#animefics

Your soul left your body, grabbed a suitcase, and booked a train to anywhere else. Your heart plummeted straight into your ass but your face stayed painfully neutral out of pure pride.

August burst through the doorway like a grenade with legs, voice echoing off every wall in HQ. Before you could blink, he launched himself onto the couch, half on you, half on gravity’s mercy, draping across your thighs with zero dignity and even less stability. You made a noise of protest that he absolutely ignored.

His hand shot out, snatching your claw clip mid-air like he was catching prey. “Gotcha,” he crooned, already clicking it open and closed obnoxiously near your face like a deranged baby bird demanding worms. Click. Click. Click.

You narrowed your eyes. “August—”

He clipped it into your hair. Not even nicely. Not even functionally. Just somewhere on your face. You exhaled through your nose so hard your soul might’ve re-entered your body for a moment.

He wasn’t done. He plucked the clip back out, inspected it like treasure, then clipped it proudly to the strap of his dungarees—right next to the other three he’d stolen this week alone.

“I. missed. you.” Each word punctuated with another smug little click of the clip. His grin was so stupidly wide you felt your annoyance crack at the edges.

You tried to go back to tying your hair—failing, because he was basically sprawled across your lap like a cat that had never been denied anything in its life. You pushed lightly at his shoulder and he responded by melting deeper into you, head landing against your thigh like he’d died dramatically for attention.

Then he noticed your chapstick. “—oooh. shiny…” he murmured, pupils dilating like a crow discovering a loose coin.

“No,” you said immediately, lifting your chin in fake authority. Your mouth was already fighting a smile.

He ignored the refusal, as always and leaned in, really close, practically nose-to-nose with you, like he was trying to inhale the cherry scent without admitting he liked it. He watched your lips with embarrassing focus. “This one’s new,” he murmured, voice dropping half an octave like he was studying an artifact. “It’s got—what’s that—glitter? Is it edible? If I lick it, will I die? Can I try it? Let me try it.”

You grabbed his face with both hands before he did something stupid, your palms warm on his cheeks, thumbs brushing over felted charcoal smudges he’d never washed off. August froze, muscles going quiet like you’d hit an off-switch he didn’t know he had.

Then you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. A little tint left behind. A little shimmer. A little claim he absolutely felt.

He made a sound. Not a normal human sound. A delighted, smug, dying-bird coo that vibrated straight into your kneecaps.

“—awwwww sick,” he said, touching the stained spot like he’d been knighted. “I will wear it with honor.” He puffed out his chest like a rooster. “People are gonna think I fought a sparkly ghost and lost.”

“You would lose,” you said, and he gasped as if wounded.

“You wound me every day,” he declared, rolling dramatically across your lap until he ended up upside-down, head hanging off the couch, hair brushing the floor. He peered up at you from this cursed angle. “Do it again.”

“No.”

“One more.”

“No.”

“Half a one.”

“There’s no such—”

He sat up so fast your mirror almost fell from your hand. He caught it, flipped it open, and angled it toward your face in a ridiculous imitation of your earlier pose. “Look,” he said, tapping the glass he had drawn tiny smeared flowers over, “you can see the cherry color better in my mirror. It’s got charm. It’s got artistic integrity. It’s got me.”

“You literally vandalized it.”

“You kept it,” he sang, leaning his entire weight onto your shoulder again, heavy and warm and absolutely starved for touch in a way he pretended was casual. “Which means you love my art. And me.”

“Definitely not you.”

“Ohhh she lies,” he said, nuzzling his forehead against yours like an affectionate gremlin. “Tiny, tiny lies from a tiny, tiny heart.”

You flicked his forehead. “My heart is not tiny.”

He gasped. “Violence.”

You didn’t answer, only smoothed a hand through his hair—because he was already in your lap, and honestly, resistance at this point felt fictional. He melted instantly, like he’d been waiting all day for someone to pet him. His eyes fluttered, his breath went embarrassingly soft, his shoulders slumped. A stray strand of your hair fell into your face, he pushed it back behind your ear, solemn for two seconds before he ruined it.

“I’m keeping this clip,” he whispered proudly.

“You’re not.”

“It’s already clipped. Nothing can stop me now.”

“August.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Give it back.”

He tightened his arms around your waist. “Come take it.”

You swatted him. He laughed so loudly half the HQ probably assumed someone was being murdered. You couldn’t help it and grinned.

He buried his face in your shoulder, voice muffled and smug. “Mmm. Cherry flavor. Maybe tomorrow you should do… peach. Or mint. Or something that tastes like danger. I’ll find it. I’ll judge it. I’ll steal it.”

“You’re not tasting my chapstick.”

“We’ll see,” he whispered, sounding unbearably pleased with himself.

August’s obsession didn’t calm down after that couch incident—if anything it escalated into a lifestyle choice. He was suddenly everywhere, bursting through hallways, dropping onto couches, hanging off doorframes like a problematic chandelier. Every time you walked past him, he had at least four of your hair ties banded around one wrist, a scrunchie puffing up the other like some ridiculous statement piece, and a claw clip proudly clipped to his dungaree strap like war decoration.

You pretended to glare every time. You said things like “Give it back.” You rolled your eyes. You scolded. You acted bothered.

But every time you caught sight of your stuff on him—bright little pieces of you sitting against his denim, dangling from his wrist, hugging his hair—your chest warmed in a way that made you want to strangle him lovingly.

He, of course, noticed every flicker of softness you tried to suffocate. And he fed on it.

He visited your room constantly. Not to see you—no, of course not. That would be too normal. Too honest. He came to “borrow” things, which meant entering silently like a raccoon, scanning the shelves, and stealing whatever glimmered. One morning you realized a whole small bowl of your clips had vanished. Another day, your ribbon was gone. Another—your mirror. The one he decorated. He claimed he was “updating the art.”

If you tried to scold him, he would cup your chin between his fingers dramatically, kiss your forehead without warning, and say, “Shhhh. Art in progress.”

You shoved him. He cackled.

So when you heard him in the hallway the next morning—howling—like actual guttural, animalistic, deeply unwell howling—it didn’t shock you. It only made you sigh and march toward it.

His door was half open, the inside already radiating the unmistakable aura of August: chaos, loudness, and the faint scent of metal and sweat. You slid the door the rest of the way open.

“You good?” you asked, voice flat, as your eyes slowly adjusted to the war crime that was his room.

August spun toward you with wild eyes—hair sticking up like he fought a wind god, one of your scrunchies barely hanging on by a thread. “You—YOU—cannot just—YOU GOTTA WARN ME WHEN YOU COME IN I’M BUSY—”

You stepped inside. Took two more steps. Then gasped.

Because in the corner of his shelves, crowded together like rare artifacts—were your things. Your clips. Your ties. Your mirror. Your old broken bangle. A ribbon you lost three days ago. A folded piece of paper you’d doodled on. Everything arranged in an absurd little shrine. “August…” you breathed. “That’s my—my—my stuff!”

He puffed up like a pigeon protecting its eggs. “That’s my you altar!” he declared proudly.

“Your—WHAT—” you sputtered, pointing at it. “That’s my shit!”

“Nuh uh,” he said immediately, crossing his arms.

Your eye twitched. “Fuck you mean nuh uh?!”

He leaned forward defiantly. “Nuh UH.”

You stared at him, full offense activated. “You did not just ‘nuh uh’ me.”

He nodded slowly. “Nuh.” Then again. “Uh.”

You threw your hands in the air. “August that doesn’t MEAN anything!”

“It means,” he said, pacing in a circle like a lawyer preparing a case he absolutely should not be allowed to deliver, “that you left these items unattended. And I—kind, gentle, generous—rescued them. For art. Meaning they’re mine now.”

“That is not how property works.”

“That is EXACTLY how property works,” he argued, grabbing one of your ribbons and twirling it around his finger like it was a rosary. “If I love it enough, it’s mine.”

“That’s not a rule!”

“It is NOW,” he shouted triumphantly.

You scrubbed a hand over your face. “Oh my god I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he said instantly, pointing at you with the same ribbon. “You kissed me. You love me actually.”

“That was your cheek!”

“Still counts!”

“No it doesn’t—”

He marched up to you, shoved the ribbon into your hand, then grabbed your wrist in return. You nearly jumped at the contact because he was warm, too warm for someone who complained about literally everything else being warm. His hand clamped around yours like he was anchoring himself, eyes squinting at you with that ridiculous too-happy expression he got whenever he felt seen.

“You came into my room,” he announced, voice dipping into a theatrical whisper. “Which makes you obsessed with me.”

“I came in because you were SCREAMING.”

“That’s attraction.”

“That’s concern.”

“For ME,” he added, leaning in so close your noses almost brushed. “Obsessive. Dangerous. Passionate concern.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, but you didn’t pull away.

He noticed. Oh, he noticed. August’s grin spread across his face like a sunrise if the sun was unhinged and needed therapy. “What chapstick is it today?” he asked, switching topics like a feral magpie, eyes dropping to your mouth immediately.

“Cherry. Again.”

“Ohhh,” he hummed, licking his lips exaggeratedly. “The shrine approves.”

“It’s not a shrine—”

“My YOU altar,” he corrected, reaching past you and adjusting one of your claw clips like he was arranging flowers. “Gonna grow it. Gonna expand it. Gonna steal more.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You can’t stop me. I’m fast.” He wiggled his hands like spirit fingers. “Fast and motivated.”

You bit your cheek to hide a smile. He caught it immediately and lit up like a lantern.

“Awwwww,” he cooed, leaning all of his weight against your shoulder until you staggered. “She likes it.”

“I DON’T.”

“She wants to kiss me again.”

“NO I do not—”

“Then why you standing so close, hm?” he whispered, eyes sparkling with feral triumph.

You pushed him away and he stumbled dramatically, fell onto the floor, and yelled loudly enough to alert everyone in a three-room radius. Then he sat up, ribbon still tied between his fingers, and grinned up at you.

“You’re lucky I’m in love with you,” he said casually.

You froze. He blinked. You blinked. Then he shot finger guns. “—with your STUFF. In love with your STUFF. Your items. Your belongings. Your… things.” He coughed violently. “Deeply romantic feelings only for accessories.”

You took one single step toward the altar when something slammed into your waist from behind. August launched off the floor like a missile made of denim and chaos, arms hooking around you as if you were a prize he had been training for his entire life. Your balance vanished. The world tilted. You landed right in his lap with a graceless thud as he dragged you backward.

“YOU absolute asshole!” you yelled, palms smacking against his chest as he only held you tighter, legs bracketing your hips like he was trying to glue you to him permanently.

He gasped dramatically, clutching you harder and swaying like the two of you were in some romantic spinning ballroom instead of on a filthy HQ floor. “Babygiiiirl, that’s my stuff, my stand, my altar, MY ART,” he declared at full August volume, breath hot against your ear as you tried to pry his fingers off. “You leave your little gremlin fingers away from it! I curated that with love! With soul! With passion!”

He wriggled his own fingers right in front of your face like he thought jazz hands could win arguments. They were long, lanky and the sheer arrogance of them made you lean forward and bite one.

“OW—OHMYGOD—SHE’S BITING ME!” he shrieked, yanking his hand back while shaking it, eyes wide with betrayal and delight all at once. “Nobody appreciates artists anymore! I suffer! I bleed for my craft!”

“You stole my shit,” you hissed, trying to twist off his lap, but he tightened his grip around your waist like a vice, dragging you even closer. His laugh erupted out of him—loud, full-bodied, unhinged—the kind that shot straight through your ribs and made you want to slam him into the nearest wall and kiss him just to shut him up.

“You love when I steal your shit,” he said with a voice so smug it practically shimmered.

“No, I—”

“Yes, you do,” he sing-songed, nose brushing your cheek as he tried to peek at your expression. “Every time I clip your claw clip on my strap I see your little smiiiileee—”

“I do NOT smile!”

“Mm-hm. Sure, sweetheart. You frown in happiness. It’s adorable.”

You elbowed him. Hard. He groaned dramatically, letting his head fall back and his arms fall even lower on your waist like you had just mortally wounded him in a very sexy Shakespeare play.

“Why are you like this,” you groaned.

“Because you make me like this,” he shot back immediately, tightening his arms again like he expected you to run. “Now stop trying to steal my altar offerings or I’ll have to—ah—hey—HEY—stop leaning—STOP—”

Because you had leaned forward again—this time trying to grab the scrunchie he had yanked from your hair earlier. He used his entire torso to drag you backward, limbs flailing, both of you yelling over each other. You were so loud neither of you heard the footsteps outside.

Enjin slid the door open. The silence that hit the room was violent.

He stared at the scene with the blank, exhausted face of a man who was absolutely done with both of you. Your hair was a mess, your shirt slightly wrinkled from being wrestled. August had one arm around your waist, the other planted on your hip like he was posing for a very inappropriate portrait. His glasses were hanging crooked off one ear, hair sticking up in every possible direction, claw clip still attached proudly to his strap, and he looked entirely too happy for someone caught in such a compromising position.

“…What the hell are you two doing?” Enjin asked in a low, tired voice, like he already regretted opening his mouth.

You froze. August froze. Even the dust motes in the air froze. The only thing moving was August’s chest against your back as he inhaled sharply, then—he laughed. Loud. Obnoxious. The kind of laugh that shook his whole body and made his arm squeeze you accidentally tighter. His grin split across his face like a demon waking up.

“Ohhh~~ ENJINNNN,” he purred, flipping his hair back with a single obscene motion that did absolutely nothing to fix how deranged he looked. His grin widened even further. “Didn’t know you were into performance art.”

“Performance—” you sputtered, trying to get off his lap, but August locked his arms around you like a koala that refused to acknowledge breakups. “August, let go—”

“No,” he whispered, eyes gleaming as he looked up at Enjin like this was the best morning of his entire life. “She tried to steal from my altar. I defended my faith.”

“That is NOT—”

“RELIGION,” August declared, looking at you again with gleeful intensity. “Love is religion. I am devout.”

Enjin stared for a long, painful second. He rubbed his forehead. “I’m leaving,” he muttered, sliding the door shut so forcefully dust drifted from the ceiling.

You sat frozen in August’s lap until the footsteps faded. Then you twisted around and smacked his shoulder. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he shot back, voice still bright with that reckless heat that made your stomach twist. He leaned forward, glasses sliding even lower, eyes flicking to your lips again. “Is that cherry chapstick still on? Lemme see.”

“You’re not getting a taste.”

He grinned, pulling you closer by the waist again. “We’ll see about that.”

You shoved him, laughing despite yourself, and August lit up like you’d handed him the sun. “Round two?” he asked, already bracing to tackle you again.

“Try it,” you warned, “and I’ll bite harder.”

He grinned like you’d just proposed marriage and only leaned back for a second, not to release you, no, never that—but just far enough to look at you like he’d already won whatever game he thought you were playing. One arm stayed locked around your waist, palm warm on your hip, fingers flexing like he was making sure you wouldn’t escape even if you tried.

“No chance, girlypop,” he purred, voice hot and smug and way too pleased with himself. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You narrowed your eyes and grabbed him by the collar—fisting the fabric, yanking him toward you so fast his glasses slid halfway off his face. His breath hitched, barely noticeable but there, and your lips quirked because you felt the shift in him. The moment where his bravado cracked just enough to show the burn beneath it. “You are obnoxious,” you hissed, pulling him closer until your noses were almost touching. “An obnoxious thief.”

He gasped dramatically—one hand flying to his chest. “Me?” he exclaimed, eyes wide with fake betrayal. “Moi? A thief? A criminal? An innocent, humble artist accused of—”

You tugged the collar even harder. His rant cut off with a small stunned noise that he’d deny until death.

He slid his glasses up into his hair with one slow push, revealing those sharper, unfiltered eyes beneath. They flicked down at your mouth, then back up—something hungry, playful, and absolutely dangerous sparking behind them.

“You shouldn’t hold me like that,” he said, voice dropping a tone too deep. “I’ll do something stupid.”

Before you could answer, he hooked his free hand behind your back and pulled you straight into him—chest to chest, breath to breath, heat to heat. It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even playful. It was deliberate.

He tilted his head, lips brushing yours, barely a breath away but close enough that you felt the shape of his smile curve against your skin. “Say it again,” he whispered like it was a dare. “Call me obnoxious.”

“You are.”

“And a thief?”

“That too.”

He grinned. It was fast, reckless, almost clumsy with how badly he wanted it, his mouth crashing into yours with all the pent-up chaos he had been vibrating with since the second you stepped into his room. His hand tightened on your waist, fingers digging just enough to pull you down fully into his lap, and you felt his whole body melt and ignite at the same time.

He tasted the cherry chapstick. You felt him react instantly, his breath shuddering through his nose, a low satisfied noise caught somewhere in his chest as he deepened the kiss like he’d been waiting weeks for it. His thumb stroked your hip, his other hand slid up your back, holding you like if he let go you’d disappear entirely.

You pushed back. Hard. He made a noise—half surprised, half starving—and kissed you even harder, laughing breathlessly against your mouth because of course he did. Of course August Stilza would laugh during a kiss. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. Just a few centimeters. Just enough to look at you with his lips swollen and tinted red from your chapstick.

“Ohhhhhh,” he breathed, voice cracked with delight. “I’m gonna be intolerable now.”

“You already are.”

He cupped your jaw with both hands like you were something breakable. “Babygirl…that was criminal. That was theft. YOU stole my soul. I should arrest you. Or kiss you again. Maybe both.”

You shoved his face lightly. He just laughed, loud and obnoxious and so happy.

You didn’t even give him time to finish that smug little inhale he was taking—your hands slid up, cupping his face firmly between your palms, thumbs brushing the high points of his cheeks, and you pulled him back in for another kiss.

This time you kissed him first and August made a sound so helplessly startled, so soft, so needy, so unlike the loud feral gremlin he pretended to be, that it shot straight through your spine.

A tiny whimper. Barely a breath.

His fingers tightened on your waist instantly, the grip nearly bruising as he tried to anchor himself from melting straight into the floor. His whole body jolted like he hadn’t prepared for affection to come in such a direct strike. He kissed back messily, desperately, chasing your mouth when you pulled a tiny bit away just to breathe.

God.

He made you want to strangle him. He made you want to laugh. He made you want to bite him just to hear that sound again.

“That was sweet,” you said against his lips.

He blinked up at you like you’d personally unplugged his brain. His lips were tinted cherry from your gloss; his glasses were still shoved up in his messy hair; his pupils blown wide like he was in danger of confessing something he wasn’t ready for.

“Girl—” he whispered, voice wrecked, breath shaky, “you are going to kill me…”

But even as he said it, his hand slid behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulled you back down into him again like he couldn’t live a full second without your mouth on his.

This kiss was hotter and hungrier, his lips parting under yours as he chased every movement, every shift of your breath. His thigh tensed beneath you, his shoulders shaking with how hard he tried not to groan. He laughed into your mouth once, that bright chaotic laugh that made your teeth vibrate, then kissed you deeper as if to make up for it.

“God,” he managed when he surfaced for a heartbeat, nose brushing yours. “Do that again. Do that again or I’m gonna lose my whole mind—”

“You don’t have a mind,” you shot back, breathless.

