate. You needed rough and hard and him. You needed to be used, to be taken so thoroughly there was nothing left. You need his knot. Need to be his.
"Eijiro," you pant, bucking your hips against him. "I need you to slam your cock inside me and fuck me until the only thing I can remember is your dick splitting me open. Ruin me. Fucking do it. Now.â
Whatever semblance of charm and gentleness he had was gone. Instead, a predator sits before you, ready to devour.Â
A guttural snarl rips from his chest as he releases your wrists. In one rapid motion, he hooks his arms under your knees and yanks you to the edge of the bed, folding you nearly in half. Your knees nearly touch your ears as he forces you in a mean mating press.Â
He tears his clothes off, throwing them aside. Your eyes fall to his cock.
So help me God, he is massive. Fucking huge.
His dick is stupidly thick and long enough that the heavy head nearly brushed against the hard ridges of his abdomen. A single, perfect pearl of precum gathers at the tip, before swelling and dripping down his length in a taunting, obscene trail.Â
âYou asked for this, Princess,â he growls, fisting his cock. âYou should know I am a man that does not fuck kindly.â
He slams into your sopping wet cunt with one punishing thrust.Â
The air is sucked from your lungs in a sharp cry as he stretches you around his massive cock. You can feel him in your stomach, hitting spots you didnât even know existed.Â
"You wanted to be ruined, huh?" he grunts, his voice dangerous as he drives into you again and again. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't think, until the only think you can babble is my fucking name. I'm going to make sure you're still feeling me next week. Still walking around with my cum dripping out of you.â
All you can do is whine pathetically as your vision starts to go white. The pleasure is searing, so, so fucking good. Your nails dig into his back as your back arches.Â
âLook at you,â Eijiro growls, one hand leaving your leg to wrap around your throat. He doesnât squeeze, just holds you there â a possessive instinct that makes your pussy clench around him.Â
âSo fucking desperate for it. Taking me like you were made for it. You were, werenât you? Made to be mine, baby.âÂ
Your mind is gone, melted into a mess of need and desperation. All that exists is the feeling of him and the building tightness in your core.
âEijiro, baby,â you sob, tears of pleasure falling down your pink cheeks. âShit baby, Iâm gonnaâŠIâm almostâŠâ
âNot yet,â he commands, angling your hips to hit that special spot inside you. âYou donât cum until I say so. You donât cum until my knot is swelling inside you, locking you to me. Youâre going to cum on my knot, princess. Do you understand me?âÂ
The spring coiling tightly in your belly gets impossibly tighter, white noise splintering through your hearing. You jerk feebly under him.Â
You feel it at the base of his cock â the thickening, swelling sensation that promised to fill every inch of you.Â
âThatâs it, sweetheart" he grunts, his rhythm starting to falter, becoming erratic. âFuck, thats a good girl.âÂ
He ruts into you one last time, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as his knot begins to inflate.
The sudden, intense pressure sends you hurtling over the edge. The world stops spinning on its access as you go flying over the edge, shattering waves of fire making you go slack beneath him. Your body convulses, clamping down on his knot like a vice.Â
He follows you over the edge, his body going rigid as he pumps you full of cum. He damn near whines into your neck as he comes undone.Â
He collapses on top of you, his heavy weight comforting. His knot locks you against him. For a long time, the only sound in the room is your combined panting.Â
He nestles his face in your neck, his lips press soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.Â
âMine,â he whispers, his voice hoarse but gentle as he runs a soft hand down your face. âYouâre mine now, Princess. Forever.â
A soft rustle makes you look up to see a small sprig of mistletoe taped there by a mischievous student. He freezes, his skeletal frame going ramrod straight. A blush climbs from his neck to the tips of his ears, rivaling the color of his signature suit.
"Ah! Young [Readerâs Name]! It seems we've... uh... found ourselves in a bit of a traditional predicament!"
