#alan tkdb

𝑲𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒐 𝑭𝒖𝒋𝒊:

"Mm, ahem! Oh hey, didn't see you there. These macarons? Yeah, I made them with all my HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN THERE?!”

Kaito has been thinking about gifts since Valentine's Day. Let's be honest, it was surprising for him that you actually wanted to do something like that for him. He hoped for it, but hope can't be everything, right? So he knew he needed to surprise you for White Day. Since… It's also an important date now.

For you he wanted to be nonchalant. Maybe you'll like it more if he's like that? He was worried since the beginning that you'll regret even giving him anything last month! What if you'll just look at him weirdly?! Even if there's a chance that you don't remember, he can act masculine and good, so you'll be happy to receive his gift?!

Who knew you'd just appear when he was training to meet with you… it's so embarrassing… you won't accept it. Or maybe. Will you please hear him out and take his macarons? They're just for you!

𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒂𝒔 𝑬𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕:

“I'm so glad we ran into each other. These are for last month, They're pink roses-I hope you like them. Thank you for everything.”

Really casual man, knowing about feelings and things he needs to do for you. Since you were so kind as to give him a gift, he can't stay empty-handed in front of you. White Day was probably the best option, because he can just make you happy while this event is happening. He could get you sweets, but for him flowers were more meaningful. Pink roses aren't as intense as red ones. With these, he wanted to show the purity of his feelings towards you. The joy of having you. Showing his appreciation for your presence in his life. Allowing him to be so close to you.

Please accept his gift. He chooses it from the depth of his heart and feelings, and he means everything with it.

𝑨𝒍𝒂𝒏 𝑴𝒊𝒅𝒐:

“Here. For last month. It's not money. I asked the vice-captain for advice and bought some sweets.”

First of all, he never was sure why you would ever give him a gift. He's not someone you should give it to. But… since you already did that, he can at least be grateful like he should. And he is. It was one of the moments in his life where he wasn't sure what to do. The delicate warmth in his chest spread. The rare softness in his life.

He knew what's going on because of other guys. But he himself never knew what to do exactly. Is he supposed to buy something particular? Or maybe just tell you some things? There's a lot of people doing other things so how can he be sure what to do? From all the people he had around, he could ask his vice-capitan. He's around somewhere, and even if he'll laugh at him, it's better than doing something stupid you won't like, right?

Maybe he is oblivious about what's happening around, but at least now he knows that he can give you some sweets. He hopes you'll like it. It's nothing fancy but at least… he means it. So take it.

𝑳𝒆𝒐 𝑲𝒖𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒂𝒈𝒊:

“Hey! I got you something. What do you mean, what for? It was in return for Valentine's but whatever. Give it back if you don't want it."

He remembers that you got him a gift for Valentine's day, and he knows what that means. He thought about it more, and it's not bad at all. You have him in your mind so much that you're ready to give him a gift? Hmm, it's fine. He's not rude to just forget about you since he already knows everything. You're trying to get closer to him? Good move. He also thinks it's even nice to have you around for most of the time. When he thought about gifts he didn't choose right away. You're not just some random person since he thinks about you. It can't be something he can just throw at you and go away. So it took some more time than he thought. Picking something he knows you'll like.

He tried so much and you're not even remembering what it's for? You're joking… he doesn't care then. He plays indifferent and tells you to give it back, but for real he's teasing you, feeling like he's pouting slightly. How dare you not know why he's giving you such a prepared gift?

𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒉𝒆𝒊 𝑯𝒂𝒊𝒛𝒐𝒏𝒐:

“Hands out. There. Tried baking some macarons, it's White Day today right? They're yours.”

You step back into the garage, and the eerie silence that fills it welcomes you with an embrace as you reach the main room. Your eyes wander over every piece of furniture, every chair, every wall, every corner, searching for someone. But you don’t find even a single regular student.

You sigh in resignation, already knowing exactly where they all are. It’s late, a Friday night, deep into the early hours. Outside, only the faint chirping of crickets can be heard. Surely every single Vagastrom student is down in the basement—in “The Pit,” as they call it.

From what you understand, they love fights, and on Friday and Saturday nights, when there are no classes the next day and it doesn’t matter if they end up covered in wounds, they gather underground to brawl and bet on the ring. So you head toward the wall in the main building where a certain curtain hangs, a little boy drawn on it, forever captured in the act of pulling back the very fold you have just slid aside.

You sigh again as the smell of sweat and blood rising from the basement hits your nose the moment you start descending the graffiti-covered stairs.

With every step downward, the shouts of the Vagastrom thugs grow louder—the sound of skin slapping skin, fists against cheeks, teeth breaking, followed by boos and the frenzied cheers of the crowd.

