#reader-inserts

You couldn’t stand living here any longer with him. You wanted to leave immediately, and yet, a part of you knew you couldn’t without saying anything to him.

“You told me you were done with Rafe Cameron,” you said, piercing him with your eyes, “but you just couldn’t resist, could you? When he dangles money right in front of you, you’ll do anything.”

“Don’t act like you never knew that,” Barry said, a tiny dangerous glint in his eyes, but it disappeared a second later. All you could see was the same love he always had for you. “All this money’s for us, baby! So we never gotta worry about a thing. Hell, we could move outta here if we wanted!”

He laughed, but you saw no humor in what he said or what he’d done. “Bullshit! With your business—and by that, I mean your legitimate business,” you clarified, “you were doing just fine. Money was never a problem for you, Barry.”

“It was when them Pogues stole 25k from me,” he reminded you, recalling the incident with disdain. “But what we have now... we’re set for life! You and me.”

He made it sound like he and you were fulfilling a shared dream together, but that dream wasn’t yours. Yours was simply to have a little more than enough to live a comfortable life, splurge here and there, and maybe even start a family one day. His was to live like a king in the way he wanted, not like Kooks with their enormous houses and boats and extravagant lifestyles.

You and Barry had joked about it before: having so much money that you turned into Kooks. But you never truly wanted to be one. Being with Barry, you’d thought, would always make you happier than being with people who were used to spending money like they were drinking water. You didn’t even want to be like those Pogue kids, running around and chasing treasure like it was their job.

“It’s all yours,” you told Barry, your voice falling to a whisper. “I was never gonna be more important to you than money, huh? At least now you don’t have to worry about sharing it with anyone.”

“(Name), don’t,” he said pleadingly. “I can stop. Starting right now, I’ll never work with Rafe Cameron again.”

“Yes, you will. You always do.” You turned and started walking away again, determined to leave while you still had the resolve to.

“Wait.”

You couldn’t force your legs to keep going. You looked over your shoulder at Barry. “What?”

His eyes were hard. “The cross... It’s better if—”

“No one knows?” You laughed bitterly. “I won’t tell anyone, even if you two deserve to be caught for doing something so fucking stupid. Goodbye, Barry.”

He thinks back to last night.  After his patrol, he had returned to your apartment, eyes heavy with sleep and body weighed with the need to bury himself in bedsheets that smelled of your shampoo and perfume.  He had seen the light glowing from underneath the door of your at-home studio, but he had thought that you were simply revising your songs, not that you were awake for the release.

Fuck.  He’s an idiot.

To say that guilt has the biggest chokehold on his windpipe all day would be an understatement.

No one understands Aizawa’s foul mood, and he’s not interested in bringing up his immense oversight.  He spends every moment reading articles and reviews and tweets about your album.  He listens to Jirou break down the dreaminess of the tracks, analyze the poetry techniques interwoven with your songwriting, and your use of silence to build emotions.  His chest swells with pride, even as his shoulder sink with shame.

He listens to the songs on repeat in between classes, comparing the final versions to the various iterations he’s heard the past eight months.  He adores the entire album, but his favorites are the first, the fifth, and the eighth tracks.  There’s something about those three that tug at his heart, make him think—or hope, or wonder—about whether or not they were written about him.  It’s a selfish thought, but if they weren’t, then you did a stunning job of putting into words the jittery and flushed feelings he has towards you. 

Despite how much Aizawa loves your album, he refrains from texting you.  He refuses to start any new conversations until he’s properly apologized, and he won’t apologize over the phone because it’s cowardly, so it’s quiet in your chat.  Even Hizashi recognizes that Aizawa needs space after seeing him slump into his chair, trying to merge together with the wood to cease existing while he listens to your music still.

Even though he doesn’t text you, Aizawa still hopes you’d text him. 

You don’t, of course.  Obviously, you’re extremely busy, considering your album just exploded onto the scene to high praise. Not only that, but, with your work ethic and your passion for music, he wouldn’t be surprised if you were already locked in the studio, working on new songs. It’s less likely that you’re avoiding him out of anger, though. 

You’re rarely mad.  Whether he arrives to reservations late, forgets special occasions, or cancels last minute, you’ve never once yelled.  He doesn’t know if it’s because you give him such grace due to his occupation, or because you have such low expectations of him.  He’s too scared to ask, terrified that, if he brings it up, he’ll break whatever spell has made you stay with him despite his many, many, shortcomings.