He lets out a nervous, booming laugh that quickly dissolves into a cough. He is a gentleman through and through. Flustered but resolved to honor the "rule", he places a large, gentle hand on your shoulder.
"Ahem. Well, a tradition is a tradition!" He bends down and presses a soft, chaste, and incredibly warm kiss to your cheek. It lasts only a second, but his lips are surprisingly soft. He immediately steps back, rubbing the back of his neck.
"There! Now, uh, no bad luck for the holidays!" He spends the next hour being uncharacteristically flustered, dropping papers and knocking over his tea. Later, you find a beautifully wrapped Christmas present on your desk with an anonymous note that is very clearly in his distinctive handwriting.
Shota Aizawa (Eraserhead)
It's late in the empty classroom. That's when you see itâa single piece of mistletoe, dangling from the lampshade. He stops, follows your gaze, and his eyes narrow into a deadpan stare.
"...Problem Children."
A long, weary sigh escapes him. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "This is illogical, a waste of time, and undoubtedly the doing of Class 1-A." He says this all in his usual monotone, but there's the faintest hint of pink on his cheeks, barely visible in the dim light.
He looks at you, then at the mistletoe, then back at you with a tired resolve. "The fastest way to end this nonsense is to comply." In one fluid motion, he leans in, his capture scarf brushing your arm. He places a quick, dry, but not unkind kiss directly on your lips. It's over in a blink, practical and efficient.
He immediately turns and walks toward the door, wrapping his scarf tighter. "Go home. It's late." But as you're packing, you hear his low grumble from the hallway: "...Merry Christmas."
Hizashi Yamada (Present Mic)
It happens during the school's Christmas party, right by the refreshment table. He's in full festive mode, glitter in his hair and a light-up reindeer sweater. He's telling you an animated story, hands flying, and backs you both directly under a strategically placed bunch of mistletoe. He notices first, his narration cutting off with a dramatic gasp.
His eyes widen behind his sunglasses, and a huge, sparkling grin splits his face. "WELL, WELL, WELL! Look what the Spirit of Christmas dragged in, little listener!" He points excitedly at the ceiling, his voice dropping to a theatrical, radio-announcer whisper. "Seems the holiday magic has caught us in its festive web! YEAH!"
He strikes a pose, one hand on his hip. "A DJ always respects the classics!" He takes your hand with a flourish. Instead of a simple peck, he dips you low in a smooth, dramatic motion, earning a few whistles from nearby students. The kiss he plants on your lips is enthusiastic, sweet, and accompanied by a playful "Mwah!" sound effect.
He rights you with a laugh, his face flushed with joy. "HO HO HO! Consider your holiday season officially MERRY!" For the rest of the party, he makes exaggerated winks in your direction and dedicates the next slow song on his playlist to you. The next day, you receive a custom-made holiday playlist from him titled "Mistletoe Memories," and he somehow "accidentally" coordinates his radio show guest list with your free periods for the next week.
Keigo Takami (Hawks)
Itâs less of an accident and more of a carefully orchestrated "happy little coincidence." Youâre on a shared rooftop for a post-mission debrief when a single, perfect red feather drifts down from above, gently brushing your cheek before floating up to point at a sprig of mistletoe now hanging from a nearby antenna. Heâs already standing casually beneath it, a lazy, knowing grin on his face.
"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Looks like some holiday debris got caught in my feathers."
He tilts his head, his golden eyes crinkling with amusement. "You know the rules, right? Can't ignore tradition. Bad luck for our next mission efficiency ratings." He says it like it's a joke, but there's a focused, playful intensity in his gaze. He's already closed the comfortable distance between you, his wings subtly curving to create a sense of privacy on the open roof.
Heâs smooth. One hand comes up to gently cup your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. The kiss itself is feather-light at first, teasing and sweet, full of his charismatic charm. But if you lean into it even a little, it deepens into something warmer, more genuine, and surprisingly soft, lasting just long enough to leave you a bit breathless before he pulls back with a soft, pleased hum.
