#forestlv4r

But Hollis had passed out on the couch two hours ago, blue hair fanned across a pile of empty White Claws, and Roman—Rommulas, whatever the fuck he wanted to be called tonight—had looked up from the mixing board with those stupid sleepy brown eyes and said,

“Stay. Just one more listen.”

One more turned into six. Six turned into him dragging the couch closer to the speakers so you could both lie down while he tweaked the low-end on the perreo drop.

Somewhere between the third and fourth Red Bull, his head ended up in your lap, curls tickling your bare thighs because Chicago decided summer was canceled and you were in the tiniest skirt known to man.

Now it’s 3:33 AM. The only light is the purple glow of the monitors and the city bleeding in through the loft windows. The beat is gone—just the hum of the fridge and Roman’s breathing, slow and deliberate, like he’s scared to break whatever this is.

He turns his face up to you, cheek still pressed to your thigh.

“You ever think the silence after a drop is louder than the drop itself?”

You run your fingers through his hair, nails scraping his scalp the way you’ve wanted to for months.

“You’re high.”

“Little bit.”

His hand slides up your calf, slow, testing.

“But I’ve wanted to touch you since you walked in wearing this fucking skirt.”

Your breath catches. He notices—of course he does—and his mouth curves into that half-smirk that’s been ruining your life since you met him.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmurs, but his thumb is already tracing circles on the inside of your knee, inching higher.

You don’t tell him to stop.

His hand slips under the hem of your skirt, calloused fingertips brushing the lace edge of your panties. You’re soaked—he groans when he feels it, low and wrecked.

“Joder, bebé…” (fuck, baby)

He sits up fast, knees hitting the rug, pulling you down so you’re straddling his lap on the studio couch. The same couch where he recorded the ad-libs for “No Me Importa.” The irony isn’t lost on you.

His mouth finds your neck immediately—hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your head fall back. He smells like clove cigarettes, vanilla vape, and whatever expensive cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear. You fist his hoodie, black, oversized, probably stolen from Hollis, and yank it over his head. His chain glints in the purple light, cross pendant swinging between you.

“Been thinking about this,” he rasps against your collarbone, teeth scraping. “Every time you send me voice notes critiquing my mixes… fuck, your voice. Wanted it moaning my name instead.”

You roll your hips and he hisses, hands gripping your ass hard enough to bruise. “Roman—”

He cuts you off with a kiss—messy, desperate, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to taste every lie he’s ever told himself about staying professional. You feel him hard through his grey sweats, thick and hot against your core, and you can’t help grinding down again.

“Quiero comerte viva,” (i want to eat you alive)

he growls, flipping you so fast your back hits the couch cushions. Your skirt is bunched around your waist now, panties dragged down your thighs and flung somewhere toward the mixing board. He spreads your legs wide, eyes dark.

“Look at you. So pretty when you’re not pretending you don’t want this.”

He doesn’t tease—he dives in like a man starved, tongue flat and licking a stripe up your pussy that makes your back arch off the couch. You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the moan; he rips it away.

“Nah. Let me hear you. Studio’s soundproof, baby. Scream all you want.”

He eats you out like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do—sucking your clit, sliding two fingers inside you and curling just right, whispering filthy praise in Spanglish against your thighs.

“Tan mojada pa’ mí… taste so fucking good… gonna ruin you for everyone else—”

Your orgasm hits sudden and hard, thighs clamping around his head as you sob his name. He doesn’t stop—just slows, licking you through it until you’re shaking and trying to push him off because it’s too much.

He crawls back up your body, mouth shiny with you, and kisses you so you can taste yourself on his tongue. You reach for his sweats, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, tip already leaking. He groans when you wrap your hand around him, stroking once, twice.

“Condom?” you manage.

“nah, don't have.” His voice cracks like he’s 19 again and not the guy with 300 million streams.

he lines up, rubbing the head through your folds until you’re whining.

