#garou

In the Quiet, You Hold Me

It was a quiet day.

A still, unmoving day.

The kind that Saitama usually didn’t mind.

No monsters were terrorizing the city. The world wasn’t falling apart. Genos was out running errands, and the Hero Association hadn’t contacted him for any low-level jobs in over a week.

So in that little apartment that was still too small for how much love filled it, the air was calm. No explosions, no emergency alerts. Just the hum of the fridge, the occasional passing car, and the sound of you flipping a page in the book you were reading.

Saitama was lying across the couch, his head comfortably nestled between your breasts. You’d long since stopped wearing a bra around him at home—it was one of those silent love languages between you. He liked the softness. The warmth. The steady beat of your heart. And you… well, you liked spoiling him.

He never asked for it out loud, but every time he sat down and glanced at your chest with that soft, subtle flick of his eyes—just once, never twice—you knew exactly what he wanted.

And you always gave it to him.

His face was buried slightly against your skin now, warm cheek resting against your bare cleavage as he laid there like a lazy cat. One of your hands combed gently through his scalp, dragging your nails across it with soft, rhythmic scratches. The other held your book steady, reading lazily while his breath fanned against your chest.

“I could stay like this forever,” you murmured.

Saitama hummed, almost inaudibly. But it was lacking something. The usual weight in his hum—the relaxed, content sound he made when he was completely at peace—wasn’t there.

You paused.

Your fingers moved slowly down to the side of his face, cupping it gently. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t lean into it like he usually did either. That made your stomach twist.

“Babe?” you asked softly, lowering your book.

His eyes were open, staring at nothing across the room.

“Mm,” he grunted.

“Something wrong?” you tilted your head, peering down at him.

He hesitated for a second. Just a second too long.

“No,” he said.

You frowned.

“Try again. This time without lying.”

He shut his eyes, sighed out through his nose, and let the silence settle again. That was the problem with him sometimes—he didn’t know how to talk. He could say the most off-handed things without realizing how much they weighed. And other times, when it really mattered, he got stuck.

You set your book down, both hands cradling his face now.

“You’re thinking a lot,” you said. “Too much. And not in your usual ‘What should I eat for lunch’ kind of way.”

He grunted again.

“C’mon. What’s going on in that shiny little head of yours?”

“…It’s nothing,” he muttered.

You gave him the look. He cracked one eye open, met your gaze, and immediately shut it again like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“…It’s really not a big deal,” he tried.

“That’s not what your face is saying.”

He was silent again. But this time, you could feel something shifting in his expression, something subtle and vulnerable. You could feel the tension in his jaw under your thumb.

“I don’t get you,” he finally muttered. “You know that?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

He shifted just enough to tilt his face up at you, resting his chin now between your breasts instead of his cheek, and for once, his eyes were serious. Really serious. It almost caught you off guard.

“I’m… boring.”

You blinked again. Your lips parted, confused, waiting for more. He sat up slowly—not too far, but enough to leave the comfort of your chest—and stared at the floor.

“I’m not romantic. I’m not interesting. I’m not even cute.”

You stared at him.

“Saitama…”

He laughed once. Not bitter, not mocking. Just… hollow.

“I think about it a lot. How you could be with anyone. Anyone more exciting. Someone who knows how to flirt, or take you on real dates, or has more than three facial expressions.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and kept going.

“You could’ve fallen for a guy with a personality. Or a hobby that isn’t grocery sales. Someone who doesn’t kill monsters in one punch and come home with blood on their shoes. Hell, someone with hair.”

You felt your heart twist, the weight of his words sinking into your chest. This wasn’t something fleeting. These were thoughts that had been building. Heavy and festering, tucked away under his nonchalant tone and lazy smiles.

“You really think I care about any of that?” you whispered.

He looked away.

“That’s just it. I don’t know what you care about,” he mumbled. “I never asked. I just assumed one day you’d get tired of… this. Of me. And I guess I started wondering why you haven’t yet.”

Your eyes stung.

God, he was so stupid sometimes. Stupid in the most lovable, heartbreaking way.

You leaned in slowly, cupping his jaw and turning his face back to you.

“Saitama. Look at me.”

He did. Reluctantly, hesitantly. His eyes were uncertain, something aching sitting just beneath the surface.

“I love you,” you said plainly. Firmly. “Not because you’re romantic. Or interesting. Or even for your looks. I love you. The man who lets me hold him like a teddy bear on the couch. Who gets excited about discounted leeks. Who lets me see him like this—quiet, vulnerable, soft.”

His breath caught slightly.

“I love how your voice sounds when you’re half-asleep. I love how you get genuinely confused when someone compliments you. I love how you try to act like nothing matters, but the moment someone insults a friend, your fists are already clenched.”