He winks, stepping back and letting his wings stretch. "Phew! Luck restored." He acts like it was just a bit of fun, but later, a gourmet chicken dinner from a high-end restaurant gets delivered to your doorstep with a note that just says, "For my favorite bird-watcher. -K."
Enji Todoroki (Endeavor)
You're delivering a report, and he's striding out of his office, both of you focused and serious. You collide with the solid wall of his chest under a doorway. Before either of you can utter a professional apology, a junior sidekick squeaks, "S-Sir! The mistletoe!" You look up. There it is, a small, defiant sprig someone had taped up as a dare. The sidekick pales and flees.
He stares at the mistletoe as if it's a villain requiring a tactical takedown. His brow furrows deeply, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. A flush, not from fire but from pure, unadulterated awkwardness, creeps up his neck. He grunts, a low, rumbling sound of exasperation.
"...This is frivolous."
He lets out a sharp sigh through his nose, a small puff of steam escaping in his agitation. Muttering, "To avoid further... disruption," he bends down stiffly. The kiss is a brief, firm press of his lips against yoursâunsmiling, efficient, and surprisingly warm (a natural side effect of his Quirk). It's over in a second, and he immediately straightens up, adjusting his collar as if it's a piece of battle gear.
He clears his throat loudly. "The report. On my desk. Now." He marches back into his office, but leaves the door open behind himâan unspoken command for you to follow. For the next hour, he is even more brusque than usual, but you notice he doesn't correct you once.
Taishiro Toyomitsu (Fat Gum)
He's laughing, holding a massive platter of yakitori, gesturing for you to come try some. As you weave through the crowd toward him, he steps forward to meet you and boopsâyou're both directly under a huge, glittering kiss-ball.
His cheerful grin turns into a moment of wide-eyed, genuine surprise. Then, a deep, jolly laugh booms from his chest. "HAHA! Would you look at that! The holiday spirit's got us cornered, partner!" He doesn't look embarrassed at all, just delighted by the festive turn of events. He sets the platter down on a nearby table with a thud, his full, friendly attention on you.
He places his large, warm hands on your shoulders, his touch incredibly gentle despite his size. "C'mere! Don't want any bad luck for the new year!" He bends down, his smile softening. The kiss is hearty and sweetâlike him. It's a firm, affectionate smack on the lips, full of cheerful warmth and the faint, friendly taste of the barbecue sauce he was just eating. It feels like being hugged by sunshine.
He pulls back, beaming, and gives your shoulders a friendly squeeze. "NOW the party's really started! Get over here and have some gyoza, you've earned it!"
Rumi Usagiyama (Mirko)
It's in a training gym after hours. She's just finished pulverizing a series of high-density targets, and you're there doing cool-down stretches. She hops down from a high bar, landing directly in front of you with a heavy thud. As she straightens up, a piece of mistletoeâknocked loose from the rafters by her impactâflutters down and lands perfectly on top of her head, caught between her long, white ears. She freezes, one ear twitching to flick it off, but it just settles more securely. She looks at you, then at the ceiling, then back at you with a sharp, challenging grin.
"Hah! Looks like the universe wants a piece of me," she barks, planting her fists on her hips. She doesn't step back; if anything, she leans in, her crimson eyes gleaming with competitive fire.
"Well? You gonna just stand there, or are you gonna follow through? I don't half-ass anything, especially not traditions."
She doesn't wait; she closes the gap, one hand coming up to grip your chin firmly but not roughly. The kiss is assertive, energetic, and surprisingly skilled. It's less about romance and more about a challenge met and conquered. There's a faint taste of her protein drink and sheer, unadulterated victory.
She pulls back with a satisfied "Heh!" and plucks the mistletoe from her ear, tossing it over her shoulder. "Not bad. Could use more intensity, though." She saunters off toward the showers, but calls over her shoulder, "Hey! You're spotting my leg press routine tomorrow! Don't be late!"