After UA lets out, Aizawa sits through a teachers’ meeting with an anxious shaking of his leg.  He doesn’t have patrol that night (and he plans on calling off patrol for the next few nights to make it up to you), so he just needs to get through this one last thing.

When they’re finally done, Aizawa’s the first out of his chair.  Once he rounds the corner, he breaks into a sprint, rushing off to the nearest store to buy fifteen copies of your album.  Then, he buys the biggest bouquet of flowers he can find—a beautiful arrangement of red and orange roses, interspersed with long green leaves—and gets take-out from the Thai place you love on the other side of town.

When he finally makes it back to your apartment, he spends ten minutes standing outside the door, gathering his thoughts and his hammering heart.

He’s nervous. He doesn’t think you’ll be mad, but he wants you to be.  He wants you to yell, to call him out for his fuck-ups, to tell him you expect more, that you deserve more.  It’s worse, sometimes, having you smiling sweetly at him in understanding.  It makes him feel like he’s taking advantage of your big heart; it makes him feel like you know he’s not good enough for you, but you keep making concessions every time he doesn’t meet the simplest of boyfriend requirements.

Holding in a big and heavy sigh, Aizawa unlocks the door and enters as you step into the living room, hair wet from having just finished a shower.

There’s an amused expression on your face as you take in the big bouquet, as heavy as the take-out bag in his other hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly.

You tilt your head, eyeing him closely.  “It’s okay, Shouta—”

“It’s not.”  He clears his throat, eyes darting away from you to stare briefly at a chipped corner before he forces them back.  He needs to do this right, he thinks, scolding himself.  “Your album—I… Your album’s great.  I—I wish I had been there to celebrate the midnight release with you.  I’m sorry that I wasn’t.”

“I—care about you,” he continues.  “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel otherwise—or if you feel like you’re not a priority to me.  You are.”  His mouth is dry; the hammering heart that he had collected outside the apartment comes back in full force.  “I’ll do better at making sure I show it.”

You smile gently at him, but he can see a dewiness glaze over your warm eyes, and the sight of it makes him want to kneel on the floor at your feet.

“I appreciate it, Shouta,” you say finally.

Aizawa hands you the flowers, watching you carefully as you smell the roses.  You don’t cry; you don’t scream.  You simply murmur about how beautiful they are and how thankful you are for having grabbed the vase off the table from your cousin’s wedding four months ago.

He doesn’t release the breath in his chest.  He’s nervous still, afraid that what he’s done isn’t enough.  He can do more, he thinks; he’s just not sure what else.  You deserve the whole world, yet here he is, only able to carve out a little bit of roses and greenery for you.

As you rearrange the flowers in the vase, making sure they all fit, Aizawa says, “I took off this weekend.  Let’s go somewhere, spend the weekend together to celebrate.”

“All mine for the weekend,” you remark playfully.

“All yours forever,” he says.

If you’ll have me, he thinks.

You don’t answer, but he notes the pink on your cheeks and let himself relax a bit (just a bit).  

“You bought dinner?” 

Your question reminds him that he needs to set out the food.  

“Yeah, from the Thai place,” he replies.  He puts the bag down on the floor and pulls out the many food boxes; he lays out a full take-out feast on your wooden coffee table.

You shake your head as you take a seat beside him, immediately recognizing the origin.  “Shouta,” you began, your voice already chastising him.  “That place is an hour away, and this is a meal for eight people.  You really need to stop punishing yourself.”

“I felt shitty all day,” he mutters, making you a plate.  “I even put it in my phone and forgot.”

You reach out to squeeze his knee. “You need to know when enough’s enough.”

He doesn’t respond.  You may be that forgiving, but he isn’t.  He focuses on filling your plate with curried rice, crab wontons, and seared green beans; he’s tempted to make you a second plate with the rest of the food that doesn’t fit.  He gives it to you, not getting food for himself until he sees that you’re satisfied with the first few bites.

“It’s good,” you sigh, pleased, and he lets himself relax a little more.  As he fills up his own plate, you suddenly ask, “What’s in that other bag?  Near your foot?”

He glances down and flushes.  “I—they’re your albums.”

“Albums?”  You emphasize the s.  “I only released one album.”

“I bought—multiple copies.”

A grin starts growing on your face.  “How many?”

He coughs.  His stomach flips.  “…Fifteen.”

You laugh immediately.  “Shouta, you are so in love with me.”  It’s said teasingly, a running joke between the two of you due to the sharp contrast between the harshness he shows to others and the softness he shows to you.

But nothing is truer, he thinks.