“EXACTLY,” he replied, dragging you forward by the waist until you collapsed fully against him. “YOU TOOK IT—you—that was theft—criminal intent—premeditated—kiss me again—”

You grabbed him by the collar again and he practically moaned. The noise was choked, cut off immediately like he didn’t mean to make it, but it was there. Oh, it was there.

You pulled back—barely. Not even a full hand’s width, just enough for air to cool between your lips and for August to feel the loss like a punch to the solar plexus.

His breath hitched. His hands froze on your waist. His pupils stayed blown-out and heavy, fixed on your mouth like he could drag it back to his with sheer willpower. And then the realization hit him.

You were teasing him. You were doing this on purpose.

He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, something between a gasp and a wounded animal yelp. He followed you forward instinctively, almost chasing your mouth, but your hand flattened on his chest to hold him back. That tiny barrier, your palm against him, your weight still settled across his lap, made his whole body tense.

“Ohhh you—” he managed, voice cracking embarrassingly as he tried to keep the volume down and completely failed, “you EVIL woman—don’t pull away, why did you pull away—come back—what are you DOING—”

You raised one brow, slow and deliberate. “What’s wrong?”

He blinked at you like you’d just shot him point-blank. “What’s—WHAT’S—girl, PLEASE—”

His voice broke on the last word. Broke. And you had never seen him lose his swagger so completely, so fast. You shifted on his lap just a little, only a shift of weight and he sucked in a breath so sharp it could’ve cut glass.

“Don’t—move—like that—” he choked out, voice gone thin with tension, and then immediately clapped a hand over his own mouth as if he hadn’t meant to say it.

You smiled. Slowly. Sweetly. Wickedly. He looked like he might die on the spot.

“Oh my god,” he whispered through his fingers. “You’re TRYING to kill me. This is murder. Premeditated. You’re sitting here—on ME—and doing THIS—on purpose—”

“Hmm,” you hummed, leaning in close enough for your breath to brush his cheek but not touching, not giving him what he wanted. “Maybe.”

He practically bucked under you.

“STOP,” he squeaked, voice going high with panic and need, “you can’t just—say it like that—girl—PLEASE—kiss me again, I’m begging. I’ll bark. I’ll scream. I’ll confess to crimes I didn’t do—just—COME BACK—”

You tilted your head, letting your lips hover a hair above his. “Why? You seemed fine.”

He grabbed your waist with both hands, fingers digging in—not rough, just desperate. His glasses slid further back in his hair as he stared up at you with the most chaotic, flustered expression imaginable.

“I’m NOT fine,” he blurted. “I’m the opposite of fine. I’m—look at me—I’m malfunctioning—my brain is soup—I can’t even form threats—I just want your mouth—PLEASE.”

You stifled a laugh behind your fingertips. His ears went red.

“Are you… embarrassed?” you teased softly.

August slapped a palm against the floor behind him and practically howled, “I AM AROUSED AND OFFENDED, ACTUALLY—”

You snorted and finally leaned in again, brushing your lips over the corner of his mouth without fully kissing him.

He shuddered. Entirely. Visibly.

“PLEASE,” he whispered, all the volume knocked clean out of him. “Don’t tease. Don’t be nice and mean at the same time. You’re gonna break me in half.”

You kissed him then—savoring the way he melted instantly, hands gripping your waist like he needed you steady on him. His whole body went hot under your touch, every breath shaky, every movement chasing yours with an urgency he couldn’t hide anymore. When you pulled away again, just a breath, he followed helplessly. “You good?” you asked, smiling against his mouth.

“No,” he said immediately, voice wrecked and honest. “I need—more—god, girl, PLEASE—don’t stop sitting on me—don’t stop kissing me—don’t stop anything—”

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. His fingers curled tight at your hips. “If you pull away again,” he whispered, loud and dramatic even while breathless, “I will scream so loud Enjin will file a noise complaint.”

You laughed, sliding your fingers into his messy hair.

“I hate how much I like you,” he muttered into your neck, and then—mumbled even softer—“and how good you smell. And taste. And sit.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. Cherry tint smeared on his lips. Glasses crooked. Hair ruined. Eyes hungry and undone.

God, he was a mess.

After that day, peace became a mythical creature. A rumor. A bedtime story. Because August had discovered that kissing you didn’t kill him. It only made him worse.

He was obsessed with you, loudly, dramatically, shamelessly and you let him. You let him hover, cling, nip at your calm like a caffeinated mosquito. But he still scared the absolute shit out of you at least once a day. You’d be minding your business, tying your hair back, drinking water, existing—and suddenly—

“HEY GIRL—” And your soul would leave your body through the roof.

Your hair ties? Gone within hours. They escaped, according to him. They “chose their new home.” Your scrunchies migrated to his wrists in packs, like wild animals. And every time you smacked his arm for stealing another, he just went soft-eyed and happy, like you’d complimented him.

If you kissed his cheek—just a tiny smooch—he almost detonated. He’d stomp in a circle, hands in the air, yelling incoherent things like, “SHE DID IT AGAIN—THIS IS NOT FAIR—I’M A VICTIM—”

If he stole a kiss in the hallway—quick, messy, his hand grabbing your waist like he was claiming stolen treasure—he acted normal for three seconds, then practically levitated with smugness.

He whispered the filthiest, stupidest things in your ear during meetings too, words that made you choke on your breath and nearly throw a shoe at him.

“Sit on my lap and pretend I’m a chair. It’ll improve morale.”

He was unbearable with others but with you? He was all of that plus something warmer, something softer, something that made your stomach curl in a way you absolutely refused to talk about.

And now, weeks later, you found him lying flat on his back on the HQ floor like a corpse. Again. Nothing new. He did that like it was a hobby.

So you simply stepped over him and sat right on his stomach.

He made a startled “OOF—” as the air punched out of him, eyes going wide before melting into total devotion. His hands immediately came up to hold your hips like gravity had finally given him a gift.

You leaned forward, tapped his nose with one finger and he blinked up at you, glasses crooked and hair in total disarray. “What’s going on in that little brain of yours, babe?” you asked, your tone warm, teasing, a little smug.

August stared up at you like you had just descended from the heavens to ruin him personally. He placed a hand over his chest, dramatically. “Babe,” he said softly—too softly for someone like him—then pitched his voice up, flustered and loud. “BABY. GIRL. PLEASE. You can’t just SIT on me like I’m a—like I’m a FLOOR DECORATION—”

“You were already on the floor,” you pointed out calmly, tucking your legs more securely around his hips. “I just joined you.”

“YOU JOINED—YOU—SAT—ON ME—oh my god—she sat—on me—” he rambled, voice cracking, eyes darting everywhere like someone had short-circuited his entire brain. “And then she BOOPED ME. Do you know what that does? To a man? A REAL man? A ME man???”

You grinned and leaned closer. “So what’re you thinking?”

He slapped both hands onto your thighs, not hard—just firm, warm, grounding himself so he wouldn’t float off the floor. His breath stuttered. His eyes flicked between your lips and your eyes, as if trying to decide whether to confess or combust.

“I am thinking—” he said in one long exhale, “that if you don’t stop being cute on purpose, I’m gonna pass out from emotional overheating.”

“Emotional overheating?” you repeated, laughing.

“Yes.” He nodded aggressively. “My brain is a toaster right now. It’s BURNT. You FRIED IT. With your ASS sitting on my SOLAR PLEXUS.”

You slid your hands up his chest slowly, deliberately. He trembled. Full-body. Like someone turned the gravity up inside him. “And you like that?” you asked quietly.

“LIKE??” he exploded, throwing his head back against the floor. “Girl, I am in LOVE with suffering if it’s from YOU—sit harder—no, wait, I didn’t mean it like that—I MEANT—WAIT—”

You laughed so hard he covered his face with both hands, groaning into them like he wanted to sink into the floor.

Then he peeked through his fingers at you, smile creeping back in, hot and flustered and adoring. “…Boop my nose again,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll kiss you after.” He paused. “Like, violently.”

You leaned down. Slow. Teasing. Deliciously cruel. He arched up into you like a live wire. When your finger reached his nose he made a tiny whimper you would absolutely tease him about later.

And true to his word, August surged up, grabbed your face in both hands, and kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

He became a constant orbit around you—messy, obsessed, clingy, dramatic—and you let him. You teased him back. Kissed him back. Sat on him whenever he sprawled on the floor. Let him explode in noise every time you touched him. And he only got worse. Softer. Needier.

One night—deep night, the kind where HQ hallways were quiet and lights dimmed—you were already in your bed, half-asleep, wrapped in your blanket. Finally. Silence.

Then: knock-knock-knock-KNOCK-KNOCK—

Your soul left your body.

You dragged yourself up, opened the door and August teleported inside. Literally. He moved with the speed of a feral raccoon that smelled food.

“I want you so bad I’m shaking,” he announced, way too hyped, way too loud, voice echoing down the hallway like he was confessing a murder.

Your eyes went wide. You slapped your hand over his mouth on instinct. “SHUT UP—” you hissed, half whisper, half strangled growl, “it is the middle of the night, oh my GOD, use your indoor voice for once in your goddamn LIFE—”

He blinked at you. Innocent. Wide-eyed. Already inhaling for another shout. You saw it coming.

He sucked in air—You slapped your hand back over his mouth instantly. “NO. Absolutely not. That’s your yelling breath. STOP IT.”

He whined loudly into your palm—deep, dramatic, and vibrating with pent-up chaos. His hands grabbed your waist, squeezing like he might burst if he didn’t touch you. Then he grabbed your shoulder with both hands and shook you a little like a dog shaking a toy.

“August—” you whispered, mortified, “please—stop—shaking me—”

He didn’t. He was vibrating. He was happy. He was turned on. And he was completely, utterly unhinged.

You pulled your hand away to scold him properly and he grabbed both your wrists.

Not rough. Just firm. Playful. And so full of want it made your knees weak. His grin was feral. “Okay. Listen. I’m being so respectful right now,” he whispered in a tone completely incompatible with the way he was breathing. “But I’m gonna do something stupid if you don’t stop me.”

“You are doing something stupid—”

“GOOD,” he said, far too proud.

He kicked the door shut behind you—loudly—locked it, then walked you backwards with a determined, chaotic energy that made your stomach flip. The moment your legs hit the bed—

He pushed you down. Not violently. Not forceful. Just needy with want glowing through every movement. He practically jumped onto you, arms braced on either side of your shoulders, hair falling into his eyes, glasses askew, before crashing his mouth onto yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cautious. A shocked laugh escaped you against his lips as he kissed you like he’d been holding it in for weeks. His hands grabbed yours, pinning them against the blanket, not hard—just to keep you there, keep you close.

“You’re gonna wake everyone—” you whispered into his mouth.

“I don’t care,” he whispered back, voice cracking, kissing you again. “I’ve wanted you all day. All week. Forever.”

He kissed you harder, his body weight sinking onto you, legs tangled with yours. His breath came fast against your cheek—warm, shaky, desperate. His fingers threaded into your hair, pulling you closer into the kiss until his whole body trembled with it.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, nipping his bottom lip.

He whined softly, an embarrassing, beautiful sound and buried his face in your neck. “I TOLD YOU,” he practically sobbed into your skin. “I want you so bad—my legs are vibrating—my SOUL is vibrating—my everything is vibrating—kiss me again before I start SCREAMING.”

You clamped a hand over his mouth again. “Indoor voice.”

He nodded violently. Then kissed your palm. Then kissed you again.

Clothes? Gone.

How? Couldn’t say. Must’ve been the wind. Or gravity. Or maybe August’s hands had gotten so fast even physics gave up trying to track them.

One second you were just making out, the next you were both bare and tangled, him worshipping your skin with a desperation that was almost religious. The way he touched you—kissed you—like your whole body was a cathedral and he was a very unhinged, very loud pilgrim on a mission.

He was a menace. A very horny menace.

He spread your legs reverent and unhinged all at once. “So bendy—” he marvelled, like you were a new toy he’d just figured out, not a human with joints. Then—of course—he slapped his hard length right against your pubic bone, like it was some kind of ritual greeting, and bit his lip. “Mhm.” It was, somehow, both the most annoying and hottest thing he’d ever done.

The real problem? Even now—even while inside you, with you squirming under him and your hands all over his chest, he wouldn’t shut up.

August Stilza, self-declared saint of Not Knowing When to Be Quiet, kept talking. Dirty talk. Play-by-play. Running commentary like a sports announcer. Telling you how hot you were, how good you felt, how “fucking bendy” you were, how he was “definitely gonna see stars—wait, are those freckles? Adorable—oh god, do that again—”

But god you had enough.

You twisted, hips grinding, using his own momentum against him, and pushed him flat onto his back. You sat on him, one hand pinning his wrists above his head, the other planted firmly over his mouth. He looked up at you—eyes huge, wild, hair in full disarray, utterly, completely yours.

“Mhh—god—” he mumbled, eyes rolling a little with bliss.

You just stared at him. Deadpan. He tried to talk again. You pressed your hand harder.

“Indoor. Voice,” you said, dry as sand, watching him go a little cross-eyed from the mix of arousal and indignation.

His chest heaved beneath you, completely unable to stay still—so you tightened your thighs around his waist for good measure. He whined into your palm, that loud, strangled sound that was both complaint and praise.

You didn’t move your hand. Not yet. Not until he earned it. His hips bucked, he tried to talk, he tried to kiss your palm, he tried every trick in the book—nothing worked.

Finally, you arched your brow, unimpressed. “You done?”

He shook his head violently, eyes pleading.

You sighed, shifted your weight, and leaned in until your mouth was just at his ear. “If I take my hand away, are you going to be good?”

He nodded—immediately, enthusiastically, and you already knew it was a lie. You waited one more second. He wiggled under you, desperate, a little pathetic, a lot obsessed.

You grinned. Finally, you let go. And, as expected, the first thing out of his mouth, loud as ever, full volume, absolutely delighted—

“I’M NEVER GONNA BE GOOD, BABY—DO THAT AGAIN—”

You clamped your hand back down before he could finish. And he moaned, all muffled and filthy, like it was the best thing that ever happened to him. Honestly, for all his chaos, he made it worth it.

August’s hands shot up to your hips, fingers digging in, and suddenly all that pent-up, twitchy energy channeled straight into a rhythm so desperate it actually knocked the air out of you. He fucked up into you with all the subtlety of a man who’d spent weeks fantasizing about this exact scenario—messy, frantic, absolutely obsessed.

You gasped, whole body jolting, trying to keep your balance as he drove into you over and over, but then he started moaning.

Moaning, groaning, talking, praising, making every sound in the catalogue. No filter. No volume control. Just a relentless stream of filthy, shameless noise.

You slapped both hands over his mouth, pressing his cheeks together, trying to muffle the madness. It barely helped. His noises just changed shape, turning into low, breathy, muffled cries that vibrated straight into your palms. His eyes rolled up, lashes fluttering, hair splayed wild beneath him as he kept fucking up into you with a kind of needy worship that was equal parts reverent and ridiculous.

“Shut up, August,” you managed, breathless, half laughing, half overwhelmed.

He only fucked harder, as if the act of being silenced did something to his brain, his hands tight on your hips, dragging you down onto him, his whole body straining for more, for closer, for everything.

You pressed your hands even harder over his mouth, and he groaned, loud, desperate, and completely unashamed—eyes squeezing shut as his hips stuttered, his whole body shuddering with how much he needed you.

Every sound, every gasp, every bit of his wild devotion, all trapped under your palms until you felt your name, muffled and frantic, against your skin.

He wasn’t quiet. He would never be quiet. But god, the way he moved beneath you, the way he bucked up, the way he felt—You couldn’t complain.

And you wouldn’t. Not when his hands tightened, not when he pleaded into your palms, not when he looked up at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him shut up and the only thing that ever could. You leaned down, eyes meeting, hand still over his mouth, and whispered, “If you want to make noise, you better earn it.”

The way his hips jerked—yeah, he got the message.

And he tried even harder. Of course he did.

The sun was barely crawling through the window when you finally surfaced, blinking, sore in that delicious, bone-deep way that only ever meant one thing: August had, once again, made good on his promise to ruin your night’s sleep. In every sense.

You shifted under the blanket and immediately felt him and his whole body pressed up behind you, big and sprawling and clinging like he’d grown roots in the mattress. One long, warm arm was tucked under your head, cradling you. The other snaked around your waist, palm splayed possessively across your stomach, his thumb curled just under your breast.

He was nuzzling into your shoulder, breath warm against your skin, his face half-buried in the mess of your hair. Every now and then he mumbled something incoherent, probably a compliment, probably a brag, probably just “mine, mine, mine” in that half-conscious, half-feral way of his. His legs were tangled hopelessly with yours, one knee slotted between your thighs like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You didn’t dare move. He was heavy, yes. And clingy, definitely. But he was also perfect. The perfect weight, the perfect heat, the perfect mess of limbs and possessive hands and wild morning hair and the tiniest smile brushing your shoulder as he sighed in his sleep.

You lay there for a long moment, letting yourself enjoy it—the ache in your thighs, the warmth of his chest at your back, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. The utter stillness after weeks of noise.

Then he tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you closer, humming drowsily as his hand slid up your ribs just enough to make your breath hitch. He pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then grinned against your skin.

“Mornin’, princess trouble,” he mumbled, voice hoarse, eyes still closed, mouth slurring the words with a satisfaction that was all August. “You sleep good? ‘Cause I didn’t. Wonder why.”

You snorted, too exhausted to scold him. You just leaned back into him, tangled and claimed and completely, absolutely his. He squeezed you a little tighter. “I’m not done cuddling. Or gloating.”

You smiled, shutting your eyes, letting him hold you. Yeah. Perfect.

You both drifted in and out of sleep, tangled in warmth, the morning creeping by slow and hazy. You weren’t sure when you started to doze off again, but the next thing you heard wasn’t a gentle whisper or a sleepy kiss—it was a voice echoing through the entire HQ like the wrath of God.

“AUGUST—!”

Enjin’s yell rattled the walls. You barely had a second to process it before August jolted upright, nearly launching you off the bed. He gasped, wild-eyed, hair in every possible direction. “Oh fuck—I forgot my deadline—oh god, that was due two days ago—” he half-yelled, already tumbling out of the sheets.

You watched, half-delirious, as he scrambled to find his pants. He yanked them on at a speed that defied the laws of physics, buttoning them crooked, shoving a leg through backwards, then shoving his shirt over his head so fast it landed inside out. He didn’t care. He looked at you with one last, frantic, lovesick grin. You just laughed, buried yourself under the blanket, and listened to him half-trip over his own feet as he charged toward the door.

“COMING!” he hollered back, voice cracking, slamming the door behind him. You cackled, muffled and gleeful, alone in the soft echo of his chaos.

A few minutes passed before you stretched and tried to gather yourself, bracing for the day. You reached over the side of the bed, fishing for your underwear—fingers sweeping along the floorboards, searching for that familiar fabric.

Nothing. You frowned. You looked. Nothing under the bed, nothing on the nightstand, nothing caught on the sheets or the back of the chair.