“Roman, please—”

He pushes in slow, eyes locked on yours, watching every inch disappear inside you. The stretch burns perfectly; you both moan at the same time.

“So tight, mierda—made for me, weren’t you?”

He bottoms out and stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. You clench around him on purpose and he laughs, breathless.

“Brat.”

Then he fucks you like he produces—relentless rhythm, every thrust hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. One hand wraps loosely around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, grounding you while the other pins your hip to the couch.

You lose track of time. Of everything except the slap of skin, the creak of the couch, the way he whispers “te ves tan bonita así” every time you fall apart around him again.

When he gets close, his thrusts go sloppy, hips stuttering. “Where—fuck—where do you want—”

“Inside,” you gasp, nails digging into his back. “I’m on the pill, just—please—”

That undoes him. He buries his face in your neck, moaning your name like a prayer as he comes, hips jerking through it, filling you up. The feeling of him pulsing inside you tips you over one last time, and you cling to him, trembling.

After, he doesn’t pull out right away—just stays on top of you, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, your forehead. Soft now. Vulnerable.

You feel his breath hitch against your skin.

“Hey,” you whisper, cupping his face. “You okay?”

He laughs, wet and shaky. “Yeah. Just… nobody’s called me Roman in months. Not like that. Not while—” He cuts himself off, hides his face in your neck again.

You hold him tighter. The monitors have gone to sleep; the loft is completely dark except for the city glow. Somewhere down the hall, Hollis snores.

Roman finally pulls out, grabs some tissue papers to clean you off, tosses it toward the trash and misses completely. Neither of you care. He grabs a throw blanket, drapes it over you both, and curls around you like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

“Stay till morning?” he mumbles into your hair.

You press a kiss to his collarbone, right over the little tattoo of a compass that never points north.

“Left to right, baby,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles against your skin—small, real, nothing like the smirk he gives cameras.

Outside, Chicago keeps moving. Inside the studio, for once, the static finally goes quiet.

—

You wake up to the low hum of the fridge and Roman’s heartbeat under your ear.

It’s still dark, maybe 5:15 now. The blanket is half on the floor, his hoodie is your pillow, and he’s tracing lazy circles on your bare hip like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he stops touching you.

His voice is rough from sleep and screaming your name an hour ago.

“You’re real, right? Not some fever-dream collab my brain cooked up?”

You laugh into his chest. “Pretty sure I’m real. You still have my panties somewhere near the kick drum.”

He groans, embarrassed, then rolls so he’s hovering over you again, hair falling into his eyes. “Round two, then? Gotta make sure.”

You pretend to think about it. “Only if you say ‘drippysoup, my best friend’ first.”

He snorts, drops his forehead to yours. “Fuck off,” he whispers, but he’s grinning, and then he’s kissing you slow and filthy, morning breath and all, like he’s trying to memorize the taste.

This time there’s no rush. He peels your skirt the rest of the way off, mouths his way down your body like he’s mapping every inch he missed earlier. When he gets between your thighs again he doesn’t tease—he just looks up at you with those ridiculous puppy eyes and says, voice wrecked,

“Want you on my tongue again. Can I?”

You barely nod before he’s licking into you like he’s starving, slower this time, savoring. Two fingers slide in easy; he curls them and sucks your clit at the same time and you have to bite onto your wrist to stay quiet. He moans into you when you do, hips grinding against the couch like he can’t help it.

You come with his name muffled, thighs shaking so hard he has to hold you down. He crawls back up, licking his lips, smug and soft all at once.

“My turn,” you breathe, pushing him onto his back.

He’s already hard again—nineteen and famous has its perks. You mouth your way down his chest, tongue flicking over the little silver cross that rests in the hollow of his throat. When you wrap your hand around him he jerks, curses in Spanish so fast you only catch every third word.

You take your time. Swirl your tongue around the tip, sink down slow, hollow your cheeks the way you’ve imagined for months while listening to his voice notes at 2 AM. His hands fist in your hair—not pushing, just holding on for dear life.

