#bsd fics

"you see that, baby? see the way this pussy sucks my fingers in?" chuuya mused, now bare fingers plunging in and out of your sopping cunt as he had you spread in front of the giant mirror. "mm-! fuck, chuu−!" you were cut off by your own moans, beads of sweat forming on your forehead, making the little strands of your baby hair stick to your skin. "shh, baby. just focus on the way i finger fuck this pretty cunt, yeah?" your lover's voice was muffled by the soft kisses he was busy pressing all over your nape and shoulders, moving your hair out of the way to make it easier.

you could see everything in the mirror, from the way chuuya's slim fingers disappeared inside of your pussy to how much of a mess you've already become− glossy lips parted as loud moans and whines escape from your throat, the way your tits bounce and jiggle with each thrust of his digits. and hell, was it embarrassing. you jolted up when the tips of his appendages rubbed against that one spongey spot inside of your gooey walls− your jaw slacking as your eyes shut. only to receive a gentle but firm slap on your face from chuuya, "nuh-uh, baby. you're gonna watch how I please this beautiful body of yours," he growled lowly in your ear, fingers speeding up their pace as you twitch and whine in response. your vision was blurry− but you could still make out the way your face contorts to one of pure bliss in your reflection.

"yeaah− cum on these fingers, sweetheart," the ginger groaned as you soaked his fingers− your slick running down his wrist and staining the bed sheets underneath, soft curses and his name spewing out of your mouth as his fingers slowed down, aiding you to ride out your orgasm.

you gasped when he abruptly pulled them out of your still sensitive cunt− only to pop them in his mouth as he moaned from the taste of your juices melting on his tongue. "fuck, doll− I gotta taste you, need'a make you cum on my tongue−" he pushed you on your hands and knees before even finishing his sentence− a large hand pressing your back to a perfect arch, face down ass up.

"such a nice fuckin' ass," he groaned, fingers digging into the soft fat and spreading them as you whimper, pitifully clawing at the bed sheets. he playfully bit one of your globes, earning a whine in return which made him chuckle. chuuya's greedy hands ran down from your ass to your thighs, only to go back up to knead at your ass, "and these soft thighs− god, I could kiss 'em for hours."

and as if to prove himself, he started littering kisses all over your inner thighs, hands still kneading your ass before giving it a firm spank, making you jump. "hah, and of course−" he smirked before making his way to your pussy, "this pretty fuckin' pussy− prettiest one I've ever seen," he growled before diving in between your legs− hungry lips wrapping around your clit as you gasp out from the feeling.

"fu−ck! chuuya−!" you babbled, pussy still sensitive from your orgasm from earlier, his nose bumping against your slit as he runs his tongue in a zigzag motion across your clit. his fingers were spreading your ass apart for him, to get easy access to your sweet pussy that he wanted to devour so bad.

shamelessly nasty slurping noises came from between your parted thighs. your slick was already dripping down chuuya's chin as you tried your best to keep your gaze on the mirror, watching yourself getting eaten out from the back. fuck, your hair was a mess− your bare figure covered in bites and bruises that your boyfriend gave you, claiming it was his way of showing you were his. your makeup had been completely ruined; mascara running down your cheek in inky streaks, lipstick smudged− you looked utterly debauched, chuuya's favorite look on you.

a gurgled moan came out of your mouth when two fingers pushed inside of your sloppy pussy, the mafia executive's tongue now writing his name on your clit. a deep groan rumbled in his chest when you tried to run away from the feeling of his tongue and fingers on you− pulling you back before harshly cracking a palm down on your left globe, before curling his fingers further into you. tears were falling freely from your eyes at this point, mouth dropped to an 'o' as you chanted his name like a prayer− "chuu− please, fuck! s'too much−!" you cried out, if it weren't for chuuya's death grip on you, you'd already have fallen face first into the matress.