You sat up, blanket still around your shoulders, and scanned the room.

Nowhere.

And then, like a curse, the realization hit you:

That bastard had taken your goddamn panties with him. As a trophy. Or a security blanket. Or just because he was a menace with no boundaries and too much affection for your suffering.

Of course he did. Of course.

You let your head flop back on the pillow, half laughing, half groaning at the ceiling. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, grinning despite yourself.

Somewhere down the hall, you could already picture him smirking, flushed, grinning to himself as he tucked your underwear into his pocket like it was a prize. Probably bragging to nobody. Definitely thinking about you.

You pulled the blanket tighter and resolved to get him back for it.

Eventually.

Don’t be shy now. You already read it.

The Masterlist is here. If you want me to drag your favorite character into the dark next, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

Everything in you went silent.

He stood there in a black hoodie, hood down, messy pink hair grown out, shoulders broad enough to block the entire aisle. His face was familiar and completely different at the same time, jaw sharper, eyes tired but still soft underneath, a faint healed scar beside his lip. Older. Quieter. He looked like someone who had been worn down at the edges but held together anyway.

He blinked once, twice, like he wasn’t sure you were real either.

“Hey,” he breathed. And god, his voice really was deeper. “It’s… really you.”

You stepped back to take him in and he was huge.

Not just tall. Big everywhere. Built like life kept throwing things at him and his body learned to hold it.

“You—” You pointed at him wordlessly. “You went from five-seven to what, six-three? In nine years? Goddamn, you are big!”

His ears immediately flushed red.

“I—uh—yeah. Growth spurts are weird?” He rubbed the back of his neck, exactly like he used to when he was embarrassed. “You grew too—I mean—not grew— you look… different. Not in a bad—I mean—”

He was mortified. Completely flustered.

And suddenly he looked like the sweet, awkward boy from school again, the one who saved you seats in the cafeteria and always shared his snacks and laughed too loud at your jokes.

Your chest tightened.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” you whispered.

He smiled so tiny, hesitant, almost shy but it faded quickly, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to keep it.

“You’ve been gone a really long time,” he said softly. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

There it was—the missing spark.

The brightness that used to pour out of him effortlessly, now dim, tucked underneath something heavy you couldn’t name.

You held up an apple. “So these are the sweet ones?”

He laughed under his breath, a small, rough sound, like he wasn’t used to laughing anymore. “Yeah. Fuji’s always good.”

You tossed it into your basket. “You always had good taste.”

He froze. “That—wow. You remembered that?”

“I remembered a lot of things,” you said gently.

Yuji looked away for a second, jaw tightening the way people do when emotion comes too fast.

“I… really missed you,” he admitted quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You felt something warm bloom in your chest.

“I missed you too.”

He stared at you, the full weight of nine years hitting him in the face and for the first time all day, his shoulders loosened.

“Are you..living nearby?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just moved back.”

He exhaled through his nose, a shy, hopeful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “That’s… nice.” And then, softer: “Really nice.”

“Do you want to walk with me? I still need to shop. You can give me more fruit recommendations since you’re apparently an expert now.”

His ears turned pink again. “I—yeah. I’d like that. A lot.”

You looked at his face for a second, almost studying him, before he pulled his hands out of his pockets. Without hesitating, he reached for your basket.

“Here, let me.”

“Oh? Sweet. Thank you.” You slipped your arm through his, warm against the thick fabric of his hoodie. “So..how’s life?”

He exhaled slowly, eyes lowering toward the aisle floor as you both walked. “Lonely, mostly,” he admitted. “I kinda lost everyone. I mean—people move, people change, people leave. I check in with Higuruma sometimes, but he moved away so… well—”

“Yeah, but you don’t see him. I get that.”

“Yeah.” He nodded once. “It’s okay. It’s just work—gym—sleep—and then the cycle goes on.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. Just exhaustion. A quiet acceptance that didn’t belong on someone his age.

Your hand tightened ever so slightly on his arm.

“I should’ve reached out to you sooner,” you said softly. “I basically just ghosted you when I got twenty-one. But I lost my phone, so your number was gone. And I thought about you often. Even four years later.”

Yuji stopped walking for half a second—just a hitch, a tiny break in his stride. When he looked at you, something warm and stunned flickered in his eyes. “You… thought about me?”

“Of course I did.” You nudged him gently, smiling. “You were one of the brightest parts of my teenage years.”

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple shifting. His ears went even pinker.

“…I thought about you too,” he said quietly. “A lot.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Look at us being twenty-five and twenty-seven. Old. Getting groceries instead of annoying Nanami.”

Yuji’s laugh exploded out of him, like sunlight cracking through cloud. “Oh god—Nanami,” he groaned, a hand coming up to rub his forehead. “We used to drive him insane.”

“He aged twenty years because of us.”

“He aged twenty years because of me,” Yuji corrected, laughing again. “You were the normal one. I was the problem.”

“You were adorable, not a problem.”

He went silent. You didn’t realize you’d said it out loud until you looked up and saw his expression—eyes wide, mouth soft, like the words landed somewhere he wasn’t prepared to protect.

“…Adorable?” he echoed under his breath.

“Still are,” you said, teasing lightly but meaning every bit of it.

His grip tightened slightly on the basket. Not too much. Just enough that you felt it.

“Can I—” he began, voice suddenly careful, almost shy. “Can I walk you home later? If that’s okay.”

You lifted your chin. “Only if you let me annoy you the whole way.”

His smile grew shaky at the edges but real.

Yuji walked beside you the whole way out of the market, the grocery bag in one hand and your basket now tucked easily under his arm. He kept adjusting his hoodie like he suddenly cared how he looked. His steps were confident—his energy wasn’t. Every now and then he glanced at you as if checking you were still there.

When you reached the street, he cleared his throat.

“So, um… which way am I walking? Unless you secretly moved into another country.”

You nudged his arm. “Relax. Just two blocks left. You’re not being kidnapped.”

He gave a tiny soft and nervous laugh.

“You could kidnap me. I wouldn’t fight back.”

You snorted. “Wow. Still desperate to impress me, huh?”

His ears immediately flushed pink.

“That’s—no—I didn’t mean—” His voice tripped over itself. “I’m just being polite.”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

He almost stumbled on the sidewalk.

The walk was quiet for a second—the comfortable kind. Then: “…I’m glad you came back,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him. “Yeah? You sound thrilled.”

“I am,” he insisted, then softened the next word. “Really.”

There it was, that faint spark again, buried in his voice, quieter but still warm enough to feel.

By the time you reached your building, he had gone fully silent. His shoulders pulled tight, like he was gearing up for a fight but didn’t know what kind.

You pushed the front door open and held it. “You can breathe, you know. I’m not gonna bite.”

“You might,” he muttered.

Inside the stairwell, you glanced back at him. “Yuji. You’re huge. And strong. And could probably bench-press my entire apartment. What exactly are you scared of?”

His face went bright red. “I’m not scared.”

“You’re terrified,” you said sweetly.

“…Maybe.”

You huffed a laugh, walking up the stairs. When you reached your door, you turned to him. “You wanna come in with me?”

There was a full second where Yuji completely froze—like a man buffering. Then, faster than you expected, he nodded.

“Yes. I don’t have anything to do, so yeah, give me the bags.”

That smile—small but finally genuine—pulled across his face. You handed him the heavier bag and he took it effortlessly.

“You’re strong,” you said, pretending to inspect him. “Gross.”

He really laughed this time—head dropping for a second like he wasn’t used to letting the sound out. As you unlocked your door, you felt him behind you shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly psyching himself up for something. The bags rustled.

Then, in the softest, least smooth voice in existence: “Um—can I—could I… maybe… get your number?”

A pause.

“I mean—again. Since you lost it. Not because—well, yes because—but not—like—”

You stared at him. “Yuji.”

He looked at you, panicked. “Yes?”

“Oh my god, you’re adorable.” You stepped closer, plucked your phone from your pocket, and shoved it into his hand. “Here. Save your number before you combust.”

He stared down at your phone like it was a newborn he was scared to drop.

When he handed it back, your screen displayed Itadori 🍓.

You raised a brow. “Strawberry?”

“…I panicked.”

You smiled way too fond for someone you supposedly hadn’t seen in nine years. “Still the sweetest man ever,” you murmured.

His breath caught. And for the first time that evening, he didn’t look away.

He leaned back on the counter, arms crossing automatically as you organized your fridge, the plastic crinkling every time you shoved something in too hard. Your voice filled the little kitchen—light, sarcastic, telling him about old classmates, how half of them either moved, disappeared, or fell off the planet entirely.

“Everybody either left or died,” you muttered, shoving a jar of kimchi onto the shelf. “Life is shit sometimes. What can you do.”

You expected a snort. A laugh. A soft hum of agreement.

Instead—nothing.

Silence thickened behind you. Too heavy. Too still.

You froze with a carton of strawberries in your hand, head slowly lifting. Yuji wasn’t looking at you anymore.

He had turned toward the small window over your sink, jaw clenched, eyes glassy—not blinking. His shoulders rose once, sharply, like he was trying to inhale too much air at once.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping away from the fridge and toward him. “Yuji?”

He didn’t answer. Just wiped the back of his hand quickly across his cheek.

“Sorry,” he muttered—voice cracked, quiet. And damn. He really was a pretty crier. His lashes wet, cheeks flushed, mouth trembling just slightly.

You set the strawberries down and reached out, cupping his face without hesitation. His breath hitched the moment your palms touched his cheeks—like the warmth alone broke whatever was holding him together.

“You don’t have to be alone with all that, okay?”

Your thumb wiped away the tear that escaped anyway. Another one followed. Slow, heavy, rolling down the curve of his cheekbone.

He squeezed his eyes shut, like it hurt to look at you.

“…Everybody close to me died,” he whispered. “I thought you did too. After you stopped texting me.”

Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt.

“What?—” you started.

“I waited,” he said quietly, voice shaking. “I kept checking. Every day for months. And then I thought maybe you just didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. And that was fine, it was fine, I mean—people leave—people always leave—”

“Hey.”

Your hands slid to hold his jaw gently, guiding him to look at you. His eyes opened slowly, wet and devastated in the softest way. “I didn’t leave you. I lost my phone. I swear to you—I thought about you for years.”

He blinked—one slow, disbelieving blink.

He looked twenty-seven, but for a moment he also looked like the teenager you remembered, hoping too hard, hurting too deeply.

“I really thought you were gone,” he whispered.

You brushed away the tear that fell next.

“I’m here,” you said. “I’m right here.”

His breath stuttered. Quiet, shaky, breaking open in your hands. And finally, he let himself lean forward, just barely, forehead brushing yours like he was begging for permission to fall apart.

You stayed exactly where he needed you.

“I am here. Yeah?” you whispered, brushing your thumb slowly along his jaw.

Yuji swallowed, eyes half-closed, leaning into the touch like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. He nodded—barely, but enough. The kind of nod that meant please don’t move, please don’t stop, please stay.

And you both felt it.

The distance, so small it was practically nothing, was dangerous.

You both knew it.

You both ignored it.

His breath shook as he exhaled. A tiny sniff, soft and embarrassed, but he didn’t pull back. If anything, he leaned closer. His forehead almost touched yours again, his hands trembling at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them.

Then, like a decision cracked open inside him—he leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first. Careful. Testing. His lips warm against yours, just a press, so soft you almost wondered if he’d change his mind.

But then his hands moved.

One slid to your cheek, the other to the back of your head—big, warm palms cupping your face as if he was afraid you’d disappear the second he let go. The soft kiss deepened, grew needier, desperate in a quiet way. His breath hitched against your mouth, and he kissed you again, firmer this time, like something in him broke loose.

Like he needed this.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him in without thinking. He let out the smallest sound—half sigh, half relief—as if he’d been holding himself together for years and your mouth against his finally let him breathe.

When he pulled barely a centimeter away, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“I’ve wanted to do that since we were kids,” he whispered, voice rough. “I thought I’d never get the chance again.”

His thumbs brushed your cheeks. You didn’t know if he was touching you or grounding himself.

Maybe both.

And then—eyes soft, lips swollen from kissing you—he leaned in again, slower this time, waiting to see if you’d stop him.

You didn’t.

He just kissed you harder.

Not rough but with a weight behind it, a years-deep ache finally given permission to breathe. His fingers slid from your cheeks to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, holding you like he wasn’t sure the world would let him keep you if he loosened his grip even a little.

Your hands moved to his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. The second you touched him there—gentle, almost grounding, his breath hitched against your mouth. His whole body shivered once, barely noticeable unless you were this close.

“I really missed you,” he whispered between kisses, voice raw enough to break something in you.

You kissed the tip of his nose softly, making him inhale a shaky laugh. “I missed you too, Yuji.”

He blinked, eyes half-lidded, lashes still damp from earlier. Something fragile flickered across his face—hope, disbelief, relief all tangled together.

“This feels unreal,” he murmured.

You brushed your thumb along his waist, pulling him a little closer until your foreheads touched again.

“It feels like you never left,” you whispered back.

His eyes fluttered shut at that, and he exhaled a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for years. His hands squeezed your waist gently, like he needed to memorize the feeling.

“You say things like that,” he whispered, voice almost trembling, “and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” you murmured. “Just be here.”

He leaned in again, slower this time, softer, lips brushing yours in a way that felt more like a confession than a kiss. One of his hands slid down to your hip, warm and careful, as if he was terrified of being too much.

“And you’re really staying in Tokyo?” he asked quietly, almost childlike in how vulnerable it sounded.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The relief that washed over his face was devastating. Beautiful. Real. He kissed you again, deeper this time, but still with that aching gentleness of a man who has loved quietly for too long.

He pulls you into a hug mid-kiss, like he just needed your whole body against his and buries his face in your neck. His breath is warm, shaky, uneven against your skin, and his arms wrap around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air out of you.

“Yuji…” you whispered into his shoulder.

His voice came out muffled and raw. “I never dated anyone seriously. I just—couldn’t get you out of my head.”

You felt your heartbeat spike, your hand sliding up under his hoodie and resting on the warm skin of his waist. Slow touches, fingertips brushing, thumb tracing the lines of muscle there. He shivered. Hard.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, lifting his chin gently so you could kiss him again.

“Don’t be,” he breathed, leaning forward, pulling you back into him like he couldn’t stand even a centimeter apart. His next kiss was needier—hungrier without being rough. “I need you. I really do.”

Your smirk was immediate. “You do?”

His breath stuttered. “Y-yeah.”

Your lips brushed his again, teasing. “My bedroom’s across the kitchen.”

Yuji froze. Like completely froze. “That’s not—”

“I know.” You grinned. “It was a suggestion.”

Whatever restraint he had evaporated.

He kissed you rougher, finally letting all that buried feeling out and then suddenly his hands were under your thighs and you were lifting.

“Holy shit—!”

Your legs wrapped around his hips automatically, your arms sliding around his neck for balance. His strength was ridiculous and effortless. His grip on you was secure, careful, but so firm it made your breath catch.

You laughed against his jaw. “Where’s the shy boy?”

“Still there,” he groaned, voice strained and honest and incredibly sweet. “I am one second away from imploding. You just don’t see how much I’m blushing because you’re nuzzling my neck.”

You kissed right under his ear, slow and warm.

He nearly lost his footing. His grip tightened on your thighs, and he pressed his forehead to your shoulder, inhaling like he needed the scent of you to stay alive.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered.

“You lifted me,” you chuckled. “This is your fault.”

He huffed a shaky laugh against your throat. “I know,” he said. “And I’m not putting you down.”

His hands slid higher on your legs, warm and steady, holding you like you were something he’d waited years to touch.

He started carrying you like you weighed nothing, your bodies pressed tightly together. And the second he reached the kitchen doorway, he stopped just to look at you.

Red cheeks. Shining eyes. Lips swollen. Every emotion he’d buried for years right there on his face.

“Tell me if this is too fast,” he whispered.

“Sweetheart,” you cupped his jaw, smiling. “I suggested the bedroom.”

His breath left him in a broken, relieved laugh, then he kissed you again, deeper, needier, lifting you even tighter against him like he’d waited half his life for this.

He carried you straight through the doorway like you weighed nothing, his grip firm under your thighs. His breathing was uneven the whole way—half arousal, half panic, one hundred percent Yuji.

Then he reached your bed.

And with absolutely no hesitation he threw you onto it.

“Holy shit that’s huge!” he said, eyes widening as the mattress bounced under you.

You burst out laughing. “Yuji!”

But before he could keep gawking at your furniture like a tourist, you grabbed his hoodie with both hands and yanked him down on top of you.

He caught himself with one hand on the mattress, the other braced near your hip—hovering over you, breath warm, cheeks red.

You pushed the hoodie off his shoulders in one smooth pull, leaving him in a plain white T-shirt stretched over his ridiculous chest and arms.

He blinked down at himself, then at you. “Oh. It’s comfortable too.”

“Yuji!”

“Sorry—sorry, I’m overwhelmed.”

He said it with that honest, helpless tone only he could manage—like he was confessing to a felony. His cheeks were fully pink now, his hair falling forward a little as he leaned over you.

You tugged him closer by the hem of his T-shirt. “Come here.”

He did, instantly, like your voice was a command coded into his bones. His body settled half over you, heavy in the good way, warm and solid, his breath falling against your cheek. One of his hands slid tentatively to your waist, thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt like he was testing whether the world would end if he touched you too lovingly.

“I really am overwhelmed,” he whispered again, softer this time. “In a good way. A… really good way.”

Your fingers slid through the back of his hair, tugging gently until he closed his eyes.

“You can breathe,” you teased, voice low.

“I’m trying,” he whispered, leaning in, forehead almost touching yours. “But you’re… right there.”

You smirked. “That’s the point.”

He let out a shaky laugh, half nervous, half dizzy, and lowered himself fully onto his elbows, bringing your bodies flush.

His breath hitched. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he said quietly.

“Believe it,” you murmured, pulling him in for a kiss. “You’re here. With me.”

And when his lips found yours again, it was deeper—slow but intense, like he was finally letting himself feel everything he’d been holding back for nine long years.

You teased him, dragging your fingertips up his ribs through the fabric, and Yuji let out a noise he clearly didn’t mean to make. His whole body shivered.

And then, with one breath, he reached back and pulled his own shirt over his head.

The movement was fast, almost clumsy, like he couldn’t think anymore. The shirt hit the floor somewhere near the dresser. Yuji leaned back over you, muscles tense, chest rising and falling too quickly, blush already spreading down his neck.

He looked wrecked in the softest way.

His hand slid down your side, fingers brushing the waistband of your pants, barely touching, just enough to ask, just enough to tremble.

He looked into your eyes.

Desperate.

Hopeful.

Gentle.

“Can I?” he asked, voice low, breath uneven, his thumb stroking your hip once like he needed your answer to survive.

You nodded, pulling him even closer with your hand at the back of his neck. “Please.”

Yuji’s breath caught—hard. His whole body jerked with it, and he squeezed his eyes shut for half a second like the word physically hit him.

“Oh god…” he groaned, blushing deep scarlet. “Don’t say that.”

You smirked, dragging your fingers along the line of his spine, slow and teasing.