Kugo Sakamata (Gang Orca)
Hero Gala. You are his designated liaison for the evening, guiding him through the crowd to mitigate his intimidating presence. While navigating near the grand staircase, you both pause to let a group pass. He leans down slightly to hear you over the orchestra, and that's when you both see it: an elaborate, tasteful mistletoe arrangement hanging from the bottom of the staircase's ornate bannister. A hush falls over the immediate, well-dressed crowd.
A low, rumbling groan emanates from deep in his chestâa sound of profound social discomfort. His sharp teeth are bared in what everyone else would mistake for a threat display, but you recognize as severe embarrassment. His large, dark eyes dart from the mistletoe to you, then to the staring crowd. He straightens to his full, imposing height, his tailored suit straining.
"...This is... an unfortunate spectacle," he grumbles.
He understands the pressure of public expectation all too well. With a resigned sigh, he bends his great head. He is painfully gentle. He places a careful, closed-mouth kiss on your forehead, the gesture surprisingly tender and formal. The coarse texture of his skin brushes lightly against you, and you can feel the restrained power in his stillness.
He immediately turns his glare on the gathered onlookers, who quickly scatter. "The event is this way," he states, gesturing forward with a sharp claw, his tone all business again. For the rest of the night, he positions himself subtly between you and the most curious guests.
Tsunagu Hakamata (Best Jeanist)
He is meticulously adjusting the drape of a new costume prototype on a mannequin, and you are handing him pins. As you both reach for the same pin cushion on a shelf, your hands brush. A soft snick sound is heard. You look up. A single, perfect strand of denim fiber, woven into the shape of a minimalist mistletoe sprig, has been threaded through the ceiling fixture directly above you. He must have subconsciously manipulated his fibers while focused.
He goes perfectly still, his critical eyes shifting from the mannequin to the fiber-art above, then to you. A faint, almost imperceptible blush dusts his cheeks beneath his high collar.
"A... Freudian slip of the threads," he says, his voice calm but laced with a rare hint of self-reproach. "How unkempt of me."
He believes in doing things properly. With a precise, elegant motion, he removes one of his gloves. He gently tilts your chin up with his bare fingers, his touch cool and sure. The kiss is deliberate, composed, and flawlessly executed, neither too brief nor too long. It's smooth, cool, and tastes faintly of mint. It feels like being the center of a perfectly arranged piece of art.
He steps back, replacing his glove and smoothing down his already immaculate jacket. "We have diverged from the task at hand. The inseam on this prototype requires attention." He returns to his work, but his movements are even more precise, if possible.
Toji had you pushed up against the wall, his large arms effectively caging you in making the space and the air around you feel thin âSay it again-Real sweet likeâŠ.â
You gulp as you work up the courage, âPleaseâŠ.. would youâŠ.. kiss me?â Toji grins as the meekness in your voice goes straight to his coreâŠ. âSuuuure.â He says as he licks his lips. He doesnât dip his head lowerâŠ. He waits for you to make the move.
Tentatively, you reach up on your tippy toes and give him a kiss. Itâs an awkward peck on his bottom lip. He chuckles at your fumbled attempt. Embarrassed you try to slink away as his large hands come down and grip your hips.
âTch. Gonna make me do all the work, ainât ya?â His lips crash against yours and you yelp in suprise. His tongue immediately seeks entrance and you allow the kiss to deepen. Your previous embarrassment replaced by heat and arousal. You make out with Toji for the next few minutes. Grasping at anything and nothing. When you partâŠ. He finally smiles a genuine flash of teeth. âBeen wanting to do that for a whileâŠ. Just waiting on you, Sweet Cheeks.â
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hi kari!!! for your event, how about aizawa + fake dating + holiday christmas party (work or family!) đ¶
i'm open to either naughty or nice, but you know with me and aizawa, it's probably naughty haha
a gift from me to you, aizawa and fake dating is soooo tasty omg wait
song: glittery by kacey musgraves feat troye sivan
18+ only (making out, fingering)
"how am i doing?" you ask aizawa after cornering him in the pantry of mic's house. door shut and surrounded by the most insane amount of junk food you've ever seen in a place that isn't a grocery store.