You reached forward and pressed your forehead to his.

“I don’t want dates. I want you. I want lazy days and dumb jokes and holding you like this until the world disappears. I want to be here when you wake up, when you’re moody, when your hoodie smells like garlic and soap and I still pull you into bed anyway.”

His hands slowly reached up, settling against your waist like he was afraid to touch you. Like he was afraid he might lose you if he held too tight.

“…Really?” he asked softly.

You smiled. A small, watery one.

“Really. I’d scream it from the rooftops if you wanted.”

He snorted—finally—a real laugh this time, and you felt his grip tighten just a little.

“…Can you do something better?” he said.

You raised a brow. “Better?”

He leaned in closer, his face burying itself back between your breasts, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you gently into him like you were the last pillow in the universe.

“Just stay like this,” he mumbled. “Forever.”

You melted.

“I can do that.”

Your fingers resumed their soft combing through his scalp, your other hand rubbing gentle circles along his back. He was warm. So warm. Not in the heat-of-a-fire way, but in the way a bed feels after you’ve been snuggled in it for hours. Familiar. Safe.

“…Do you know what I think?” you whispered.

He mumbled something into your chest. You took that as a yes.

“I think you don’t realize how much you’ve saved me.”

He looked up slightly.

“I’ve had other relationships,” you said. “Ones where I was constantly trying to be enough. To do enough. Say the right things. Wear the right clothes. But with you? I can just be. And you never make me feel like I have to be anything else.”

He blinked at you, his eyes wide. He didn’t speak, so you cupped his cheek and leaned down until your lips brushed his.

“You’re more than enough, Saitama. I wouldn’t trade your one-punch ass for the world.”

He chuckled into the kiss, lips pressing against yours with a quiet desperation. Not heated. Not lustful. Just… needing.

When you pulled away, he sighed against your skin, forehead still pressed to your sternum.

“…What if I forget this tomorrow?” he mumbled. “What if I start doubting it again?”

You kissed the top of his head.

“Then I’ll tell you again. And again. Every time you need to hear it.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he shifted, turning to the side and pulling you with him until the both of you were lying on the couch, tangled together. His head was still resting between your chest, arms wrapped tight around your middle like you were the only anchor in a sea of doubt.

“…You’re warm,” he murmured.

You smiled against his crown.

“So are you.”

And in that moment, you didn’t need anything else.

No grand gestures. No romantic getaways. Just the feel of his weight against you, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, and the knowledge that no matter how many monsters he could punch away in one hit—this was the one thing he couldn’t destroy.

Your love for him. Constant. Steady.

And entirely his.

When Circuits Slow Down

The heater clicked softly in the background.

Your apartment smelled like clean laundry and warm tea, with a faint edge of metal and engine oil. It always did when Genos was around. That subtle, sharp scent of burnt circuitry and ozone—like he’d been pushing himself too hard again. Like he hadn’t powered down properly since his last mission. Like he couldn’t stop working, couldn’t stop trying.

He was seated on the edge of your bed now, legs spread slightly, posture perfect—always perfect, always stiff like he didn’t know how to relax in a space that was built to hold comfort. His hands rested on his thighs, metal fingers twitching once in a while. A nervous tic he didn’t even realize he had.

The TV played something faint in the living room. You’d left it on as background noise. Just voices, something human, something real to fill the silence he carried in with him.

You leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed lightly. Watching him.

He was looking down at the floor like it was going to give him answers.

“Genos.”

He didn’t lift his head. His voice was low, even. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” You took a step forward, then another. “I was waiting for you.”

Silence.

The kind that made your chest feel heavy.

You crossed the room slowly, dropping to your knees in front of him. His eyes lifted, finally—those glowing irises catching the low bedroom light. Even now, even like this, they were steady. Controlled. Every movement he made was deliberate. Calculated. He didn’t move an inch unless it was serving a purpose.

You reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“Bad fight?” you asked.

He shook his head once. “It was routine. No casualties.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

He hesitated.

You rubbed your thumb gently over the back of his hand, you’d learned a long time ago how to read his tells. He never really relaxed. But you could tell when he was close. When he let himself be vulnerable. When he needed you.

And right now, he needed you, he just didn’t know how to say it.

“…I saw a couple today,” he said quietly. “At the station. Before the mission.”

You waited, not interrupting.

“They were just… talking. She was laughing. Touching his arm. He was smiling at her like nothing else in the world existed.” His voice dropped, mechanical but somehow fragile. “And I realized I’ve never looked at you like that.”

That caught you off guard.

You blinked. “What?”

“I want to,” he said, a little too fast. “I want to give you those things. That kind of life. But I’m not—” His jaw clenched. “I’m not human.”

Your stomach sank.