“Why not?”

“Because—” He dipped his head, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he tried to breathe, his voice shaking. “Because I’m already losing my mind and you’re not helping—”

His hand slid to your waist again, firmer this time, but still careful, still asking even while needing.

He looked up at you again, eyes blown wide, pupils dark.

“You can’t just..say things like that,” he whispered, brushing his lips along your jaw—barely, barely not kissing. “I’m already… one second away from forgetting how to think.”

“Oh? So nothing changed since high school,” you teased.

Yuji choked on a laugh—half embarrassment, half hunger.

“I swear I’m trying to be decent,” he murmured against your skin, kissing the corner of your mouth softly, almost reverently. “But you’re making it really, really hard to behave.”

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. “And if I don’t want you to behave?”

He let out the softest, most helpless sound.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, kissing you again, deeper this time, his hand finally settling on your hip with intention. “And I’m not even complaining.”

He fumbled with your pants a little—thumb catching on the button, zipper lowering slowly, too slowly because his hands were shaking. He breathed out a tiny laugh at himself, half embarrassed, half overwhelmed.

“Sorry—sorry, I’m…God, I’m trying to be smooth,” he muttered under his breath.

“You’re doing fine,” you said softly, watching him.

He slid them down carefully, almost reverently—never rough, never impatient. He was gentle to the point of painfully sweet, his fingers brushing your skin like each inch of you was something he had no right to touch but couldn’t stop reaching for.

You watched him the whole time. Because he was still a little clumsy. Still the boy who tried too hard and blushed too easily. But also a man, strong, warm, breathtakingly kind—who wanted you enough that his hands trembled.

When he finally looked up at you, cheeks flushed, lip caught between his teeth—“You are very hot, y’know that?” you said.

He froze. Absolutely froze. Then his mouth fell open, just slightly, as if he couldn’t believe you said it out loud.

“Wh—I—” His voice cracked in the most endearing way possible. “No, I— I mean you’re— you’re—”

You raised an eyebrow. “Use your words, Yuji.”

He groaned quietly, scrubbing one hand over his face while the other stayed on your hips like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“You can’t just say things like that to me,” he whispered, leaning closer again, forehead brushing yours. “My brain stops working.”

“That’s the fun part,” you teased.

He let out a shaky laugh and kissed you again, deeper, slower, all that heat he’d been holding back finally pulsing through the way he pressed his body to yours.

His hand slid up your waist, gentle but intentional.

“I’m serious,” he murmured against your lips. “You’re… unreal. And I don’t know what to do with myself right now.”

You smiled into the kiss. “Then let me help you.”

The sound he made—half laugh, half groan—was so soft, so needy, so Yuji that you felt him melt against you, every bit of tension turning into something warm and desperate.

You had no idea how it happened. (Oh, you had.)

One second he was kissing you on the bed, clumsy and overwhelmed and red-cheeked, and the next, you were both bare skin and tangled limbs, warm against warm, breathing into each other like you were trying to relearn how lungs worked.

Making out like teenagers who never got the chance to finish what they started.

Yuji kissed you like he’d been starved for years.

Messy. Eager. Loving every second.

His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, slow and clumsy and hungry. Then your neck.

Then lower, soft, reverent kisses across your collarbone, your chest, the curve of your stomach—never crude, never forceful.

Just worshipping you in that sweet, overwhelmed Yuji way.

And every time your hands touched him, skimming along warm skin and muscle, he made the softest, sweetest sounds. Sounds he clearly didn’t mean to let slip.

Little breaths, half-whimpers, buried laughs, sharp exhales against your skin.

He kept kissing you between each one, lips brushing, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and blown.

“You’re…” he tried to whisper, breaking into a sigh when your fingers traced up his spine. “…you’re gonna kill me..oh my god…”

You smiled against his shoulder. “You’re enjoying yourself?”

“Enjoying—?” he choked out a laugh, kissing your throat again, his hand trembling on your waist. “I’m trying not to pass out.”

You dragged your nails lightly across his back—barely any pressure. Yuji shuddered, full-body, burying his face against your chest in embarrassment.

“Don’t—don’t tease me like that,” he whined, breath hot against your skin, voice shaking with laughter and something deeper. “I can’t— you’re making me—”

“Making you what?” you teased softly.

He lifted his head. And the look in his eyes was devastating.

Needy. Worshipful. A little shy. A lot undone.

“Making me feel alive again,” he murmured.

Then he kissed you, deep and slow, like he finally understood what it meant to want something for himself. And you pulled him closer, because you loved every second too.

He slid lower with a slow, shaky breath, like gravity was pulling him down your body and he didn’t have the strength to resist it anymore.

His lips trailed over your lower stomach, your skin tightening under the warmth of his mouth.

Then your hipbone. Then the edge of your thigh.

He kissed each place like he was memorizing it. Like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you at all.

And then he stopped.

His forehead hovered just above your skin, breath trembling against you, his hands gripping the bed on either side of your hips like he needed something to hold onto.

“I can’t…” he breathed.

He wasn’t pulling away. He was overwhelmed. Unraveled.

Needing you so much it shocked him.

You lifted your head, looking down at him—his flushed cheeks, his trembling shoulders, his chest rising too fast, his whole body tense with wanting.

His voice came out low, raw, painfully honest.

“I’m trying to be good,” he whispered. “I’m trying to take this slow. But you’re—” he swallowed hard, eyes squeezing shut, “—you’re too much for me.”

You slid your fingers into his hair, guiding his face up just enough for him to meet your gaze. “Yuji…”

He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way—eyes dark, lips swollen, breath shaking. “…you’re so sexy I can’t think,” he confessed, barely audible.

His hand slid slowly up your thigh, warm and steady, his thumb drawing circles there like he was centering himself, grounding himself, begging for permission without saying it outright.

He leaned down again, kissing a little higher, a little slower, a little more desperate—each kiss a quiet surrender, a wordless I want this so bad it hurts.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and a quiet groan escaped him.

He lowered his forehead to your hip, breathing unevenly.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered, voice shaking.

Not crude. Not demanding.

Just a man who had wanted you for nearly a decade and was finally here—terrified of going too far, terrified of not going far enough.

“Please,” he added, barely a breath.

And the way he looked up at you—eyes wide, cheeks red, body trembling—God.

You sat up slowly, fingers still threaded through his hair, and he looked up at you like he didn’t know whether to breathe or beg.

Before he could overthink it again, you moved. Flipped him.

It wasn’t aggressive—just smooth, confident. You rolled him onto his back with one motion, straddling his hips, your palms flat against his chest. His breath hitched so hard it sounded like it knocked something loose in his lungs.

“Wha—” Yuji choked, wide-eyed, hands immediately flying to your thighs, holding on like he needed something to keep him from ascending. “What are you—?”

“Taking care of you,” you said simply, leaning in, brushing your mouth along his jaw.

His hands slid higher, then down again, gripping your hips like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or just hold on for dear life.

He was trembling a little. His face was redder than ever.

But god—he wanted this. You could feel it in the way his fingertips dug in. Hear it in the quiet, breathless sound he made when you shifted your hips just slightly over him.

“Relax,” you whispered, smirking, “you’re so tense.”

“I’m trying not to explode,” he groaned, head falling back against the pillow. “You’re literally—you’re sitting on me, how do you expect me to—”

“You want me to stop?”

“No—god, no.”

You grinned, trailing one hand down his chest, watching his whole body shiver under the touch.

He looked up at you like you were both a dream and a problem.

“You’re not playing fair,” he whispered.

“I’m not playing,” you said softly.

Then, slowly, you guided him between your legs, teasing, and you sat down onto him in one slow, smooth motion that made his mouth fall open.

Yuji whimpered. Actually whimpered. His hands flew back to your hips, fingers curling hard into your skin like he didn’t trust his own reaction.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Oh my god.”

You braced yourself with both hands on his chest, heart thudding at the heat of him, at the look on his face—wrecked, shy, desperate, in awe.

“Just let me make you feel good,” you whispered, leaning over him again, brushing your lips against his.

He nodded way too fast, lips parted, brows drawn together in that overwhelmed way that made you want to break him open just a little more.

“You are,” he whispered back. “You’re gonna kill me. You’re killing me—”

You rolled your hips once, just a little and he gasped so sharp you nearly laughed. “Don’t laugh—oh my god—please, just—please—”

“Such a sweet thing,” you teased, biting your lip, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Already begging?”

“I warned you I was at my limit,” he whimpered, pulling you down into another kiss, almost dizzy with it. “I haven’t even done anything and I’m already—I love you so much I’m malfunctioning—”

You kissed him again to shut him up. And his hands clutched at you like you were the only thing keeping him here.

He was losing his mind. And not in the panicked, shut-down, empty-eyed way you’d seen in the market.

This was him again—the Yuji you remembered.

The shy, funny one who turned beet red when you teased him but still gave it back. The playful boy with too much heart. The man now beneath you who was finally letting himself feel something real.

His hands gripped you, roamed all over you, as if trying to make up for lost time.

He pulled you down into him, groaning softly into the kiss, needing you pressed against his chest like it would anchor him. His mouth found yours again and again, kissing you like he was drinking you down, slow and deep, no hesitation now, just wanting.

His hands slid over your arms, down your shoulders, along the curve of your spine. He kept moving, palms warm, fingers trembling slightly until they found your hips. Then lower. Then he gripped your ass with both hands and pulled you into him with a quiet, desperate noise in his throat.

You gasped into his mouth. He groaned, breathless, needy.

“Shit—shit, you feel so good,” he whispered, the words slipping out of him like he couldn’t hold them in anymore.

The way he said it—it wasn’t just physical. It was full of years. Unspoken things. Late-night memories. Emotions he never got to talk through when everything fell apart.

It wasn’t just about now. It was then, and before then, and everything you’d both missed in between.

And god—he was worshipping you.

Even as his rhythm picked up, rougher in the way he gripped you and dragged you closer, there was nothing selfish about it. Every movement was for you. Every shift of his hips, every gasp, every sweet noise in your ear—it was all to make you feel like you were wanted. Needed.

Loved.

“Yuji…” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair as he kissed over your collarbone, your shoulder, your throat. “You’re—fuck, Yuji.”

He looked up at you, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes so open and raw. “Don’t stop saying my name,” he whispered. “I need it. I need you.”

Your breath caught.

He kept moving, slower now, pressing up into you with deep, controlled motion, feeling every second of it, hands shaking a little as they gripped your hips tighter.

“I used to imagine this,” he murmured into your skin. “Not just the—this. You. Laughing. Touching me. Loving me. I didn’t think I’d ever get to have it.”

You cupped his face, and he melted into your hands.

One of Yuji’s arms was slung tightly around your lower back, the other wrapped up over your shoulder, hand curled into your hair like he physically couldn’t let you go.

His grip on your waist was rougher now—desperate, holding you in place like you might vanish if he blinked too long.

He was whimpering. Soft, breathless, high in his throat—those helpless little sounds he probably didn’t even know he was making.

You kissed him harder. Tongue sliding slow against his, savoring every noise that slipped from him.

Because this man was giving. All of him. Raw, unfiltered, breaking open under you.

And he wanted it to be good for you—you could feel it in every motion of his hips, every shift of his mouth, every frantic pull of his hands dragging you down to him like it physically hurt to not be closer.

“Shit—shit, you’re—” he gasped, lips dragging over your jaw, your throat, kissing you anywhere he could reach between breathless groans. “You feel insane—I can’t—fuck—”

“Mhm,” you whispered, biting gently at his bottom lip, “you sound so good for me.”

He whined. A real, involuntary, overwhelmed whine and then he devoured you again, like he had no idea what to do with himself except love you as hard as he possibly could.

His mouth found yours again, tongue deep, messy, uncoordinated from how far gone he was, like his body had completely taken over and he was just trying to survive it.

“I’m so close—” he whimpered against your lips, voice breaking, hips jerking up into you in a way that made you both gasp. “I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

You held his face between your hands, kissing him through it, tasting every sound, every trembling inhale, every breath that sounded like your name whispered in worship.

“You can,” you said softly. “I’ve got you.”

His whole body shuddered. And he held you so tight it was almost painful. Like you were the last person on Earth.

Like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

Like you were something he never thought he’d deserve but now that he had you, he’d burn the world to stay in your arms.

Yuji was still breathing hard—chest rising and falling under you, arms locked around your back, clinging like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Shit,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Baby, I’m so sorry—just give me a second—I’ll make you feel good too, I swear, just—give me a minute—”

You were still laughing—soft, warm, flushed everywhere, your fingers brushing the damp hair off his forehead.

“Yuji,” you said, voice sweet but teasing, “it’s fine.”

He looked up at you, completely red in the face, lips parted, eyes still a little hazy.

“No. No it’s not, because I just—” He buried his face in your chest with a groan. “Oh my god, I saw stars. I saw a whole new planet forming. I think I saw god for a second. You—” He tilted his head back, dazed, breathless. “You feel so amazing.”

You were trying not to laugh too hard, still breathless yourself.

He kissed your collarbone, then your jaw, arms still wrapped tight around you.

“And you smell so good. Like something warm and sweet and… fucking safe. Like I never wanna leave. Like I wanna put my face in your neck forever and never go to work again.”

“Oh my god, Yuji—”

“No, shut up, I’m being honest,” he mumbled into your skin. “I don’t care if I just embarrassed the hell out of myself. I’d do it again.”

You grinned, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m overstimulated,” he whined. “Let me be dramatic.”

You laughed again, curling against his chest. He exhaled hard, still clutching your waist, still pressing lazy, dizzy kisses to your skin.

“You’re so pretty,” he added suddenly. “Like unfairly pretty. Like it’s kind of illegal.”

You arched a brow. “Yuji, are you high?”

“On you, yeah.”

You collapsed into his neck, half-laughing, half-gasping, and he held you tighter. “I’m serious,” he whispered, softer now. “You’re everything. And I still can’t believe you’re here. With me.”

You kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Well… from that day on, something in your life shifted—quietly, unmistakably.

And Yuji became inseparable from you.

Not in a suffocating way. In a “my body knows where you are at all times and follows you naturally” way.

In a “I sleep better with a hand on your waist” way.

In a “I didn’t mean to move in but I guess I did” way.

He was clingy—so much needier than he ever allowed himself to be as a young man. Warm arms always finding your waist. Forehead always leaning into your shoulder. Hands brushing yours whenever he passed you something, just so he could feel your skin.

He apologized for it at first. And you laughed every time, kissed his cheek, and said, “Good. Cling harder.”

He did.

And slowly, like sunrise creeping over the horizon, his spark came back.

The quiet man with tired eyes began to laugh again. Loud. Goofy. Unrestrained.

The boy who once hid behind apologies now slid across the kitchen floor in socks while cooking breakfast.

He danced when he brushed his teeth.

He talked to neighborhood cats like they were old friends.

He smacked his forehead on doorframes because he got too tall and forgot to duck.

Bit by bit, you saw the Yuji you remembered.

Bit by bit, you saw the man he had become.

And you loved both of them.

He became the kind of boyfriend people warned you about. Not dangerous—just too sweet, too loving, too attached.

All yours.

And after a year of being his, of mornings tangled together, of evenings on the couch, of him coming home tired and finding you and suddenly not tired anymore, something small and familiar happened.

You were at the market again. Standing in front of the fruit stand.

Staring at apples you still couldn’t decide on.

And then his voice behind you: “Fuji ones are sweet this season.”

You didn’t even have to turn.

His arms slid around your waist from behind, warm and sure, pulling you gently back into his chest.

He kissed your cheek once, then again, lingering a little longer the second time.

“Hey,” he mumbled against your skin, voice deeper now but soft just for you. “You drifted off. Thinking about me?”

“Always,” you said.

He hummed, squeezing you tighter, chin resting on your shoulder as if it belonged there. “Good. Because I was thinking about you too.”

You held his hands where they rested over your stomach, interlacing your fingers with his.

“Same fruit stand,” you said with a smile. “Full circle.”

“Yeah,” Yuji whispered, swaying you gently side to side. “But this time you’re not getting rid of me.”

“You never gave me the chance.”

He laughed bright, loud, that resurrected sound you cherished more than anything in the world.

He kissed your temple. And whispered something softer, something just for you: “Thanks for coming back.”

Your throat tightened. Your smile did too.

“Thanks for letting me find you again.”

He squeezed your waist in return.

Life didn’t suddenly become perfect. It didn’t magically erase loss. But it became something bright again.

Something warm.

Something shared.

With him.

We both enjoyed that more than we should have.

If this found the wrong place in your head, the Masterlist has more. If you want me to make it personal, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

You got him into your room, door shut behind you, guiding him toward the bed. He sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly. Steam still curled off his skin. He looked like he’d been scraped raw.

You brushed his damp hair back. “Hey. Look at me.”

His eyes lifted, dark, heavy, full of something he never let people see. Fear, guilt, exhaustion and something warmer underneath that he tried to hide every time you made him smile during training.

He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” he said quietly.

You blinked at him, softening without meaning to. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” You sat beside him, your shoulder pressing against his. “Though, to be fair, you look like you could crush me if you roll over.”

Reiner’s mouth twitched—the smallest hint of a smile. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“That’s a shame,” you teased lightly, nudging him. “I think it’d be a funny way to go.”

He shook his head, breath escaping in a broken laugh. Then he reached for you—not forceful, just a warm, heavy hand sliding to your waist, fingers curling as if he needed to anchor himself to something real.

His forehead pressed to your temple. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice deep and quiet. “For being here.”

Your heart tugged in a way you’d never admit out loud. But you leaned in, letting your nose brush his cheek. “You make it sound like I don’t like you.”

Reiner exhaled, slow and shaky. “Sometimes I think you don’t.”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed gently. “I treat everyone else like shit. You get the deluxe package.”

He let out a quiet laugh, the soft kind he only ever gave you.

You helped him lie down, and eventually you crawled under the blanket with him, your back pressed to his chest. He wrapped his arm around your waist automatically. His breath hit the back of your neck, warm and uneven until it slowly steadied.

You thought he’d fallen asleep. But then—“…Don’t leave when I’m out,” he whispered, half-conscious. “Stay when I wake up. Please.”

Something in your chest squeezed painfully, and you laced your fingers with his. “I’ll be right here.”

The first thing you registered in the morning was weight—heavy, solid, immovable. The second was warm breath ghosting across your shoulder blade.

You blinked awake, realizing you were stuck in some strange position, half on your stomach, half on your side and he was sprawled half over you like a human boulder who’d decided that you, specifically, were his emotional support mattress.

Your face was mashed into the pillow. Your spine was protesting. Your legs were trapped. “Holy shit—” you muttered, trying to stretch at least one limb to prove you were still alive.

A large hand instantly slid to your waist and pulled you back in.

“Don’t,” his voice came from behind you, sleep-rough, deep enough to vibrate through your ribs.

You huffed. “Reiner, you are suffocating me.”

He didn’t even pretend to move. If anything, his arm tightened, dragging you a centimeter closer as if you were going to escape through the blankets. “A few hours ago,” he mumbled into your shoulder, “you said it’d be a funny way to go.”