"before or after you fumbled the mistletoe kiss?" he retorts with the tiniest smirk playing on his lips. and you groan. your head falling to rest on his chest in shame.
"i got nervous," you explain, forehead pressing into the soft cashmere of his sweater. you've known aizawa for quite a bit now. he frequents the diner you're a server at often. always there first thing in the morning. right when his night shift ends. and you may or may not have the biggest crush on him to ever exist. so when he asked you to accompany him to his friend's holiday party you jumped at the offer. your heart only deflating a little when he asked you to pretend to be his girlfriend. so when you so happened to be beneath a mistletoe with him you floundered. looking around at all the unfamiliar faces staring at you two expectantly. you pecked him on the lips so quickly you don't think he even had the chance to close his eyes.
it's a memory you don't think you'll ever live down. it'll probably keep you awake at night. or only strike you when you're behind the wheel with enough force to make you want to veer into oncoming traffic.
"you're doing fine," he reassures you, a gentle hand patting the back of your head as his laugh surrounds you. it hits your ears like sugar, jumpstarts your heart like caffeine.
"promise?" you glance up at him, still reliving the moment in the forefront of your mind.
his hand slides down from your head to cup the back of your neck instead. a steady and comforting hand that has heat pooling low in your gut from the contact alone. you cannot believe how down bad you are for this guy.
"i swear," he says with a more open smile. one that softens all of his features. one that absolutely has you swooning. "mic just thinks youâre skittish."
you groan again. "like a cat," he adds.
"that's not helpful." you roll your eyes and push away from him. the smell of his cologne turning your brain to mush the longer you inhale it.
"it was cute." the breath of his chuckle blows loose strands away from your face. and you're not sure if he intends to or not, but his middle finger presses lightly against your pulse. lulling you into a brief state of security. "so stop freaking out."
but then you remember. "how can i when i probably just gave you the worst kiss of your life."
"it wasn't the worst." his eyes are filled to the brim with levity as he takes a step closer. ignoring the already limited space in this pantry and getting close enough for your chests to meet.
"and in front of all of your friends," you moan in frustration as the scene really sinks in for you. as you hopelessly try to ignore the way you can feel the ease of his breath.
"it wasn't the worst," he repeats, his hand tightening slightly to hold you in place.
"still," you start, shoving your lips into a frown, "it wasn't my best work."
there's a darkening to his eyes that's so slight you think you might have imagined it. but then again you also felt the way his abdomen flinched against you at your words. the changes in his expression are so minute you can't believe you're even noticing them. the imperceptible lick of his bottom lip. the gentle uptick of one corner of his mouth. the halfway lowering of his eyelids. yet every single change melts over you like hot wax.
"you telling me you can do better than that?"
and for the first time in probably the entire time you've known aizawa you're registering that he's hitting on you. so plainly. forwardly. this is more than a matter of convenience for him. more than just needing someone to fill in the space beside him so that he can avoid pestering questions about his love life.
shouta aizawa just might be into you too.
and with that realization your brain goes dead. for a beat too long. long enough for an amusing awkwardness to set in. one that has his smile stretching his lips even more before he decides to take a step away from you. a step that kickstarts your mind and has your hands reaching out for him. to keep him close.
âwell yeah,â you finally say, a nervous shake in your voice that you disguise with a laugh of your own. âthat one doesnât even count.â
you hope youâre reading this correctly. you pray the look in aizawaâs eyes means he wants you to kiss him. again. that when you rise slightly and angle your head towards him he wonât pull alway. because then youâd have to quit your job in the hopes that youâll never see him again. to salvage whatever shreds youâd have left of your dignity.
but luckily, he meets you halfway. you feel his smile against your lips. and the slight chap of them that you didnât feel earlier. your body sinks against his as you part your lips around his bottom one. your lip gloss smearing across his mouth as he kisses you back. for real this time.