"you can− fuuck− take it, sweet girl," chuuya moaned into your pussy, the vibrations of the sound making your toes curl and apparently that was the last straw for you− "fuckfuck! 'm cummin'− cummingg−!!" your eyes rolled back into your skull as you squirted all over chuuya's face, his own hips rutting into the mattress as his eyes widen− he wasn't expecting you to do that.

chuuya gave your messy cunt a few more licks before kissing your clit, then pulling away. you looked back to see his face completely drenched− him licking his lips as he gave you a lopsided grin. "holy shit, baby. that was..." he muttered, still dazed as he ran his clean hand through his sweaty orange locks. you were still panting, chest heaving as you tried came down from the euphoric high before looking away in embarrassment, fingers fiddling with the sheets− then suddenly, you got slammed back against the bed. face down, ass up, again.

you heard a metal clink− likely his belt. the sound of expensive leather hitting the floor snapped you back into reality, he must've tossed the belt somewhere. it wasn't long before your thoughts got quickly cut off, chuuya's heavy tip slapping against your clit a few times as you whined, begging him to give you a rest but no− he wasn't gonna stop until he was sure he fucked all those negative thoughts out of your mind− wasn't gonna stop 'till all thoughts but his left that pretty little head of yours. you just had to sit still and take it, like the good girl you were.

©sachiyoh— do not copy, plagiarize and repost my works to any platform, reblogs are very appreciated ♡

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boyfriend!atsushi who thinks he's too much.

he apologizes for everything — for taking up space, for needing comfort, for existing. you've lost count of how many times he's said "sorry" in one conversation. but you don't get annoyed. you just say "stop apologizing for being human" and hold his hand. he doesn't know what to do with that. he's learning.

boyfriend!atsushi who gets quiet when he's overwhelmed.

he doesn't lash out. he doesn't yell. he just goes quiet — smaller, like he's trying to disappear. you don't push him to talk. you just sit beside him. sometimes you read out loud. sometimes you just sit in silence. he always thanks you afterward, voice barely above a whisper.

boyfriend!atsushi who loves when you play with his hair.

he never asks for it. but if you run your fingers through his hair, he melts. his eyes flutter shut. his whole body relaxes. he falls asleep like that more often than he'd admit. if you stop, he unconsciously leans toward your hand, chasing the warmth.

boyfriend!atsushi who writes you clumsy love notes.

he's not good with words out loud, so he writes them down instead. short notes left on your pillow, on the counter, tucked into your bag. they're always messy, a little awkward, and full of crossed-out words. you've kept every single one. he doesn't know that. you'll tell him someday.

boyfriend!atsushi who gets jealous quietly.

he doesn't get angry — he just gets quiet. he watches you talk to someone else and shrinks into himself, like he's already losing you. you always notice. you always find him afterward and hold his hand. he doesn't say anything. he just holds on tighter.

boyfriend!atsushi who doesn't think he's worth staying for.

he tells you this sometimes — not dramatically, just quietly, like he's stating a fact. "you could do better," he says. you look at him and say, "i don't want better. i want you." he doesn't know what to say to that. he just holds you closer and tries to believe it.

boyfriend!atsushi who loves you in the quietest way possible.

he's not loud about it. he doesn't make grand gestures. but he remembers the way you take your coffee. he buys you snacks you mentioned once. he walks on the outside of the sidewalk to keep you safe. he loves you like it's the only thing he knows how to do.

boyfriend!atsushi who finally says "i love you" like it's a secret.

he says it late at night, when he thinks you're asleep. it's soft, barely a whisper, like he's afraid of how much it means. you pretend not to hear. but you hold his hand a little tighter. he feels it. he smiles — just a little — and falls asleep with his forehead pressed to yours.

boyfriend!atsushi who apologizes for taking up space in your life.

he says it quietly, like he's confessing something shameful. "i'm sorry i'm always in your way." you look at him and say, "you're not in my way. you're in my life. there's a difference." he doesn't know what to say. he just holds your hand and doesn't let go.

boyfriend!atsushi who doesn't know how to ask for what he wants.

he never says "i want to hold you" or "i want you to stay." he just hovers nearby, waiting. hoping you'll notice. you always do. you open your arms, and he's there in a second, like he was just waiting for permission to exist in your space.

boyfriend!atsushi who still expects you to leave.

he catches himself thinking it sometimes — that one day you'll wake up and realize you could do better. he doesn't tell you this. he just savors every moment with you, like it might be the last. you notice. you stay a little longer. you hold him a little tighter.

boyfriend!atsushi who lets himself be soft with you.

he doesn't realize he's doing it at first. he just knows that when he's with you, his shoulders drop. his voice gets quieter. he laughs easier. you don't tell him. you just let him be soft — because he deserves to be.

boyfriend!atsushi who finally learns that love doesn't hurt.

he used to think love was something you survived. something that left marks. but with you, it's different. you don't hurt him. you don't leave. you just stay — steady, gentle, real. and one day, he realizes: this is what it's supposed to feel like.