“Baby, por favor—fuck—your mouth is unreal—”

You pull off just to watch him fall apart, stroking him with your hand while you speak against the head of his cock. “You write all those dirty lyrics but can’t handle this?”

He laughs, broken.

“Shut up and let me come down your throat or I’m writing a diss track.”

You do. He does. His whole body arches, thighs trembling, and he whimpers—actually whimpers—your name like it hurts.

After, he drags you up, kisses you deep so he can taste himself on your tongue, then flips you again so you’re chest to chest, legs tangled.

The quiet settles back in. Real quiet this time. The kind that makes people say things they can’t take back.

He’s the one who breaks it.

“I don’t know how to do this part,” he admits into your neck. “The after. People leave. Or I leave first. It’s easier.”

You run your fingers through his hair. “I’m not people.”

He makes this sound—half laugh, half sob—and hides his face again. You feel wet hit your shoulder. Not a lot. Just enough to know the cocky Rommulas mask is fully off right now.

“I’m scared,” he whispers. “Tour starts in nine days. Album drops in three weeks. What if I fuck this up too? What if I’m only good at the chase and I ruin you like I ruin everything else?”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes wet, and he’s never been more beautiful.

“Roman Leal,” you say, using the full government like it’s a spell. “You’re not ruining anything. We’re just getting started.”

He stares at you for a long second, then kisses you soft—nothing like the desperate clash from before. This one feels like a promise.

Eventually he reaches for his phone on the coffee table, checks the time, winces. “Hollis is gonna wake up in two hours and find us naked on his couch. He’ll never shut up.”

“Let him cry about it,” you mumble, already half-asleep again.

Roman grabs the abandoned hoodie, tugs it over your head so you’re swimming in it. It smells like him—cloves, vanilla, studio sweat. He pulls the blanket up, spoons you from behind, arm locked tight around your waist.

“One more thing,” he murmurs against the back of your neck.

“Mm?”

“Next single. The one I’ve been scared to finish. I want your voice on the hook. Not a feature—just… you. Whispered. Like this.”

He presses a kiss behind your ear, then another, softer.

You smile into the dark. “Left to right, baby.”

He hums, already drifting. “Left to right.”

The city starts waking up outside—first trains, first delivery trucks, first hints of grey in the sky. Inside the loft, the monitors finally power down completely.

For once, the static is gone.

But the night isn’t over. When the sun actually comes up, he’s gonna bend you over the mixing board and make you ride him while the master channel peaks in the red. He’s gonna record the sounds you make and turn them into the outro of track 7. He’s gonna tattoo the time stamp—3:33 AM—on the inside of his wrist the day the album drops.

And you’re gonna let him.

Because this thing between you? It’s not a one-time glitch.

It’s the whole damn song.

taglist: @alebrasil0101 @datgirlwholuvsanime33 @theirlgarfield @soundlyluckygunslinger @meliorsm @cowsforkenji @itsagoodluckkiss

If only it was over a big reason that would at least justify this situation, you’ve been on Hollis's back about him constantly canceling dates and important events for his interviews and tours. He’d gotten tired of you constantly “nagging” him based on his words— all the times you fought with him about it had built up to this moment. 

It was your graduation day, you’d just finished years of studying for your dream career, as you walked that stage your eyes scanned the crowd, family, friends, cousins— yet no sign of your boyfriend. Your heart broke.

Tears started swelling up in your eyes faster than you can stop them, safe to say you humiliated yourself on that stage, and the once in a lifetime event was forever ruined.

It may not have been a big reason for others, but for gods sake this was your university graduation, you’ve spent years building up for this moment, hours working night shifts so you could pay for the tuition, just for him to miss it for a surprise show for his fans. 

It had become clear to you that day who was more important to him, and you were never going to be in the first spot in his heart.