Then, just as you are about to reach the ring area, a deep silence suddenly takes over the place. You freeze when you notice it, terrified at the thought that the students have seen you and don’t like your presence there. You even stop breathing, holding the air in your lungs, straining to listen. And, as if they have sensed your tension, they erupt into even wilder whistles and shouts than before. Your ears ring from the sudden noise, and you finally exhale, confused.

You decide to keep going down, and at last your eyes land on the students raising their fists in the air, clapping and whistling with fingers in their mouths, surrounding the ring in the center of the wide room. You look toward that ring, protected by tall metal mesh, and to your surprise, there on the platform stands Alan.

It is the first time you’ve seen him up there. Apparently he has just climbed in, and they are looking for a worthy opponent to face the incredibly strong house captain.

Your heart jumps into your throat. You crane your neck to see over the burly students—you are dying to watch him in action. Taking advantage of your small size, you slip between the bodies of the guys to get as close as possible to the ring, where they have already found someone with enough guts to stand up to Alan.

The boys grumble about your little pushes and elbows, but eventually let you through without much resistance, too focused on watching their captain fight.

You reach the edge of the ring and press yourself against the iron mesh, since the students behind you are shoving each other to get a better view of the show. You hook your fingers into the little wire squares of the fence, your eyes fixed on the ghoul’s opponent—and you find a wide headband followed by soft white hair falling over lively blue eyes that shine with fear… but also with confidence.

Sho.

He clenches his fists in front of his face, stretching his legs and spreading them into a very convincing offensive stance. Across from him, Alan adopts a similar position, hunching his tall body and frowning, his deep dark eyes locked on his opponent. You can see him part his lips slightly to exhale slowly.

Sho moves first. Fast, elusive, he lands a precise blow to Alan’s side, right between the ribs. But Alan is more patient, smarter, stronger. When the albino gets close enough, with one quick strike to the side of the neck, he knocks him out instantly. His opponent drops to the floor, unable to move for the moment.

You get scared and your eyes widen. Immediately the regular students explode into cheers at their captain’s greatness. Alan looks down at Sho lying unconscious on the mat, then crouches in front of him to check that he is okay. In the corner of your eye, you see Leo also pressed against the mesh a few meters away, watching his friend with disapproval.

Anger flares inside you when you see him—how can he be so heartless toward his supposed best friend? Why doesn’t he care? You decide to calm down; no matter how much you hate him, there is nothing you can do against him.

Once again you move through the heavy bodies of the students until you reach the ring entrance. You open the mesh door and step in with both ghouls. Alan has already lifted Sho—who is still unconscious—into his arms, one arm under his back and the other under his knees. You wonder just how strong this guy has to be to do that to the younger one with a single blow.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Alan’s deep voice pierces through your chest. He fixes his dark gaze on yours so intensely that you hold your breath again.

“Um… is Sho okay?” you ask with a small cough, ignoring his warning and looking at the unconscious boy.

The older one grunts and looks away. He steps out of the ring amid cheers and incredulous looks from the other students. They hurry to clear a path for him, and you follow close behind, sticking to his imposing figure. You even grab the back of his shirt, scared by the stares the students are giving you after seeing your friend in the arms of the tallest one.

You leave The Pit. The Vagastrom students have already put two other guys of very different heights into the ring. You follow Alan in silence up the stairs. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows you are behind him, walking with quiet steps.

You reach the student dorms—apparently his room. Still carrying Sho, he opens the door and goes inside. You hesitate at the open doorway, but the ghoul glances back over his shoulder and nods slightly, inviting you in. So you do. You follow him into his room, which smells so strongly of him.

“What. Were. You. Doing. There.” His voice is firm, demanding.

He doesn’t turn to look at you again; he just walks to his own bed and lays Sho down with surprising care. You watch him cautiously, closing the door behind you. The room is dimly lit—only a small floor lamp in the corner is on. The ghoul turns to face you and takes a deep breath. You stay rooted to the spot, meeting his gaze, feeling every cell in your body vibrate under his scrutiny.

“I was looking for you,” you confess.

His deep, serious eyes—full of sins—leave yours.

“Don’t get too close to me. It’s not a good idea.”

There it is again, his favorite line.

And yet… he has let you into his room.

You take a few steps toward the bed where Sho lies unconscious. You can’t help noticing that Alan allows himself some luxuries: he sleeps in a large double bed. You wonder what it would feel like to sleep there, next to him. You push those thoughts away and scan the Sho's still body.

“When is he going to wake up?” you ask in a small voice.

It is true—Alan is right that it is dangerous. But you don’t care. You trust him and that he can control his strength, no matter what he says. Although that last part is a lie: the fact that Sho is still alive is proof enough. If Alan truly couldn’t control himself, Sho would already be dead after a clean hit to the neck.

“I don’t know. That depends on him.” The answer comes after a slight delay.

You turn to look at him—and he has taken off his shirt without any shame, leaving his strong, sculpted, defined muscles completely exposed. And of course, your eyes don’t hesitate to roam over his bare torso, his perfect abs, his worked pecs, his veiny forearms, his biceps, his…

He calls your name.