A/N. a special gift for my lovely @ver2xq and for anyone who wants to give him the love he deserves. hope you guys enjoyed!! cred to @ithemes for the div ₍^. .^₎⟆

You never stayed or offered him the same simple solace that you provided to everyone else. He would, however, catch you doing things that spoke louder than words could. An additional umbrella, obviously yours, would always be waiting at his door on rainy evenings. During lengthy sessions, you secretly placed your coffee next to him if he casually stated that he had a particular preference. You never admitted it. Never grinned. Didn't remain long enough to ask him. He was enraged by this type of contradiction.

However, your stillness was most audible during conflicts. Just instinct, skill, and a keen mind that synchronized perfectly with his, without any talent or glitzy techniques. The last time a dozen armed men ambushed you in the industrial district, there was mayhem — gunfire, clashing steel. Chuuya recalled how you had jumped without thinking, relying on him to invoke his ability in midair and effortlessly catching your fall. He was able to manipulate space to land unbelievable kicks, slide through opposing lines, and strike out opponents with horrifying precision as you spun around him in perfect time.

Every movement flowed like choreography — unspoken understanding, flawless coordination — even though not a word was spoken. You even launched yourself off a wall nearby and slammed your heel into a man's chest, the impact resounding like thunder, using his gravitational field. You just nodded and walked by him after it was all over, bloodied, bruised, and breathing heavily, as if it didn't matter. As if you weren't a ridiculous extension of his body that moved with him.

It infuriates him. Because if you didn't feel anything, why in the world would you act that way? And why did you act as though you didn't feel anything if you did?

The warehouse was still, the aftermath of violence echoing in the silence. Faint creaks in the metal beams. The slow drip of something — blood, oil, rain. The smell of gunpowder and scorched fabric still clung to the air, thick and heavy. The storm outside had started to calm, but inside, the static between them hadn’t gone anywhere.

Chuuya stood in the dim light, watching you from across the room.

You were sitting on a crate, leaning forward, forearms braced on your knees. Your shoulders were slack now, exhaustion bleeding into your posture, the tension from the fight melting into silence. Your fists were unwrapped, bruised and smeared with dried blood, and there was a smudge on your cheek— someone else’s blood, maybe your own. It didn’t matter. You hadn’t even bothered to wipe it away.

You looked like you’d been through hell.

But God, you were beautiful.

Not in the clean, polished way most people thought of it. Not in a way that begged for attention or knew how to wear admiration. It was in the way you held yourself now, quiet and raw, like the aftermath of a storm. Your hair was damp and tousled, bits of it clinging to your skin. Your chest rose and fell slowly with each breath, your body language still alert despite the exhaustion. The sharp edges of you had softened — but only just. You looked wrecked. Real. Human.

And to Chuuya, that was what made it impossible to look away.

You didn’t glance at him once, but he couldn’t stop staring.

You always did this after a fight. Shut down. Pull inward like a closing door. Like you didn’t want anyone to see you when your guard was lowered. But he saw you. He always saw you —especially like this, when everything else was stripped away. When there was nothing left between you but sweat and blood and truth.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You good?”

Your voice came back after a beat, flat and automatic. “Yeah.”

Liar.

He moved closer, slow and deliberate, boots crunching faintly on the ruined floor. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge him. Just kept staring at your bloodied hands like you weren’t quite sure they belonged to you anymore.

He stopped in front of you. His eyes dragged down your figure — not in hunger, not exactly, but in ache. You were a vision like this, worn down and shining under the low amber light. Every mark on your skin felt earned. Every movement felt like a secret you didn’t mean to share.

“You fought like hell,” he murmured, crouching low until he was eye level. “Didn’t even flinch when I launched you into the air.”

You gave a faint snort, a breath of amusement — but no words. It was the closest thing to softness you’d shown him since the fight ended.

Chuuya let himself watch you.

Really watch you.

The way your lashes cast shadows under your eyes. The way the light hit your skin — still glowing faintly from exertion and blood loss. The gentle tremble in your fingers that you were trying to hide. You always carried yourself like a weapon — but now, for once, you looked like someone who bled. Someone he could touch.

And fuck, he wanted to.

He wanted to run his hand along the curve of your shoulder. To brush that stubborn hair out of your face. To rest his palm against your jaw and make you look at him — really look.

