#A little sampling of angst for things to come

[mr-cha-n]

Glass Towers

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x fem!reader

Genres: fluff, angst, smut, architect AU

Warnings: Profanities, drinking, angst, sexual content, penetration, mouth stuff (f. receiving), tension, yearning

Word Count: 18.2k

Summary: City lights are beautiful, but they're nothing compared to the spark between a hopelessly optimistic architect and his no-nonsense boss. He hopes.

Mingyu's always had a thing for the city skyline. He stands there, staring up like a tourist in his own city, while the lights blink back at him. He's convinced that the twinkling stars work overtime in the winter to brighten up the world for busy employees, wonderstruck sightseers, and homebound natives alike. 

And the people? Oh, don't get him started. City folk are like ants with a caffeine addiction, scurrying down streets wide enough to do doughnuts on (he's tempted), all on their own secret missions. Got places to be, people to bump into, lives to live. And every now and then, there's a stray tourist wandering around like they're decoding a map from a century-old pirate treasure hunt, or a food vendor desperately offering free samples and a good, if unique, conversation.

But, most of all, he's got a soft spot for buildings. Those skyscrapers that loom over everyone like friendly giants are his favourite. They're tall, dramatic, stoic - but also weirdly welcoming, like they're saying "Come on in, friend, there's an elevator with your name on it." Each one holds a mini-universe of people with no clue that they're all part of this giant city love affair. And honestly? That's what Mingyu loves most.

That is why he is practically vibrating with excitement as he makes his way to the towering glass-and-steel behemoth that houses his new firm. This building is the pinnacle of urban architecture. It has a shiny, almost reflective facade that makes every other building on the block look like they'd shown up to the party in sweatpants. Windows stretch floor to floor like a series of portals to success.

He's read about this building, of course. Brought it up in the interview for the position. Its architect was apparently a big deal who had once described it as "a dialogue between the earth and the sky." Which, as far as Mingyu is concerned, is just fancy architect-speak for, "Look at how absurdly tall I can make things."

Stepping inside, he is immediately hit with that professional smell - a mix of leather-bound sofas, artisanal coffee, and freshly printed documents. The lobby is decorated with minimalist sculptures that seem like they could either be priceless modern art or just very confusing coat ranks. Either way, Mingyu thinks they look amazing and decides that he'd probably best never trying to lean on one.

He stops at the reception desk, where a sharply dressed woman with an impressively unflappable expression sits.

"Good morning!" He says, a little too enthusiastically. "I'm Kim Mingyu. I'm starting as the new project architect, so you'll probably see a lot of confused-looking, lost-guy moments from me."

She raises an eyebrow, a faint smile quirking on the edge of her lips. "Good luck, Mr Kim. This building does tend to eat people up on their first day."

Mingyu lets out a small chuckle, unsure if she's joking or not, but he takes the smile on her face to signify that she is. After getting directions to his new office space, he makes a point of talking to every staff member he sees on the way, hoping to gain a little bit of familiarity with the new space. There's the security guard by the elevator, who gives him a quick nod of approval, the intern rushing by with a stack of blueprints precariously balanced like they are training for Cirque du Soleil, and the coffee cart guy, who looked positively thrilled to tell Mingyu that they're starting a 'Mocha Monday' deal, envisioning half-price mochas flying off the shelf to cure those start-of-week blues.

The elevator itself is sleek, fast, and almost comically over-engineered. Encased in glass and stainless steel, it features a control panel with buttons for every floor and amenities like a mini espresso machine, a retractable tablet and an adjustable lighting system for 'mood optimisation'. He barely has time to catch his breath before the elevator doors ding open, depositing him on the top floor. 

Waiting for him is Mr Choi, the firm's head partner, a man so put-together than even his cufflinks look like they could close a business deal. Mingyu recognises him instantly - the same piercing gaze from his interview, though today softened by the faintest hint of a smile. Or, well, something that might one day consider becoming a smile.

"Good to see you again, Mingyu," Mr Choi greets, his voice as smooth as marble. He gestures down the hallway, as if guiding him into an architectural wonderland (which, for all intents and purposes, he is). "Shall we?"

They pass through a maze of glass-walled offices and open spaces dotted with architects, designers, and enough blueprint paper to wrap the world's largest birthday present. As they reach Mr Choi's office, Mingyu makes sure to hold the door open for his new boss.

The space is less of an office and more of an architectural shrine, humming with the wisdom of ten thousand blueprints. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city, as if the whole skyline had been personally curated just to keep Mr Choi inspired. His desk - a sleek slab of dark walnut with edges so sharp they could probably slice bread - sits precisely in the centre of the room. On the walls sit framed sketches of the firm's most iconic projects, each one hung and lit like a small art gallery. The coffee table at the centre piles high with glossy architecture magazines and books with titles like The Future of Concrete and The Language of Buildings. It is as if every element in the room had been strategically selected to convey that Mr Choi is not just any architect. 

And, most stunning of all, is you. Tall, poised, and commanding a presence that immediately silences whatever joke Mingyu has mentally queued up to break the ice. You're seated across from Mr Choi's desk, reading through a thick stack of documents with the intensity of someone evaluating world-changing data - or possibly planning the most efficient way to dismantle a skyscraper with your mind. You don't look up when he enters.

"Ms (Y/l/n)," Mr Choi says, a hint of amusement in his voice, "this is Kim Mingyu, our newest project architect. He'll be working under you, as we discussed."

Finally, you look up. There's a flash of something unreadable in your eyes as you meet his, and Mingyu's heart skips a beat. You're beautiful, of course, but not in the approachable way he'd normally charm his way though. There's a quiet sharpness to you, like the edge of a blade hidden under silk. You nod, polite but detached, and extend a hand across the desk. Mingyu's hand is halfway to yours before he realises he's probably grinning too wide.

"Mr Kim," You say, your tone flat and calm. "Welcome to the team."

"Thank you, Ms (Y/l/n)," he replies, fighting the urge to launch into an unnecessarily enthusiastic monologue about how honoured he is to work with someone as formidable as you. Instead, he forces himself to stick with, "It's a pleasure to be here."

Your handshake is brief, controlled, and you retract your hand almost before he's registered the contact. Then you sit back, folding your arms with a measured kind of grace that makes Mingyu feel like he's just been granted an audience with a queen.

"We'll be starting you off on the Langham project," you say, consulting your papers as if double-checking this fact - or maybe just avoiding his eyes. "I'll be overseeing your work and guiding you through our procedures here. We have high standards, and I'll expect you to meet them."

"Of course!" He nods vigorously, attempting his best I-won't-let-you-down smile. "I'm up for any challenge, Ms (Y/l/n). High standards are, uh, my middle name."

You raise an eyebrow, looking slightly perplexed, as though wondering if he might be serious. Mr Choi clears his throat, breaking the silence with a faint smirk that betrays a hint of secondhand amusement.

"Ms (Y/l/n)," he continues, "has been with us for nearly a decade. She's an invaluable asset to the firm. I trust you'll learn a great deal from her."

Mingyu nods earnestly, glancing at you, but you're already back to scanning the documents as if he's drifted into background noise. He's mildly disappointed, though he can't exactly blame you - after all, he is juts the latest recruit with probably a hundred questions, and you seem like the type who doesn't have time for aimless chatter.

"Any questions before we begin?" you ask, in a tone that suggests the answer you're really hoping for is 'no.'

But of course, Mingyu has questions. Too many, probably. He opens his mouth to ask one, but then catches the faintest glint of what he thinks might be impatience in your eyes and quickly changes gears.

"Actually, no," he says, flashing a thumbs-up. "Good to go!"

You don’t seem particularly impressed by this, but there’s a flicker of something — amusement, maybe? — before you turn back to Mr. Choi. "Shall I take him to the Langham briefing room, then?"

Mr Choi waves you off with a nod, and you rise with a brisk elegance that makes Mingyu almost trip over himself in an effort to follow. You walk him through the halls with a calm, businesslike air, giving succinct, precise explanations as you go. Every step you take feels purposeful, every word perfectly chosen. Mingyu feels like an eager puppy trotting beside you, but he's determined to keep up.

As you reach the briefing room, he can't resist trying to break the ice one more time. "You know," he starts, grinning. "I really love the city skyline. It's kind of why I got into architecture."

You pause, giving him a look that manages to be both blank and withering at once. "Is that so?"Yeah!" He barrels on, encouraged by the fact that you responded at all. "It's like ... it's all a big love letter to everyone living here, you know? Every building, every floor, every light in the window - it's all just there, lighting up people's lives."

There's a moment of silence. Mingyu wonders if maybe he overdid it.

Finally, you nod, albeit with an expression he can't quite place. "That's an ... optimistic way of looking at it, Mr Kim."

Optimistic? Not exactly the response he was hoping for, but he'll take it. He smiles, trying to hide his excitement at the fact that you actually acknowledged his point. "I guess that’s me — hopelessly optimistic."

You glance at him with what he might, just might, dare to interpret as the tiniest hint of a smirk. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by your usual professional demeanour.

"Well," you say crisply, gesturing to the plans spread out on the table. "Let’s see if that optimism translates to effective project execution."

By the time Mingyu finally steps out of the firm's towering glass sanctuary, the city has dipped into that golden hour where the skyline looks like it's been dipped in honey. The streets are packed with people still racing to meetings, or dinners, or late-night escapades, but Mingyu feels like he's in his own little bubble, still buzzing from the whirlwind of his first day.