Later that day after the ceremony had ended, you were too bummed out to go for a celebratory dinner with anyone, so you decided on just going home to your shared apartment with hollis. The moment you reached and entered your home, silence. 

He wasn’t back yet.

Hours had passed by and only then at 3am in the morning did he come back home, smelling of weed and alcohol. 

You’d been up the whole time— beyond angry and broken hearted to go to bed until you’ve confronted him about it.

“Hey baby” he says, barely acknowledging you as he toed off his shoes at the entrance.

“Where the fuck were you” you said, sitting up— voice cracking a bit from all the crying you’ve done.

“I had a surprise show come up— manager called when I was on my way to your graduation” he says nonchalantly. “Thought it would be better to head to the show rather than sit for hours just to watch you walk across the stage for five seconds” 

“What- what the fuck is wrong with you hollis?!?” you screamed, “this was the one time i asked you to be there for me and you couldn’t even do that?? What kind of fucking boyfriend are you!?”

“Big fuckin’ deal, y/n.” he rolls his eyes. “Can we just skip over the arguing part, we both know you’re not leaving and this will just end up in make-up sex” he states as his hand starts to move up your thigh with a smirk on his face.

Clearly he wasn’t getting the memo of how big of a situation this was for you. 

You admit he was the best you’ve ever had, shit— he might be the best out there in sex. But that wasn’t enough for you if he was the fucking embodiment of the devil himself. You had decided this was enough, you weren’t going to keep staying with someone who couldn’t give two shits about you, you are worth more than that and you knew it.

“You know what im fucking done with you” you exclaim as you get up and strom to your shared bedroom to start packing your things.

Ever since that day he has tried to call and text you countless of times, his ego too high to actually someone left him that easily after all his pathetic antics.

You hadn’t seen him for over two years since then, every and any mention of him was immediately shut down by you. The day that you guys broke up and all the photos of you guys were deleted off your instagram— the media went crazy, multiple people posting and talking about it, mainly blaming you because how could their perfect man ever do anything wrong?

The next time you’d seen him for the first time in two years was today. You’d been invited to a christmas party by a friend of yours off of social media.

At this point in your life, your career had taken off, you were now glowing, hair healthy, skin clear, you were truly blooming ever since you’ve gotten rid of the root of all your problems— hollis.

You enter the party, lights beaming and speakers screaming with music, people were already half drunk in the middle of the big living room dancing their night away, since you basically knew no one— you’d decided to nurse a drink in the kitchen quietly until you see someone that you at the least, half know enough to make conversation.

Heading over to the kitchen, finding the nearest bottle of alcohol and filling up your cup with it as you sit down on the island chairs, sipping your drink. 

And that's when you see him.

Leaning against the fridge like he owns the damn place, that same lazy smirk on his face, but everything else about him has leveled up in a way that makes your stomach twist. Hollis—2hollis now, apparently, with the platinum blonde hair falling in messy waves past his shoulders, smudged black liner around his eyes, and that signature stripe painted across his nose like he's some underground vampire prince. He's taller than you remember, lean and sharp in all black Rick Owens layers, chains glinting under the kitchen lights, nursing a red cup with those long fingers you used to know too well.

He hasn't noticed you yet, scrolling on his phone, surrounded by a couple of girls laughing at whatever he's saying in that low, effortless drawl. 

Two years ago, he was the chaotic mess dragging you down—jealous rages, endless fights, the kind of toxic that left you drained and broken. Now, he's blowing up, tours, Interscope deal, the whole hyperpop-rage poster boy thing. And you? You're the one who walked away, rebuilt yourself into someone untouchable.

But the second his eyes flick up and lock on yours, the air shifts. His smirk falters for a split second, surprise flashing before it hardens into something darker. He excuses himself from the girls without a glance, pushing off the fridge and closing the distance in slow, deliberate steps.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters when he's close enough, voice low and rough, laced with that Chicago edge he never fully lost. 