You sat back on your heels, hand still holding his. “Genos…”

“I can’t give you warmth,” he said. “Or grow old with you. Or hold you with real arms. Or kiss you without you tasting metal. I can’t give you a family. Or safety. Or—” He shut his eyes. “I’m trying to be something better. I’m trying so hard. But I’ll never be enough for someone like you.”

Your heart squeezed.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like this. But it was the first time he’d meant it like this.

So raw. So still. Like if you moved the wrong way, he’d shut down entirely.

You stood slowly, easing yourself into his lap, straddling his thighs with your hands resting on his shoulders. He stiffened out of habit but didn’t stop you.

“Genos,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

He did.

You cupped his face gently, his expression was blank, but you could feel the tension in him, the confusion. The pain of not knowing how to feel something and the fear that if he did, he might break apart.

“I don’t need a normal life,” you said. “I don’t need someone with a heartbeat or a future carved in stone or a perfect smile. I don’t even need to be looked at the way strangers do on TV.”

Your fingers traced along the side of his face. “I need you. The person who sits up with me when I can’t sleep. Who remembers exactly how I like my tea. Who keeps spare clothes in his chest compartment just because he knows I’m forgetful. The man who lets me hold his hand when he’s short-circuiting and lets me kiss him even when he’s terrified I’ll think he’s cold.”

His breath hitched.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re not broken, Genos. You’re trying. That means more to me than anything else ever could.”

His hands came up slowly, hesitantly, resting on your hips like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you right now. Like he was afraid he’d ruin the moment just by existing in it.

“You could have anyone,” he whispered.

“I chose you.”

That made something inside him shift.

You felt his grip tighten, the lines in his shoulders ease just a little. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then leaned into his chest, letting your weight fall into him until he finally—finally—wrapped his arms around you.

You didn’t say anything for a while. Just sat there, breathing with him. Letting the quiet settle between you like a blanket.

After a while, he spoke again. Softer.

“I’m scared I won’t be enough.”

“You already are,” you murmured.

“And if I lose you—”

“You won’t.”

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder.

You held him tighter.

That night, you let him power down beside you for the first time in days. He laid still while you traced every plate of metal, every scarred seam, every line he didn’t see as beautiful.

You made tea.

You left the window open a crack so the cold air would make it easier to snuggle under blankets.

He laid beside you, quiet, stiff, uncertain.

And you reached for him.

Draped your arm across his waist, rested your cheek against the smooth plate of his chest.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” you asked softly.

He looked down at you, hesitant.

You smiled against his chest. “I see someone who makes me feel safe. Someone who tries. Who never gives up. Someone who holds my world together even when he thinks he’s falling apart.”

“…That doesn’t sound like me,” he whispered.

“It is.”

You pulled the blanket tighter.

“You just haven’t learned how to see yourself the way I do yet.”

Eventually, you both fell asleep like that.

You, breathing slow and steady against the cold metal of his frame.

And Genos, curled slightly around you, engines quiet, arms secure, systems dimmed low in the warmth of someone who saw him—and loved him anyway.

Gravity Doesn’t Hold Me Down, You Do

Tatsumaki wasn’t known for being gentle.

Or soft.

Or warm.

She was chaos in a small, compact frame. All power and sharp words, hair as wild as her temper, eyes glowing with authority. The world knew her as the Tornado of Terror, the psychic prodigy, the fearsome S-Class heroine who could rip apart entire cities with a thought if she was pushed far enough.

But you knew her differently.

Because behind closed doors—when the world stopped demanding her strength, when she didn’t have to pretend to be invincible—Tatsumaki could melt.

And she melted only for you.

It was a slow, lazy afternoon. Rain tapping lightly against the windows of your shared apartment. The city below was muted, bathed in grays and mist, and even the usual sirens and chaos of hero life felt distant.

Tatsumaki hovered mid-air lazily, sprawled belly-down just a few feet above your couch. Her tiny frame was wrapped in one of your oversized sweaters—green, of course. Her bare legs kicked aimlessly in the air as she watched the television screen with half-lidded eyes, arms folded beneath her chin. She was pretending not to be sleepy, but you knew better. That sweater had always made her drowsy.

“You’re gonna fall asleep midair again,” you teased gently from where you sat beside her, pulling a fuzzy blanket over your legs.

She gave a little huff and squinted at you over her shoulder. “Am not. I’m just… recharging.” Her voice was clipped but not cold, and you caught the way the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

“Mmhm. Last time you ‘recharged’ you nearly dropped into the ramen bowl.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, but she didn’t sound angry. In fact, she floated down until her head settled on your thigh, face half-buried into your lap, arms flopping limply. Her hair tickled your stomach, and her aura calmed until it was nearly imperceptible.