His deep voice saying it in that slow, intimate, confidential way of his makes you tear your gaze from his body and raise it to his face.

“Hm?”

“Could you check if Bandana needs medical attention? I don’t think so, but just in case.”

You obey without protest, returning your attention to the boy on the bed, trying not to think too much about the fact that Alan has learned your name but apparently hasn’t bothered to memorize his teammate’s.

You examine Sho’s neck, but find only a purple mark that has barely started to spread. Otherwise everything looks fine—his pulse is normal too. You turn toward Alan, who is now behind you, searching his closet for something to wear. But your eyes stop on the bruise on his side: another hit, the one his opponent had landed before going down. You step closer to his body, and he hears you approach.

“You shouldn’t come that close. You’ve already seen what I can do,” he warns again.

You roll your eyes. You aren’t going to listen, no matter how many times he repeats it. His dark gaze locks onto yours. You hold your breath again, your stomach twisting at the intensity.

“I don’t care about that, Alan,” you whisper. You take another step toward him. He only tenses, but he doesn’t back away from the distance you’ve closed. He doesn’t look away either. “I don’t care.”

You don’t need to say anything more—he knows the rest of the sentence perfectly. The tension between you grows heavy, and your heart squeezes in your chest from how badly you want to reach out and touch his face: that straight nose with so much character, that sharp jaw, those full lips. And then kiss them. Well… you wouldn’t mind kissing the rest of his body either.

All of it.

He clears his throat and stops looking at you with that intense stare that traps you in billions of lustful thoughts—and others that aren’t quite so much. So you let your eyes slide down his muscled frame until they reach the bruise between his ribs. Sho’s hit had been precise, clean, meant not to draw blood—at least not in the area he’d targeted.

You raise your hand to his body. Alan makes a slight move to step back, but you are faster, and the pads of your fingers reach the darkened skin. He clenches his jaw, but gives no other sign at the contact. He doesn’t try to pull away again; he just stands frozen while you touch him. You even think he is holding his breath—completely tense—because his chest stops moving.

“Does it hurt?” you ask in a whisper.

You lift your gaze to his. He has already been looking at you, so you immediately crash into those dark eyes so full of… everything.

God, you are dying for him.

But he steps back, leaving you with the lingering heat of his skin on your fingertips, craving more. More. You wonder what it would feel like to have his body pressed tight against yours, his hands gripping yours hard, his teeth grazing your fingers.

Alan turns around and grabs a plain black short-sleeve t-shirt from the closet. He pulls it over his head, and the muscles in his body flex as he does. The shirt is simple, understated, but it hugs his frame perfectly.

“Why did you get in the ring?” you ask then. The tension between you is still thick enough to cut with a knife. “I’d never seen you go up before.”

He watches you in silence, adjusting his shirt and closing the closet. He clenches his jaw and glances at you sideways. Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh.

“They kept asking me for a month. And you weren’t supposed to come today. I didn’t want… I didn’t want you to see me,” he admits, then immediately looks away.

He didn’t want you to see him? That feels so sweet. But you like that side of Alan—the side of him that is like a little lamb who knows he is dangerous and wants to warn everyone else about it.

The rustle of sheets beside you makes the two of you pull apart even further.

Sho lets out a pained groan and sits up on the bed, one hand on his forehead, the other on his sore neck. He grits his teeth, and his blue eyes scan the room until they land on Alan. Then on you. He frowns.

“What the hell is going on here?” he demands, pulling his hands away from his neck and gripping the sheets until his fists are tight.

The guy beside you takes a step forward.

“You lost in the ring. I brought you here after you passed out,” he explains in his deep voice. Then his eyes trace the bruised neck in silent worry. Surely the whole time Sho had been unconscious, Alan had been anxious, afraid he’d gone too far.

The younger one clicks his tongue and immediately winces at the pain the movement causes.

“Fuck, I hurt in muscles I didn’t even know I had.”

You hold back a laugh at his comment and step closer to check on him. You can perfectly feel the captain’s gaze burning into the back of your neck.

“Does it hurt a lot?” you ask, meeting the albino’s eyes.

He gives you a crooked smile and lets his face fall into an exhausted expression.

“Like hell it does. I knew Bigfoot was a killing machine, but… one hit…” He subtly lowers his gaze, embarrassed. “Thanks for worrying, senpai.”

You are about to reply fondly when Alan steps close to you. You feel the weight of his hand on your shoulder, though he removes it immediately afterward.

“We’ve had enough for today. You should go back to your room,” he says, calling you by your name.

You look up at his face—hard and icy as always. Then down at Sho’s warm one, full of emotion. So contradictory.

“Okay. Good night, Alan. Good night, Sho.”

You raise a hand to wave goodbye as you start walking toward the door, but the older one stops you.