“You always act like nothing gets to you,” he said quietly. “Even when you’re bleeding.”

You didn’t reply. But you glanced at him then — just a flick of your eyes, nothing more. And that one look? It landed like a punch in his chest.

There was heat behind your gaze. Not sharp like anger, not soft like affection. Something else. Something heavy. Fragile. Wanting.

“Say something,” he murmured. “Anything.”

You swallowed. Your lips parted, then closed again. You looked away.

Chuuya sighed, low and frustrated — but not at you. At himself. At this whole thing. At the way he couldn’t stop caring about someone who refused to let themselves be cared for.

Still, he reached out.

His gloved hand moved to your cheek, brushing away a smear of blood with his thumb. You tensed — but didn’t pull away. Your breath hitched just slightly at the contact.

And that was all it took.

The air between you cracked open.

Your eyes locked again, and this time, neither of you looked away.

He leaned in slowly, his face just inches from yours. The space between your knees framed him. The warmth of your breath mingled with his. Your lips hovered just out of reach, close enough to count the seconds before they might touch.

His heart was hammering. He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe.

He just moved — closer, closer—

Your nose brushed his.

And then — Clang.

A distant crash. A pipe hitting the floor. Footsteps.

The spell shattered.

Chuuya jerked back half an inch, head snapping toward the noise. You blinked once, as if waking from a trance. The tension in your body returned like a closing door. Shoulders pulled back. Jaw locked tight.

“They’re here,” you said, voice flat again. “The sweep team.”

Chuuya cursed under his breath and rose to his feet, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. You stood too, brushing your hands on your pants, your body language closing again. Just like that, the moment was gone. Like it had never happened.

But he felt it.

The heat still burned in his blood. The way your breath had hitched. The way you didn’t move when he touched you. The way your mouth had parted like you wanted him to close that final inch.

He glanced at you one last time before turning toward the noise. You didn’t meet his eyes. But he saw it. The way your fingers flexed at your side like you’d almost reached for him.

Almost.

And that — that — was going to haunt him more than anything else tonight.

Chuuya watches you from across the dimly lit room, your figure still and reserved, like a statue carved from ice. You move through the world with precision, each step measured, every glance carefully controlled. It’s a dance of distance — not cold exactly, but deliberately kept. An artful performance of detachment that masks something deeper beneath. He’s known you this way for a long time, but lately, something has been shifting.

At first, it was subtle — a flicker in your eyes when he caught you off guard with a joke. A breath held a moment too long when you stood too close. The faintest twitch of a smile that you wiped away before he could see it properly. These tiny cracks in your carefully constructed armor are invisible to everyone but him.

He remembers the nights you spent together after missions, sitting side by side in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between you. You never reached out, never sought comfort, but neither did you turn him away. There was a fragile tension in those moments, like the calm before a storm — charged and waiting to break.

Chuuya feels himself drawn in, pulled closer by the mystery you carry. He knows the fight isn’t just against your enemies. It’s a war within yourself, a battle to keep the pain locked away, to deny the feelings that threaten to overwhelm you. And yet, the more he watches, the more he realizes you’re not as untouched by emotion as you pretend.

There’s a softness in your gaze when you think no one’s watching. A vulnerability that you don’t let yourself admit aloud. When you think you’re alone, your shoulders slump just a fraction, and for a heartbeat, the weight you carry shows in the curve of your neck and the tremble of your hands.

Chuuya longs to reach out, to brush away the walls you’ve built so carefully. To touch you, not just physically, but with something more — a quiet assurance that you don’t have to fight alone anymore.

It’s terrifying, he knows, to let someone in. To expose the parts of yourself you hide, the fears you bury deep. But Chuuya senses that you’re beginning to want it, even if you won’t admit it to yourself. He sees it in the way your eyes search his in moments of quiet, the way you hesitate before speaking, as if weighing the risk of vulnerability.

The night after your last mission, when you finally let yourself break —trembling in his arms, tears you refuse to shed escaping in quiet gasps — was the first time he truly believed you might let him in. The walls cracked open, if only slightly, revealing the fragile heart beneath the armor.

Since then, your connection has deepened, though you still fight to keep him at arm’s length. But Chuuya is patient. He understands that breaking through those defenses will take time. Every glance shared, every breath caught, every subtle touch is a thread weaving you closer together.