“That was sarcasm. I wasn’t issuing a final wish.”

Reiner gave a low noise, half a tired laugh, half “too bad” and shifted just enough for his chin to rest against the curve of your shoulder. His hair tickled your neck. You felt the full weight of his chest settle against your back again.

He was clinging. Not subtly. Not politely. Just unapologetically attached. “You’re so warm,” he said, as if that justified everything.

“You’re crushing me.”

“You’re still warm.”

You tried to turn your head to glare at him, but his arm trapped you in place with unfair ease. He wasn’t even fully awake—just operating on pure instinct, and apparently his instincts demanded maximum contact.

“You know,” you muttered into the pillow, “for someone built like an entire fortress, you’re weirdly needy.”

Reiner actually smiled, you felt it, slow and soft, against your shoulder. “Only in the mornings,” he murmured. “And only with you.”

Your heartbeat did something embarrassing. You tried to cover it with sarcasm. “Wow. I should print that out and hang it on the wall.”

His fingers slid idly along your waist, barely-there touches meant to keep you anchored under him. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Put it right above your bed.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, so you can walk in and be horrified by your own words?”

“Mm.” He nuzzled closer, breath warm on your neck. “I’d still deny saying it.”

“Oh, so you’re a coward.”

He chuckled. The kind of laugh he only ever let slip around you. His hand shifted from your waist to your stomach, palm spreading over you like he needed to feel every breath you took.

He finally loosened his grip just enough for you to turn your head. When you did, you found his face inches away, eyes half-lidded, soft in a way that made your chest tighten. “Sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “Didn’t mean to trap you.”

“You very much did.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, that sleepy honesty slipping through, “I did.”

You stared at him for a moment, heat spreading under your skin. He stared back, hair messy, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes warm in a way that should’ve been illegal. “You’re staring,” he said quietly.

“You’re on top of me like a weighted blanket with trust issues,” you replied. “What am I supposed to look at? The wall?”

Reiner’s lips curved into a crooked smile. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

He brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers so slow and careful, almost reverent. “I could’ve let go.”

Your breath caught. His thumb followed the curve of your jaw. His eyes softened in that way that always made you forget how to be sarcastic for three seconds.

He leaned just a little closer, forehead brushing yours. “Let me stay like this,” he whispered. “Just.. a little longer.”

Your sarcasm dissolved. Your voice softened without your permission. “Fine. But if I pass out from lack of oxygen, you’re explaining it to the commander.”

Reiner laughed softly and tugged you back against his chest like he was afraid to wake up alone. “I’ll take my chances.”

After a while he finally loosened his arm enough for you to shift, and when you turned toward him he looked different. Softer. Open in a way he never let himself be. Like the morning peeled away the armor he wore in daylight.

His eyes dipped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and for a second he hesitated—like he was choosing between silence or honesty. “I like you,” he said quietly, voice smooth and low from sleep. “More than I should.”

Your breath stuttered a little. Not a lot. Just enough for him to notice—his lips tugging into the faintest smirk. “Oh great,” you muttered, trying to sound unaffected. “Just drop that on me while I’m stuck under your linebacker-ass.”

His laugh was warm against your cheek. “Figured you’d take it better while immobilized.”

“You’re hilarious,” you grumbled.

But then you shifted a little closer, just an inch, your forehead brushing the upper edge of his chest. His sweatshirt was soft, worn, smelling like pine and earth and something warm that was just him. You didn’t mean to, but you nuzzled in. A small, traitorous movement.

His hand slid to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair in a shockingly gentle stroke. “You’re getting shy,” he murmured, voice dipped in a smile.

“I am not,” you hissed into his chest, which only made him cradle your head tighter.

“You are. I felt you melt,” he said, sounding maddeningly pleased with himself. “Went soft all at once.”

You shoved your arm under his sweatshirt intending to say something snarky as revenge but the second your palms touched his bare waist, his breath hitched and his grasp around you actually tightened.

His voice dropped, softer. Almost shy himself. “That—feels nice.”

You swallowed at the warmth of his skin, your fingers curving instinctively along the solid line of his back. “You’re warm as hell,” you muttered. “Feels like cuddling a radiator.”

“Strong praise coming from you,” he murmured.

“Shut up,” you said, burrowing further into him.

Reiner smirked into your hair, resting his chin lightly on top of your head. “So this is what it takes to get you quiet.”

“Do not get cocky.”

“Too late,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along your spine where your shirt had ridden up. His tone softened again, almost reverent. “I like you close.”

His words landed right in your chest—too gentle, too honest. You tried to deflect. “You’re only saying that because I’m keeping your giant emotionally fragile self warm.”

Reiner actually laughed quiet and unguarded. “My ‘giant emotionally fragile self,’ huh?”

“Yeah. You heard me.”

His arm slid fully around your waist now, pulling you flush against him, his lips brushing your hairline in something barely-there, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to give you a real kiss yet. “You can pretend all you want,” he murmured, voice a velvet rumble against your ear. “But you’re holding me just as tight.”

You were. Your arms were locked around him. Your face was buried in his chest. Your fingers were curled into the hem of his sweatshirt. “…stop it,” you whispered again, but softer—almost fond.

“I won’t,” he said gently. “Not when you’re this sweet.”

You groaned into him. “You’re the worst.”

“Mm,” he hummed, brushing his hand up and down your spine in slow, soothing strokes, “and you’re adorable when you try to hide how much you like me.” His forehead touched yours again, and with his voice barely above a whisper, “I meant what I said. I like you more than I should. And it feels good knowing you’re starting to like me back.”

Your chest tightened. Your sarcasm evaporated for a second. “…Shut up,” you whispered again, but he could hear the smile in it this time.

Reiner just held you, warm, gentle, quietly confident now with his thumb drawing lazy circles over your hip. “Not a chance.”

He was still holding you, entirely too comfortable, when you slid your hands under his sweatshirt again. Slowly. Intentionally. Fingers tracing the dip of his waist like you weren’t thinking at all about the effect it would have. But he felt it. God, he felt it.

Reiner inhaled sharply, chest stuttering against you. “Don’t—mmh—don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you asked sweetly, drawing a lazy line with your fingertips up his spine. “Touch you?”

He swallowed hard. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” you said, brushing your nose against his chest with a grin, “that’s why it’s fun.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, cheeks flushed, jaw tight like he was trying to decide whether to scold you or kiss you senseless. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.

“And you’re predictable,” you shot back, poking his side.

He grabbed your wrist on instinct but not roughly. Just enough pressure to stop your hand from wandering further under his sweatshirt. His thumb brushed your pulse before he realized he was doing it.

Reiner froze. You smirked. He hated that he loved it.

“See?” you said softly. “You like this.”

“I—” his voice cracked, and he cleared it fast, “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, no?” You leaned closer, eyes half-lidded with teasing. “Then why are you blushing?”

Reiner blinked hard. “I’m not—”

“You are.” you nodded.

“Stop—”

You gasped. “You really are!”

He sighed, long and suffering, running a hand over his face. “Why did I tell you I liked you? This is the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

“Be quiet,” you cooed, cupping his jaw with one hand, thumb brushing over the faint stubble on his cheek. “You adore me.”

His breath caught. You watched it happen. Felt the shift in him—his restraint fraying just a little. “…yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

That should’ve shut you up but it didn’t. Instead you leaned in, barely an inch, voice a low tease. “So what are you gonna do about it, Braun?”

Reiner’s eyes flicked to your mouth. “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he murmur-warned, voice dipping.

You leaned another inch. “Oh? Scared?”

He breathed out a shaky laugh. “Terrified.”

He leaned in too. Half an inch. Another. The air between you turning warm, tight, electric. Your noses brushed. He smirked. “You’re not as tough as you think.”

“Oh?” you whispered, lips grazing his. “Say that again.”

Reiner’s eyes lowered and he came closer, slow, torturous, deliberate. “I said—”

Your lips brushed his once, feather-light. A single, quick smooch.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, “that was so—”

“Cute?” you teased.

“Don’t,” he warned, fighting a smile. “I swear—”

“You want another one?” you chirped.

He gave you the dirtiest, softest, most flustered look you had ever seen—eyes narrowed, mouth curved, cheeks warm. “Yeah,” he admitted. “But not like that.”

Before you could quip back, Reiner’s hand slid to the side of your neck and pulled you in. Not forceful. Not rushed. Just sure.

“Come here,” he whispered. And then he kissed you properly this time. Slow at first, testing, savoring, like he’d been wanting it for weeks and didn’t dare move too fast. You felt his breath hitch against your lips, his other hand settling at your waist as if anchoring himself.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, he was smiling, “See?” he murmured. “Told you not to start.”

You arched a brow. “Shut up and do it again.”

He laughed and kissed you again, softer this time, as if the world outside the room didn’t exist. He barely gave you a second to breathe after the kiss before he shifted—hands sliding to your hips, strong and decisive. In one smooth pull, he hauled you over him as if you weighed nothing, and you landed straddling his lap with a surprised little sound.

You burst out laughing. He did too. “Oh my god,” you snorted, hands on his shoulders to steady yourself. “Warn a girl next time, damn—”

Reiner looked up at you like you were the sun and he’d been waiting years to feel warm. “No,” he said softly, sliding an arm around your waist, “I like surprising you.”

“You want to give me a heart attack?”

“Only a small one,” he murmured and then he tugged you down, guiding you against his chest.

Before you could say something sarcastic, his mouth found your throat. Not biting. Not harsh. Just warm lips, pressing, dragging, lingering—each kiss slow and rough enough to make your breath catch, gentle enough to make you melt.

“Oh,” you whispered, fingers curling into his sweatshirt, “so that’s how you wanna play?”

“Hm?” he hummed against your neck. “You complaining?”

“Yes,” you lied, tilting your head to give him more space. “Terrible. Absolutely awful.”

He smiled against your pulse, and you felt the warmth of it, the softness he tried to hide, the way he held you like you were something he’d dreamt of and never expected to touch.

His hands started to wander up your back, down your sides, circling your hips, exploring with slow, curious fingers.

You shivered at his touch and he paused, immediately.

“You okay?” he asked, voice dropping into that soft, deep tone he only used for you.

“Yeah,” you breathed, smirking because you could feel how nervous he suddenly was. “Keep going. You’re doing great. Gold star.”

He groaned. You brushed his jaw with your thumb. “Thought you liked my little comments.”

“I do,” he admitted, pulling you slightly closer. “Too much.” You laughed just a little, just enough for him to feel it—and leaned in until your noses nearly touched.

“So,” you teased, “rougher, huh?”

Reiner’s breath stuttered. Just barely. But it did. And he didn’t hide it well enough. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—” he tried, but you tilted your hips the slightest bit and his hands instantly tightened at your waist.

“Mhm,” you said smugly. “That’s what I thought.”

He glared—not angry, but flustered, overwhelmed, very obviously affected. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re slow,” you shot back. “Try again.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate. Reiner’s hand slid up, fingers curling around the back of your neck and he pulled you down into a kiss that was nothing like the first one.

This one was hotter. Hungrier. Still gentle, but with a rough edge, like he was losing the ability to hold back.

You gasped quietly, and he swallowed the sound, kissing you deeper, thumb brushing your jaw, the other hand gripping your waist like he needed you grounded against him.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, breathless and smug: “See? Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Reiner let out a shaky laugh, “You keep pushing me,” he murmured, warm and low, “and I’m gonna push right back.”

“Good,” you said softly. “I want you to.”

He exhaled and kissed your throat again, slower this time, hands roaming like he was memorizing you.

Reiner’s mouth had barely left your throat when something in him changed, a low sound slipping from his chest as his hands tightened on your hips, guiding you down against him with a strength he’d been holding back until now.

“Reiner—” you breathed, your voice catching when he moved you again, rougher, firmer, his breath hot against your collarbone.

“Don’t—” he murmured, kissing under your jaw, “—don’t say my name like that unless you want me to lose every bit of restraint I have.”

“Oh?” you teased, breath shaking. “What’s left of it?”

He laughed deep and dark and so soft you felt it more than heard it. And then he rolled his hips up into you.

You gasped. He groaned. And the heat between you snapped from warm to dangerously intense in seconds.

Your hands gripped his shoulders; his slid down your thighs, pulling you tighter against him, his voice dropping to a low growl of—“Come here—”

And just as things were spiraling into something very difficult to walk back from—A knock. Loud. Too loud. “Hey, did you see Braun?”

Reiner went rigid beneath you so fast it was almost comedic. Your eyes widened. His hand flew instinctively to your waist, holding you still.

You did not stay still. You leaned in closer, slow as sin, and whispered, “Don’t make a sound.”

Then you shifted your hips—just a little. Just enough for his breath to catch in a strangled, muffled groan he tried desperately to swallow.

You kept your face perfectly neutral and called back: “No.”

Firm. Steady. Absolutely lying. The person outside paused. “…You sure? He’s not in the barracks.”

Reiner’s grip on your waist tightened—his jaw clenched, his eyes wide, begging you with pure panic to behave.

You didn’t. You tilted your hips again. Slight pressure. Enough to make his eyes squeeze shut and his head fall back against the pillow. He mouthed—Stop—please—Which only encouraged you.

“Nope,” you said, sweetly and with full eye contact as you moved again. “Haven’t seen him.”

Reiner’s hand shot to your thigh, fingers digging in, half a warning, half ‘oh god keep going‘.

The voice outside sighed. “Alright… let me know if he comes by.”

Footsteps faded down the hall. You waited until the silence fully settled. Reiner exhaled like a man who’d narrowly avoided death.

Then he looked at you. Flushed. Eyes dark and stunned and hungry and completely undone. “…You,” he whispered hoarsely, “are going to kill me.”

You leaned forward, hands sliding up his chest, your lips brushing his ear. “Maybe,” you whispered, “but you’ll die happy.”

His hands clamped around your hips, the restraint in his grip thin as paper.

“Get back down here,” he murmured. “Now.”

There you are. I knew you would stay.

The Masterlist is here. If that still does not satisfy you, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

You didn’t even get to shrug. “Yes, baby. Traffic exists.”

His chest pressed to your back, clearly on purpose.

His hips followed, also on purpose.

One of his fingers slipped under your shirt like he needed to confirm you were actually home. “Traffic,” he repeated, not buying it at all. “Cute excuse.”

You tried to turn, but he blocked you with his arm next to your head, pinning you between him and the wall. He leaned in and kissed your shoulder, slow and open-mouthed, completely ignoring the fact that you were still half-dressed.

“You know I go insane when you’re late,” he murmured. “You could at least text. Or call. Or send a signal flare. Something.”

You snorted. “Sure. I’ll just throw fireworks out of the car window.”

He bit your shoulder. Sharp enough to make you gasp. “Don’t act like you don’t know,” he said, voice dropping, “that I missed you.”

You finally managed to turn. “You are an idiot.”

He didn’t even argue. “Yeah. Yours.”

You reached for your jacket, but he grabbed the collar and pulled it off himself, tossing it somewhere that was absolutely not the coat rack.

He didn’t bother lecturing you. He just kissed you. Slow for two seconds, then he deepened it, tongue brushing yours, a low groan rumbling out of him like he had been waiting all day for this.

“You’re being needy,” you muttered against his lips.

“Yeah,” he said, kissing you again, “and whose fault is that? Not mine.”

He pressed you back into the wall, his thigh sliding between yours, hands already under your shirt like he couldn’t be bothered to pretend he had self-control.

Your fingers curled into his hair. And oh, he loved that.

“Hajime,” you warned.

“Mm?” he said, still kissing your throat. “I’m busy.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly. “You couldn’t wait five seconds?”

“Nope,” he said. “Suffer.”

He kissed the spot under your ear and his grin grew when he felt how you reacted. “You missed me too,” he said. His hands slid down, pulling you flush against him like physics had no say in this household.

“Hajime.”

He lifted you by the waist just to prove he could, and your breath caught. That made him grin like he’d won something. “Yeah. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

You hooked a finger in his shirt and dragged him closer. “Didn’t plan to.”

“Good,” he whispered, kissing you once more, slower but hungrier. “Because I wasn’t done.”

He cupped your jaw and kissed you again, so stupidly in love. When you finally kissed him back just as hard, he smiled against your mouth. “Knew it,” he murmured. “Come here. I’m not done with you.”

He carried you to the living room like you weighed nothing. The big couch already looking like it knew what was coming.

He dropped you onto it—gentle, but only because he wanted you there, not because he was being polite. Then he knelt. He hooked a finger behind your heel and slid your shoe off. The other followed. No rush. No shame. He kept his eyes on you the entire time, like he was daring you to react.

Then he lifted your ankle and kissed it. A slow, open-mouthed kiss right to the bone, like he wanted to mark the place.

You stared at him, completely still. “You’re insane.”

He looked up at you through his lashes, smirking. “You knew that before you dated me.”

He kissed a little higher, thumb dragging along your calf. His mouth was warm and greedy, like he wanted to ruin the idea of anyone else ever touching you.

“Hajime.” you murmured.

He hummed, lips brushing your skin again. “You keep saying my name like that, I’m gonna take it personally.”

“You should,” you said.

“Good,” he muttered, biting the inside of your ankle just to be a menace. “Because I am.”

His hands pushed up your legs a little, spreading your knees without asking. Bratty. Confident. Absolutely not pretending to behave.

He looked you over like he owned the view.

“You came home late,” he said again, pretending to be offended. “I had time to spiral. I had time to imagine things. I had time to—”

“Be dramatic?” you cut in.

He froze, narrowed his eyes, and then crawled up the couch toward you in that slow, predatory way, like a man who was deciding between kissing you and starting a fight he fully expected to win. “Say it again,” he said quietly.

“You. Are. Dramatic,” you repeated, deadpan.

He exhaled a laugh through his nose. “You’re lucky I love you,” he said, climbing over your thighs. “Lucky I’m obsessed with you. Lucky you’re hot. Lucky—”

“You’re talking a lot for someone who pounced on me in the hallway.”

He braced a hand beside your hip and leaned in close, his breath warm against your cheek. “That’s because I waited all day,” he murmured. “And you walked in here looking like that. And then you try to mouth off?” He tilted his head. “Sweetheart, be serious.”

You raised a brow. “Make me.”

His grin sharpened. “Say less.”

He kissed you rougher this time, cocky, demanding, messy in a way that made your stomach drop. His hand slid up your thigh, fingers squeezing like he couldn’t help himself.

You kissed him back just as hard.

He pulled back with a low laugh, forehead pressing to yours. “There she is,” he said. “My brat.”

You smirked. “Oh, brat?”

“Yeah,” he growled softly. “Mine. And I’m gonna remind you of that tonight.”

He kissed you again, deep, hungry, full-body needy and his hand dragged you closer by the waist like he wasn’t going to tolerate even an inch of distance. “God, baby,” he murmured against your mouth, breath shaking with how badly he wanted you. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“I know exactly what I do to you,” you told him, dead serious. “You’re worse than a rabid raccoon.”

He blinked. Slowly. Offended. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s slander.”

“That’s accurate.”

He put a hand to his chest like you wounded him. “I am a majestic creature.”

“You’re a feral gremlin with muscles.” Then you pointed at him. “Take your clothes off.”