“Wait. It’s not a good idea for you to leave alone at this hour. I’ll walk you.”

You raise your eyebrows, surprised by the offer. But grateful—and your heart pounds furiously against your ribs.

Shit, shit, you are so in love there is no going back.

Sho, still on the bed, rolls his eyes and flops back down as if he wants nothing more to do with the two of you.

“Don’t worry about me. It’s clear I’m just the third wheel here,” you hear his muffled voice from under the sheets he has tangled himself in. “I’ll stay here until you get back, Captain.”

Alan gives a small nod, then focuses on you again, gesturing for you to go out. You do. You open the door and step into the hallway, followed by the ghoul. He easily matches your pace, and you fall into a comfortable silence as you walk out of the Vagastrom garage toward your chapel.

“Hey, you really don’t have to walk me the whole way,” you murmur at last, feeling bad about making him cover the long distance between your place and his, plus the trip back.

He lets his gaze wander over the streetlights that bathe the quiet path in light, then to the dark areas swallowed by shadows, and finally to the full moon hanging in a star-filled sky above you. Then he rests his eyes on you—and suddenly you feel tiny in your spot.

“I’m not leaving you alone here,” he states in that raspy, deep voice, leaving no room for argument.

So you bite the inside of your cheek and keep walking beside the broad-shouldered boy. Neither of you says another word the whole way until you reach your chapel. But when you stop in front of the door to pull out your keys, Alan finally parts his lips to speak.

“It’s late. Rest. And don’t go out alone at night again—it’s dangerous. And don’t come to Vagastrom to see me, especially not at—”

“Night, yes, it’s dangerous,” you finish for him, rolling your eyes. Then you meet his gaze and give him a warm smile. “I know you worry about me a lot, but you don’t have to. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

*After all, you’re going to die anyway in the five months you have left,* you add silently in your head. But you don’t say it out loud, because you know he is thinking it too. He clenches his jaw and shoves his hands into his pockets, watching you with that hard, unreadable look—so full of… feeling, paradoxically.

He sighs, looks down at the ground, then back up.

“Sleep,” he says, calling you by your name. It is his goodbye. Though he pulls his right hand out of his pocket and starts to reach toward you—only to seem to change his mind and pull it back.

You make a face at his fear of touching you. You know he does it to protect you from his brute strength, but it really wears you down. Because damn it, you want him to touch you. You don’t care if he might hurt you. You trust him. You know he wouldn’t—because he’d go crazy trying to control himself if he ever found the courage to put his hands on you.

So you are the one who steps forward. You rise onto your tiptoes to reach his face. Though the ghoul is damn tall and you still can’t reach his cheek, so you have to settle for leaving a soft kiss along his jawline.

“I love you, Alan.” You pull back, slip the key into the lock, and turn to look at him. “You rest too. You deserve it.”

He gives a small nod, and with that you look away and step into your once-abandoned, now-not-so-creepy chapel.

[...]

It is Saturday. You wake up with a headache, probably from all the shouting in The Pit the night before. With a huff, you roll around in your warm comforter and squint toward the window in your room, which lets in every single ray of sunlight without mercy—the curtains are sheer white and block absolutely nothing. You really need to change them.

Then you think about Alan.

And inevitably remember that you kissed him. On the jaw, but you kissed him.

And you blush like an idiot.

Because he hadn’t pulled away either.

You muffle a scream into the comforter at the thought and reach for your phone on the nightstand. You turn it on eagerly. Finally you get out of bed, go to the bathroom, wash up—and even after taking your time, when you come back to the bed where you left the phone, it is still booting up.

“Damn it, I hate the junk Darkwick gave us,” you grumble. The phone must have heard you because it finally turns on completely right after.

You check WickChat and find a message from Luca reminding you to study for the exams coming up soon. You sigh because your plan to go to Vagastrom again—to visit Alan under the excuse of checking on Sho—has to be postponed for later. You thank Luca for being so responsible and such a good friend, then sit at your desk to start studying.

Hours pass in which you do nothing but study, read between topics, and eat. It has gotten quite late. You look up at the window—the orange tones of dusk greet you. With a yawn, you stretch in your chair, extending your limbs as far as they will go. Then you stand up, put on your uniform, and head back to the yellow house. Yes, their captain isn’t getting rid of you that easily.

The walk to the garage doesn’t feel heavy. You enjoy every relaxing sound of nature along the path and the absence of human voices—few students go to Vagastrom except those from the house itself, and they usually don’t leave on rest days, much less at this hour. You know Alan told you the night before not to come to his house so late.

You know. But you don’t want to listen. You aren’t afraid—not when you only have five miserable months left before your life counter hits zero. And you aren’t going to waste a single minute of those days.