He has learned to read the language of your silence — the way you tense when he moves too close, the way your fingers twitch like they want to reach out but don’t. And with each passing day, those threads grow stronger, binding you together in a way neither of you has fully dared to acknowledge.

Chuuya knows the moment when you truly begin to feel something for him. It’s in the small things; the way you linger near him just a little longer than necessary, the softening of your eyes when your hands brush accidentally, the hesitant smile you offer when he catches you watching him.

It’s not a grand confession or a sudden outburst, but a quiet awakening — fragile, uncertain, and entirely new.

He cherishes it. Holds it gently, like a flame that could be snuffed out by the slightest breath. Because he knows how scared you are. Scared of feeling too much, of losing yourself in something you can’t control.

But he is there. Steady, unwavering. Ready to catch you if you fall, to fight by your side through whatever comes next.

Because for the first time, Chuuya understands that what you have is more than just partnership. It’s the beginning of something real. Something worth fighting for.

And he’s not going to let go.

Weeks passed.

The memory of the almost-kiss became a wound neither of you addressed nor allowed to heal. You pulled away, and not just emotionally. You started swapping out of missions — his missions — requesting Akutagawa instead. The reasons were always vague: tactical reassignment, alternate skill sets, mission chemistry.

It wasn’t personal, you claimed.

But it was.

It always was.

Chuuya watched from a distance as you walked past him in the halls without so much as a glance. When you stood silently during briefings, responding to his presence with clipped professionalism and a stiffness in your posture that hadn’t been there before. You weren’t cold. Not exactly. Just... indifferent.

It was the indifference that stung the most.

The way you laughed again—but only with others, for nameless operatives you barely knew. But not for him. Not once. Not anymore. And yet, you were getting hurt.

Every mission without him, you came back with more bruises. A cracked rib. A dislocated shoulder. Once, a gash across your thigh that bled through your uniform. Akutagawa’s reports always called them “minor injuries,” but Chuuya saw the truth behind the words. Saw the tremble in your hands, the way you limped for days without complaint.

You were burning yourself out — and it was killing him to watch.

Chuuya slammed the office door behind him hard enough that the walls rattled.

Mori looked up from his desk with his usual calm detachment, folding his hands neatly.

“I assume this is about them again,” the Port Mafia boss said dryly. Chuuya didn’t sit. He paced.

“They’re getting hurt, dammit. Again and again. And you’re still pairing them with Akutagawa like it’s nothing.”

Mori lifted a brow. “They requested it. Voluntarily.”

“They’re pushing themselves to the edge. You think I haven’t noticed? They’re not sleeping. They’re bleeding too often. They’ve stopped caring what happens to them.”

“Perhaps they’re trying to forget something.” The implication struck hard, like a slap without the courtesy of touch.

Chuuya stopped pacing. “I don’t give a damn if they’re trying to forget me,” he growled. “But I do care if they die over it.”

Mori leaned back slightly. “It’s not your job to care. You’re not their handler.”

“They were my partner.”

“They were,” Mori echoed, without a hint of remorse. “Now they aren’t. Let it go.”

But Chuuya couldn’t.

He left Mori’s office with a dangerous thought forming behind his eyes.

If he couldn’t reach you the usual way... he’d make damn sure the world did it for him.

It took a few days.

He orchestrated it carefully — worked with itelligence to plant falsified reports, manipulated field assignments behind the scenes, pulled in favors no one realized he still had. The fake mission report detailed a local uprising from a splinter criminal faction hiding underground, with rumors of ability-enhanced experimentation. A pattern eerily close to the Arahabaki program.

The moment your eyes scanned the mission brief, he saw your expression crack.

You read it again. Then again.

The words “underground testing,” “emotional triggers,” and “unclassified military research” were all designed to look disturbingly familiar. And you — strong as you were, quiet as ever — you didn’t say a word. But you accepted the assignment.

Because of course you did.

Chuuya volunteered himself for it.

When you realized you'd be paired with him again, your jaw tensed — but you didn’t argue.

You never argued. Not anymore.

The train station was long forgotten, buried beneath decades of dust and silence. Its rails had rusted to brittle threads, swallowed by overgrowth and concrete rot, and the signage above the terminal hung crooked, letters faded to ghost shapes. Chuuya stepped off the last working elevator shaft with quiet footsteps, his gloves flexing as he scanned the dark.