His gaze rakes over you—your glowing skin, the healthy shine in your hair, the way your dress hugs curves he used to claim. 

"Look at you. Acting like you upgraded without me."

You sip your drink, meeting his stare head-on. 

"I did upgrade. By dumping your ass, Hollis."

He laughs, but it's bitter, no humor in it. Steps closer until you can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, mixed with weed and the faint sweat from whatever pre-party he came from. 

"Still got that mouth on you. Thought you'd be over it by now."

"Over you? Please. You're the one staring like you miss it."

His jaw clenches, those pale eyes narrowing. The hate is electric, crackling between you like it always did—the fights that ended in slammed doors and then slammed bodies. He grabs your wrist suddenly, not hard enough to hurt, but firm, pulling you off the stool. 

"Come here."

He doesn’t give you time to think. The second the door clicks shut, Hollis is on you—hand fisted in the hair at the nape of your neck, yanking your head back so hard your scalp stings.

His mouth crashes into yours with zero pretense of gentleness. It’s all teeth and fury, he bites your lower lip until you taste copper, then sucks the sting away like he’s punishing you for bleeding. You bite back harder, drawing a low growl from his throat that vibrates straight between your legs.

“Still taste like trouble,”

he mutters against your mouth, voice ragged. His free hand shoves under your dress, nails scraping up the back of your thigh until he palms your ass roughly, fingers digging in hard enough to leave crescent marks. 

“Thought you’d be over this. Over me.”

You laugh—sharp, breathless—into the kiss. 

“I am over you.” 

Your hands are already clawing at his shirt, ripping it open. Buttons ping off the dresser and floor. 

“Doesn’t mean I won’t fuck the memory out of my system.”

He snarls at that, spins you fast enough that your palms slap the wall for balance. Your dress is shoved up to your waist in one violent yank; cool air hits your skin a second before his hand cracks across your ass—loud, sharp, burning. You gasp, arching instinctively, and he does it again, harder, watching the flesh jiggle and bloom red under his palm.

“Look at you,” 

he rasps, voice dripping venom and hunger. 

“All polished and pretty now. Still get wet when I treat you like this, huh?”

His fingers slide between your thighs without warning—two at once, thick and rough, pushing inside you to the knuckle. You’re soaked, embarrassingly so, and he feels it immediately. He curls his fingers, dragging them slow and deliberate over that spot that makes your knees buckle. 

“Yeah. Fucking dripping. Glow-up didn’t fix that.”

You hate how your hips roll back into his hand, chasing more. 

“Shut up and fuck me already,” you hiss, voice shaking.

He laughs—dark, cruel—and withdraws his fingers just to slap your pussy lightly, making you jolt. Then he’s freeing himself: zipper down, cock out, hot and heavy against the curve of your ass. He’s thicker than you remember, flushed dark, the tip already slick. He drags it through your folds once, twice, coating himself, teasing your entrance until you’re pushing back shamelessly.

“Beg.”

“Fuck you.”

He thrusts into the hilt in one brutal stroke—no easing, no mercy. The stretch burns deliciously, stealing your breath. Your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust to the sudden fullness, and he doesn’t wait. He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. Each thrust jolts you forward, tits bouncing against the wall, his hips slapping loud against your ass.

His hand snakes around your throat from behind, fingers collaring you, tilting your head back so he can growl directly into your ear.

“You feel that? Still take me like you were made for it. All that hate and you’re clenching around me like you never want me to leave.”

You moan—can’t help it—nails scraping the wallpaper as he fucks you deeper, harder, angling his hips until he’s hitting that spot over and over with ruthless precision. His other hand slides under you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, vicious circles that make your thighs tremble.

“Say you hate me,” he demands, voice cracking with effort, sweat dripping from his hair onto your shoulder. “Say it while you come on my cock.”

“I hate you,” you gasp, but it comes out broken, needy. Your orgasm is building fast and ugly, coiling tight in your belly. 