So you calmly enter the garage again. Once more, no one is there. The smell of motor oil mixed with the food Sho has probably been cooking that afternoon hits your nose. It is a strange scent—somewhere between gross and delicious—but you leave it behind as you approach the curtain with the graffiti boy, ready to immerse yourself in the familiar smells of blood and sweat from the basement. But before you can pull it aside, you feel a hand on your shoulder.

You turn instinctively, stepping back—because you know that isn’t Alan’s hand.

Your eyes meet strangers: two regular Vagastrom students staring at you with raised eyebrows.

“What are you doing here, gorgeous?” one says, flashing a smile that shows all his teeth.

Disgusting. Hearing that nickname come out of his mouth is simply disgusting.

You press your lips into a thin line and try not to let the revulsion show.

“Do I need a reason to go wherever I want?” you shoot back, sharper than you intended.

Both look mildly annoyed by your comeback.

“Yeah, you do. Only Vagastrom students are allowed in here,” the one with short brown hair says, eyeing your uniform and lingering on your plain black tie—the one that shows you don’t belong to any house.

Before you can open your mouth to reply, the other guy steps closer. You back up. You shouldn’t have, but you do—and you hate yourself for it. He smiles. You glare. A small thread of fear slides down your spine—just a warning from your subconscious about what might happen. Your mind starts mapping the exits in the garage, the ones that would let you escape. You size up the two guys in front of you, weighing your chances.

They are tall; one is stronger than the other, but even so, you don’t think you can win a fight against the weaker one. So your only option is to be faster than them.

You play along so they won’t corner you.

“Well… I wouldn’t mind if one of you gave me a little tour around here,” you say, giving a slight tempting shrug.

They look at each other—because you’ve left it open for “one of them.” And you take advantage of that moment of doubt and rivalry to slip through the gap between one of them and the wall, then bolt toward the exit as fast as you can. It takes them a couple of seconds to process what is happening, but by the time they start chasing you, you are only a few steps from the door to the outside.

But you’ve bet on being faster than them—and you lose spectacularly.

One of them grabs your arm before your outstretched fingers can even brush the night air. With a yank he pulls you back against him, slamming your back into his chest.

“Hey, you’re a slippery little bitch, huh?”

You frown at his words and start kicking like crazy, but it is useless. He has both your arms twisted behind your back, gripping your wrists. The fear that had been running down your spine now blooms in your chest—and begins spreading through the rest of your body.

The other guy approaches from the front. Mistake. You lift your leg and deliver a hard kick straight to his groin. He doubles over, cursing you, but before he can recover, you push off the chest of the guy holding you, using your back as leverage, and slam both feet into the front guy’s shoulders, sending him flying backward with a hard headbutt to the ground.

You grit your teeth so hard it hurts.

The guy behind you loosens his grip on your wrists for a second—worried about his friend—and you twist free, sprinting toward the exit again. You glance back—the second guy is following, but you still have some distance.

And right then, when you aren’t looking forward, your head slams into something hard yet soft. Arms wrap around you. A familiar warmth envelops you.

“What do you think you’re trying to do?”

Alan.

You don’t hear the conversation the captain has with the student who’d been harassing you—honestly, you couldn’t have even if you’d tried. All you can hear is the loud rush of blood pounding through your veins, roaring in your ears with fury, keeping you hyper-alert while the fear still chokes your heart and squeezes your throat.

You wrap your arms around Alan’s strong, broad torso and bury your face deeper into his chest, feeling it vibrate with every word he speaks. He sounds angry.

He holds you tightly, and once he finishes scolding the student, he lifts you into the air for a few seconds and scoops you up in a princess carry—one arm under your knees, the other cradling your shoulders. You look up into his eyes and finally relax a little, breathing in the clean night air, listening to his determined footsteps along the path that leads to the main academy building… and then curves toward your chapel.

You squeeze your eyes shut when you realize where you are headed.

Alan doesn’t say a single word the whole way. He stays silent—a dark, suffocating silence that chokes you all over again. He is angry, that much is obvious. But not just at the guys—at you too. For disobeying him so carelessly.

You bite your lips and press yourself closer to his warmth, savoring the hardness of his body against yours. But you reach the front of your chapel sooner than you wanted, and he sets you back down on your feet right in front of the door. Your legs wobble, but you lean back against the building wall and look up into his eyes.

Those eyes that are now dark, hardened, deeply annoyed.

“Yesterday I told you not to come to Vagastrom. Alone. At night,” he begins. His voice is severe, trembling with fury.

He clenches his jaw hard, searching your face for any sign that you are truly sorry.

“And what did you do?” he says, calling you by your name. “You came here. Alone. At night.” He growls in rage. You’ve never seen him this angry.

He paces in a tight circle for a couple of steps, saying nothing—maybe organizing his thoughts. Then he locks his gaze on yours again, and you shrink back like a rabbit staring at the starving predator about to pounce.

“Those guys… they could have done… anything to you. Anything!” He presses his lips together, as though holding back an insult.