Beside him, you were silent. Professional. You hadn’t said much since accepting the mission — an investigation into a rumored underground facility used for ability enhancement experiments by a rogue criminal faction. The words on the dossier had been too familiar. Too deliberate. But you hadn’t said no.

That alone had been Chuuya’s first sign that you knew.

You walked ahead of him, your stance stiff, shoulders drawn back like a blade pulled halfway from its sheath. The entrance to the tunnel yawed wide, and the air that poured from it was sharp with mildew and rust. Beneath it all, there was something else — something chemical, metallic. Artificial.

He knew that smell. It hadn’t changed.

You didn't speak as the two of you descended deeper into the station. Every few meters, a busted light flickered faintly to life under emergency power, revealing slices of your expression as you walked through alternating light and dark. Even in the dimness, he could see the way your jaw clenched tighter with each level. Your hand stayed close to your weapon. Not out of fear — but readiness.

The facility was five levels underground. The deeper you went, the more decayed it became. The pristine fake research reports, the distorted recordings, the atmospheric design—it was all Chuuya’s doing. Fabricated, planted, made to mimic the hell he once lived through. The echoes of test rooms, sealed doors, false observation windows. Even the soft, repeating voice from the intercom that asked for clearance to chamber B7. He’d picked the phrase himself. It had haunted him once. Now it haunted you.

He hated himself for it.

You reached a wide hallway lined with locked doors and broken lights. The floor was slick in places, stained dark from water or something older. One of the doors creaked open when you passed it. You froze.

Chuuya stayed behind you.

“What do you see?” he asked, his voice low, cautious.

You didn’t respond immediately. Your hand hovered near the handle of your holster. Then slowly, you stepped into the room.

It was empty, save for a small child’s chair in the center of the room. Bolted to the ground. Leather straps dangled from its arms, frayed but intact. An old record player spun in the corner, emitting warped lullaby music that scratched its way into the air.

You stared at it.

For a long time, you didn’t move.

Chuuya stepped inside. "This part isn’t real. None of it is."

You exhaled — softly, but it cracked around the edges. "Feels real."

He watched your hand tremble. You curled it into a fist.

"I know what they used to do to people in places like this."

He hesitated. "Yeah. So do I."

That made you look at him, sharply. Your eyes searched his face like you were looking for something — confirmation, maybe. Or blame.

“I’m fine,” you said flatly.

You weren’t.

You walked out before he could answer.

By the time you reached sublevel four, the strain had begun to show. Your movements were still precise, still efficient, but your silence had changed. It was no longer distant — it was fraying. The hallways here were tighter, choked by hanging wires and broken piping. A deep hum came from somewhere beneath your feet, like something massive sleeping just out of reach.

This level had been designed to trigger your memories, not Chuuya’s.

The lights here cast long shadows, and every few feet, you passed rooms with viewing windows — frosted glass, impossible to see through, but lined with the impression of figures just beyond the veil. Speakers whispered garbled voices: fragmented cries, medical reports, and sharp orders. A blood-stained clipboard had been left in one of the observation rooms.

You stopped when you saw it.

Chuuya said your name quietly, but you didn’t turn.

Instead, you reached for the door handle.

“Don’t,” he said, suddenly closer, fingers brushing your wrist.

“I need to see.”

“There’s nothing behind it.”

You pulled away and opened the door.

Inside, the room was sterile white. Empty beds. A cracked mirror. Chains on the walls. And a single, scrawled message on the far wall — your name etched into the plaster, as if dug by fingernails.

It wasn’t real.

You weren’t supposed to believe it was.

But Chuuya saw your body stiffen, your breath catching in your throat.

“That’s not—”

“Did you know about this?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

You turned to him, slowly, and for the first time since the night you almost kissed, your expression broke.

“You knew.”

He looked down. "I made it."

The silence was deafening.

You stepped back like he’d struck you. The pain didn’t show on your face — it never did — but it radiated from you like heat from an open wound.

“Why?”

“Because you’re destroying yourself,” he said, his voice rising. “You won’t talk to me. You won’t look at me. You’ve been throwing yourself into missions like you want to die, and I—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish.

You shoved past him and stormed down the hallway, breath ragged, and he followed you.

You reached the end of the corridor, stopped, leaned against the wall with both hands and finally — finally — let yourself breathe like it hurt. Like it took everything not to collapse.

He approached slowly.