He's not sure what's more overwhelming - the Langham project itself, which already feels like it's going to stretch every ounce of his architectural prowess and patience, or you. The way you carried yourself like you were born in this building, with all its sharp edges and polished surfaces. He isn't sure how to keep up with that level of composure.

But there was something there, wasn't there? A flicker of something. Maybe you were just humouring him, but there was that slight tilt of your lips when he said something slightly amusing. Or the way your eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary when he spoke. Of course, he could just be imagining it. But Mingyu isn't about to let go of that feeling just yet.

The subway ride home does little to calm his excitement. He thinks about the massive pile of documents he's expected to digest tonight for the briefing tomorrow. As the train rumbles beneath the city, Mingyu cracks open his bag and pulls out the folder that was handed to him this morning - a mess of blueprints, floor plans and complicated notes that look like they were designed to break a person's will to live. 

But he's not scared, not by this at least. The only thing that kind of scares him is the realisation that you are going to be watching him closely. Judging. Monitoring. And if he’s being honest, he’s not sure if he’s ready for that sort of proximity.

The train screeches to a halt, and Mingyu exits at his stop, shaking off those thoughts. Tonight, he’ll just have to forget about all that for now and focus on getting some food in his stomach. Besides, he’s almost home.

Mingyu’s apartment building isn’t anything to write home about. It’s not a shiny, glass-covered marvel like the office, but it’s cozy and warm, with enough character to make him feel like he has a place to call his own. His apartment is on the fourth floor, up a narrow staircase that creaks with every step. As he pulls his key from his pocket and unlocks the door, the familiar smell of instant ramen and coffee hits him. His flatmate, Wonwoo, is already home.

Wonwoo’s there in the living room, sprawled across the couch with his laptop on his lap and a half-empty mug of coffee next to him. He’s the polar opposite of Mingyu in almost every way: quiet, reserved, and extremely not into architecture, but somehow they’ve been rooming together for the past few years without any major conflicts. Mingyu’s loud, chaotic energy and tendency to overshare perfectly balances Wonwoo’s brooding, half-mysterious vibe. It’s a friendship forged in caffeine and mutual understanding that sometimes, you need someone who won’t judge when you blast pop music at 2 AM, or when you eat cereal for dinner because you forgot to go grocery shopping.

"How’s the first day?" Wonwoo doesn’t look up from his screen, his voice cool and unbothered. But Mingyu can tell he’s asking out of a form of polite curiosity, like a scientist observing a very energetic specimen.

Mingyu drops his bag on the counter and flops onto the couch next to him. "It was ... intense," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "The project I'm gonna be working on is a beast. There's this whole ocean of details to sift through. And then there's Ms (Y/l/n)."

Wonwoo looks up, his brow slightly raised. "Your boss?"

"Yeah," Mingyu says, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "She's something else. Like she doesn't seem interested in me at all, and I'm not sure how to deal with that. But she's got this, like, presence. Makes you want to impress her, y'know? Even when she's totally stone-faced - especially when, actually."

Wonwoo hums noncommittally and takes a sip of his coffee, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "So, you're in love with your boss already. Good to know."

Mingyu shoots him a mock glare, his cheeks ringing with a hint of pink. "I'm not in love with her, okay? It's more like ... fascination. She's just really intimidating."

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, the picture of dry amusement. "Uh-huh. Sure. And what's her deal, anyway? Too professional for your flirty smile?"

"She doesn't seem flattered by it." Mingyu dramatically drops his head into his hands, mimicking a tragic melodrama. "I might have to rethink my whole life strategy if I can’t get her to crack a smile at my jokes."

"But hey," Wonwoo adds with a smirk, "if you want to survive your first week, I suggest you do not mention the city skyline and your theories about how it’s a love letter to people. That’s a hard pass."

Mingyu groans, covering his face in embarrassment. "I’m never telling you anything ever again."

Wonwoo chuckles, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied grin. "You love me and you know it."

Mingyu snorts. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’ve got work to do." He picks up the pile of documents, pulling them closer with a resigned sigh. "Gotta impress Ms (Y/l/n) somehow."

Gulping down a quick 'dinner' of left-over stir fry and a couple of eggs for good measure, Mingyu picks back up the Langham project folder, its content still a chaotic swirl of technical specs and words he can't read, and flips open the first few pages. The project itself is a massive undertaking - a luxury hotel and mixed-use complex nestled in the heart of the city, right by the river. The building is going to stretch twenty stories high, with glass facades that'll reflect the river's light like a prism. The design includes state-of-the-art amenities, with the goal of being the ultimate urban getaway - a haven for tourists, business moguls, and the occasional local who just wants to treat themselves to a little luxury.

Mingyu's eyes light up as he scans the proposed design. There's a grand atrium in the centre, stretching all the way up to the top floor, with cascading gardens and open-air terraces. "So fancy," he mutters to himself. His team is clearly trying to push boundaries here, blending modern steel and glass with organic elements - like a giant metallic tree-house hybrid for the city's elite.

He flips to a page filled with notes about sustainability and energy efficiency. They’re aiming for a platinum LEED certification — top-tier green building status. It’s all about using smart, eco-friendly tech to make the building as self-sustaining as possible. Mingyu groans inwardly, wondering if he’s about to become an expert on solar panels and rainwater harvesting.

As he continues reading, one particular detail catches his eye. The signature design element for the building is a series of “floating” glass bridges between the upper floors — a bold architectural statement meant to make the building appear less like a typical office block and more like something out of a futuristic movie. It sounds incredible, but Mingyu can already picture himself pulling his hair out over the engineering calculations required to make sure the whole thing doesn’t come crashing down in a windstorm.

By the time he reaches the end of the folder, his mind is spinning, and a mild panic starts to creep in. Your expectations are clear, and the project’s scope is enormous. But Mingyu can’t help the tiny spark of excitement that flickers in his chest. This is what he’s been working toward — to be a part of something that will change the city’s landscape, something that will make people stop and look up.

He rubs his eyes and glances at the clock. It's late, but he knows he'll need all the preparation he can get for tomorrow.

With one last long look at the papers, Mingyu closes the folder, shoving it aside with a resigned sigh. "I’m going to need a lot more coffee," he mutters, flopping back on the couch beside Wonwoo, who’s already half asleep with his laptop still glowing faintly in his lap.

Wonwoo snorts without opening his eyes. "You’re going to need more than coffee for this, buddy."

"Tell me about it," Mingyu grins, grabbing his phone to order another coffee, just in case he didn’t have enough already. Tonight, it looks like he’s going to be living on caffeine and architectural dreams.

A few weeks into the job, Mingyu has already made a significant number of mistakes. Well, significant is probably an understatement. More like a collection of blunders so impressive that, if anyone were to catalogue them, they might think Mingyu was trying to break some sort of world record in architectural mishaps.

It starts innocently enough, with a small miscalculation on the elevator shaft dimensions that nearly caused a minor freakout in the engineering department. Then there was that time he mixed up the load-bearing capacity for the glass facades and accidentally sent an email to the whole team saying, "We could use stronger glass" when technically, the existing plans were fine. And, of course, who could forget that time he got overzealous and rearranged the project's timeline, shaving an entire month off the construction schedule, only to realise later that it was a little bit too ambitious for anyone's taste?

He still hasn't lived down the elevator incident, which, for the record, wasn't even entirely his fault. But it's hard to explain that when your eyes are drilling into him from across the room, a careful blend of disappointment and 'I'm trying not to send you into an existential crisis right now.'

Today, he's perched at his desk watching the clock tick down the minutes until the inevitable meeting with you. His fingers drum nervously on the edge of his notepad. There's a fresh stack of papers in front of him, each one brimming with red-inked corrections, and he knows what's coming. He's almost perfected the art of nodding in silent shame during your critiques, hoping the earth might swallow him whole.

When the meeting finally comes, you walk into the room, as poised and unbothered as ever. He tries to stand up to greet you, but he stumbles into his chair instead, catching himself just in time.

"You've been busy," you say dryly, as you flip through the stack of appears, your eyes scanning the marked-up blueprints. Your tone is sharp, like an exam proctor giving him one last chance to pass without the lecture.

Mingyu forces a grin, wiping his palms against his pants. "Yep, learning a lot on the fly, you know?"

You don't smile. "You've certainly given us a lot to work with."

Mingyu winces, cracking for the inevitable storm of corrections. He can already feel the weight of your disappointment pressing down on him. He's been trying so hard to make a good impression, but it seems every time he tries, he only ends up making things more complicated.

But then, as if you've suddenly decided that maybe he hasn’t completely bungled everything, you pause, tapping your pen against the papers in front of you. “But there’s one thing...”

His heart stutters. "What's that?"

You flip to the last page in the folder, revealing a neatly detailed diagram of the building's eco-friendly water filtration system, a proposal Mingyu put together at the last minute after a rather inspiring lunch break (where he might have gotten just a little carried away talking to the environmental consultant). You tap the diagram. "This," you say, your voice softer than he's ever heard it, "This is well done. You identified a potential issue with the system that we hadn't accounted for in the original design. We'll need to revise a few things to integrate it fully, but this is exactly the kind of thinking we need."

Mingyu stares at you, completely caught off guard. His brain is still half-parked in panic mode from the earlier mistakes. and he can't quite process your words. Did you just ... praise him?

"Really?" He blinks, his surprise making his voice higher than usual. "You mean the, uh, water thing? I just thought it might be better if we-"

"I know," you interrupt, your gaze steady on him. "You found a solution we missed. We'll be able to integrate it without a massive redesign. Good work."