He stared. “Eh?”

“You are needy. I had a long day. I wanna shower and I want to touch you.”

“Touch me?” His voice jumped an octave.

You nodded once. Calm. “In very unholy places.”

He shot to his feet so fast the couch springs complained. “Say less.”

He actually stretched like some smug demon who’d been summoned with the correct incantation. Back arched, arms up, grin horrible. “Oh wow,” he said, already pulling his shirt off like it personally wronged him. “Suddenly my entire personality disorder vanished. I’m cured.”

“You were never cured,” you muttered.

“I could be,” he said, tossing his shirt somewhere stupid, “if you touched me in these alleged unholy places.”

“You’re not supposed to enjoy being called a raccoon.”

“I thrive,” he said. “Call me worse.”

“Rodent.”

He gasped. “Hot.”

You sighed so hard it could’ve powered a wind turbine. He stepped between your knees, half-naked, fully feral, hands on your thighs like he was staking a claim. “So,” he said with a wicked little tilt of his head, “you wanna touch me?”

“Yes baby, I literally said that.”

“In the shower?”

“Yes.”

“Together?”

You stared. “Do I need to file paperwork for you to understand?”

“Nope,” he said brightly. “Just checking if you meant ‘touch’ like ‘touch,’ or touch like—” He made aggressive grabby-hand motions. “—touch.”

“Second one.”

“Oh thank God,” he breathed, already undoing his belt like it was a race. “I shaved for nothing yesterday.” He stepped back, smug and shirtless and a menace. “Let’s go then. Touch me. Ruin me. End my suffering. Be my villain arc.”

“Get in the shower,” you said flatly.

“Gladly,” he answered, already walking backward toward the bathroom, pants halfway undone, nearly tripping over his own shoes because he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“No,” he said, finger pointed at you like a threat. “Eyes on my woman at all times. Safety hazard? Yes. Worth it? Also yes.”

You dragged a hand down your face. “You’re actually going to die one day being stupid like this.”

He smirked. “Then bury me sexy.”

“Hajime, get in the damn shower.”

“Oh believe me,” he said, stepping inside with that same feral, delighted grin, “I’m already there.”

You followed him, because honestly, what else were you going to do, and he held the door open like a gentleman who had absolutely zero gentlemanly intentions. The man was naked and vibrating with excitement like a demon on caffeine.

“You ready?” he asked, standing in the stall—cocky, smug, and vibrating like a possessed tuning fork who’d been waiting for this moment his entire life.

“I should ask you that, sir,” you said, poking his chest with mock innocence. Your finger dragged down his torso in a lazy, disrespectful line, pausing exactly where his… very enthusiastic situation was basically waving hello like a proud student at a school assembly.

His grin dropped off his face so fast it hit the floor. “Me? Ready? For what? What are you planning, girl?”

You didn’t answer. You just laughed and walked right past him to turn on the water, acting like you didn’t just short-circuit his entire personality.

“Babe??” he tried again.

You still didn’t answer, just undressed in front of him with zero ceremony, zero rush, and zero concern for the fact he was about three seconds from combusting.

He made a choked sound. “HELLO?? Are you doing this on purpose?”

You stepped into the stall, looking up at him slowly, hands finding his waist, then the small of his back, then lower to his ass. You squeezed playfully.

He gasped—a scandalized, delighted, borderline spiritual gasp. “Oh my god,” he wheezed. “You can’t just—warn me! Warn me next time, actually no don’t, do it again—wait, no, WHAT are you plotting?”

Your hands stayed exactly where they were, fingers digging in just enough to make his whole spine go tense.

He stared at you like you were both his dream and his punishment. “Why are you like this?” he demanded, voice cracking in the middle. “Why do you act innocent and then suddenly—suddenly—THAT?”

You tilted your head. “Problem?”

“Yes?? No?? I don’t know??” He gestured vaguely at his entire existence. “You can’t just go for the premium zones without warning.”

“Premium?” you echoed, amused.

“It’s a VIP area,” he said, very serious. “Five-star access only.”

“And who owns that access?”

He swallowed hard. “You. Obviously you. Forever. No refunds.”

You slid your hands a little, just enough to make his knees buckle for a second. He clutched your shoulders like he needed emotional support. “You’re going to ruin my life.”

“You like when I ruin your life.”

“Yes! But you’re not supposed to know that!”

You smiled up at him, far too pleased. “Hajime.”

“Mm?” he answered, already sounding gone.

“You’re very loud for someone who walked in here like the big bad wolf.”

His jaw flexed. “I am the big bad wolf.”

You squeezed again and he made a noise that was definitely not wolf-like. “…I am a medium bad wolf,” he corrected quietly.

You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw, voice low. “You know what I’m planning.”

He shivered head to toe. “I have theories. None of them safe.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. He inhaled sharply. “Oh, okay, yep. We’re doing this. I’m going to pass out. Perfect. Great.”

You smiled. “Hold still then.”

He made a breathless laugh, grabbing your hips like he didn’t trust gravity. “Girl…you better be ready to deal with me after this,” he said, voice roughening with that familiar, dangerous affection. “Because I’m about to forget how to behave.”

“You never behave.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And you make it worse.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes dark, smile crooked. “You and me,” he murmured, “we’re not normal.”

“And?”

“And I want every second of it.”

The water steamed around both of you, close and hot. His hands roamed your waist, slow and promising, as he whispered “Come on then. Show me what you were planning.”

The shower was hot, way too hot—not because of the water temperature, because of what you were doing to him.

On your knees, licking slow, teasing, dragging your tongue in ways that made him grab the wall like the tiles personally betrayed him. Every time he twitched, every time he groaned, every time his breath broke you pulled back just enough to keep him right there, trembling.

Hajime wasn’t moaning, he was trying not to scream.

Twenty minutes. Twenty whole minutes of you torturing him with your mouth, your tongue, your breath, your stupid calm face that made him lose absolute sanity.

He finally snapped.

“Okay—NO. No, no, no—get up—baby, I’m losing brain cells—”

He hauled you straight off the floor like you weighed nothing, slammed the shower off, and grabbed a towel, drying you with the speed and aggression of a man fighting for his life. His hair was dripping, sticking to his face in wild strands, eyes blown wide open.

He shook his head like a wet dog and you barely had time to laugh before he yeeted you out of the bathroom.

You bounced once on your bed, breath leaving your chest in a gasp. He stood there at the edge of the mattress wet, panting, glowing red with frustration and desire, and he looked like he could devour you whole. “You make me—” he tried, voice rough, cracking. “God—You make me CRAZY—”

You pulled him down by the back of his neck and kissed him with the same slow-torture energy you’d used in the shower. His whole body jerked like you hit a switch.

“No,” you whispered into his mouth, tasting how ruined he already was. “Lay down.”

He froze. Like you’d just challenged him to a duel. “Lay—down?” he repeated, staring at you, chest rising in sharp, uneven breaths.

“Yes,” you said, pushing him by the shoulders. “Now.”

He obeyed. Not gracefully. Not calmly. He collapsed backward onto the bed like a man who’d been waiting years to be told that. Legs spread, hair wild, water dripping onto the sheets, arms thrown up like he was offering himself to the universe.

“Okay,” he said, voice wrecked. “I’m lying down.” Then, louder, needier, “Do something about it.”

You crawled over him, slow and predatory, and he followed every movement with desperate, hungry eyes. “You really want me to?” you asked, straddling his hips, refusing to give him contact.

“Yes,” he answered instantly. “I want everything. I want all of it. Do whatever you were doing in the shower but multiplied— squared—I don’t care, just—”

You placed one finger on his lips. He shut up immediately. His eyes were huge. “Hajime,” you murmured, leaning down so your nose brushed his.

“Mm?” he whispered, already ruined.

“You really shouldn’t challenge me.”

He swallowed so hard it made his throat flex. “I wasn’t challenging,” he whispered. “I was begging.”

Your smile turned slow and cruel. “Fantastic.”

His hands shot to your waist, gripping tight. He breathed out— “Oh…I’m so dead.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, dragging your nails down his sides, feeling him arch into you like he couldn’t decide whether to moan, curse, or just black out from sheer want.

He chose all three.

You kissed like you were making up for every second you’d ever been apart, messy and desperate and breathing each other in. He kept pulling you closer, like he physically couldn’t stand even a millimeter of distance. His hands dragged over your back, your hips, your face—rough one second, tender the next, completely unhinged either way.

He moaned into your mouth, helpless and needy, and then, he muttered against your lips, “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Evil woman—”

You shut him up with another kiss, biting his lower lip until he groaned loud, legs falling open without a single hesitation.

All yours.

Your hand slid down between his thighs, slow, testing him. His breath stuttered against your cheek. He tried to keep kissing you but he missed your mouth entirely, whining like the world was ending. When your fingers brushed lower his whole body jerked.

“God—okay—” he choked, gripping your face and kissing you harder, lips desperate, hot, clumsy with want. “Do that again—”

You did. He broke. Softly. Beautifully. His thighs relaxed, opened more. That silent permission he only ever gave you.

When you pushed in just a little he bit your lip, sharp enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

He cursed. Not angry. More like it hit him in the spine. “It—fuck—hurts,” he hissed, forehead pressing to yours, breath shaking. Then, voice dropping into something raw—“Don’t. Don’t fucking stop.”

He reached blindly for the nightstand, stretching, swearing under his breath as he knocked things over. Finally his hand closed around what he wanted, the small bottle of lube, and he shoved it at you like it was a lifeline. “Add another one,” he begged, voice wrecked. “God—please. Please—”

You froze. Not from doubt—from need. You looked down at him, eyes locking. He was looking back at you like he’d kneel if you told him to. “Yeah?” you said, your voice low, taunting, almost mean. “You want another finger?”

He nodded immediately. Violently. Desperate. His voice broke when he answered, “Yes—yes, baby, please. Just—I want it—I want whatever you want to give me—I don’t care—”

You leaned in so your lips brushed his ear. “You’re so needy,” you whispered. “So badly behaved. So loud.”

His fingers twisted in the sheets. “But you love me,” he rasped.

You smiled against his skin. “Yeah. I love you like this.”

He exhaled something between a moan and a laugh—feral, overwhelmed, unhinged with pleasure and anticipation. “Then ruin me,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

The way he said it shot through you like heat. His legs trembled beneath you. His chest rose fast. His eyes were half-closed, begging and challenging at the same time.

Your palm slid over his hip, deliberate, claiming. “Good boy,” you whispered.

His whole body shuddered and you took control the moment he laid back. No hesitation. No softness. Just intention.

Hajime always acted like he was the feral one, but the second your hands were on him he melted so fast it was embarrassing.

The lube was in your hand before he even finished breathing. He watched you open it like it was a ritual. His legs opened on their own.

He didn’t even pretend he wasn’t begging for it.

“My pretty boy,” you said under your breath as your hand slid down, slow and possessive, claiming every inch of him without even needing to touch the forbidden places directly.

His breath stuttered.

You didn’t even give him time to recover. Your fingers went lower and the second he felt you push his breath broke. Not a gasp. Not a moan. A sound ripped out of him. “—oh fuck—”

You leaned down, kissing his stomach as he arched. He clutched the sheets, knuckles white, trying to breathe through the shock of being handled exactly the way he always pretended he didn’t want but absolutely craved.

You whispered against his skin, low and cruel, “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

His head snapped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes—yes, I—baby, it feels—it feels so—”

You pressed your lips to the sharp line of his abs, kissing him like you were claiming territory. “Tell me,” you murmured. “What does it feel like?”

He choked on air. “Good—god, it feels good, too good— I can’t—”

You kissed lower. He trembled violently. Your voice dragged over him like heat. “What are you going to do for me if I keep going?”

He whimpered. “Anything,” he rasped. “Anything you want—just don’t stop. Please don’t—”

You smiled against his skin. “Look at you. Opening up for me. Falling apart like I trained you to.”

His thighs twitched, trying to close, then opening wider when he realized you wanted space. He was ruined. Completely and beautifully ruined.

You kissed along his lower stomach again, slow and smug, while your hand moved with deliberate, devastating expertise, just enough pressure in just the right place to make him shiver like he was being rewired. “There you go,” you whispered. “Let me have you.”

He covered his face with one forearm, moaning into his own skin like he was embarrassed by how loud he was getting but not enough to stop. “Baby—baby—I’m—oh god—this is—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” Your mouth brushed his skin. Your tone dropped. “You’re going to take everything I give you.”

He arched, gasping. His free hand flew to your hair, grabbing, holding, grounding himself as he fell apart under your voice, your control, your pace. “Please,” he whispered, desperate, shaking. “I want to make you feel good—let me just—tell me how—tell me what to do—”

You lifted your head, slow and commanding, meeting his blown-out eyes. “You’re going to listen,” you murmured. “You’re going to behave. And when I want you to touch me—then you’ll touch me.”

He nodded so fast it was almost frantic. “Yes. Yes, whatever you want—I’m yours—”

Your lips brushed his stomach again, a kiss that made him shudder from head to toe. “Good,” you whispered.

He gave in completely, body shaking, voice breaking, breath overloading, under nothing but your pace, your control, your voice telling him exactly how undone he was allowed to be.

He wasn’t just falling apart, he was coming undone at the seams, breath stuttering, hips trying to follow your pace. Just the way you moved your hand, the way your voice dragged over him, the pressure you kept exactly where he needed—It broke something open in him.

His thighs tensed, then trembled. His stomach tightened. His breath caught in his throat in a strangled gasp that turned into a sound he’d absolutely deny making later. His whole body arched as pleasure hit him sharp and overwhelming—so intense it knocked a shocked, helpless gasp from him. His voice cracked mid-moan, half-laughing, half-swearing, like he didn’t even know what reaction he was supposed to have.

“Oh god—” he choked out, eyes unfocused, chest heaving.

You watched the chaos roll through him—every twitch, every sound, every desperate attempt to breathe through the shock of how hard the pleasure hit him.

He giggled. Actually giggled. A little delirious, a little wrecked, a lot overwhelmed. And then he moaned again, so soft, ruined and melting.

You raised a brow. “Oh? Already?”

He slapped a hand over his face like he could hide from reality. “Help—” he whined… then laughed again, breathless and shaking. “I can’t—baby, oh my god—”

You withdrew your hand slowly, careful but teasing. “Hm?” you asked, innocent voice, wicked smile. “What’s wrong?”

He tried to speak. Failed. Tried again. “You hit that…just right…” he panted, reaching blindly for you like he needed grounding. “Oh my..baby. I didn’t—I wasn’t ready for that—”

You leaned over him, lips brushing his ear. “You fall apart beautifully,” you whispered. “I barely touched you.”

He shivered. “Don’t say that,” he muttered weakly. “You’ll get ideas.”

“I already have ideas.”

He whimpered. And then he laughed again, delirious, breathless, high off what you did to him. “Baby,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re actually going to kill me.”

“Good,” you said softly. “Then behave this time.”

He covered his face again. “No promises.”

He was still shaking. Still breathless, pupils blown wide, chest rising in sharp little stutters. His hands reached for you with zero coordination, like instinct was doing the work his brain no longer could.

“Come here—” he murmured, grabbing blindly for your waist.

He tried to pull you on top of him, but his arms were jelly, and all he managed was dragging you halfway across his hips in a pathetic, horny attempt.

You hid a laugh. He was so gone he didn’t even bother pretending. He watched your hand glide over his stomach, over the mess he’d made of himself, and his eyes went dark.

His mouth dropped open. Tongue out. Begging. You didn’t even tell him to, it just happened.

He sucked at your fingers the moment they touched his lips, desperate, greedy, half-whimpering like he needed the taste of everything you did to him.

Still hard.

Still twitching.

Still ready for more.

“Lick it,” he demanded, voice hoarse and wrecked, like he barely knew what he was saying. “Clean. All of it.”

You kissed him slow, letting him taste your breath before moving to his jaw, then down his throat where his pulse jumped so fast you felt it against your mouth.

He made a low and broken sound and his hand slid into your hair, not to guide you, but to make sure you didn’t float away.

You kissed your way down his chest, over every trembling breath, every shiver, every place you’d undone him.

You moved lower, letting your tongue drag across his skin where he was still marked by cum, collecting everything left on him.

“Oh my god…” he whispered, hips twitching.

You moved back up to kiss him again. Before you could even speak, he grabbed your jaw with surprising strength for a man whose legs still didn’t work, pulling you close enough to steal your breath.

“Give it to me,” he growled.

You laughed and kissed his chest instead, making him groan and buck up like his body had its own ideas. “Hajime,” you teased. “You’re still shaking.”

“Don’t care,” he rasped. His thumb stroked your cheek, almost gentle. “Come here. Now.”

You leaned in, letting your lips ghost over his. He couldn’t wait. He kissed you hard, tongue pushing into your mouth with a needy, hungry moan, tasting everything you’d taken from him.

He groaned into the kiss, his hips jerking up under you, chasing you without thinking. “God, baby,” he whispered against your mouth, breath trembling. “I’m not even done. You ruined me and I still want you. You don’t know what you do to me.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, losing the ability to breathe, think, talk, just drowning in you.

He tried to pull you up with him, tried to drag you into his arms but his legs still weren’t cooperating. He growled at his own weakness, slapped your hip once like it personally offended him, and then with the determination of a man who refused to lose, he flipped you onto your stomach.

It was messy. It was wobbly. He nearly fell on you twice. But he did it. “Don’t laugh,” he warned, breath catching. “I’m taking control back.”

“You’re about three seconds from face-planting—”

“SHH,” he snapped, immediately biting your ass in retaliation.

You yelped, then laughed into the pillow. He groaned like the sound rewired his soul. “You,” he said, teeth grazing you again, “are the best woman ever.”

He crawled over you sloppy and still shaking but you felt the shift in him. That feral heat coming back, slow and rising, like he was rebooting into his worst, horniest form.

His arms caged you in. His chest pressed to your back, still wet, still heaving. His breath hit your shoulder, trembling with want and pride and questionable stability. Then you felt him tilt his hips forward and tap his hard cock against you.

Once.

Twice.

Like a knock on a door.

He made the stupidest proud noise, a smug little hum deep in his chest. “A gentleman,” he announced, voice wrecked but triumphant, “always knocks.”

You couldn’t help it. You pushed up onto your knees, tilting your hips back deliberately, wickedly, offering yourself like you were presenting a royal invitation. You glanced over your shoulder at him and said:

“Well then—come in if you dare.”

His soul left his body. He froze, eyes blown wide, breath catching like you’d just whispered a spell. He grabbed your hips and lowered himself over you, mouth at your ear, voice shredded. “Ohh baby,” he whispered, barely holding himself up. “You say one more thing like that and I’m gonna forget how to act for the rest of my life.” His voice dropped low and sinful. “Mmmh… I’m going to make sure we both can’t walk after this.”

You didn’t even give him time to feel proud. “Wise words,” you said sweetly, “from someone who just spilled all over himself because I put two fingers up your—”

He didn’t let you finish. He grabbed your hips so suddenly you gasped, yanking you back into him with a force that shook the bed frame.