“I fucking—hate—oh god—”

He pinches your clit hard at the same moment he slams in deep and grinds, and you shatter. Your whole body seizes, pussy spasming around him in violent pulses, slick gushing down your thighs. You bite your own arm to muffle the scream, vision whiting out as wave after wave crashes through you.

He doesn’t stop. Fucks you through it, relentless, chasing his own release with ragged breaths. 

“That’s it—milk me, baby. Hate me harder.”

A few more brutal thrusts and he buries himself to the root, groaning low and filthy as he comes—hot, thick pulses flooding you deep inside. You feel every spurt, the way he throbs and jerks, his grip on your throat tightening then loosening as he rides it out.

For a long moment there’s just harsh breathing and the wet sound of him still inside you. Slowly, he pulls out; you feel the slow slide of his cum starting to drip down your thigh almost immediately. He steps back, tucking himself away, that lazy smirk already creeping back onto his swollen lips.

You push off the wall, legs shaky, and turn to face him. Your dress falls back into place, but you’re a mess—hair wild, lipstick smeared, thighs sticky. You meet his eyes, chest still heaving.

“This was nothing,” you say, voice hoarse but steady. “Just scratching an itch.”

He licks his lips, eyes raking over you one last time. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

He unlocks the door and slips out without another word.

You stay there a minute longer, feeling his cum slowly leak out of you, the ache between your legs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

You still hate him.

Taglist: @alebrasil0101 @datgirlwholuvsanime33 @theirlgarfield @soundlyluckygunslinger @meliorsm @cowsforkenji @itsagoodluckkiss @pearlyrenae @antihumandih @8ella222 @ephernal @thisismyao3 @ellsplif

But here you are. Six months in, and you still haven’t decided if you want to murder him or climb him like a tree.

It starts small. The first time you actually speak is when you’re both in the elevator at 2 a.m., you in ratty pajamas holding a trash bag, him in his hero costume, mask pushed up into his hair, gauntlets dangling from one hand. He smells like smoke and something sweet and dangerous. His eyes flick to you, then away.

“Tch. You always take the trash out looking like a hobo?”

You glare. “You always come home smelling like a barbecue gone wrong?”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something sharper.

“Watch it, extra.”

The doors open. He steps out first. You hate that you watch the way his back muscles move under the torn black tank. That should’ve been the end of it.

But then there’s the night your power goes out during a storm. The whole building’s dark. You’re sitting on the floor with a candle, eating cold ramen, when there’s a knock, You open the door and there’s Bakugo, holding a flashlight like a weapon, scowling.

“Your stupid crying was loud enough to hear through the wall. Quit it.”

“I’m not crying.”

“You were sniffling like a damn baby.”

“It’s allergies.”

He stares at you. Then shoves a portable charger into your hand. “Your phone’s probably dead. Don’t come banging on my door at 4 a.m. when it dies.”

You take it. Your fingers brush his. He jerks back like you burned him. The charger smells like him. You use it for three days and pretend you don’t notice.After that, it’s a slow war. You leave him sarcastic little notes when he’s loud.

“Some of us have jobs that don’t involve yelling ‘DIE’ for a living. 3 a.m. is not workout time.”

“If you drop that weight one more time I’m calling the police.”

“Nice explosion at 5:47 a.m. Really appreciated the wake-up call, asshole.”

He starts writing back in sharpie on the same paper and sliding it under your door.

“Cry harder.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so fucking weak you wouldn’t wake up.”

“Your handwriting’s ugly as shit.”

But then one night you come home late, soaked from rain, groceries split open on the hallway floor. Oranges rolling everywhere. You’re on your knees trying to salvage them when his door opens. He looks at you. Then at the mess. Then at you again.

“…You’re a fucking disaster.”

“Thanks, genius.”

He crouches, starts picking up your groceries without asking. His fingers brush yours again when you both reach for the same orange. This time he doesn’t flinch.