Mingyu blinks again, this time in pure disbelief. It's like someone just handed him a bag of cash and told him to keep it. "I - uh, wow. Thanks." He tries to act cool, but he's pretty sure he looks like a kid who's just been handed an extra cookie.

You don't break your composed demeanour, but there's a subtle shift in your expression - a quiet respect that wasn't there before. "You're capable, Mr Kim," you say, your voice calm but with a hint of approval. "Despite your tendency to make things a little more complicated than necessary, you're on the right track."

The words hang in the air for a moment, and Mingyu feels an odd rush of pride — a mix of relief and the kind of warmth you get when you find out you didn’t totally mess everything up. For once, he’s not the guy who ruins everything in your eyes.

And, maybe, just maybe, he can keep that “capable” label for a while.

“I’ll expect the revised plans on my desk by Friday,” you say, your voice steady. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t!” Mingyu promises, his voice more confident than it’s been in weeks. “I’m on it.”

Mingyu throws himself into revising the plans with a fervour that borders on obsession. He’s got spreadsheets, CAD files, hand-drawn sketches, and a brand new stack of sticky notes covering his desk like a rainbow-coloured fortress of architectural ambition. The water filtration system has turned into his personal magnum opus, and he’s determined to make sure it’s nothing short of revolutionary.

He's started to stay later than usual, his desk lamp becoming a beacon in the dimmed office. At first, he doesn't pay much attention to who else is around, his mind so wrapped up in calculations and potential pitfalls that he barely notices his own hunger or fatigue. But after a few nights, he realises he's not the only one burning the midnight oil.

Your office light is always on. Sometimes he'll glance up, bleary-eyed and half delirious from staring at documents, and he'll catch a glimpse of you through the glass walls - hair pulled back, eyes locked on your laptop screen, fingers tapping briskly on the keys as if your thoughts are sprinting ahead of your hands. You're a constant fixture, as much a part of the office's architecture as the polished marble floors and unbreakable glass doors. And, he realises, you're usually there even later than he is.

One evening, after finally signing off on what feels like the hundredth draft of the plans, Mingyu yawns and stretches, feeling every vertebra pop like bubble wrap. He glances at the clock. It's nearly midnight. As he stands to grab his coat, he sees your office light flick off, and you appear, looking just as composed as you did this morning, as if working fifteen hours straight is just part of your weekly routine.

You both walk to the elevator in silence, the quiet stretch of the office settling around you like an unspoken truce. When the elevator doors close, you glance at him, breaking the silence with a casual, "You're still here, Mr Kim."

He lets out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, still making sure I don't mess up the Langham project. You know how it is."

You don't smile, but your expression softens. "I do."

The elevator ride is quiet, filled with the low hum of machinery and the faintest scent of Mingyu's cologne - a last-ditch attempt this morning to feel professional. When you step out onto the ground floor, you hesitate by the door, glancing out at the street. The city is dark and quiet, the only lights the occasional passing car and the soft glow of streetlamps.

"Do you have a way home?" You ask, your voice so casual it takes him a second to realise you're actually offering him a ride.

Mingyu blinks, caught off guard. "Uh, well, I was going to take the subway. But if you're offering..." He trails off, grinning sheepishly.

You nod, motioning to the car parked just outside. It's as sleek and polished as you are - a dark sedan that looks like it would have absolutely no patience for speed bumps. He slides into the passenger seat, trying not to fumble with his seatbelt, and you start the engine, pulling into the quiet streets with a calm, practised ease.

For a while, you drive in silence. Mingyu glances out the window, his thoughts tangled between the day's work and the surreal feeling of sitting in the same car as you.

"You're ... very driven," you break the quiet, your tone almost contemplative. "I don't often see people put in that kind of effort, especially so early on."

He chuckles softly, scratching the back of his neck. "Guess I just don’t want to let you down. Or, you know, be known as the guy who destroyed the Langham project.”

You finally smile, a small, genuine expression that feels like a rare peek beyond the wall, and leaves Mingyu feeling a little breathless. "It's more than that, though, isn't it?"

Mingyu hesitates, taken aback by the question. He’s not sure what he expected you to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “I mean, yeah. I’ve always loved buildings. Ever since I was a kid, I’d spend hours sketching skyscrapers in my notebooks. It’s kind of a dream come true, being here. Getting to work on something this big.”

You listen, your eyes fixed on the road but your expression soft, focusing now somewhere beyond just his words.

"This job can consume you, if you let it," you say quietly, almost to yourself. "It's a rare thing to see someone bring genuine excitement to it. Most people, they burn out or let it harden them." You glance at him, and for a brief moment, he sees a flicker of something almost vulnerable in your gaze. "It's good that you still ... care."

Your words hang in the air, and Mingyu feels a strange ache in his chest - a sudden realisation that beneath the cool professionalism, you had been through this same path yourself, fighting to keep that spark alive in an industry that seems determined to grind it out of you.

"Thanks," he says softly, the playful tone absent for once. "I mean it. And ... I think I get what you mean." He hesitates, then adds, "But I don't think I'll stop caring anytime soon."

You nod, a faint smile ghosting your lips. You drive on through the city, the lights casting soft, shifting patterns on the glass.

When you finally reach his building, he unbuckles his seatbelt, giving you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks for the ride. And, you know… for everything else.”

You nod, your expression back to usual, but there's a warmth in your eyes now. "Goodnight, Mr Kim."

"Goodnight," he says, stepping out and closing the door gently. He watches as you drive away, the taillights disappearing down the street, and feels a strange mixture of inspiration and relief, and a hunger to get back in the car and learn anything else he can about you.

It's a week before his presentation, and Mingyu is thrilled about his latest proposal for the Lagham project - a sleek, eco-friendly rooftop space designed to collect rainwater, enhance natural cooling, and serve as a green oasis in the middle of the city for all visitors to access. It's his baby, his architectural pièce de résistance. He’s already named the design “Green Above” in his head, but, apparently, the client is less than convinced.

The hesitation comes during a routine check-in meeting, when Mr. Choi casually drops the news that the client has “concerns.” The term is as vague as it is ominous, and Mingyu’s heart sinks. Apparently, they’re worried it’s too “experimental,” too “risky” for the firm’s conservative image. Mingyu tries to hide his disappointment, nodding as Mr. Choi politely recommends that he “polish up his pitch” before the big day.

By “polish,” of course, he means pull a miracle out of thin air.

Enter: you.

Later that afternoon, you call him into your office, the door clicking shut behind him as you gesture for him to sit. He braces himself, ready for another dissection of his work, but instead, you surprise him by pulling out his sketches and nodding. "The client might be wary," you say, your tone clinical and level, "but there's a strong case for this. You just need to learn how to show them the vision." You pause, looking at him. "I'll help you with that."

Mingyu blinks. "You'll help me present?"

"Yes, Mr Kim," you say. "We'll work on this every evening until you're confident enough to convince a room full of sceptics. You'll have to be better than good. Exceptional."

And so, every evening for the next week, Mingyu stays late in the conference room, rehearsing his proposal with you. The first night, he stumbles through the trial run, mumbling about sustainable design, only to have you stop him after two minutes, unimpressed.

"Start over," you say, tapping your pen against the table. "And this time, stop burying the lead. Walk in there and make me believe it's the best thing I've ever heard."

You're relentless but patient, correcting him when he gets too caught up in technical jargon, showing him how to highlight the benefits rather than the process. "This is a story," you tell him one evening. "Show that what it feels like. Make them see the vision before you go into how it works."

Somewhere around the fourth late night, you sit back into your chair after another dry run, watching him with an intensity that makes him nearly forget his lines.

“Stop talking like you’re trying to convince them you’re good enough,” you say, "You are. You have to believe it, or no one else will."

Mingyu blinks, the words landing with unexpected weight. You say it like it's a fact - as if there's no question about his abilities, just his confidence. Something in your gaze is softer than he's ever seen, and for the first time, he wonders how many long nights like these you've spent not just perfecting your work, but holding yourself up to impossible standards too.

He nods, taking a breath. “Right. Believe it.”

By the night before the presentation, he’d rehearsed the pitch so many times he could recite it in his sleep. You give him one last nod, a subtle flicker of approval in your eyes. "You're ready."

The day of the meeting dawns, and Mingyu arrives early, the faint taste of nerves tingling in his throat. When he enters the boardroom, the client representatives are all seated, an assortment of tailored suits and sceptical expressions. Mr. Choi offers a nod of encouragement from his place at the head of the table, and you stand nearby, arms folded, watching him with that same quiet intensity.

As he begins his pitch, Mingyu can feel his initial nerves settle, his voice steady as he moves through each point. He doesn’t just talk about “Green Above” like an idea on paper; he paints it as a vision, something meant to make the city’s skyline greener, bolder, better. He gestures to the architectural mockups, describing the rooftop garden as not just a feature but a destination, an asset that would be both functional and iconic.

He can tell, halfway through, that the room has shifted. The clients sit forward, nodding, leaning into his words, their initial scepticism melting as he lays out the plan. The numbers, the materials, the maintenance — it’s all there, practical but wrapped in the bigger picture he’s been rehearsing for nights on end.

When he finishes, the room is silent for a beat before the client’s lead representative nods, visibly impressed. “It’s… ambitious,” he says, almost smiling. “But I see what you mean. Let’s move forward.”