“I don’t care if you hate me,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if you never speak to me again. But I needed to know you could still feel something. Because watching you try to erase yourself piece by piece is worse than anything you could say to me.”

Your fingers curled against the wall.

“I couldn’t face you after that night,” you whispered. “Because I wanted it too much. And I knew if I let myself have it, I’d never survive losing it.”

You turned then, finally meeting his eyes.

“And I don’t know who I am when I’m not trying to survive.”

He stared at you.

Then he walked forward and cupped your face gently in both hands.

“You don’t have to know who you are right now,” he said. “You just have to let yourself be.”

You didn’t cry. Not fully. But the sheen in your eyes was enough. Your forehead touched his shoulder. His arms came around you.

And in that moment, the fake facility, the lies, the mission — it all fell away.

There was only the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, and the quiet way he whispered, “You’re not alone.”

The hallway was dim, lit only by the fading orange of dusk spilling through tall, dust-streaked windows. Chuuya hadn't meant to linger, but something kept him rooted just beyond the corner. The low hum of voices floated toward him, carried by still air that felt heavier than it should've.

"You know it had to be done," Mori's voice — measured, amused as ever — echoed lightly.

"That doesn't mean it was right," you replied, quiet but steady. "You took it from me. Gave it to him without telling either of us."

Chuuya froze.

There was something brittle in your voice, something old and splintered, like a scar that never healed properly. And Mori, unfazed, replied, "You wouldn't have survived the transfer. And Arahabaki—" a pause, deliberate, cruel in its composure, "— was always better suited to a body that could endure destruction."

A beat of silence. Then you spoke again, softer. "It was mine."

It struck Chuuya harder than he expected. The words, the tone — not resentment, not even anger. Just a quiet acknowledgment of something lost. Something taken. Something that lived now inside him.

He stepped back before he could hear more, heart a strange thunder in his ears.

It all made sense now — the way you'd reacted to the fake mission. The way your body had locked up at the mention of containment, of being caged like something dangerous. The way you’d looked at him that night with devastation half-hidden behind that steel mask you always wore. He thought you were reliving his pain. But you were reliving your own.

Arahabaki had once been inside you.

No wonder you fought like you belonged in the sky. No wonder you moved with the kind of grace that had always felt eerily familiar. Midair combat wasn’t just a skill for you — it was instinct.

And you never said a word.

Not once.

Even after that night in the alley, when you’d clutched your fists and trembled, even after you’d told him he didn’t understand. You’d looked him in the eyes and said nothing, let him believe it was guilt that wrecked you, not recognition.

He wasn’t angry. He couldn’t be. Not really.

But, it hurt.

It hurt more than he thought it would, because for all the silence between you, for all the tension and the pushing and pulling and near-kisses, he thought you trusted him. He thought you were letting him in. And maybe you were. But you kept this — this foundational, life-altering truth — buried like a weapon too dangerous to ever be drawn.

And he didn’t know if it was to protect you, or to protect him.

You were alone when he found you, back on the rooftop of the old mission staging house. The wind was light, and dusk had fallen hard, painting the sky in shadows and violet bruises. Your arms rested against the rusted railing, eyes cast to the city below.

Chuuya didn’t announce himself. Just stepped up beside you and let the silence fill in the spaces where accusation could’ve lived.

"You knew, didn’t you?" he said finally, voice low.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t look at him. "So you heard."

He nodded slowly, then added, "I didn’t want to."

You exhaled, and something in that sound made his chest ache. Resignation. Regret. A thousand things you weren’t saying.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because it wouldn’t have changed anything," you said, still not facing him.

"It would’ve changed everything," he shot back, voice sharper now, because the ache had turned to fire. "You think I wouldn't understand? That I couldn’t handle the truth?"

"No," you snapped. "I think you’ve handled enough. I think you already live with the burden of something that never should’ve been forced into you. I didn’t want to be another scar."

"That wasn’t your choice to make."

At last, you looked at him. Eyes unreadable, jaw tight. "You don’t get to be the only one who protects people, Chuuya."

Silence stretched between you again, crackling with something electric and dangerous. Chuuya’s fists clenched at his sides.

"So all this time, all those nights you looked at me like I meant something to you — you were just trying to protect me?"

You opened your mouth, hesitated, then said, "You have what was mine. I watched you fly with it. I fought beside you and felt it in the air like it remembered me. And I—"

Your voice broke. You looked away again, suddenly cold. "Maybe I hated you for it. Maybe I hated you because I knew I never should’ve let it go."