You didn’t say anything for a while, just ran your fingers through her wild, mint-green curls, letting the silence fill with softness. Tatsumaki let out a small sigh—so soft you almost missed it—and nuzzled closer to your warmth.

These moments were rare. The world expected her to be a weapon. Unshakable. Alone. She was told she didn’t need anyone, that attachments were weaknesses. She had told herself the same, once.

And then… you.

You, with your steady hands, warm smiles, and refusal to fear her. You, who looked at her not like a ticking bomb but like a woman who got tired sometimes. You, who never tried to fix her or push her. Who let her float when she needed to float and held her when she needed anchoring.

Still, even in moments like this, when she was quiet and open and practically purring into your lap, you could feel it—that little coil of tension beneath her skin. Something twisting. Something uncertain.

You traced a slow path down her spine, feeling the rigid set of her back despite her soft exterior. “Talk to me,” you murmured.

“I’m fine,” she said immediately, voice muffled by your sweater.

Liar.

“Okay,” you said, letting the word sit there. You didn’t push her. She hated that. But you kept petting her, slow and rhythmic, grounding.

“…You’re being weird today,” she mumbled after a while.

You raised a brow. “Weird how?”

“I dunno. You’re just… looking at me all soft.”

You smiled. “I always look at you soft.”

“Tch. Gross.” But her cheeks were tinged pink.

“Maybe I’m allowed to be a little gross with the person I love.”

There it was. The flicker. Her body went still for a heartbeat too long. You didn’t stop running your fingers through her hair. You didn’t press. But you saw her eyes flick to the TV, then to the wall, then finally down to her own fingers as they toyed with the hem of your sweater.

“…Hey,” she said eventually, voice quiet. “Do you… think I’m hard to love?”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned off the TV with the remote and looked down at her, but her eyes wouldn’t meet yours. “Tatsu…”

She shifted on your lap, voice tight. “I don’t mean just now. I mean… in general. Always. I know I’m short and loud and annoying and kind of a bitch—”

“You’re not—”

“—And I know I don’t act like other people do in relationships. I don’t say nice things all the time, I don’t really like touching people—except you—and I’ve done terrible stuff. I lose control. People hate me. I can feel it when they look at me. Like I’m just this… dangerous thing they’re forced to tolerate. Even other heroes treat me like I’m some weapon they can’t point the wrong way.”

She laughed, and it was hollow.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just the only person dumb enough to think I’m worth it.”

The words hit like cold water, and your chest ached just hearing them. You moved gently, urging her to sit up, and to your surprise, she let you. You cradled her face in your hands, her cheeks warm and pink, eyes glassy but defiant.

“Tatsumaki,” you said, voice firm. “you are not hard to love. You are hard on yourself.”

Her eyes flickered, lips parting slightly. You pressed your forehead to hers, breathing her in.

“I love you when you’re loud. I love you when you’re quiet. I love you when you’re mad, when you’re smug, when you curl up in my sweaters like they’re your emotional support items. I love you when you’re throwing meteors at monsters and when you’re falling asleep on my lap. I love you.”

She blinked quickly, trying to disguise it as irritation, but you saw the wetness gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“You don’t have to act a certain way to deserve love, Tatsu. You are loveable. Exactly as you are.”

Her lower lip trembled, and for a terrifying second, you thought she was going to float away. But instead… she launched herself at you, burying her face into your chest and wrapping her arms around your waist like a vice.

“…I don’t want to lose this,” she whispered.

“You won’t.”

“I don’t know how to be… normal.”

“You don’t need to be.”

Silence. And then, muffled into your shoulder: “…You really love me?”

You smiled, wrapping your arms around her small frame, rocking gently. “More than anything, baby. You keep me grounded.”

Tatsumaki snorted, the tiniest of laughs bubbling up. “That was cheesy as hell.”

“And you loved it.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, clinging tighter. “…Don’t let me go.”

“Never,” you promised.

The rain kept falling, a soft lullaby for the two souls curled up together—one a storm of power barely contained, the other the eye of that storm.

And maybe Tatsumaki didn’t know how to say I love you in a thousand words. But she didn’t need to. Not when she said it in every act of trust, every moment she let herself be small, every time she let her guard down just for you.

Because some people love like sunshine.

Some love like spring rain.

But Tatsumaki?

She loved like a natural disaster—loud, wild, destructive—

And you loved her with the kind of quiet that could hold all that power and still never flinch.

And together, you made your own kind of calm.

Too Fast to Catch, Except By You

Speed-o’-Sound Sonic was a blur.

A name whispered like a warning.

A blur of purple, danger, and death.

The shinobi no one could touch, the assassin who turned battle into ballet, the rogue who could outpace anyone but his own thoughts.