Mingyu grins, fighting the urge to fist pump as the clients exchange approving glances. He looks over at you, who gives him the slightest nod of approval. He can almost see a glimmer of pride in your expression, faint but undeniable.

As the room empties and the clients file out, Mingyu's heart is still racing, his whole body humming with triumph. He turns to you, grinning wide. "We did it," he says, his voice barely containing his excitement. "I mean ... I did it. But only because you..."

He trails off, realising just how close you're standing, the quiet of the empty room settling around you. Your gaze meets his, and for a moment, you don't look away. It's a long, lingering look, like you're seeing him not just as an employee or an eager architect but as… him. Someone who cares, who tries, who’s just won his first major victory and feels like he’s on top of the world.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “For all of it. I don’t think I could have pulled it off without you.”

You hesitate, your eyes flickering with something he can’t quite place. Your expression softens, your lips parting slightly as if your about to say something else. And in that moment, there’s a warmth between them, a shared understanding that words alone wouldn’t quite capture.

“Just… keep going,” you say finally, your voice so quiet it feels like a secret. “You’re more capable than you realize, Mingyu.”

The way you says his name — with that subtle, unfamiliar warmth — makes his heart skip. He nods, still holding your gaze, feeling the weight of everything you’ve shared in the past week in that single, electric second.

And then, as if the moment might disappear if you linger too long, you step back, your usual composure slipping back into place.

For the first time, Mingyu feels that maybe — just maybe — there’s more between them than late-night work sessions and professional boundaries. And as you walk side by side down the quiet hall, he can’t shake the feeling that, for the first time, you might be feeling it too.

Mingyu's gotten good at convincing himself he's not entirely losing it. So what if his boss, who barely blinks at a 15-hour day and thinks "weekends" are a suggestion, is suddenly occupying 90% of his mental bandwidth? That's just ... professional admiration. So when he finds himself thinking about you at odd times - like, mid-bite of his breakfast burrito, or what he's supposed to be learning zoning codes - he brushes it off. After all, it's normal to be totally absorbed by someone you admire.

One evening, after bringing home takeout and trying (again) to casually mention his most recent success, Wonwoo decides to drop a bomb. "I saw an article about your boss the other day, you know. Back when she first joined the firm. People in the comments kept talking about something called the Westbrook Project - ever heard of it?"

"Westbrook Project?" Mingyu repeats, a little too quickly, his brain scrambling. Nothing. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard the name before, but it’s his boss, so he’s probably supposed to know. After Wonwoo can't provide any more details, Mingyu does what any self-respecting architect does at 2 a.m. when faced with a mysterious professional tidbit: he Googles it. Expecting, like, a vague overview, maybe some old press releases. What he finds, though, are words like "abandoned," "budget issues," and, worst of all, "failure," with your name all over it. Ouch. Big, deep ouch.

The next day at work, Mingyu manages to strike up a casual conversation with the marketing guy who's practically the office encyclopedia. "Oh, the Westbrook Project?" he says with a knowing smirk. "I read the case files. It was supposed to be, like, revolutionary. Eco-forward, huge downtown build. A lot of drama when it got shut down. Man, Ms (Y/l/n) was obsessed with that thing. You've gotta respect someone who fights like that for their work." He laughs a little, but there's something almost pitying in his tone, like he doesn't quite know what to make of someone who has been through such a high-profile professional failure.

Mingyu's stomach drops as he realises that there's a whole side of you - this weight - he never saw before. He feels embarrassed for not knowing. But, maybe, it explains the way you hold yourself together, so careful with your words, so precise in every gesture. Because what happens when you give so much of yourself, and it still isn't enough?

Mingyu can't help but glance at you differently when you walk into the office. You're still the same, all business and poise, but there's a weight to you now that he hadn't noticed before. It's not his place to ask you about Westbrook, and he's not sure he could even bring it up without tripping over his own words.

So, Mingyu brings it up.

Not immediately, because he's not that much of a disaster. It's not the same day, or even the same week. It's one of those late nights when he's deep into pretending he's not panicking over math, and he's only going into your office to ask if you've seen the last-minute email from the client. 

Except. 

He sees the bottle of red on your desk.

It's sitting there, a little too casually, with half of it in a glass that's perched too close to your mouse. 

It's not that Mingyu thought you didn't drink. But seeing it there, on your desk, is like catching a glimpse of a teacher's pet outside of school. His brain starts spiralling. Are you getting drunk? Are you able to get drunk?

Still standing in the doorway like he's caught in some sort of personal disaster movie, Mingyu clears his throat. "Uh," he starts, because his brain is still stuck on you drinking alcohol in the office, "What's the deal with the wine?"

You glance up from your computer, completely unfazed. "Oh, this?" You wave a hand, almost like it’s nothing. “A gift from a client. They thought I needed something to ‘relax’ after all the late nights." You flash a teasing grin. "I didn’t think anyone else would be in the office this late, though."

Mingyu freezes again. Seeing a smile on your face is unnerving him. "Uh, well, yeah ... just ... I thought you were busy, y'know? I didn't want to disturb you," he stammers, as if that makes any sense. Of course you know he's here. He's always here. He's practically a fixture at this point.

You raise an eyebrow at him, clearly not fooled. “Sure you didn’t. Anyway, now that you’re here," you say, looking at him with a glint of curiosity, "what’s been keeping you up lately? Besides zoning codes and whatever else you’ve been trying to memorise, that is."

Mingyu, caught completely off guard by the question, opens his mouth to respond, but his brain, still fighting the urge to melt into the floor, can't form a proper sentence. His gaze flicks back to the wine bottle like it holds all the answers to his life right now. Finally, he blurts out, "Uhh... I’ve been, uh, thinking about the Green Above project. You know, the one we’re working on?"

“Right,” you nod, leaning back in your chair. “Big, green rooftop. You’ve got your hands full with that one.” You take a sip from your glass, and Mingyu swears the way your lips wrap around the rim is completely unfair to his focus. “What else?”

Mingyu, not used to people asking him personal questions that aren’t about work or how he’s planning on saving the planet with his architectural genius, scratches the back of his neck. “Uh... I mean, well, I’ve been wondering about... you. I mean, your—" he pauses, shaking his head, "your work, of course. Like, how you got into all this. You’ve clearly been through a lot, right?”

You chuckle softly, eyes softening for a brief moment. "A lot? Yeah, I guess you could say that. But that’s not what we’re talking about right now, is it?" You lean forward. "What's really going on, Mingyu?"

Mingyu’s mind is officially in crisis mode. He could barely form a sentence when talking about wine, and now you’ve flipped the tables. What is he even supposed to say?

“I—uh, well, it’s just... I’m curious,” he mutters, struggling to sound casual. He bites his lip, then his curiosity gets the best of him. “Wait, can I ask about something?”

You lean back again, clearly amused. “Go ahead.”

He takes a breath and gestures to the cabinet rested against the back wall of your office. "That picture there .. of a building, I think? It kind of looks like the Westbrook Project. Was it yours?” He winces as soon as he asks, knowing full well how awkward this must sound. But now he really wants to know, and he’s not sure he can keep pretending he hasn’t been thinking about it.

You blink, clearly not expecting him to ask, but then you just sigh and open your desk drawer, revealing an old architectural sketch, detailed and bold, with a city skyline in the background. “Yeah,” you say, voice quieter now. “It was.”

Mingyu swallows hard, his voice dropping to a more respectful tone. “What happened to it? The project, I mean... why didn’t it go through?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you take another slow sip of your wine, letting the moment stretch out. When you finally speak, your voice is calm but laced with something unspoken. “It was a good idea, just... not the right time. But that’s how it goes sometimes in this field. Things get started, and then... they don’t.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything at first, processing what you’ve shared. “I get that,” he says softly. “I think I’ve been there too. You know, not everything works out exactly the way you expect.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, there’s this quiet weight in your expression, something raw you don’t usually let slip. The smile fades, but it’s not replaced with sadness—more like... an understanding, an acceptance.

“The Westbrook Project was supposed to be everything I’ve worked for,” you begin, your voice softer now, like the walls are coming down just a little. “My goal has always been to help the community, to build things that people can actually enjoy, not just walk by and forget. I wanted something that would be a part of the city, something that people could use—a space that felt like it belonged to everyone.” You stop, looking at the picture in the drawer for a moment as if it’s not just a sketch, but a piece of your heart. "The Westbrook Project was supposed to be the culmination of all that. The perfect mix of green spaces, architecture, and public access. I wanted to create something people would look at and feel like they were part of it, you know? Not just bystanders."

You take another slow breath, running a hand through your hair, looking a bit less put-together than usual, but somehow even more... real. “I think that’s the hardest part. It wasn’t just a project to me—it was everything I believed in. And when it got shut down... it felt like a piece of that belief just... crumbled.” You shake your head, almost laughing at yourself. “I know it sounds dramatic, but when you spend so much of your time fighting for something, putting everything into it... and it still isn’t enough... it makes you wonder what the point is.”

Mingyu watches you closely with a strange mix of admiration and empathy. For a second, he’s struck with the urge to reach out and say something comforting, but all he can manage is a quiet, "That... sounds incredible. You must have been really proud of it."

You nod, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I was. Still am, in a way. But life moves on, right?” You glance back at the bottle of wine, then take another sip, before setting it down and meeting Mingyu’s gaze again, this time with a lighter, almost teasing glint. "You want some?"