his hand tightens even more and he urges you backwards until your lower back hits one of the shelves. until another shelf digs into your shoulder blades. your arms loop around his neck in response, flattening yourself against him until not even air can squeeze between your bodies.
you were dumb not to have noticed before. the very obvious attraction between the two of you. your attraction was surely obvious every time your hands shook as your poured him coffee. or the way you stuttered whenever you spoke to him. or tonight when all you can seem to do is freeze whenever he gets close enough to touch you. surprised every time his fingers brushed your waist or held your wrist or tucked a stray hair behind your ear.
the fingers that are now gripping your hip as the kiss deepens. as his tongue slips into your mouth. as you release a soft whine when your tongues meet for the first time. his fingers curl around the waistband of your pants, doing nothing more than pressing you more firmly against him. where you can feel his attraction to you harden beneath his slacks.
you gasp, your legs parting so that he can slide his knee between them. suddenly you canât get enough. of the way he smells. tastes. feels as he rubs against you. you grab hold of his wrist until the fingers that are curled around your waistband find the button of your pants. thereâs a chuckle that reverberates through his chest and into your mouth. you swallow it insistently. matching it with a low moan of your own when he pops the button open, the undoing of your zipper audible over the distant melody of holiday music.
you inhale desperately when he breaks the kiss, foreheads touching, as his breathing rocks through him harshly. you donât want the kiss to end, but when his fingers meet the damp spot thatâs wetting your underwear you lose the ability to actually think. he presses the slick fabric to you. groaning at how your thighs clench around his hand.
you bite your lip in a useless attempt to conceal the noises that are building in your throat. that threaten to spill out when he shifts your underwear to the side. when his fingers meet your bare pussy, gathering slick onto his fingertips before he circles your clit with agonizing pressure.
âgod, youâre so-â he grits out between a clenched jaw. thereâs tension in his entire body as he uses his raw strength to keep you there. caged between his body and the shelves that bruise your backside.
your head falls back carelessly as he pushes two fingers inside of you. a box of cereal tumbles to the ground followed by a bag of chips. instinctively your hand lunges out to catch them.
âleave it.â aizawaâs voice is a strained whisper as he hooks his fingers inside of you. pressing into spongey tissue that has your knees buckling.
âbut-â he cuts you off with another kiss. sloppier and less coordinated than the first. but still just as mentally crippling when all you can do is exhale a quiet mewl as his pace quickens. as he mercilessly pleasures you without care of where you are. of who might walk by and hear you.
you bury your face in his neck, your hands twisting in his sweater until it wrinkles. your own sweater stifling hot as your body prepares to come.
âshouta,â you whimper feebly, your eyes screwing shut as you cling to him. his answering groan doing nothing to keep you grounded. instead you float higher. your walls fluttering around his fingers as the heel of his palm hits your clit over and over.
thereâs really nothing you can do to stop the moan that rips your vocal chords when you stumble over the edge. but thankfully aizawa has the wherewithal to cover your mouth with his free hand. practically carrying you as your orgasm thrums through you. keeping you upright until you have enough control of yourself to stand on your own two feet.
âoh my god.â you release an astonished laugh when you register what just happened. when he removes his hand from your mouth and the other from your pants. âi canât believe we just did that.â
âyeah, that was,â he shakes his head, a stunned chuckle of his own falling from his lips, âunexpected.â
he readjusts himself in his pants and youâre about to offer to help him in return but theres a sudden bustling of noise in the kitchen. sets of voices that filter through the cracks in the door reminding you that you two were never alone. not actually, anyway.
âwe should head back out,â he says, his cheeks tinted red from exertion. your lip gloss glistening across his lips and chin every time it catches what little light there is in here.
âi told you i could do better,â you say breathlessly. jokingly as you make yourself more presentable. your brain still weakly catching up to you.
âi never doubted you.â he grins, brushing the back of his fingers across your cheek. âi just needed an excuse to kiss you.â