He was known as a ghost in the wind. Elusive. Untouchable. Cold.

Except with you.

With you, Sonic wasn’t a storm. He was a still night. A silent snowfall. A breath between heartbeats. The fleeting softness he never let the world see.

Because you… you caught him.

And he let you.

It was the kind of night you could only get away from the city. Quiet. Crickets chirping lazily in the tall grass, moonlight bleeding silver across the forest floor. You sat outside the small cabin he’d whisked you away to for the week—hidden, safe, and far from the chaos of heroes, villains, and Saitama-related rage fits.

You wore one of his tops, perfect for sleeping in. Your legs were curled beneath you on the wooden porch, a cup of tea warming your hands as the breeze tugged gently at your hair.

Then—like always—he was suddenly there.

No sound. No footsteps. Just one moment empty air, and the next, Sonic crouched in front of you, sharp eyes scanning your face.

You didn’t flinch. You never did.

You simply smiled, soft and knowing. “Hey.”

He blinked once, twice. His expression didn’t change, but you saw it—the tiny, nearly imperceptible release of tension in his shoulders. The faintest shift from combat-mode to something… gentler.

“…Hi,” he said at last, his voice low, quiet.

You reached out, brushing a piece of windblown hair from his cheek. “Rough night?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at you. That kind of long stare he only gave you when his head was full and his throat was heavy with unsaid things.

Then, without a word, he moved—and sat beside you, back against the porch railing, legs stretched out. His arm brushed yours. Close, but not clinging.

You waited. You always waited. And after a few minutes, he finally spoke.

“…Sometimes I think I’m a fool for this.”

Your heart gave a small jolt. “For what?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely toward you—your shared quiet, your closeness, the warmth of your hand near his. “You. Us.”

You turned to him fully, blinking. “Why?”

He didn’t look at you. His eyes were fixed somewhere deep in the trees. “Because it’s not what I’m built for. I’m a weapon. I was raised to kill. I sleep with a blade under my pillow. I’ve slit throats for less than the way you smile at me.”

You were silent. You knew better than to interrupt. Sonic didn’t open up easily. His heart was a trap-rigged room, and you were one of the few ever invited in.

“I’ve spent my life running. Fighting. Being feared. I don’t know how to be someone’s… person. Someone’s comfort. I don’t know how to stay.”

He swallowed. His voice lowered.

“And I think… one day, you’ll realize that. That I’m not normal. That I’m not good for you. That you deserve someone softer, safer.”

Now your hand reached for his. He flinched at first, always a little shocked by gentle contact, but let you lace your fingers through his.

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked softly.

His head snapped toward you, alarmed. “No—!”

“Then why are you trying to convince yourself I should?”

That shut him up.

You scooted closer, letting your head rest against his shoulder. “Sonic… loving you was never about finding someone normal. I don’t want soft and slow. I want you. All of you.”

His throat worked in a tight swallow, and his brows drew together like he couldn’t decide if this was comforting or dangerous.

“I know you’ve been through hell. I know you weren’t raised to be held. I know you see yourself as a weapon. But you are more than that. You are capable of love, of softness, of choosing something besides survival.”

You looked up at him, and he looked like he was about to crack wide open. Not with tears—he didn’t cry. But with ache. The kind that crept behind the ribs and sank its claws in.

“And I’m not scared of you,” you whispered. “Not your speed. Not your skills. Not your past. I’m not scared of the person you were, or the one you’re still becoming.”

You kissed his knuckles. He was stone-still.

“You don’t need to run anymore,” you whispered. “You’ve already made it home.”

And that—that was the breaking point.

Not a dramatic sob. Not a trembling gasp. Just Sonic slowly, cautiously, folding in on himself and letting his head rest against yours.

“…I don’t know how to be loved like this,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to know how,” you said, pulling him gently into your lap, your fingers carding through his dark hair. “You just have to let yourself be.”

He clung to you tighter than any blade.

Later that night, when the cabin was wrapped in darkness and your heartbeat was a lullaby in the silence, Sonic lay in bed with his head on your chest. Your fingers trailed lightly over his back, and he breathed—slow, even, like someone learning peace one inhale at a time.

You felt his lips brush your collarbone.

“…I’m still dangerous,” he whispered.

You smiled, kissed the top of his head. “Then be dangerous for me.”

And for once, Speed-o’-Sound Sonic—the untouchable, the lightning bolt, the living blade—didn’t run.

He stayed.

He chose to stay.

With you.

Even Monsters Need Love

Garou never really figured out how this happened.

Not the monster stuff—that part he knew. He had reasons, motives, a whole philosophy tattooed into the marrow of his bones. The world was rotten, heroes were glorified bullies, and he’d made it his personal mission to flip the damn system on its head. He was going to show the world what it really looked like when the "villain" won.