“Uh... yeah?” he says, but it comes out more like a question than a statement, as if he's still trying to make sure this is actually happening.

You pour him a glass, your movements slow and deliberate. Mingyu watches every little gesture, thinking that maybe if he looks at the wine long enough, it might just turn into something less dangerous. It doesn't.

He takes the glass from you, trying to act casual, but honestly? It's a miracle he doesn’t spill it everywhere. "Thanks," he mutters.

You smirk at him as if you know exactly what’s going on in his head, and for a moment, Mingyu wonders if you can hear it, too—the way his pulse skips whenever he looks at you. He takes a sip of the wine, hoping it will steady him. It doesn’t. It only makes him more aware of you, of the way your eyes glint in the dim light of the office, how close you’re sitting, how warm it feels in here all of a sudden.

“So,” you say, your voice dropping a little lower than before, “Now that we’ve gone through my failed projects, do you feel enlightened?”

Mingyu laughs, but it’s a little too breathless, a little too caught off guard. He leans back, trying to appear cool, but it’s hard to be anything but a mess when you’re so close and everything feels a little off in the best possible way. “Enlightened? I’m still figuring out if you’re real,” he admits, voice cracking just a bit.

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What does that mean?”

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze for a moment as his thoughts scatter in a dozen different directions. “It’s just ... you’re different than what I expected. I mean, you’re still, like, boss mode, but there’s this whole other side to you. Like, I don't know ... I think I’ve been seeing you as this untouchable, perfect person, and now I’m realising maybe I’m not the only one who’s human.”

You blink at him for a moment, and then—before he can get too embarrassed—something flickers across your face. Maybe it’s recognition. Maybe it’s something else. You lean in just slightly, the air between you thickening, but you don't break the distance just yet.

“I think,” you start slowly, “you might be onto something there, Mingyu.”

His breath hitches. He’s not sure if it’s the wine, the late hour, or the way your voice dropped that has him leaning forward a little. It’s all of it, really. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, lips curling into a knowing smile. “You might find I’m not so untouchable, after all. But—” You pause, the tension rising as your eyes flicker down to his lips, then back to his eyes. “We’ll see if you can handle the reality of that.”

Mingyu’s mind is going full tilt now, brain in overdrive, as his hand involuntarily moves closer to yours on the desk. He's this close to spilling all his thoughts and feelings—about work, about the project, about the way you make him feel—but instead, he blurts out, “I—uh, I’m pretty good with challenges.”

The words hang there, thick in the air between you. And then, before Mingyu can think any more about it, you break the tension—just slightly—by leaning even closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure you are.”

The space between you shrinks, just a little. And Mingyu, heart hammering in his chest, finds himself absolutely certain that if things don’t shift soon, this office might just catch fire from how hot it’s gotten in the last few minutes. The tension in the air is thick, like static before a storm. Mingyu’s hand hovers just a fraction too close to yours on the desk, his heart a jackhammer in his chest. He’s this close to losing all control, caught between wanting to say the right thing and just leaning in and kissing you. But what would that even mean? Would it be the worst decision of his life? Or the best?

His thoughts are a mess, but then—just like that—it’s like you’ve made up your mind for him. You close the space between you with a single, deliberate movement, your lips pressing softly against his.

Mingyu freezes for half a second, too stunned to process what’s happening. And then, without even thinking, he leans into the kiss, his hand moving to cup your jaw. It’s slow at first, soft, like neither of you can quite believe this is actually happening. Your lips are warm, and the taste of wine lingers on them—something sweet and intoxicating that has his head spinning.

You pull back just slightly, your breath brushing against his lips, and he feels his pulse race. You look at him, eyes dark with something unreadable. "You're not regretting this, are you?" you murmur, voice low.

“No,” he breathes out, shaking his head. “Definitely not regretting this.”

And then you’re kissing him again, deeper this time, your hands moving to his collar as if you’re suddenly both starved for this closeness. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and all he can think about is how right this feels, how every inch of him seems to have been made for this exact moment.

The kiss grows more urgent, more heated. His body presses into yours, the desk suddenly feeling too small, too far away. He wants you closer, needs you closer, and the way you move against him makes him ache with desire. He’s so lost in you, in this kiss, that everything else fades away—the Westbrook Project, work deadlines, the office. There’s only you, only this.

You're mumbling something and Mingyu's not sure he has the brain capacity to listen when he can feel your hands on his chest and your body pressed against his.

"... couldn't believe it when I saw you. I mean, who looks like this?"

His brain practically short-circuits at that. 

You’re grinning now, clearly enjoying his flustered reaction, and he can feel his cheeks heat up. But before he can manage a reply, you reach up, your hand grazing the back of his neck as you lean in again. His breath catches in his throat, and suddenly his brain clears—just long enough for him to close the remaining distance between you two.

The kiss this time is less hesitant, filled with a kind of urgency that makes the room feel smaller, more intense. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you against him, and he feels your fingers twisting in his hair as if you can’t get enough either. Every brush of your lips sends another jolt through him, and he’s quickly losing any sense of professionalism or reason. He’s just Mingyu, in this moment, in this office, completely undone by you.

You’re mumbling again, half-laughing as he trails his lips down to the corner of your mouth and just slightly to your jawline. “I mean, really,” you manage between kisses, breathy but amused. “Did you even realise the effect you have?”

He lets out a breath of laughter against your skin, half a smirk forming. “I—I mean, maybe,” he says, but the words come out more as a gasp because you’ve got your hands back on him, your fingers trailing along his jaw in a way that has him melting. “I might have... kinda hoped, at least?”

“Oh?” Your voice is soft, teasing, and he catches a flash of that mischievous smile just before you lean in again, catching him in another kiss that’s more intense, more consuming than before.

Mingyu’s senses are a blur, but he manages to break away for just a second, eyes dark, a grin of his own tugging at his lips. “I think,” he says, his voice low, “I’d like to show you just how much I can handle.” His tone is playful but edged with a confidence he didn’t know he had until this very moment.

The moment is thick, like honey, everything moving slower and faster at once. Mingyu’s hands slip around your waist, and you’re tugging him closer, a little breathless, a little reckless. You’re both lost in the feeling of it, the thrill and warmth that seemed impossible just minutes ago.

But then—a sharp vibration echoes against the desk. The hum of your phone springs to life, startling you both. The screen lights up with an urgent notification, reminding you exactly where you are and what you’re doing.

You pull back, your lips just a whisper away from his, and a flicker of reality cuts through the haze of the moment. “Oh—” Your hands drop from his collar, fingertips brushing his chest as if the memory of the touch will fade otherwise. “Mingyu, I...”

His eyes meet yours, still dark and soft, a little dazed, a little too hopeful. But he pulls himself together, straightening and running a hand through his hair, somehow flustered and grinning at the same time. “Uh, right. Sorry,” he says, though it’s not clear who he’s apologising to.

You swallow, nodding as you try to steady yourself. “I—need to go,” you manage. “We both do, actually. It’s...late.”

Mingyu blinks, nodding, though he can't help the hint of disappointment beneath his expression. “Right. Of course. We probably... shouldn’t even be here right now.” He laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his head as if that could somehow erase the last few minutes. “Guess I should close up?”

You nod, and he watches your hand move to your chest, as if to catch your pulse before it runs off. “Yeah, let’s...do that.”

As you step out of the office, you glance back one last time, catching his eye in the dim light. “Goodnight, Mingyu.”

His gaze is steady, his voice warm. “Goodnight.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and Mingyu stands there, staring at it as if it might magically swing back open. For a moment, he doesn’t move, too stunned to process the fact that you were just here, inches away, closer than he ever thought possible, and then—gone. The warmth of you, the softness of your touch, is still buzzing on his skin, and it’s taking everything in him to not replay every single second in his mind.

He lets out a shaky breath and rubs his face, laughing softly to himself. “Wow,” he mutters, barely believing it. Did that really just happen? His boss—the woman he’s spent months trying not to have a full-on crisis over every time she looks at him—just kissed him. And it wasn’t just a peck; it was real, and his head is still spinning.

He paces the office, catching his reflection in the dark window. His hair’s a mess, his shirt collar a little crumpled, and the look on his face is somewhere between ecstatic and completely lost. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff���excited but terrified, staring down into something he can’t quite see.

“Okay, pull it together, man,” he whispers, clutching the edge of his desk like it might hold him steady. But he can’t shake the lingering feeling of your hands against him, the way your voice softened as you spoke to him about your dreams, how for a moment, he felt like he’d glimpsed something real and vulnerable and human in you. It’s like he’s been handed the answer to a riddle he didn’t even know he was solving.

He glances back at the empty doorway and smiles, a little helplessly. Because he knows—there’s no going back from this.

On Monday, Mingyu is ready. He's had days to replay every single second of that kiss, dissecting the tiniest details: the way you'd smiled before leaning in, the way you'd pulled back just a bit only to close the gap even tighter the next time. He’s convinced there’s no way you could look at him the same after that. He’s barely looked at himself the same.

So when he walks into the office Monday morning, there's this nervous excitement buzzing in his chest. He expects maybe a shared look or even a subtle nod, something that says 'yeah, we're definitely not forgetting that happened'. But he doesn't get that. In fact, he doesn't get much of anything.

“Uh, good morning,” he finally says, attempting a smile, hoping to break whatever tension he’s imagining.

“Morning,” you say briskly, barely looking up. “Did you get the updated renderings for the Green Above project?”