“I am.”

—And he says it without stuttering or stammering, without his usual pause or air of nonchalance.  He says it as though there was no other option, as though there was nothing else he could be in a world where you existed.

You beam, cheeks a sweet rosy color, and then you lean forward to kiss him.

You’ve hardly had the chance to open your mouth when the die abruptly stood up, causing you to start as seafoam-green eyes avoid yours. He coughed, adjusted his bow-tie, and muttered a brief “M’fine” before stiffly walking away; cheeks flushed a bright pink as he fought to calm his racing heart. 

Shortly after, the die holes himself away in his office-- taking careful measures to limit most of your interactions. During which you’d faintly make out from the corner of your eye wistful, almost longing looks your way. However, they always faded so quickly that you weren’t quite sure if you imagined them. 

Even more strange was the die’s sudden change in behavior. He’s recently taken to touching you more often— patting you on the shoulder, brushing any stray hairs back in place, and, if you’re in private, reaching out for your hand and lacing your fingers together.

For a while, the die is mentally berating himself for this sudden need. God, how could he be so pathetic? Was he this starved for genuine affection that he had to act like a needy child around you? Surely you must think less of him-

Oh, wait. Were you holding his hand now? Queue a slightly flustered but pleased King Dice. 

Once Dice is confident that you’re more than willing to give him his fix, he’s eager (though he tries to hide it) for your affection. Whenever you two are around other people, he’s discrete. He’ll brush his fingers against your own, taking a moment to squeeze your hand—his normally stern mask falling as the die gives you a pleasant smile— before curtly returning to his duties.

However, in the comfort and privacy of his office, Dice is happily weaving his fingers between yours. Often the two of you will be seated on the couch, the die holding onto your hand as he idly flips through the pages of a book. Other times, he’ll lean over your frame and tucking his chin onto the top of your head. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep to the slow melody of his heartbeat.

Needless to say, getting to cuddle with you becomes his new favorite way to unwind after a hard day.

----(Bonus Drabble: Haven)----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 You had been in the middle of your boyfriend's office, reading a book, when the door groaned open, causing you to jump in your seat. Looking up, you're met with the sight of King Dice-- eyes ragged and lidded-- in the doorframe. 

He shuts the door with a sigh, pinching the space between his brow before he leaned against the door. Closing his eyes, Dice lets out a groan and thumps the back of his head against the door. 

The die looked more than a little worse for wear, to put it lightly. His tailcoat, usually pristine with nary a wrinkle in sight, was stained with splotches of red. Panic washes over you in an instant. Oh, God. Did Dice get himself hurt? 

You take in a sharp breath, and you're immediately hit with the acrid, faintly fruity smell of wine. 

Relief fills your chest, and you shut your book with a loud clap. Dice lifts his head and meets your gaze. A faint hint of pink fills his cheeks, and his eyes grow sheepish. 

"Oh, I, ah, didn't see you there, doll." he coughs. 

The die quickly moves to unbutton his coat, all the while avoiding your eyes as he sheds the sullied fabric. He peels away purple fabric to reveal his suit vest's faint pink stains, causing the die to let out an annoyed groan. 

Soon enough, King Dice is left in a white button-down. Rubbing a gloved hand across his temple, he tosses the ruined garments aside on a coat rack. He takes a few more moments to undo his bowtie, setting it aside on the end table beside the couch you were seated on before he, too, joins you. 

As soon as his body hit aged leather, Dice lets out a blissful groan-- his entire body sagging against the loveseat. You let out a chuckle. 

"Hard day?" 

Your boyfriend snorts.

"What makes you think that?"

You roll your eyes, an amused smile pulling at your lips at his dry tone. Dice huffs, fixing you with a faux affronted look. 

"I can't believe that you're makin' light of my suffering, doll. I already had to deal with those grubby little goons of the bossman's. Now my jacket's all wet-- and you know I can't go out with the casino's cats lookin' at me when I'm like this." 

The die leans closer to you, eyes lidded and brows knitted close together as presses a hand to his temple; his flare for the dramatic bleeding through.

A small chuff of laughter bursts from your throat, and you lightly shake your head as you lean against your boyfriend's larger frame. 

"Oh, poor baby," you hum-- causing Dice to roll his eyes. You reach a small hand up to his cheek, earning you a deep groan from the larger man. "Anything I can do to help?"

Dice hums, eyes closing in contentment as he gently presses himself close. A gloved hand worms its way to the small of your back, pulling you close as the die revels in your touch like an affectionate cat.