No, what he didn’t understand was you.

You, with your soft voice and stubborn patience. You, who somehow saw past the blood and the bounties and the entire list of Class S heroes who wanted to take his head off like a prize.

You, who fed him when he was starving, patched him up when he should’ve been dead, and told him—straight-faced and infuriatingly sincere—that he wasn’t a monster.

You’d stayed.

Even when he told you to leave.

That was months ago now.

Now you were living in some busted, half-forgotten hideout he’d fixed up with stolen supplies and calloused hands. The place looked like hell from the outside, and the inside wasn’t much better—except for the couch you insisted on cleaning, the half-functioning kitchen you somehow made magic in, and the pile of blankets on the mattress where you slept tangled up in each other every night.

It wasn’t romantic in the storybook sense.

Garou didn’t whisper poetry. He didn’t make grand gestures or write love letters or light candles for dinner. What he did do was pull you behind him when trouble showed up. What he did do was fight harder when he knew you were watching. What he did do was come home—bloodied, bruised, bone-tired—and collapse into your arms like you were the only safe place left in the world.

He never said “I love you.”

But he looked at you like the words were burning in his throat.

Tonight felt heavier than usual.

He hadn’t said much since he stumbled through the door, and that wasn’t too out of character—Garou didn’t talk much after fights—but this time was different. You could tell from the way he moved. Not just tired. Dragging.

His shoulders were hunched. His eyes weren’t focused. He dropped his jacket on the floor, didn’t bother with food or water, and slumped onto the couch without a word.

You approached slowly, carefully, like you would a wounded animal. Which, honestly, wasn’t far off.

“You’re back early,” you said, keeping your voice quiet.

He didn’t answer.

You sat down beside him, close but not touching, giving him space to come to you on his own. Sometimes he needed that. Sometimes he didn’t know how to ask for comfort.

Minutes passed like hours.

Finally, his voice cracked the silence.

“I got my ass handed to me.”

You blinked. “Garou…”

“Didn’t even stand a fuckin’ chance.” His voice was low, tight, almost hoarse. “Didn’t matter how fast I was, or how hard I hit. They wiped the floor with me.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his arm.

“Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Just… bruised. But it’s not about that.”

You waited.

He exhaled—harsh, frustrated—and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands raking through his silver hair. He looked like he wanted to rip it out by the roots.

“Tell me something,” he muttered. “Why the fuck are you still here?”

That made you freeze.

“…What?”

He looked at you then—really looked. His eyes were tired. Raw. No bravado. No smirk. No sarcastic quip. Just Garou, stripped down to nothing but skin and scars.

“I keep coming back half-dead, covered in blood, talking about tearing down the whole goddamn world. I scare people. I scare myself sometimes. And you… you just keep being here.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he clenched his fists, like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I don’t get it. I don’t deserve it. I’m not a hero. I’m not even a good person. I don’t do flowers, or dates, or soft bullshit. I’m angry all the time. I’ve killed things. People. You know that.”

You moved before he could spiral further, climbing into his lap and cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“You don’t scare me, Garou.”

His jaw clenched. “You should.”

“I don’t.”

“Why not?” he barked, voice rising. “You should! I’m the fuckin’ Human Monster! I’m—”

“You’re Garou.”

You didn’t yell. You didn’t match his volume. You just said it like it was the simplest truth in the world.

“You’re Garou. You’re stubborn, and reckless, and too proud for your own good. You don’t know how to sit still, and you punch holes in walls when you’re mad, and you act like you don’t care even when you care so damn much it eats you alive.”

Your voice softened, but your hands didn’t leave his face.

“And I love you for all of it. Not because you’re perfect. Not because you’re soft. But because you fight so hard to be something different, even when the world tells you you can’t.”

He stared at you like you’d cracked open his ribcage and were holding his heart in your palms.

“I love you when you win. I love you when you lose. I love you when you come home limping and pissed and bleeding, because you came home. Because you chose me. Again and again.”

Tears weren’t something Garou did. Not really.

But his throat bobbed like he was swallowing back something big and painful, and his hands gripped your waist like if he let go, he might fall apart.

“I’m not good at this,” he mumbled.

“You don’t have to be.”

“I don’t know how to be… enough.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“You’re already more than enough. Just like this.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just breathed. Let it wash over him. And then, slowly, his arms slid around you, pulling you close, burying his face in your neck like he was hiding.

“…Stay with me.”

“Always.”

You didn’t move for a long time. You stayed there with him on the couch, the night stretching around you both like a blanket. Eventually, he started to talk—not about the fight, but about the thoughts that kept him up at night. The way he never felt like anything he did mattered. The way people looked at him like he was broken. The way he wanted to believe you, but didn’t know how.