Mingyu blinks, caught off guard by how quickly you’ve brushed him off. “Yeah, I—um, they should be in your inbox. I, uh, made some adjustments you might want to look at.”

“Great. I’ll check later,” you say, curtly, already turning back to your computer. It’s not even like you’re being rude, exactly; just… distant. Professional. Totally not how you’d looked at him last week when he’d practically melted into you against this very desk.

The day drags on with more of the same. Every time he tries to catch your eye, you’re looking somewhere else. Every attempt at a lighthearted comment, something to bridge the gap, lands with a dull thud. By mid-afternoon, Mingyu’s just staring at his computer screen, feeling completely lost. Did he imagine everything? Because suddenly, it feels like he’s reading way too much into every little thing, wondering if the smile you’d given him that night was all in his head.

By the end of the day, he can’t take it anymore. He decides to be subtle—or something like that—and casually leans into your office as you’re gathering your things.

“Hey, um… are we good?” He tries to keep his voice light, but there’s an edge of worry there that he can’t quite hide. “It feels like—well, last week was—”

You glance up sharply, your expression guarded. “We’re fine, Mingyu,” you say, with a tone that’s just a little too even. “You’re doing great on the project. Keep up the good work.”

There’s that polished professional mask again, and this time it feels like a wall. Mingyu’s stomach twists, and he can’t help but feel a sting in his chest. He nods, trying to ignore the disappointment sinking in. "Right. Yeah, I’ll, uh… keep that up.”

And just like that, you walk past him, your footsteps echoing down the hallway as you head out for the night, leaving him standing there, staring after you, wondering what just went wrong.

It’s Thursday, and Mingyu’s still thinking about every clipped interaction you’ve had all week. He’s convinced he’s somehow messed everything up, but he’s not sure how. By lunchtime, he’s already halfway through a takeout sandwich in the break room when some of the other junior architects drift in, plates and coffees in hand. He’s only half-listening to their conversation, until, like a magnet, he hears your name.

“Did you see how she restructured the timeline?” One of them—Hyun, a friend from Mingyu’s first week—says, rolling his eyes. “Feels like she’s trying to prove something to everyone.”

Another snorts. “Yeah, she’s always like that. Like she has to make everything harder just to remind us she’s the boss.”

Mingyu freezes mid-bite, a flicker of irritation flaring in his chest. He’d learned more from working with you in the past few months than he could’ve in years of grad school. You didn’t ask anyone to work harder than you did yourself, and Mingyu’s certain no one stays later or puts in more effort than you do.

“Maybe she just actually cares about the projects,” Mingyu snaps, dropping his sandwich. The room goes a bit quiet, a few heads turning his way in surprise. “I mean, do you guys know how much time she’s spent on this? She’s doing half of our jobs for us so we don’t mess it up.”

Hyun raises an eyebrow. "Calm down, Mingyu. Everyone knows she's intense."

“‘Intense’ doesn’t mean you have to talk about her like that,” Mingyu says, his voice a bit sharper than he means it to be. “Maybe if people here actually appreciated all the work she does, she wouldn’t have to be so ‘intense’ to get things done.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, everyone looking at him like he’s suddenly sprouted a second head. Hyun mutters, "That's easy to say when you're the one getting special favours from her."

Mingyu's jaw clenches, the insinuation making his blood boil.  Special favours? He opens his mouth to snap back, but then catches himself. Getting defensive will only make things worse, and he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation for the late nights or the extra hours you’ve spent on his work. The truth is, he’s learned more from those “extra” moments than he could ever explain to Hyun and the others.

“Look,” he says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. “If you guys actually put in half the effort she does, you’d see it’s not about favourites. It’s about getting things right. Maybe if you tried it sometime, you’d get the same attention.”

Hyun snorts, clearly unconvinced. “Right. Must be nice, though, always getting her undivided attention. Pretty convenient, huh?”

The others chuckle, and Mingyu feels his face flush. He glances down, jaw set tight as he clenches his fists under the table. He can feel the weight of their stares and half-smirks, their words pressing in on him like a slow burn he can’t shake off.

The door swings open just then, and he catches sight of you standing there, eyes narrowed, a faint frown on your face. His heart drops, and suddenly he realizes you must have heard—possibly all of it.

“Can I talk to you for a second, Mingyu?” Your tone is measured, calm, but he can tell there’s something icy underneath. The others exchange looks, clearly ready to gossip the second you both leave.

Mingyu follows you out of the room, feeling a sense of dread settle in his stomach. As soon as you’re out of earshot, you turn to him, arms crossed.

“So is that how you’re spending your lunch breaks now?” you ask, a cool edge to your voice. “Defending me in the office cafeteria?”

Mingyu swallows, unsure how to respond. “I just… didn’t think they should be talking about you like that,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, even though he can feel the intensity of your gaze. “It wasn’t right.”

You sigh, pressing your lips together, something almost unreadable flickering across your face. “I don’t need you to defend me, Mingyu,” you say, your tone firm. “I’ve been doing this job long enough to handle what people say behind my back. You’re here to do your job, not to play protector.”

Mingyu’s jaw clenches. He wants to argue, to tell you that maybe you don’t need anyone’s help, but that doesn’t mean you deserve to be dragged through the mud behind your back. But something in your expression stops him. He nods, swallowing back whatever words were fighting their way to the surface. “Got it,” he says, keeping his voice as even as possible. “It won’t happen again.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer, as if deciding whether to say more, but then you just shake your head, walking away with a tense set to your shoulders. He watches you go, the frustration and confusion still churning inside him, wondering just how much further away you both seem to get with every step.

Later that evening, Mingyu slumps into the apartment, looking so defeated that Wonwoo’s expression goes from mildly bored to instantly entertained. “Let me guess. It’s about your boss?” Wonwoo doesn’t even wait for confirmation before tossing him a soda. “You’re like a walking rom-com.”

Mingyu sighs, collapsing on the couch. “Wonwoo, I think she hates me. I mean, really hates me.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you two were practically having candlelit takeout dinners in her office.”

Mingyu runs a hand through his hair, deflating. “Yeah, well, that was before I kissed her.”

Wonwoo’s phone slides out of his hand, falling onto the couch like a lead balloon. “You what?”

Mingyu nods slowly, a rueful look on his face. “We were working late. It just—happened, okay? And now she’s all distant. Like, avoid me at all costs distant.”

“You kissed your boss?” Wonwoo repeats, still processing. He’s looking at Mingyu like he’s a particularly unsolvable math problem. “As in, the one you worship and whose entire life story you’ve googled?”

“Yes, that one,” Mingyu mutters, covering his face with his hands. “And it was incredible. Like, the kind of kiss that makes you think about life and all your choices and, you know… stuff.” He trails off, his voice a bit dreamy despite himself. “But then, after that, she started acting all cold, like it didn’t mean anything.”

Wonwoo stares at him, baffled. “Did you, uh, talk to her about it? You know, use words and stuff?”

Mingyu gives him a look. “Of course I tried talking to her. But she’s been all serious and professional and—ugh.” He sinks deeper into the couch. “And today, I may or may not have defended her in front of everyone. Like, really aggressively.”

Wonwoo groans. “You really know how to complicate things, don’t you?”

“Look, it just came out! They were acting like she’s some kind of boss robot or something. I just couldn’t listen to it.” Mingyu shakes his head. “And of course, she overheard it and was not happy. Told me she doesn’t need someone to protect her.”

Wonwoo considers this, eyebrows furrowed. “So basically, you kissed her, defended her honour, and now you think you ruined everything because she’s distant?”

“Exactly,” Mingyu sighs. “I feel like I messed it all up, and now she thinks I’m just some junior architect with a crush or something.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “I mean, to be fair, you kind of are a junior architect with a crush.”

“Thanks, Wonwoo. Really needed that.” Mingyu glares at him, but a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Wonwoo nudges him, his tone a little lighter now. “Look, man, maybe she just needs to know it was more than a one-time, late-night thing for you. Like, a serious talk. But not at the office, where everything’s so formal. Just the two of you.”

Mingyu’s eyes light up. “A serious talk… outside of work. Like, maybe over coffee?”

“Or dinner. Or anything where you can show her that you’re interested in more than work. Just, you know, don’t do that thing where you panic and say something weird.”

Mingyu sighs dramatically. “So, no pressure.”

Wonwoo grins, giving him a slap on the back. “You’ve got this, Romeo. Go win her over.”

Mingyu stands in front of your office door, hands nervously tugging at his sleeves like he's preparing for a public execution. He’s been rehearsing this moment for the last twenty minutes—while staring at his desk like it could offer him some sort of guidance—and he still has no idea what he’s doing. He only knows that if he doesn't get his foot in the door right now, he's going to spend the rest of the day overthinking this until his brain short circuits.

So, he knocks.

And of course, you don’t answer immediately. He stands there like a complete idiot, holding his breath for about five seconds before taking the most awkward step inside. Your eyes flick up to him, and for a second, he’s sure his heart is going to stop.

“Oh. Mingyu.” You sound surprised. Great. That’s just what he needed. "What do you need?"

He smiles, too big, too eager. This is fine. “Hey! So, um, I was thinking—”

“Uh oh,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes as if you already know where this is going.

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” he says quickly, forcing himself to sound more convincing than he feels. “I just, you know… you’ve been working super hard, and I was thinking, you deserve a break. So, what do you say? Dinner? You and me, tonight.”

You blink at him like he just asked if you wanted to run through the streets naked.