He looks at you again.

Then he takes two long strides toward you and, with one powerful motion, slams his hand into the wall beside your head—right next to it. You swallow hard.

He has to hunch down to meet your eyes face-to-face, staring so intensely you think your soul might fly out of your mouth. Then he sighs. And seems to relax. His hand trembles slightly as he pulls it away from the wall, but before he can step back, before he can straighten up fully, you reach up, wrap your hands around his neck, and pull him down to you.

Maybe it isn’t the best moment to kiss him. Not the best place, not the best situation. But you kiss his lips anyway, pouring every feeling you’ve been holding inside for him into that single gesture. He doesn’t pull away—he just lets you, allowing you to move your mouth softly against his. Then he draws back.

He calls your name, saying, “No—”

You already know what he is going to say: the usual spiel about how dangerous it is to get close to him, blah blah blah. So you silence him with another kiss. You have to go up on your tiptoes and do everything you can to keep him from straightening completely, because otherwise—damn it—you wouldn’t reach. Again, he lets you kiss him. But this time he leans into it, lazily licking your lips and sighing afterward. Then he pulls away completely, reaching up to his own neck to gently pry your arms off. He looks away.

“Please,” he says, calling you by your name. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he pleads.

“Oh, Alan! You’re such an idiot!”

You get mad because you know what he wants. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Why does he have to resist so hard? His monstrous strength doesn’t scare you at all!

He frowns at the insult you’ve thrown at him. But then his expression softens—probably realizing exactly what is running through your mind. He lets out a long sigh, as though releasing all the built-up tension with it.

He calls your name again, saying, “Seriously. If I touch you and I use too much force—if anything happens—I’ll never forgive myself.”

Right. Because skin-to-skin contact would amplify his stigma, which clearly has something to do with raw physical power. If he can knock Sho out with one clean hit without even trying… This time it is your turn to frown.

“I know you won’t hurt me,” you insist, stubborn to the end.

“Damn it,” he says, calling you by your name, “that’s not the—”

“Then what is the point?” you whisper, dropping your gaze and leaning back against the patient wall of the chapel waiting for you to take shelter inside.

Alan doesn’t answer. He just watches you in silence.

But you hear him take a hesitant step closer. Close enough that if you reach out, you can touch him. So you do—extending your right hand until you feel the warmth of his forearm under your fingertips.

“At least if you’re scared of hurting me… let me be the one in control,” you propose, lifting your eyes to his.

You don’t need to spell out what you want to do. He understands immediately—but he just watches you again in silence. Then he rolls his eyes, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, and lets you kiss him once more. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against him while he hunches down so you don’t have to stretch so much. Instead of putting his large, strong hands on your body, he braces them against the wall again. He kisses you with raw need, finally releasing the tension that has been coiling in both your stomachs for so long. He parts your lips with a gentle push of his tongue, dancing slowly with yours in a calm waltz under the soft moonlight above you.

You sigh and tug at the collar of his shirt, thirsty for his heat, desperate to feel more of him against you. You run out of air; you gasp hard when he pulls back to breathe, resting his forehead against yours. You melt into another kiss—this time he dares to wrap his arms around your waist. At first it is tentative, cautious, but then he tightens his hold a little, and finally embraces you fully. God, you feel so satisfied with the intimacy of the moment, so grateful for the effort he has to make just to hold you.

“I love you, Alan,” you murmur again, pulling back from his addictive lips to look into those dark eyes that drive you crazy, and stroking his cheek with your left hand, sliding your thumb over his full lips that are already starting to chap.

He lets out a heavy sigh in response. Then he brings his mouth back to yours, capturing it in a slow, enveloping, intimate kiss. You let yourself follow the rhythm and feel drunk on the sensation.

Your hands slide down his neck, feeling his hot skin against yours. You move them to his chest, tracing his collarbones, then wrap your arms around him in a tight hug, pressing him against you. You want to tell him this way that you aren’t letting go. That you never want to let go—you never will.

He presses closer in response, pulling his mouth from yours to sigh and straighten up, resting his chin on top of your head while still holding you close. You curl into his chest, listening to the rapid thump of his heart. You close your eyes and let yourself drift, basking in the warmth of his body.

“It’s cold out here,” he whispers, calling you by your name; his chest vibrates with each syllable.

“Want to go inside?” you offer, eyes still closed. You are enjoying this moment so much—the fact that Alan has finally dropped his stubborn insistence on keeping you away.

He makes a low sound of agreement, so he lets you pull away just enough to walk to the chapel door and take out your keys to unlock it. You let him inside, and the warmth of your home wraps around you both.

You climb to the upper floor, where you’ve arranged a wide first room with a sofa you found in the building one day while cleaning, facing a low coffee table, plus a couple of shelves holding thick, old books on magic, anomalies, and the like.