And you listened.

You didn’t try to fix it. You didn’t tell him to stop feeling it. You just stayed. Held him through the worst of it. Let him fall apart in pieces instead of shattering alone.

And in that moment, he realized something.

You weren’t a weakness.

You weren’t a distraction.

You were the only thing in this whole shitty, bloodstained world that made him want to be something more.

Not a monster.

Not a hero.

Just… a man.

Your man.

And that, maybe, was the scariest thing of all.

But for once, it didn’t make him want to run.

It made him want to stay.

More Than a Pretty Face

People called her The Blizzard of Hell.

Sharp. Commanding. Beautiful in that untouchable, ice-queen way. Her reputation stormed ahead of her—calculated, driven, deadly.

And when you first met her, she was all those things.

Fubuki didn’t let people in. She didn’t need to. Not when she had psychic prowess, designer heels, and a perfectly tailored reputation.

But then you… happened.

You, with your warmth. Your laughter. Your stupid nicknames. The way you called her “pretty lady” drove her insane. Until it didn’t.

Until she found herself missing the sound of your voice when she went a day without hearing it. Until she started saving you the best parts of her favorite pastries. Until her team started whispering about how she actually smiled now and then.

And now, she was yours.

Fubuki—The Blizzard of Hell—was yours. Lip gloss kisses and all.

It was supposed to be a lazy evening. Just the two of you tangled up on her couch, some trashy drama show playing in the background, your head in her lap and her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm.

You were mid-sentence about something dumb—probably that actor you claimed was “definitely into older women and you could fix him”—when her touch faltered.

You blinked up at her. “What’s wrong?”

Fubuki hesitated, fingers frozen on your skin. Her eyes weren’t on you—they were distant, unfocused.

“…Do you ever feel like I’m just… a package?”

Your eyebrows drew together. “What?”

She swallowed. Her voice, when she spoke again, was quieter than you were used to. Like it was fighting past the steel-reinforced pride in her chest.

“I mean, like—just something nice to look at. Big boobs, pretty face, expensive clothes. Like that’s all people see when they look at me. When they talk to me. Even when they date me.”

Your heart twinged.

You sat up slowly, the show still playing forgotten behind you. “Fubuki…”

She turned her face away, eyes locked on some invisible thread of thought across the room. “Everyone treats me like I’m a prize. Like I’m just this image. If I’m not perfectly put together, I’m failing. If I’m not powerful enough, pretty enough, impressive enough, then I’m… disposable.”

Her lip trembled. Just barely.

“And sometimes I wonder if… even you will start to see me that way, too.”

And damn, didn’t that shatter you.

You reached for her hands—those perfectly manicured, strong hands—and held them between yours.

“Fubuki. Babe. My beautiful gorgeous little drama queen.”

That almost got a smile. Almost.

You leaned in, cupping her face gently. “You think I fell in love with you because of your looks? Your clothes? Your titties?”

She gave you a sharp look. “Don’t call them that when I’m being vulnerable.”

You laughed softly. “Okay, okay. I’m serious though.”

Your voice dropped, gentle but firm.

“I love you because you’re you. Because you fight like hell to protect people—even when they don’t say thank you. Because you pretend you’re fine when you’re not, and still find a way to win. Because you let your team believe you’re invincible so they can feel safe.”

You brushed your thumb along her cheek.

“And because when it’s just us, you let yourself rest. You let yourself be. You let me see the real you. The scared you. The messy you. The one who steals my hoodies and talks shit during movies and eats dessert first.”

Her lashes fluttered, tears trembling there but not falling.

“I don’t want the image of Fubuki. I want you. The woman who gets overwhelmed. Who doubts herself. Who cries sometimes, and still wakes up the next day in six-inch heels and runs a team of psychics like a goddess.”

You kissed her knuckles.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not for the glamour. Not for the boobs. Not even for the killer legs.”

She sniffed. “They are killer, though.”

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely. They’re criminal. But that’s just the icing. You? You’re the whole damn cake.”

That did it.

She finally smiled, watery and fierce and beautiful. And then, without warning, she leaned in and hugged you tight—arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your shoulder.

“I hate when you say corny stuff like that,” she muttered.

“I know,” you whispered, pressing a kiss into her hair. “But it makes you feel better.”

“…Yeah. It does.”

You held her close, running your fingers down her back, feeling the tension bleed out of her bit by bit.

Later, you’d help her take off her makeup—something she never let anyone do—and she’d lean into your hands like it was the first time in her life someone had ever touched her like she was soft instead of strong.

And as you climbed into bed together, her curled against your chest with her eyeliner faint on your pillow, she whispered:

“Thank you.”