A sharp, hot jolt ran through your whole body, not pain, not surprise, just impact, raw and feral, the kind that knocked the air out of your lungs and the thought out of your skull.

Your hands shot forward, bracing into the sheets. Your breath broke into a moan you couldn’t swallow.

His voice was right at your ear, ragged, triumphant, trembling with need. “Ohhh, NOW you wanna mock me? Huh?” His grip tightened, dragging you back against him again in a brutal, unsteady rhythm. “Say it again. I dare you.”

You tried but your voice cracked into a needy, helpless sound instead.

He laughed. Dark. Mean. Turned on beyond reason. “That’s what I thought,” he growled. “You talk big until you’re actually taking me.”

Your nails dug into the sheets, body arching back instinctively. You were slipping into a need that matched his, feral and dizzy and rising fast. “Hajime—” you breathed.

He groaned, long and low, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moved behind you with messy, almost desperate force. “God, baby,” he rasped, voice breaking, “you’re gonna end me. You feel—oh my—” Another ragged sound left him, hips stuttering. “I can’t—you’re too—fuck—” You pushed back into him deliberately, wickedly and he almost choked. “NO. No, don’t baby, I’m—I’ll lose it. I swear—I’ll—”

You looked over your shoulder at him, panting, hair sticking to your face. “Do it,” you said. “Lose it.”

His head snapped up. “Oh..you’re DONE.”

He wrapped an arm around your waist, hauling you upright against his chest, breath shaking against your neck as he muttered into your skin:

“I’m gonna ruin you for talking like that.”

Cute. You thought you were done.

The Masterlist is here. If you are still thinking with your teeth, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

Now you sat on the couch, quietly nursing a drink, watching the chaos unfold. You weren’t the social butterfly type, more like the “observe, judge silently, and go home early” type.

“Don’t you look bored outta your mind,” a smooth, almost smug voice drawled from beside you.

You blinked.

Naoya had just sat down next to you. Not beside you, right next to you. The couch was wide, but he had managed to take up half of it anyway, knees spread like he was claiming territory, one arm stretched over the backrest behind you.

He looked exactly like the stories said, sharp, golden eyes, sleek hair, wearing his black yukata with sleeves rolled casually. Confident. Entitled. Probably the kind of man who said “woman” instead of using your name.

You glanced at him, then at the unnecessary distance his legs were taking up. “Do you always sit like that,” you asked coolly, taking another sip, “or is the stick just too wide up your ass?”

The silence that followed was almost beautiful.

Across the room, Toji, sitting in the corner with a glass of whiskey, froze mid-sip, then whistled low, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Naoya blinked once, his face caught between offense and disbelief. “…Excuse me?” he said, voice soft but tight, like he was trying to stay civil.

You smiled, the kind of smile that wasn’t apologetic at all. “I mean, you’re taking up enough space for three people. Just wondering if it’s structural, or psychological.”

Toji leaned back in his chair, watching the two of you like it was prime entertainment. You could feel Maki’s grin from somewhere behind you, probably muttering “oh she’s dead.”

Naoya’s jaw twitched just slightly but his voice stayed low and composed. “You have quite the mouth,” he murmured, turning his head a little, golden eyes narrowing with amusement now instead of irritation. “Most people wouldn’t dare speak that way to a Zenin.”

You tilted your head. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t care what you are.”

That earned a soft tsk and a smirk. “Is that so? You seem to care enough to provoke me.”

You shrugged, nonchalant. “I provoke everyone. Helps me separate the ones who can handle it from the ones who fold.”

Naoya chuckled leaning back and stretching lazily, the fabric of his yukata slipping open slightly at the chest. “Then I should thank you for the test.”

“I didn’t say you passed.”

That actually got him to laugh, and you noticed it, the difference. When Naoya really laughed, he didn’t look like the pompous asshole everyone warned you about. He looked young. Dangerous, sure, but charming in a way that made you understand why people got burned by him.

“You’ve got nerve,” he said, eyes glinting, “but I’ll give you that. Most people get nervous when I sit beside them.”

“I’d be nervous too,” you said, raising your glass, “if I thought I was about to catch an ego infection.”

Toji barked a laugh from across the room, nearly spilling his drink. Naoya turned to glare at him, muttering something under his breath that sounded very much like “old bastard,” before turning his gaze back to you, sharp, intrigued. “Quiet, sarcastic, and sharp-tongued,” he mused. “You sure Maki didn’t drag you here to annoy me?”

“She didn’t need to,” you replied smoothly, setting down your glass and meeting his gaze with calm confidence. “You walked right into it yourself.”

Naoya smiled, that arrogant, dangerous curl of lips that promised trouble. “You’re lucky I like a challenge.”

“And you’re lucky I don’t mind watching men trip over their own pride.”

He blinked, then laughed again, genuinely this time, pushing a hand through his hair. “Alright,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You win tonight.”

You smirked. “I always do.”

Toji raised his glass from the other side of the room. “That’s my kind of woman,” he called out, laughing.

Naoya shot him a look. “Stay out of this, asshole.”

“Not a bloody chance,” Toji grinned, tipping his glass.

Naoya muttered something inaudible, turning back to you with a sly smirk. “Well,” he said, voice dropping lower, smooth as velvet, “if you ever get tired of sitting alone… you know where to find me.”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “Probably wherever the ego contest is being held.”

He chuckled. “You’ll come anyway.”

“Maybe,” you said, standing up and brushing your sleeve, “if I get bored enough.”

You walked off before he could reply but you knew he was watching, that little hum of amusement following you across the room.

Toji laughed again, low and knowing. “You’re in big trouble now, Zenin.”

Naoya just smiled faintly, eyes still on you. “Maybe,” he said, voice soft and amused. “But she started it.”

The night air hours later outside the estate was mercifully cool, quiet too, compared to the chaos inside. You leaned against the wooden railing, cigarette balanced between your fingers, staring at the garden lanterns flickering across the koi pond.

“—Well well well.”

You didn’t have to turn around. That voice was smug, lazy, and sounded like it had been waiting all night for a second round. You exhaled smoke slowly. “You again.”

Naoya’s shoes clicked softly against the veranda as he came up beside you, the faint smell of whiskey and sandalwood following him. His sleeves were still rolled up, black shirt tucked neatly into his hakama pants, yukata loose around his shoulders like he couldn’t decide if he was formal or feral.

Without looking at him, you held out the cigarette. He took it without question. In return, he handed you his glass.

You took one sip. Then sighed. “God, I hope this is poisoned so I don’t have to listen to the shit that’s about to come out of your mouth.”

Naoya smirked around the cigarette. “You assume too much.”

“You talk too much.”

He chuckled low, leaning against the railing beside you. “You don’t seem to mind. Still here.”

You turned your head just enough to give him a look. “You’re blocking the only exit.”

He exhaled smoke through his nose, grin widening. “Then I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it however helps your ego sleep at night.”

“Ah.” He flicked ash into the garden. “There it is. The poison tongue again.”

“Be grateful,” you murmured, swirling the whiskey lazily in the glass. “I could’ve aimed lower.”

Naoya laughed under his breath. It wasn’t mocking, more like he was genuinely entertained, which was somehow worse. He watched you for a moment, then asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

You raised a brow. “Why, are you going to offer your jacket or a lecture?”

“I was considering the former,” he said smoothly, glancing at your dress. “That’s hardly enough for the night air.”

“I’m fine.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “You’re stubborn.”

“You’re observant.”

Naoya let out a soft chuckle, undoing his yukata and draping it over your shoulders before you could stop him. “There. Now you can insult me in comfort.”

You glanced down at the fabric resting against your collarbone, heavy with warmth and his faint cologne. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“Didn’t say you did,” he replied, straightening his sleeves. “You just looked cold. And unlike most of my relatives, I occasionally act on impulse rather than arrogance.”

You blinked, surprised for half a second before smirking. “So the rumors were exaggerated. You actually have manners.”

He gave a sly smile. “Don’t spread that around. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

You snorted, handing him the cigarette back. “Relax. Nobody would believe me anyway.”

Naoya took it, brushing your fingers lightly—too deliberate to be an accident. “And you’d tell them even if they did?”

“Depends,” you said, sipping his whiskey again. “On how annoying you are in the next five minutes.”

He exhaled smoke slowly, eyes glinting. “Then I’ll make sure they’re the most tolerable five minutes of your night.”

“Good luck.”

The two of you fell quiet for a while, the night filling the silence—crickets, faint laughter from inside, the gentle flicker of candles against the wooden panels.

Naoya’s voice broke it again, quieter this time. “You really don’t care who I am, do you?”

You looked at him, unimpressed. “You keep asking that like you want me to.”

A small, genuine laugh escaped him. “Maybe I do.”

You smirked. “Maybe I’m still hoping for that poison.”

Naoya chuckled, flicking the cigarette away into the dark. “You’d be a dangerous woman if you smiled more.”

You looked back toward the garden, unconcerned. “That’s what men say right before they get their feelings hurt.”

He laughed again, shaking his head. “Then maybe I should stay quiet.”

You took another sip of his whiskey and handed it back. “Finally, a good idea.”

Neither of you left. Neither of you moved much either—just stood there, sharing the cold air, one cigarette and one glass between you, pretending you weren’t both waiting for the other to say something else.

Naoya broke the silence with a smirk you could hear. “So…if I bring poison next time, would that count as a date?”

You side-eyed him. “Only if you drink first.”

He grinned, low and pleased. “Fair enough.”

The silence was beautiful, almost delicate—carried by the soft hum of crickets and the distant laughter leaking through the sliding doors. The lantern light painted both of you gold and dim, and Naoya’s yukata still hung over your shoulders like a secret you didn’t want to admit you were keeping.

He shifted slightly beside you, his voice low. “How do you get home?”

You didn’t look at him. “Walk.”

He turned his head, amused. “What? Where do you live?”

“Thirty minutes from here,” you said dryly. “I’ll get an Uber. It was a joke.”

Naoya’s brows rose. “You walk alone in that dress at night and call that a joke?”

You shrugged, taking the cigarette from him again. “Worked so far.”

He watched you inhale, then exhale the smoke with infuriating calm before saying, “Let me drive you.”

You laughed quietly, without humor. “Absolutely not. You drank alcohol.”

“No,” he said smoothly, nodding toward the glass in your hand, “only a few sips of that one. You drank most of it.”

You gave him a long, suspicious look. “…Mh. And what if you planned all this?”

He smiled, slow and confident, the corners of his mouth twitching like he found your paranoia adorable. “Planned what exactly?”

“You think I trust you to drive me?” you said, half teasing, half serious. “You could be some weird, misogynistic serial killer for all I know.”

Naoya tilted his head, pretending to think. “I mean, the misogynistic part isn’t wrong.”

You gave him a side-eye so sharp it could’ve sliced through the air. He chuckled. “Relax. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have given you my jacket first. That’d be counterproductive.”

You stared at him for a moment, deadpan. “Do you…hear yourself?”

“Occasionally,” he said, smirking. “I just prefer when others do.”

You groaned softly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“It sounded like one.”

You turned to face him fully this time, velvet dress catching the lantern glow, your tone calm but sharp. “You really don’t know when to quit, huh?”

Naoya leaned a little closer, resting an elbow on the railing. His voice dropped into that lazy drawl again, warm and almost charming. “Not when the company’s this entertaining.”

You snorted softly. “You think you’re smooth.”

“I know I am.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, handing the cigarette back to him, brushing his fingers deliberately. “Then use that smooth brain of yours to remember this—I’m getting an Uber.”

Naoya took a drag, eyes flicking over you, amused and faintly impressed. “Fine,” he said, smoke curling between his words. “But if your driver looks suspicious, I’m following you.”

You smiled a little, half mocking. “That’s creepy.”

“Consider it chivalry.”

“I’d call it delusion.”

He laughed quietly, handing the cigarette back again. “You really are fun.”

You rolled your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. “You really are a menace.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air hung thick with something between challenge and curiosity—two people who should’ve walked away long ago but didn’t. Then, softly, you said, “If I did let you drive me…”

He raised a brow. “Yes?”

“I’d still make you park three blocks away and walk me the rest.”

Naoya grinned, sharp and boyish all at once. “That’s fair.”

“Good,” you said, glancing back at the garden. “Because I wasn’t joking.”

He laughed again, quiet and warm this time. “I know.” Naoya jingled his car keys right in front of your face, that shit-eating smirk already back in full force. “C’mon. I’m driving you.”

You stared at him flatly. “You are a fucking pain in the ass.”

He just grinned wider. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I’ll sue you later,” you muttered, grabbing your bag.

He laughed, head tipping back a little, the sound far too pleased with itself. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

You sighed so hard your soul nearly left your body. “You sound like you’re about to enjoy my suffering.”

“I am.”

By the time you said goodbye to Maki, you were already regretting every decision that led to this point. She waved from the porch, half-drunk, half-confused. “Text me when you’re home!” she shouted.

“I will!” you yelled back, praying she didn’t notice Naoya waiting near the car like a smug chauffeur. She didn’t. She thought you were getting an Uber.

Naoya opened the passenger door with a dramatic flourish. “Milady.”

You rolled your eyes and climbed in, muttering, “You’re lucky this car’s too nice to slam the door on your ego.”

He slid into the driver’s seat, leaned over slightly, and handed you his phone. “Address.”

You typed it in, tossed the phone back. He grinned like a cat. “Thirty-seven minutes of pure entertainment.”

“Shut up.”

Naoya cackled, starting the car. “Oh, I’m already enjoying this way too much.”

You slouched into the seat, arms crossed, while he hummed some obnoxiously upbeat tune and occasionally side-eyed you like he was waiting for a reaction. “Stop staring at me.”

“I’m not staring. I’m appreciating.”

“Appreciate the road.”

“I am—you just happen to be in my peripheral vision.”

You gave him a slow glare. “Naoya, I swear to god—”

“—you’ll what? Walk?”

You huffed but said nothing, the silence thick but oddly… comfortable? The car purred down the road, city lights fading until the only glow came from the dash and the moon slipping between trees.

The street turned dark. No lamps. Just endless forest on both sides and the steady hum of tires against asphalt. “Charming,” you muttered. “Real serial-killer vibes.”

Naoya smirked. “If I were one, you’d be dead already.”

“Touching.” you replied flatly. You were about to fire another comment—when a blur exploded out of the darkness.

Naoya slammed the brakes, tires screeching as the car jolted violently. You gasped, thrown forward against the belt. Something heavy hit the hood, then rolled off into the black.

The car went still. Steam rose from the dented front. One headlight flickered pathetically. Naoya just sat there, hands frozen on the wheel, eyes wide. His jaw clenched, breath uneven.

“Oh great,” you muttered, cracking your neck before flicking on the hazard lights. The soft orange glow blinked against the trees. “You good?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even move. Just stared ahead, knuckles white, like he’d seen a ghost instead of a deer. “Hey?” you said softly, turning to him. “Naoya?”

He blinked, breath catching. “Yeah—yeah. What the fuck? Are you hurt?”

“No.” You tilted your head, frowning. “You’re shaking—” You reached for your seatbelt, clicking it loose. “I’ll check the front—” Before you could move, his hand shot out, catching your wrist. Too tight, but not cruel—just instinctive.

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “It’s dark as hell out there.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his tone. “Naoya, it’s a deer, not a yokai.”

His grip didn’t loosen. His eyes flicked toward the woods, voice quieter now—uneasy. “You don’t know what’s out there.”

You opened your mouth to reply—but stopped. The sound caught in your throat when you saw the look on his face.

Your other hand slid carefully over his, still clamped tight around your wrist, his grip wasn’t violent, but it trembled faintly, every muscle locked like he couldn’t remember how to let go. “Naoya,” you said softly, steady and coaxing. “It’s a deer. This happens. I just wanna see if we can still drive or if we should call someone. Yeah?”

His breath came short. “No.”

You frowned. “No?”

He still didn’t look at you, eyes fixed on the cracked headlight ahead, chest rising too fast. “Hey—look at me.”

He didn’t move. So you reached up, fingers curling under his jaw, thumb pressing lightly against his chin until you turned his face toward you. His skin was cold. His pupils were blown wide, dark swallowing gold, unfocused and glassy.

“What is wrong with you?” you asked, quieter now.

Nothing. Not a sound. His jaw twitched under your palm, breath hitching like his body was stuck somewhere else entirely, like he was hearing something that wasn’t there.

His hand was still around your wrist. You felt the tremor run through him again—small but constant.

“Naoya.” You said his name again, firmer this time, but his eyes didn’t quite find yours. They were darting, quick, as if searching the shadows outside instead.

The ticking hazard light filled the silence reflecting across his face, pale flashes cutting over every muscle pulled too tight.

You loosened your grip just a little, but didn’t let go. “Hey,” you murmured, voice low, careful. “Whatever that was, it’s gone. You’re fine. It’s fine.”

No response—just a slow exhale, shallow and shaky, like he was trying not to let you notice. But you did. Every second of it.

He finally moved, rubbing the heels of his hands hard into his eyes like he could scrub whatever memory had grabbed him right out of his skull. You stayed quiet for a beat, just watching his shoulders rise and fall unevenly, the sharp rhythm of someone trying to steady themselves and failing.

Then you reached across him, your hand brushing over his arm and chest as you leaned to flip the switch on the console. The high beams flickered to life—or tried to. One burned bright; the other struggled, half-broken and buzzing weakly.

“Look,” you said quietly, your voice soft but practical, steady in a way that grounded the air again. “It’s a deer. Or was.”

He blinked toward the windshield, the harsh light cutting through the trees, catching the twisted shape lying in the road a few meters ahead. His throat bobbed.

You sighed and reached for the door handle. “I’m going to check if it’s still alive.”

Naoya’s head turned sharply toward you, the panic flashing back for a second. “Don’t.”

You glanced at him, fingers still on the handle. “Naoya—”

But he shook his head once, short and tense, jaw locked tight again. The beam light glinted off his cheekbones and his still-dilated eyes, the reflection of the dark woods trembling faintly in them.

You looked at him, really looked and something in his face said this wasn’t just about the deer. But you didn’t press. Instead, you leaned forward, flipped open the glove compartment, and rummaged through the clutter until something metallic caught your fingers.

A switchblade. You flicked it open with a sharp click, the steel glinting in the weak headlight glow. His head jerked toward the sound immediately.

“What the hell are you—”

But you were already pushing the door open. Cold air swept in, cutting through the heat of the car. “No—wait.” His voice cracked—not from volume, but urgency.

You turned halfway, one hand braced on the frame. “Naoya, if this deer is still alive, it’s cruel to leave it suffering.”

He flinched, eyes flicking to the mangled shape ahead, then back to you. “No.”

“Naoya—”

He slammed his palm against the steering wheel once, the sound sharp and angry but not at you—at something else, something behind his eyes. The horn didn’t go off, but the force shook the car a little. Then he shoved his door open, voice low and tense. “No. Give it to me.”

He stepped out, the slam of his door echoing off the trees. You froze for half a breath, watching him round the front of the car—the harsh light from the one working headlamp cutting through the fog, painting his figure in fractured brightness.

His hands were shaking again, just slightly, as he reached for the switchblade you still held. His jaw was tight, eyes locked forward like this was something he owed to finish.