Off to one side of the improvised living area is the open door to your bedroom. The dark-haired guy drops onto the sofa with a quiet “oof,” settles in, and looks around.

“You’ve really managed to make this place livable,” he murmurs, fixing his gaze on you.

You shiver and step closer.

“I’ve tried. Though the worst part is still the ground floor. The organ and the nave still freak me out a little,” you admit.

You swear you see the hint of a smile touch those full lips of his.

You move even closer, and he tracks you with his eyes as you climb onto his lap, straddling him—one leg on each side. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t refuse; he lets you do whatever you want, even when you kiss him again.

You slide your hands over his shoulders, caressing the back of his neck, threading your fingers into the short hair at his nape. Alan, meanwhile, rests his hands on your hips—though you can tell he does it carefully. As if he is afraid you might break at any moment.

That thought makes your heart flip in your chest, so you deepen the kiss. What had started soft and slow quickly turns more intimate, driven by something more primal.

You pull back a little, looking into his now-bright eyes. This time he is the one who kisses you again, catching your lower lip gently between his teeth—always careful. Then he releases it and trails slow kisses down your neck, exploring, testing which spots on your body react most to the brush of his lips. You sigh and tilt your head back, giving him more room to work.

But when he reaches the collar of your shirt, he stops—as though a bucket of cold reality has just dumped over his head—and pulls his mouth away from your neck.

“Alan—” you start to protest, but he cuts you off.

“I’ve told you a thousand times it’s not a good idea to get involved with me,” he whispers. His eyes tell you he needs to get whatever he is about to say off his chest. So you let him talk. “So why do you keep insisting on being close to me?”

“Haven’t I already told you?” you whisper back, leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Because I love you, Alan. I love you so much. And when I love someone, I want to be with them. I can’t help it.”

He presses his lips together, as though he doesn’t believe you… No. As though he isn’t used to being loved.

You frown at the thought. If he isn’t used to it, then you’ll make him get used to it.

“I love you too,” he murmurs softly in return, calling you by your name.

You let out a relieved sigh at hearing those words. Then you kiss again—more carefully this time. You run your hands through his soft hair—so nice to touch—over his cheeks, then down his chest, over the perfectly defined pecs beneath his black short-sleeve t-shirt ―even though it is winter, across his sculpted abs until you reach the button of his pants. You want to undo it and pull them down. So you do—because whoever’s afraid to die shouldn’t have been born, right?

Alan lets out a low groan, but he doesn’t push your hands away. He lets you, and when you break the kiss to look down at what you are doing, he simply closes his eyes and tilts his head back, completely at your mercy.

“Fine… do whatever you want,” he concedes.

His words spur you on.

You slide off his lap and kneel on the floor between his spread legs. You tug his pants and boxers down together. His hard, proud cock springs free in front of you. Damn—he’s been this turned on the whole time and kept so quiet about it. You wrap one hand around him, stroking carefully, and delight in the ghoul’s sigh. You smile.

You lean in and give the head a slow lick, drawing a stifled moan. Oh, you are definitely going to enjoy this.

Alan presses his lips together and frowns, watching you—watching as you take his length in your hand and start stroking him slowly at first, wanting to torture him just a little for keeping you away for six damn months just because “it wasn’t a good idea to get close to him.” Even if he has his reasons, you are still a bit resentful. But he isn’t having it.

Leaning forward, he covers your hand with his own, and you realize just how big he really is. In every sense.

“Not like that,” he says, calling you by your name—not quite a scold; his voice is too soft.

Then, with his hand guiding yours, he starts pumping faster, forcing you to stroke him hard and quick. He growls and swallows a gasp; his cheeks flush deeper with every passing second.

“Like this—see?”

You nod eagerly. He pulls his hand away, leaving the work to you. Pre-cum is already beading at the tip, so you lick it up. Then you keep licking along the rest of his length without stopping the steady motion at the base, catching every drop with your tongue, savoring the taste.

Finally you take him into your mouth—and that is all the signal he needs. Alan threads his fingers into your hair and starts thrusting into your mouth—slowly at first. Your eyes widen in surprise, but you try to keep up, gagging a little on his length.

You move your hand away and grip his thighs instead, steadying yourself against every roll of his hips against your lips, every time he guides your head down with his hands tangled in your hair.

You feel him throb; he warns you he is close and that you should pull away. But you refuse. You want to taste all of him. So despite his protests, you keep swirling your tongue around his cock as he comes—spilling down your throat. It isn’t pleasant; you gag hard. He panics.

But once you stop choking on his release and swallow what is left in your mouth, you lick your lips, catch your breath, and look up at those eyes that now hold a mix of calm (seeing you are okay) and lingering intense arousal.

“Don’t ever do that again.” This time it really is a scold—his severe tone is back, though worry and a whole lot of heat still linger in his gaze.

“Sorry,” you say—without really meaning it. You’d definitely do it again; you’d just try not to choke so clumsily next time.