You kissed her forehead.

“Always, baby.”

And if your hand drifted a little to those famous..assests while you cuddled?

Well. You were only human.

All This Steel, Still Soft for You

You’d seen him take down monsters the size of buildings with nothing but a metal bat and a whole lot of bad attitude.

You’d watched him charge headfirst into fights with blood in his mouth and a wild grin like he dared death to try him.

You’d seen the bruises. The limps. The bloody knuckles. The stubborn tilt of his chin as he spat red and swore he was fine.

But this—this right here?

This was the softest you’d ever seen Metal Bat.

Flat on his stomach on the couch, cheek squished against your thigh, hair sticking up in all directions, mumbling complaints while you gingerly dabbed antiseptic on a cut across his back.

“This stings worse than the fight,” he grunted, flinching slightly.

“Maybe if you dodged once in a while, you wouldn’t need me to patch you up every other day,” you said, voice teasing but gentle.

He glanced back at you with one eye, the red of it still a little bloodshot from the last punch he took. “Can’t dodge. That’d be like… insultin’ the guy. I gotta take it head-on, y’know? Respect.”

You gave him a look. “Respect doesn’t mean letting yourself get turned into street pizza, Badd.”

“Eh,” he grunted again, but there was a little smile tugging at his lips now.

You’d been dating Metal Bat for over a year. What started as flirty banter in a ramen shop turned into real dates, and those turned into slow mornings, dumb arguments over laundry, falling asleep with his arms around you and his snoring rattling your skull.

He was a lot. Loud, brash, bold. The kind of guy who punched first and didn’t even bother with questions later. Protective to a fault. Loyal beyond reason. And when he loved—god, did he love hard.

But tonight… something was off.

You noticed it after you finished patching him up. He didn’t bounce back like usual, didn’t sit up and demand snacks or tug you into his lap like a human teddy bear.

No. He just stayed there, head down, cheek still pressed against your leg. Quiet.

“…Badd?” you asked softly, brushing your fingers through his wild black hair. “You okay?”

He let out a long sigh through his nose.

“Do you ever think I’m not… enough for you?”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“What?”

He finally turned, sitting up slowly. His battered body creaked in protest, but he didn’t seem to care. His eyes—always full of fire—were dimmer now. Heavy.

“I mean…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated with himself. “You’re this smart, sweet person. You’ve got your shit together. You don’t need someone who comes home covered in monster guts and smells like alleyway blood. You could have some doctor or a lawyer or—hell, a normal guy.”

You stared at him, stunned. “Badd, where is this coming from?”

He shrugged, eyes on the floor. “I dunno. Just… was watchin’ you clean up the apartment earlier. You’re always takin’ care of me. I don’t bring much to the table besides bein’ strong and, like, really good at swinging bats.”

You reached out and cupped his face before he could spiral deeper.

“Badd.”

He glanced at you.

“You bring everything to the table.”

He looked skeptical. You didn’t blame him. You knew how he saw himself—just muscle, temper, and instinct. A big brother first, a fighter second, and somewhere way down the list, a man worthy of love.

But you weren’t letting him believe that tonight.

“You think I care about some guy in a suit? I chose you. Loudmouth, reckless, headstrong, bat-swinging you. You know why?”

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because no one’s ever made me feel as safe as you do. No one’s ever fought for me the way you do. You show up. You listen—even if you suck at it sometimes. You protect what’s important. And you love with your whole damn chest, Badd.”

You brushed your thumb over the edge of a bruise on his cheekbone.

“You love me like I’m something worth protecting. And that means more to me than any calm, clean, normal guy ever could.”

He was quiet for a long time. His lips parted like he was gonna say something, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

Then he grabbed you.

Not roughly—not like his usual grab-you-and-toss-you-on-the-bed kind of hug. No, this was different. Slower. Almost hesitant. Like he was worried you might change your mind mid-squeeze.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and tugged him down into your lap.

“Stay here tonight,” you whispered, knowing damn well he’d already planned to.

His arms tightened around you like steel beams.

“…I love ya,” he mumbled into your shoulder, voice rough.

“I love you too,” you said. “Even when you smell like monster guts.”

He snorted. “Hey, that’s my cologne.”

“Ew.”

“Limited edition.”

You giggled, and he nuzzled deeper into your neck, the kind of sigh falling from his lips that only came when he truly let himself relax.

Later, you’d fall asleep with him wrapped around you like a human furnace, his bat leaning against the nightstand, your fingers tangled in his messy hair. You’d wake up to him cooking the world’s ugliest pancakes and trying not to burn the apartment down.

But tonight, all that mattered was the weight of his heart finally resting in your hands. And you’d hold it like the precious thing it was.

Because even steel could feel soft.