“Dinner? With you?” You tilt your head, looking him up and down, clearly trying to figure out if he’s joking or if his brain’s just melted from exhaustion.

"Yup!" Mingyu says, definitely a little too loud and way too enthusiastic. “Yeah, just dinner. No work talk, no presentations, just a chance to unwind, you know?” He grins like he's already won, but there’s something in your gaze that makes him freeze up.

You raise an eyebrow, studying him carefully. The air between you two is thick with that awkward tension, like you’re both trying to figure out if this is a professional gesture or something else entirely. Mingyu can feel the temperature in the room rise, and his stomach does a somersault as he waits for you to respond.

“Are you… serious right now?” You finally ask, your tone a mix of confusion and cautious curiosity.

Mingyu’s heart stutters in his chest. “Of course, I’m serious,” he says quickly, voice cracking slightly as his nerves get the best of him. “I mean, it’s not like—uh, it’s not like I want anything weird to happen. It’s just dinner. With two people who both happen to work in the same office. Completely normal, right?” He laughs a little too loudly, and it sounds forced, like someone desperately trying to convince themselves of something they don’t believe.

You’re silent for a moment, and Mingyu’s brain spins with overthinking. Should he apologise? Should he leave before this gets even more awkward? Why did he even think this was a good idea? His palms are sweating, his throat dry, and he feels like he might pass out from sheer mortification.

You lean back in your chair, still watching him, and for a second, Mingyu is sure you’re about to shut him down completely. But then, something shifts in your expression—just the faintest flicker of amusement, like you’re trying not to let it show.

“Dinner,” you repeat, almost like you’re testing the word, as though it’s foreign or absurd coming from him. “No work talk?”

“No work talk,” Mingyu confirms, nodding so hard he might give himself whiplash. “I promise. Just good food and maybe a chance to, you know, talk about literally anything else.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smirks, and Mingyu swears the room feels a little less tense. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

He grins, a spark of hope lighting up his chest. “I like to think of it as... enthusiastic.”

You shake your head, clearly amused now, though you’re doing your best to hide it. “Fine,” you say, leaning forward to jot something on a sticky note. “Dinner."

Mingyu’s heart leaps, and he barely resists the urge to fist pump right there in your office. “Deal!” he says, grinning so wide it’s a wonder his face doesn’t hurt. “Seven o’clock?”

“Seven,” you agree, handing him the sticky note with an address scribbled on it. “Don’t be late, Mingyu.”

He takes the note like it’s a golden ticket, clutching it in his hand as if it might disappear. “I won’t. I’ll see you there.”

As he walks out of your office, he can’t help the goofy smile plastered across his face.

By the time the evening rolls around, Mingyu is pacing outside the restaurant like a man on the edge. He’s checked his watch twice, his phone four times, and stared at the sidewalk so long he’s convinced it’s going to start judging him soon. Late. You're late. Or maybe he’s just early. Impossible to say when your nerves feel like they’re hosting a small rave in your chest.

After all, there’s something about you that makes him want to try harder. Maybe too hard, but he’s finally learned that no one gets anywhere by waiting for the perfect moment to arrive. So, here he is, standing outside the restaurant, pacing like a nervous wreck while waiting for you to arrive.

He’s tried to stay calm, really. Spent the entire afternoon mentally drafting this… whatever this dinner is supposed to be. Not a date (probably). Not a work meeting (definitely). Just dinner. Dinner with the one person who’s managed to turn him into a bundle of energy and chaos masquerading as a fully functional adult.

And then, right as he’s about to dial his mom and ask for advice (because that’s clearly what any reasonable person would do), he sees you.

You walk up with that confident stride, the one that always makes his heart skip a beat, and Mingyu feels himself freeze for a moment, completely forgetting everything he’s planned to say. You've changed and you look good. Too good for a casual dinner, but that’s a problem for another time.

“Hey,” you greet him with a smile, your eyes soft, but not quite soft enough for him to completely relax. “I didn’t expect you to actually show up on time.”

Mingyu laughs, awkwardly tugging at his shirt. “I like to be punctual. It’s kind of a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow but don’t comment on the obvious lie, allowing the small banter to settle between you like a cushion. Instead, you let him open the restaurant door for you, falling into that casual rhythm that somehow feels more natural than the air he’s been breathing all day.

The dinner itself is nice. Too nice. No weird silences, no work talk, just good food and easy conversation. And yet, there’s a weight in the room that Mingyu can’t shake. It’s been lingering ever since the kiss—the kiss—and he knows he can’t keep tiptoeing around it forever. So as the plates are cleared and the server drops off the check, he reaches into his bag, pulling out the rolled-up plans he’s been carrying like a talisman.

He sets them on the table, his hands a little too careful, his heart racing like it’s bracing for impact.

“Okay, now you’re being mysterious,” you say, the smallest hint of amusement curling your lips.

Mingyu’s throat goes dry, but he pushes forward, unrolling the designs and smoothing them out between the two of you. “I know I said no work talk,” he starts, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest, “but… I’ve been working on this. And I thought you should see it.”

Your eyes drop to the papers, and he watches as your expression shifts. At first, there’s curiosity, then recognition, and finally… something deeper. Something he can’t quite name but feels in the way your fingers tremble slightly as they trace the edges of the designs with a reverence he didn’t know he could envy. Your fingers are delicate but deliberate, the way you touch the plans like they might vanish under too much pressure. Mingyu’s heart is pounding so loudly he's surprised you can’t hear it across the table.

“Where did you get these?” Your voice comes out hoarse, more vulnerable than you mean it to be.

“I’ve been working on them for a while,” Mingyu admits, leaning forward, his hands clasped on the table. “After you talked about the Westbrook Project that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how much it mattered to you. I wanted to do something with it. Something for you.”

You blink, unsure how to process this. “But how did you know?”

“I just—” Mingyu hesitates, then shrugs. “I listened. I saw it. The way you talked about it that night, the passion you put into your projects. I wanted to give it the respect it deserves. I couldn’t let it just end with a ‘no’.”

You stare at the designs again, looking like you've been hit by a wave of nostalgia and shock. "You really... did this for me?”

“I did,” he says quietly, his eyes meeting yours. “And I think it could be something we could do together. If you’re interested.”

You pause, the space between you thick with emotion, something unspoken hanging in the air. Finally, you swallow and look at him, searching his face as if trying to make sure this is real.

“I... I don’t know what to say, Mingyu.” Your voice cracks, and you can’t quite hide the emotion that’s flooding through you. “You’ve—this is everything I’ve been trying to do. But I didn’t think anyone else could see it.”

He sits up straighter, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he tries to keep his voice steady. "I just didn't want you to let go of something so important," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "It deserves another chance. You deserve another chance."

He doesn't know where he finds the courage to say those words. They sound so earnest. Almost embarrassingly so. But, it's the truth, and if there's one thing he's learned from you, it's that honesty - no matter how uncomfortable - is the foundation of anything worth building.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, the restaurant fades away—the low hum of conversation, the soft clink of silverware, all of it. It's just you and Mingyu, sitting across from each other, separated by a stack of papers and an ocean of unspoken feelings.

"Mingyu..." You start, but the words get caught in your throat.

You look down, the faintest hint of a tremble in your hands. And Mingyu, who had been prepared for you to shut him down, to dismiss this moment as anything but professional, has to fight the urge to reach across the table and take your hand. He doesn't, of course. He can't. Not yet.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. He's not used to this - seeing you so vulnerable - and he just wants to take some of that pressure off your back. "Look, I know I’m not perfect. I mess up, I talk too much, and I probably drive you crazy most of the time. But I see you, (Y/n). I see how much you care, how much you put into everything you do. And I don’t just admire that—I... I want to be part of it. To be there for you."

Your lips part in surprise. "I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice trembling slightly. "I’ve spent so long trying to keep everything together. To keep people at a distance. And now—"

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," Mingyu says softly, sensing the spiral of doubt you appear to be descending into.  "We can take it slow. One step at a time. I just... I needed you to know how I feel."

For a long moment, you don’t move. But then, slowly, you let your hand inch toward his, your fingertips brushing against his palm.

It’s small. Tentative. But it’s enough.

Mingyu barely breathes as your fingers brush his. It’s such a simple gesture, but it sends a jolt straight through him, grounding him in this moment that feels impossibly fragile. He wraps his hand gently around yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. It’s all he can do to keep himself steady when every nerve in his body is screaming at him to close the distance completely.

You don’t pull away, and that feels like a victory in itself. But when you look up at him again, your eyes are brimming with something he can’t quite name—fear, maybe, or hesitation—but also something softer, warmer, that gives him just enough hope to hold on.

“Mingyu,” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance down at your joined hands, your brows furrowing slightly as though you’re gathering the courage to say something that’s been weighing on you. “After the kiss... I didn't know what to do.”

His heart skips a beat at the mention of it, the memory still fresh in his mind—the way your lips had felt against his, the way the world had seemed to tilt on its axis for just a moment. He doesn’t say anything, though, afraid that if he interrupts, you’ll stop.

“I started acting cold because...” You take a shaky breath, your fingers tightening slightly around his. “Because I didn’t know how to handle it. How to handle you.”

Mingyu blinks, his chest tightening at your words. “Me?” His voice is soft, cautious. He doesn’t want to push too hard, but he needs to understand.

You nod, your gaze flickering back to his, vulnerable but resolute. “You scare me, Mingyu. Not in a bad way, but... in a way I’ve never felt before. You’re so open, so sincere. You make everything seem so easy, like it’s natural to just—feel. And for me, that’s... terrifying.”