Alan huffs and adjusts his pants. You climb back onto the sofa, intending to straddle him again like before, but he catches you by the waist and lays you down beside him instead, legs tucked up. Then he gently parts one of your knees from the other.

You let him settle between your legs; he fits there like he has been made for it. He leans down to kiss you again—his body covering yours easily. His hands search for the buttons of your shirt; you help him undo them one by one, but he loses patience with one stubborn button and ends up ripping the shirt open.

“Ah, shit—” He makes an apologetic face, but before he can say more, you grab his cheeks and kiss him hungrily.

Whatever. If he ruins your uniform, you’ll just ask the headmaster for a new one. He can’t say no—he is the one funding your education here anyway.

So you let it go, shrug off the torn shirt, the tie, the blazer, the bra—under his hungry gaze. He tries to help, so a few more pieces of clothing meet the same fate—including his own.

“Hey, Alan,” you call sweetly. His eyes flick up to yours like an eager puppy. “Don’t worry so much about the clothes.”

He nods once, then leans down to kiss your breasts. His hot tongue traces from your ribs up to the peak of one nipple, making you arch your back and curl your toes in ecstasy. You bite your lip and slide your hands into his hair, then down his neck to caress his now-bare back. God clearly has favorites: Alan has been blessed with a wide, beautifully muscled back that flexes with every movement of his arms around your waist.

Pleasure floods your body; lust drowns you under the hot caresses of the ghoul’s lips on your chest—nipping at your nipples, licking the curve of your breast, kissing your ribs. He is so good, so careful. You love him so much you feel like you don’t deserve him.

His hands travel down your body, tracing every curve—no matter how small—until they reach your spread legs.

Damn—he tears your skirt too, though he is gentler with your pretty panties; he just pushes them aside. He lifts his gaze to yours, silently asking for permission. You nod, giving it. You take a deep, anxious breath. He reaches down, shoves his pants low enough, and then sinks into you with one delicious, wet slide. Your back arches; Alan rests his forehead against yours, sharing the same ragged breaths.

You clutch his shoulders, feeling him so deep inside—kissing the deepest parts of you with a sensuality that nearly sends you over the edge right then. You scratch his skin; he silences the moans spilling from your lips with a fiery kiss. His hips move in a hypnotic rhythm, hitting every perfect spot.

He curses under his breath against your mouth and has to pull back to breathe, panting.

With his right hand on your hip, he guides your clumsy attempts to move against him; his left slips between your bodies, finding your slick heat that swallows his cock over and over, a lewd ring of fluids already forming at the base. His thumb finds your clit—pressing, pinching—making you cry out and writhe in pleasure.

You dig your nails into his back, lost in ecstasy, blind with sensation, focused only on him—on his fast breathing, on the sweat covering his perfect body, on his lips that capture yours again in desperate need.

You sigh, gasp, moan, scream his name again and again, hearing his own stifled groans and the filthy sound of your bodies meeting.

He pulls back just enough—not stopping those frantic thrusts that make you tremble with pleasure—and slides a finger inside you alongside himself, moving it slowly just to study your reaction. He is going to drive you insane—blessed Alan and the way he fucks you so completely.

“Ah, fuck—” you gasp, already out of strength, clinging to his body however you can. “Alan, I’m so close…”

He groans in response, visibly fighting not to use too much of his superhuman strength while still driving into you with devastating precision—hitting every right place at the exact right moment. Your body shakes; your voice breaks as you come hard around his cock.

He isn’t far behind—you feel him pulse and spill inside you almost immediately, painting your walls with his release while muttering a few choice curses. Then he pulls out and collapses over you, exhausted.

“This wasn’t supposed to end like this,” he mutters, brushing a sweaty strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness.

You sigh too, relaxing under his warmth, feeling more at peace than ever. You close your eyes and hug him gently.

“Well… the things that aren’t planned are usually the best ones, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t reply, but he stands up from the sofa and lifts you easily into his arms again—princess style.

“Where’s the bathroom?” he asks, scanning the closed doors around the living area.

You point the way. He carries you there with light steps, as though your weight means nothing to him. Once inside, he turns on the shower but sets you down on your feet beside him.

You wince a little in pain—maybe Alan has been a bit rough after all; your intimate area aches, your breasts where he has bitten you throb, and his fingerprints linger on your hips.

He notices your grimace and opens his mouth to ask if you are okay, but you quickly reassure him before he can worry more. Alan shakes his head at your stubbornness, then strips off the pants and boxers he is still wearing, leaving them aside, and turns on the water. Warm streams rain down over your heads.

“I love you,” you whisper again, resting your cheek against his chest. You are convinced you’ll never get tired of saying it.

He smiles—this time he really does. He strokes your hair tenderly and kisses your forehead. He doesn’t need to say it back—his actions are more than enough.