You exhaled quietly, heart heavy and cautious all at once. “…Alright,” you said softly, handing it over, the cold metal brushing his fingers.

You still walked behind him, the gravel crunching under your shoes, the air thick with that eerie, metallic smell that always followed blood. The deer lay half on its side, half tangled in the ditch, chest heaving in jagged bursts, soft yelps escaping between labored breaths. Its eyes were wide, glassy with pain.

Naoya slowed near it, jaw clenched, the knife trembling faintly in his grip. For a moment, he didn’t move—then crouched down, pressing his lips together like he was forcing his thoughts out of the way.

One quick movement. A clean line—supposedly. But the deer jerked once, and the cut went wrong. A hot rush of blood splashed out, sloshing against his hands, running down his wrists, spraying near his shoes. The sound was sickening, and the smell hit like iron and salt all at once.

Naoya’s breath hitched. He dropped the knife. It clattered against the gravel, half-slick with red.

He stood up too fast, stumbling a step back, staring at his hands like they didn’t belong to him. His pupils were wide again, his expression drained—fear flickering under the hard shell he wore all night.

“Naoya.”

He didn’t look up. You sighed sharply, stepping closer and grabbing his arm, your voice firm but not harsh. “Sit down before you faint.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but his voice shook. His pulse thudded under your fingers, erratic, his breathing uneven.

“Sure,” you said flatly, guiding him backward until his knees hit the edge of the road and he sank down to the ground. “Fine people definitely look like they’ve seen a ghost and a crime scene at the same time.”

He swallowed hard, staring at his palms—still dripping. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

The woods were silent again. Only the faint ticking of the hazard lights in the distance, blinking against the dark.

You walked back toward the car, the night pressing close around you, every sound too sharp—the crunch of gravel, the soft metallic click of the trunk latch. You pushed it open and scanned the mess until you spotted a small canister tucked beside a roadside kit. “Thank god,” you muttered under your breath, grabbing it.

When you came back, Naoya was still sitting where you left him, elbows braced on his knees, staring at his blood-slick hands like he couldn’t figure out what to do with them. The red looked almost black in the thin beam of the one working headlight.

You shrugged his yukata off your shoulders, set it on the ground, and twisted the cap off the canister. Cold water gurgled out as you soaked the fabric until it darkened completely. Then you knelt in front of him. “Give me your hands.”

He blinked at you, hesitant—like he wasn’t sure you’d really said that. “Hey,” you said again, slower this time, gentler. “Hands.”

He finally lifted them, palms open, trembling. The moment you touched him, his fingers twitched like he wanted to pull back, but didn’t.

You wrung out the cloth once and began wiping the blood away—slow movements, the velvet fabric dragging water and streaks of red down his skin.

He didn’t look at his hands now; he looked at you. Eyes wide, unfocused, breath shallow and stuttering. The kind of look people get when they’re hanging by a thread but trying not to show it.

“Hey,” you murmured, glancing up, the light catching on your wet fingers. “You’re fine. Breathe.”

He swallowed hard, throat tight, but didn’t answer. The pulse in his wrist jumped beneath your touch.

You kept your tone steady, almost teasing, like you could talk him down with sheer calm. “You did what had to be done. It’s over. The only thing dying now is your composure, and even that’ll survive if you breathe.”

That earned you a shaky huff of air—half a laugh, half a gasp. His mouth opened, but his voice came out rough, nearly cracking: “…I hate blood.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bit late to realize that, don’t you think, blondie?”

His lips twitched, faint, but his shoulders finally dropped.

You let him sit there a little longer—still hunched, still breathing like he’d just come back from somewhere far darker than a roadside accident. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying that sharp metallic smell away bit by bit.

You stood up, brushing your palms on your dress, and pulled your phone from your bag. The screen light flashed across your face as you started scrolling for the emergency number.

Naoya’s voice cut through the dark—low, hoarse. “No. Don’t.”

You turned your head slightly. “Excuse me?”

He pushed himself upright too fast, wobbling a little. “I have people who’ll handle it.”

You stared at him for a moment—then exhaled, long and exasperated. “Of course you do.”

He tried for his usual smug composure but failed; his hands were still shaking, jaw tight. You sighed again and slipped your phone back into your bag.

“Fine,” you said, stepping closer until you were right in front of him. “But you are not driving like this.”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, voice thin.

“Sure,” you muttered, eyeing his pale face. “You look thrilled. Come on, get your ass back in the car. I’ll drive.”

Naoya blinked, almost insulted. “You’ll what—?”

“I’ll drive,” you repeated, already walking toward the driver’s side like it was nonnegotiable. “If the police catch us, I’ll kill you before they do.”

That finally cracked something in him—a rough, tired laugh, the kind that shook his chest more than his throat. “You’re really something,” he said quietly, following behind, his steps unsteady but obedient.

You glanced over your shoulder with a small smirk. “Yeah. The sane one tonight.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he slid into the passenger seat, still pale but a little more grounded. “Just don’t wreck it.”

“Please,” you said, sliding into the driver’s seat and turning the key. “I’m the only person here qualified to keep us both alive right now.”

Naoya gave a slow breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching again—this time almost a smile.

You drove the last ten minutes in silence—no music, no talking, just the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic flash of the broken headlight against the empty road. The air between you was heavy but not suffocating, a strange mix of leftover adrenaline and unspoken truce.

Naoya kept glancing out the window, jaw tight, fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. Every time you hit a bump, he tensed like the ground might open up again. You didn’t say anything. You just drove.

When you finally pulled into the quiet street outside your apartment building, you cut the engine and unbuckled your seatbelt. “Come on,” you said simply.

He blinked, still staring straight ahead. “What?”

“You can wash your hands properly,” you said, already opening your door. “And drink something to get your blood pressure normal again.”

Naoya turned his head slowly, frowning like you’d just spoken a foreign language. “What? No—”

You leaned back into the car, expression flat, and slipped the seatbelt out of its lock with a sharp click.

“I don’t repeat myself,” you said, voice calm but firm. “You looked like you were going to die back there with the deer. Get your ass out of this car.”

He just stared at you for a second—mouth open, eyes tired, still pale under the passing streetlight. Then, finally, his lips curved into something faintly incredulous. “You really like ordering me around, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you said, shutting your door with your hip. “And you like pretending you hate it. Now move.”

Naoya exhaled through his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a curse but he pushed the door open anyway, stepping out into the cold night air, following you toward the building with his usual swagger dulled into something almost human.

You unlocked your door and pushed it open, the familiar scent of cedar and soap slipping out to meet you. The soft overhead lights blinked on—warm, calm, a quiet contrast to the chaos of the drive.

“Shoes off,” you said over your shoulder, kicking yours aside and hanging your bag. “Bathroom’s straight down the hall on the left. Towels are under the sink.”

He hesitated at the entrance before stepping inside, movements stiff, automatic. The brightness hit him hard when he reached the bathroom, his breath caught the moment he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Even after wiping, the blood was there—streaked up his wrists, under his nails, thin stains dried against the folds of his sleeves.

He froze.

You leaned against the doorway, watching the panic flicker back behind his eyes. Quietly, you reached in and flicked the light switch off, plunging the small room into near-darkness, leaving only the dim glow of the hallway spilling across the tiles.

“Better,” you said softly. “You don’t need to see it to get it off.”

For a long moment, all you heard was the soft rush of water and the uneven rhythm of his breathing. Then, quietly, he said, “…Thank you.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Hey,” you murmured after a beat, voice low and even, “I don’t know why that got to you. I won’t ask. But do you need something?”

“No—” he started, voice quick, defensive.

You frowned, listening. His breath was shallow again, too fast, the same as in the car. “Naoya,” you interrupted gently, “you’re breathing way too fast.”

A small silence followed, just the water running. You pushed off the doorframe and took a step back toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you a juice. Give me a second.”

He didn’t argue this time. Just a shaky exhale as the faucet kept running and you walked away down the hall, the light from the fridge spilling open like a small mercy.

He was still at the sink when you came back, shoulders hunched, sleeves rolled to his elbows, scrubbing like he was trying to erase something deeper than what clung to his skin. The faucet ran in a steady stream, but the water was already clear—had been for a while.

You stood there quietly for a few seconds, watching the motion of his hands, the sharp rise and fall of his chest. Then you moved forward, reaching past him to turn the tap off. “Naoya,” you said softly. “It’s fine.”

He didn’t look up. “No, it’s not.”

Your brows furrowed, the sound of his voice hitting you somewhere low in the chest. Without thinking, you reached out and caught his wrists, still damp, still trembling. “Zenin,” you murmured. “Look at me. It’s done. It’s gone.”

He did look then—eyes unfocused, pupils still too wide, like he hadn’t really come back from the roadside yet. You sighed quietly. “Sit,” you told him, nodding toward the closed toilet lid.

He didn’t argue this time. Just sank down, elbows on his knees, posture slumped in a way that didn’t suit him at all. The confident edge was gone, replaced by something small, almost lost.

You grabbed a towel from the rack, crouched in front of him, and carefully wrapped it around his hands, tucking the fabric close until it covered the lingering dampness. Then you hesitated before stepping closer. “Come here,” you said softly.

He blinked, uncertain, and before he could overthink it, you reached down and pulled him toward you. His head met your stomach, the motion awkward for half a second before he just let it happen.

You wrapped one arm around his shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head. He was stiff at first, resisting the comfort like it was something foreign but the longer you held him there, the more his breathing started to slow. “It’s okay,” you murmured, your voice low and even against the crown of his head. “You’re safe here. There’s no blood anymore.”

His hands flexed under the towel, but he didn’t pull away. His breath hit your collarbone, shallow and shaky, but steadying little by little. “..You shouldn’t,” he muttered after a while, his voice muffled against you. “I don’t—”

“I don’t care,” you interrupted softly, fingers combing once through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re fine, Naoya. Just breathe.”

You stayed like that for a long while—the only sound the slow hum of the pipes and the faint rhythm of his breathing against you. His chest rose and fell unevenly at first, then steadied, the sharp edges of panic slowly giving way to something heavy and quiet. You didn’t speak. You just let him rest there, your hand moving absently through his hair, fingertips tracing small, grounding circles against his scalp. The towel between you grew warmer as the last of the water soaked through.

Eventually, his fingers slipped free of it, hesitant but searching and came to rest on your thighs. His touch was firm but trembling, as though he needed to remind himself you were real, that he was here, not somewhere back on that dark road.

You looked down at him. His eyes were half-lidded now, tired and dazed, the hard arrogance he always carried nowhere to be found. “Do you..,” you murmured quietly. “..want to go to the couch?”

He blinked once, then lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. There was no sarcasm, no sharp remark—just a faint nod. “…Yeah,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

You gave a small smile, brushing his cheekbone lightly with your thumb before stepping back. “Alright then. Come on.”

He followed when you offered your hand—slow, unsteady, but grounded again by the simple fact that you didn’t let go.

He sank into the couch like the exhaustion had finally caught up with him—hands still faintly trembling, shoulders slumped. You grabbed the soft gray blanket from the armrest and draped it over him, tucking the edges around his chest.

“You’re staying here, okay?” you said, tone gentle but firm. “I don’t want anything happening to you if you head back.”

He looked up at you, eyes a little glazed but finally calmer, and nodded once. “Alright.” A small pause, then quietly—almost hesitant—“Are you staying here?”

You arched a brow. “Do you want me to?”

He nodded again, smaller this time, like admitting it cost him something.

You couldn’t help but smile. “Okay. Let me change into something more comfy.”

You disappeared down the hall. When you came back five minutes later, you were barefoot, dressed in loose joggers and a soft T-shirt that still smelled faintly of laundry soap. The tension in the room had thinned, leaving something quieter, almost fragile.

“Alright, blondie,” you said with a teasing lilt as you walked back over.

Naoya shifted, holding one side of the blanket open without saying a word. You blinked at the small gesture, so uncharacteristically polite, even sweet and then slipped under it beside him.

He hesitated for only a moment before moving closer, half laying over you, one arm slipping around your waist like he was testing if you’d allow it. You didn’t move away. You leaned back instead, fingers sliding into his hair, combing through the strands until his breathing steadied against your collarbone.

“This is nice,” he whispered after a long silence, voice low and strange, like he was exploring a language he didn’t quite remember.

You smiled faintly, still stroking his hair. “You don’t get comforted often, huh?”

He tilted his head slightly so his eyes could find yours in the dim light. “I can’t remember the last time.”

That hit somewhere deep. Something in your chest ached for him—for how small his voice had sounded saying it. You exhaled softly, tightening your arm around him just a little. “Then you’ll remember this one,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer, just breathed out a slow sigh and pressed his face closer, like the warmth might hold the night back a little longer.

You’d fallen asleep just like that—his weight half draped over you, one arm still around your waist, his breath slow and steady against your neck. For someone who usually carried himself like a blade, he was surprisingly warm. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat had pulled you under without realizing it.

The room was pale blue with dawn when your phone buzzed on the coffee table, shattering the quiet. You groaned softly, reaching for it without waking him—except he was already awake.

“Hey, you forgot to tell me you made it home,” Maki’s voice crackled through the speaker, rough from sleep and suspicion.

You froze for a second, staring at the idiot sprawled over you. Naoya had one eye open, his mouth curving into that faint, smug smirk that somehow looked softer than usual in the morning light.

“I just slept, sorry,” you said quickly, voice low, trying not to jostle him. “Everything’s fine.”

Maki yawned. “You sound weird. You okay?”

Your gaze flicked back to Naoya—hair mussed, face relaxed but still carrying that quiet amusement. You tilted your head at him in warning. He only raised a brow, lips twitching like he wanted to say something that would absolutely get you caught.

You pressed the phone closer to your ear. “I’m fine, Maki. Promise. Go back to sleep.”

Naoya’s chest rumbled softly with a half-suppressed laugh, the sound vibrating against you.

“Uh-huh,” Maki muttered, unconvinced but too tired to push. “Fine. Text me later.”

“Will do.” You hung up, dropped the phone on the couch cushion, and looked down at him.

He was still smirking, eyes lazy and amused. “So… ‘everything’s fine,’ huh?” he murmured, voice rough from sleep.

You sighed, brushing his messy hair away from his forehead. “Don’t start.”

He grinned wider, closing his eyes again, his voice almost a hum. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand stayed in his hair anyway.

He shifted, still half-asleep, and nuzzled in closer—his hair brushing your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin. It was almost childish, the way he sought out the contact, like some part of him didn’t quite know how to ask for it properly.

You laughed softly, voice still thick from sleep. “You trying to fuse with me or just get comfortable?”

“Both,” he mumbled, the word slurred with drowsiness and a hint of that usual Zenin arrogance.

You chuckled under your breath, letting your fingers trail lazily through his hair. “You’re unbelievable.”

He hummed, eyes still closed, mouth curling into a faint grin. “You say that like it’s new information.”

“Just confirming it for the record.”

He gave a small laugh—quiet, warm, the kind that vibrated against your chest. Then, after a pause, softer, almost tentative: “Can we do this again? Not the accident, obviously—but… this?”

You blinked, caught off guard by how unguarded his voice sounded. He was still him, still bratty, still hiding everything under confidence but the edges had dulled, softened by the early light and the exhaustion. You tilted your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah,” you murmured. “If you promise you stay this soft for me.”

Naoya cracked one eye open, the corner of his mouth lifting into something between a smirk and a smile. “You like me soft now?”

You raised a brow, teasing back. “No, I still can’t stand you.”

He snorted, pressing his face back against you to hide the grin that refused to leave. “Sure doesn’t sound like it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand stayed in his hair, thumb brushing once behind his ear. “You talk too much even when you’re half-asleep.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmured, voice muffled against your shirt. “You bring it out of me.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “That’s your excuse for everything.”

“Mmh. Works, though,” he said, barely audible.

And it did, somehow.

His breathing evened out again, slow and steady. For once, there was no sharpness left between you, just warmth, quiet, and that strange, reluctant peace that neither of you wanted to break.

You watched the window for a while, then looked back at him—finally still. “Fine,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “Maybe I can stand you a little.”

He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched—the kind of smug little smile that said he’d heard every word.

You played with his hair while he pretended to be asleep, fingers combing through the blonde strands that still held a faint trace of his styling gel from the night before. It felt too easy, too natural—like touching something you weren’t supposed to, but couldn’t resist.

After a few minutes, boredom, or mischief, got the better of you. You took two little tufts near his temples and twisted them up, shaping them into perfect little devil horns. They stayed—stiff and glorious—thanks to the leftover hairspray.

You burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth.

Naoya cracked one eye open, frowning with theatrical offense. “Stop it,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward, caught between irritation and amusement. “I’m serious,” he added, but it came out too lazy, too warm to be convincing.

You tilted your head, admiring your work. “You were such a bitch the whole time,” you said, still laughing softly, “then I thought you might die, and now look at you. All soft and sweet like the little devil you are.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face, though you caught the grin he was trying to hide beneath his fingers.

“Adorable,” you finished, drawing the word out like it was an insult.

He peeked at you through his fingers, golden eyes glinting. “You’re mocking me in my own moment of vulnerability?”

“Of course,” you said smoothly. “You’d do the same.”

Naoya chuckled quietly, dropping his hand to rest it against your hip. “Fair.” He gave you a sidelong look, voice dipping just low enough to sound teasing again. “You know, you should be careful throwing that ‘adorable’ word around. I might start thinking you like me.”

You smiled, brushing his ridiculous devil horns back into place. “Don’t flatter yourself, blondie. It’s just funny watching you pretend you don’t like being held.”

He huffed a laugh, closing his eyes again, that smug grin softening. “Keep talking like that and I’ll never leave.”

You smirked. “Who said that’s a problem?”

The silence that followed was a good one—the kind that stretched with warmth and quiet amusement, two stubborn people both pretending not to enjoy the calm as much as they did.

His thumb traced idle circles against your hip. “You really gonna keep those horns?”

You grinned. “Absolutely.”

“Of course you are,” he murmured, the faintest laugh in his voice.

Morning crept fully into the room, soft and gold, brushing over the couch and the blanket tangled around your legs.

Naoya’s breathing had evened out again, lips curved just slightly, those ridiculous little devil horns still standing proud from where you’d shaped them. It was stupid, and it was perfect. He looked both smug and harmless—like a wolf who’d forgotten what teeth were for.

You watched him for a while, tracing the rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes fluttered when you brushed his hair back. Somewhere between the accident, the panic, and the laughter, the sharp edges had dulled. Maybe just for now. Maybe longer.

You snorted softly, whispering mostly to yourself, “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Zenin.“ He didn’t move, though one corner of his mouth twitched again—whether in sleep or pride, you couldn’t tell.

You leaned back against the couch, eyes half-closed, letting the quiet fill in everything words couldn’t. Maybe you’d fix the car together later. Maybe you’d yell at him for scaring you. Maybe you’d do this again, just without the blood, the deer, or the adrenaline.

Maybe—just maybe—you’d keep not only the horns.

You read all of that. Interesting.

The Masterlist is here, pretty thing. If you still want more, Requests are open.

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