But Chuuya heard it. That tremor. That sharp, false edge trying to cover up something else — something warmer, sadder.

"Bullshit," he whispered.

You tensed.

"You don’t hate me. You’re just scared. You’re scared of what this means. Of what we are. You’re scared of feeling anything at all, because the second you do, it’s real and real things can break."

"You don’t know me."

"I do."

The tension pulsed between you, undeniable now. Your breathing had quickened. His eyes hadn’t left your face— not since the moment he saw it crumple just slightly.

"Say it," he murmured, leaning in. "Say you don’t feel it too."

You didn’t answer.

He reached out, one gloved hand brushing your cheek — barely there, feather-light. You didn’t pull away.

He felt your breath stutter.

His fingers lingered, then slid down to trace your jaw. You were trembling now, just barely, but you didn’t move. Didn’t stop him.

And that was all he needed.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either. It was desperate — torn from weeks, months of unspoken words and restrained touches and glances that said too much and not enough. You didn’t kiss him back at first, frozen by the flood of sensation.

But then something gave.

Your fingers curled into the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer, and your mouth opened against his like you’d been waiting for this as long as he had. The tension that had clung to you like armor cracked wide, and Chuuya drank in every second of it.

The wind whipped around you, but neither of you noticed. The city below faded, and time slowed, and all that existed was heat, and breath, and you.

When you finally broke apart, your forehead pressed against his, your hands still clinging to his chest, your voice was ragged.

"This doesn’t change anything."

Chuuya smiled softly, eyes half-lidded. "It changes everything."

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

And he knew then — despite every wall you built, every push and pull and lie you used to hide behind — your heart had finally spoken.

And it had said his name.

But now, standing here alone again, you let the storm rise in your chest.

At first, you tell yourself it’s because of the power. That Arahabaki was all you ever knew, and when it was taken, it left you hollow. That the only reason you ever looked at Chuuya was because he had what you’d lost. That every glance, every lurch of your chest, was nothing more than phantom pain echoing through a connection long severed.

But it’s a lie.

You know it.

Because what you felt that night when he kissed you— what you still feel now just thinking about it — wasn’t tied to Arahabaki. It wasn’t tied to gravity or power or past lives. It was him.

It was the way he looked at you like you weren’t just someone strong. Like you weren’t just someone who survived.

It was how his voice changed when he said your name. How he never flinched when you were at your worst. How he never let go, no matter how hard you pushed.

You remember the weight of his hands on you, firm and grounding, like gravity made soft.

And maybe that’s what it always was.

You’ve spent your entire life resisting pull. Fighting every force that tried to tether you to something that could be taken. That could die. That could hurt.

You ran from it. Built walls from it. Let anger fill the void where love should’ve been.

And still, he found his way in, you let him and that terrified you more than anything.

Because Chuuya wasn’t gravity. He wasn’t a chain. He didn’t hold you down; he lifted you.

He fought beside you not because he had to, but because he chose to. Again and again, even when you gave him nothing in return. Even when all you offered was cold glances and short answers and carefully placed distance.

He stayed.

You look down at your hands now —bloodless, bruised, but still shaking. You remember how they looked after your last mission together, trembling from exhaustion, from fear. From feeling too much.

He took your hands that night. Held them gently. Like they weren’t weapons. Like they weren’t tools of destruction. Like they were just yours.

And he said you looked beautiful, even with blood on your skin.

He saw you. You. Not the vessel. Not the failure. Not the ghost of something that once burned brighter than it should. He saw you, and he stayed. And somewhere in that realization — quiet and slow — you understand the truth you’ve been running from since the day you watched him rise into the sky with your power.

You’re not in love with Arahabaki — the gravity.

You’re in love with Chuuya.

You’re in love with the way he carries the weight of the world like it’s nothing. With the way he softens only when he thinks no one’s watching. With the way his eyes light up when you call him by name, even if you never say what you mean.

You’re in love with someone who made you feel again. Who cracked through the surface of a heart you thought had long gone numb.

And now, you’re scared. Not of losing him. But of what it means to stay.

Because staying means surrendering to the fall.

And after a lifetime of resisting gravity, of pretending you could survive alone, you finally understand; that this was never about fighting the sky — it was about letting go.

And with Chuuya, you don’t fall. You rise —

Against the Gravity.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.