“You eat this rabbit food shit?” he mutters, holding up a thing of spinach.

“Some of us don’t live off protein powder and spite.”

He snorts. Actually snorts. It’s unfairly cute. You don’t thank him. He doesn’t expect you to. But the next morning there’s a new note under your door.

“Your eggs were cracked. Replaced them. Don’t bitch about the brand.”

Inside your fridge, a carton of the expensive organic eggs you always buy. You stare at it for 15 minutes. You start leaving him things too. A slice of the banana bread you baked. A cold bottle of water after you hear him come in coughing from a bad fight on the news. He never says thank you. But nothing you leave ever goes to waste. The tension builds like a storm.You stop pretending you don’t look when he walks by in towels after the gym. He stops pretending he doesn’t notice you staring.

Sometimes you catch him watching you when you’re watering plants on your tiny balcony, arms crossed, jaw tight.

One night you’re drunk. Not wasted, just soft around the edges. You knock on his door holding a bottle of wine like an idiot. He opens it shirtless. Of course he’s shirtless.

“The fuck do you want?”

You shove the bottle at him.

“You’ve been slamming doors all day. Come drink with me so I don’t commit homicide.”

He stares. Then steps aside. You end up on his couch. His place is cleaner than you expected. Smells like cedar and smoke. He drinks straight from the bottle when you pass it. Your knees touch.

“You’re annoying as hell,” he says.

“You’re worse.”

“You cry at movies.”

“You cried at the dog food commercial with the old man.”

“Shut up. I had something in my eye.”

You laugh. He watches your mouth. You don’t kiss that night, But you’re close, So close.

The dam finally breaks three weeks later.

You’re in the hallway arguing about whose turn it is to take the trash down. He’s in a black tank, sweat still drying on his collarbone. You’re in an oversized shirt and no bra because it’s laundry day and you ran out of fucks.

“You’re not my fucking maid,” he growls.

“Then stop leaving your stupid energy drink cans in the hallway!”

“I’ll leave ‘em wherever I damn well—”

You shove him.

Hard.

In the chest.

He doesn’t move. Just grabs your wrist and yanks you forward so fast your breath catches.

“You wanna fight, extra?” His voice is low. Dangerous.

“That what this is?”

You should pull away. You don’t.

“Maybe I just want you to shut up for five seconds.”

His eyes drop to your mouth.

“Make me.”

You kiss him like you’re trying to win. He kisses back like he’s declaring war. You end up against the wall. His hands are everywhere in your hair, under your shirt, gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise.

You bite his lip and he groans, deep and wrecked. He tastes like smoke and caramel and something addictive. He picks you up like you weigh nothing, kicks his door open, and carries you inside.

Clothes don’t survive. He throws you on the bed and crawls over you, eyes wild.

“You’ve been driving me fucking insane for months,” he snarls against your throat.

“Feeling’s mutual, asshole.”

He laughs, rough and breathless, then drags your shirt over your head. His mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, hot and messy and perfect.

You arch into him, nails raking down his back.

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow. Deliberate. Like he’s savoring the way you fall apart.

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper.

“Fuck— Katsuki—”

He loses it. The pace turns brutal. The headboard slams against the wall so hard you’re both grateful the building’s mostly heroes who sleep through explosions.

He fucks you like he’s trying to erase every fight, every glare, every month of pretending he didn’t want this. You come first, clenching around him so hard he curses and follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound. After, he doesn’t let go. Just rolls you both over so you’re on his chest, his arms locked around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You trace the scars on his shoulder.

“…So,” you mumble,

“does this mean you’ll take the trash out from now on?”

He snorts, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Shut up and go to sleep, dumbass.”

You smile into his skin.

The next morning, there’s a new note taped to your door.

“Coffee’s on. Don’t be late or I’ll drag your ass out of bed myself.”

You keep that one forever.

taglist: @thisismyao3

pt.2