He watches you, his heart breaking a little with every word. He wants to say something, to tell you that you don’t have to be scared, but he knows this isn’t the time. He needs to let you finish.

“I’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length,” you admit, your voice trembling. “It’s just easier that way. I don’t get hurt, and I don’t hurt anyone else. But then you came along, with your ridiculous optimism and your... your kindness, and suddenly I didn’t know how to keep you out. And that kiss—it made me realise I can’t.”

Mingyu doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if there’s anything he can say to match the weight of what you’re giving him. So he squeezes your hand, letting his touch say what his words can’t.

“I didn’t mean to push you away,” you continue, your voice soft but unsteady. “But I thought if I could convince myself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if it all fell apart.”

Mingyu shakes his head slowly, his grip on your hand firm but gentle. “You don’t have to protect yourself from me,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I’m not going anywhere."

You look at him, your eyes searching his for something—reassurance, maybe, or proof that he’s not just saying what he thinks you want to hear. Whatever it is, you seem to find it, because your shoulders relax just a fraction, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you repeat, your voice barely audible. “But I think... I think I want to try.”

And that’s it. That’s all Mingyu needs. His chest swells with something that feels suspiciously like hope, and he leans in just enough. "I don't need perfect. I just need you, the way you are, right here, right now."

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the awkward kind—the kind where the world feels like it’s holding its breath just for you. Mingyu’s words hang in the air, his thumb still brushing over your knuckles, as if he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops. His heart is doing that thing again, where it feels way too big for his chest, and honestly, he’s not sure if that’s romantic or just a pending medical emergency.

You glance down, exhaling softly, and then look back up at him with that small, tentative smile that could single-handedly knock him off his chair. “Do you...” You pause, biting your lip like you’re still deciding if this is a terrible idea or just a regular bad one. “Do you want to come back to my apartment?”

Mingyu’s brain short-circuits.

Like, fully shuts down. There’s no reboot happening here. Just static, a faint buzzing sound, and a very unfortunate replay of every romantic comedy scene he’s ever watched where the male lead trips over his own words and ruins everything.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Great. Perfect. Ideal response.

“Mingyu?” you ask, your tone softer now, like you’re worried you might’ve just set his brain on fire.

“I—uh—yes? I mean, yes!” He blurts it out, too loud, and the couple at the next table glance over like they’re wondering if he’s okay. He’s not, but that’s beside the point.

You laugh, and the sound feels like sunshine breaking through the clouds. “You’re sure?” you ask, your tone teasing but warm.

“Absolutely,” he says, sitting up straighter, like he’s about to sign an unbreakable contract. “I am very sure. Extremely sure. Couldn’t be more sure.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly enjoying his spiral. “Okay, then.”

You stand, and Mingyu scrambles to follow, nearly knocking over his chair in the process. Smooth. So smooth. He rushes to grab his coat, fumbling with the sleeve as he tries to put it on without dislocating a shoulder. When he finally gets it together and turns back to you, you’re just standing there, watching him with an amused smile.

“You good?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Good?” Mingyu repeats, laughing nervously. “Yeah, I’m great. Amazing. Let’s, uh, go.”

He follows you out of the restaurant, trying to act like a normal, functional human being. Except his palms are sweating, his heart is racing, and he’s pretty sure he almost tripped on absolutely nothing as you walked to the curb. When you glance back at him, your expression softens, and suddenly, it feels like the world’s gone quiet again.

“Hey,” you say, your voice cutting through the chaos in his head. “You don’t have to be nervous, you know.”

“I’m not nervous,” Mingyu lies, his grin wide and unconvincing. “This is just how I always look when I’m—uh—happy.”

You laugh again, shaking your head, and link your arm with his, pulling him gently along. “Come on, let’s go before you combust.”

The walk to your apartment is a blur for Mingyu. His brain is bouncing between, Wow, I can't believe this is happening and What am I supposed to do when we get there? Sit? Stand? Compliment her interior design choices? He's overthinking so hard he barely notices when you nudge him gently and gesture toward the building in front of you.

“This is me,” you say, your voice calm, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips like you know exactly how fried his brain is right now.

“Cool,” Mingyu replies, because apparently that’s the only word left in his vocabulary. Cool. Not “nice place” or “wow, it suits you,” just cool. He could punch himself, but then you’re already unlocking the door, and the reality of the moment hits him like a freight train.

The inside of your apartment is warm. Not literally warm—though the temperature is pleasant—but warm in the way it feels lived-in and completely, unmistakably you. It’s smaller than he imagined, but cozy, like every piece of furniture and every object has been chosen for a reason. There’s a soft throw blanket draped over the arm of your couch, a mug on the coffee table with a faint ring from earlier that day, and a half-finished book on the shelf that he knows he’s seen you reading during breaks.

Mingyu steps inside, toeing off his shoes at the door because it feels like the kind of place where shoes on indoors would be a crime. “Your apartment is really nice,” he says, his voice a little too high-pitched because he’s still desperately trying not to think about why he’s here.

“It suits you,” Mingyu says before he can stop himself, the words slipping out too soft, too sincere. When you glance at him, your cheeks warm, he knows he’s said the right thing.

“Thanks,” you murmur, ducking your head slightly. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab us something to drink.”

You disappear into the kitchen, and Mingyu is left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to spiral. This is fine. Totally normal. Just two people hanging out in a perfectly platonic and definitely not emotionally loaded way. Except it’s not fine, and his brain is racing faster than he can catch up.

He sits down on the couch, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he looks around again. It’s impossible not to take everything in, to let the space tell him little things about you he didn’t know before. Like how there’s a stack of notebooks on the side table, their covers worn like they’ve been flipped through a thousand times. Or how there’s a candle sitting on the shelf labelled something ridiculous like “Cinnamon Forest Dreams,” and now all he can think about is you lighting it during one of your late-night brainstorming sessions.

When you come back, two glasses of water in hand (because you’re practical like that, of course), Mingyu straightens up, his heart pounding in his chest. You sit down beside him, closer than he expected but not close enough to touch, and he’s suddenly very aware of how small the couch feels.

“So,” you say, handing him a glass, your voice light but your eyes betraying a flicker of nervousness. “What do you think?”

“Of the apartment?” Mingyu asks, taking a sip of water because it’s something to do with his hands. “I think it’s great. Like... really great. It’s very... you.”

You raise an eyebrow, amusement tugging at your lips. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s the compliment,” he replies, his grin a little sheepish. “It’s perfect. Just like—” He cuts himself off, his cheeks flushing as he looks down at his glass. Don’t say it. Don’t overdo it.

But you’re looking at him now, your expression softening. “Just like what?”

Mingyu swallows hard, his brain screaming at him to play it cool. “Just like I imagined,” he finally says, his voice quiet but steady. “Like... a space that feels like you.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s completely ruined everything. But then you smile—really smile—and his chest feels like it might explode.

“Thanks, Mingyu,” you say, your voice soft, almost shy. “That means a lot.”

He smiles back, trying to ignore the way his heart is doing somersaults. This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing to freak out about. But then your knee bumps against his, and suddenly, he’s not so sure.

Mingyu swallows. A cough almost escapes his throat, but he manages to catch it, instead clearing his throat like he's trying to shake off the sudden, very real butterflies in his stomach.

You, on the other hand, seem perfectly at ease, sipping your water, your eyes not quite meeting his, but still playful, still warm. Your knee stays lightly resting against his.

He looks at you, his mind racing, and wonders if maybe this is one of those moments where he should just say it. Say what’s been sitting heavy on his mind, almost screaming to come out ever since that night—the kiss, the awkwardness, the moments of quiet when he almost wished he could reach out and grab the truth like it was some kind of lifeline.

“Y'know," he begins, his voice coming out a little more nervously than he meant, "I’ve spent most of my life messing up in the most spectacular ways possible. I don’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to making things right."

You tilt your head at him, a playful smile on your lips, but your gaze is intense in a way that makes his breath catch. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Mingyu,” you say, your tone teasing, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet, steady assurance that has him clinging to every word.

“No, I’m serious,” he insists, his hand tightening slightly around his glass. “Like, when it comes to this—" He gestures vaguely between the two of you, "I’m completely out of my depth. I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He bites his lip, willing himself not to spill everything at once. “But, I think… I think I really want to try. With you.”

The silence that follows is thick. Mingyu mentally runs through every scenario, and none of them seem to be as perfectly awkward and fragile as this one. He starts to second-guess himself, but before he can say something stupid to cover it all up, you do something that catches him completely off-guard.

You shift closer, your knee brushing against his again, but this time, there’s no hesitation in the way you move. Your hand reaches out, fingers gently resting on his forearm, warm and soft. He can feel your pulse, steady and strong, as if somehow in this small gesture, you’re grounding him.

“Mingyu,” you say quietly, and he’s not sure if it’s his name or the way you say it that knocks all the air out of him. “I’m not asking for perfection. I don’t even know what that looks like.”

Mingyu’s breath hitches as he watches you, his heart skipping a beat at the honesty in your eyes. It feels like you're both on the edge of something, teetering between what is and what could be, and yet all Mingyu can think about in this moment is how simple it is to be here with you—how uncomplicated it feels to just let go.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” you continue, your voice soft but clear. “But I want to find out. With you."

It’s then that Mingyu realizes how quiet it’s gotten, how still the air is around the two of you. The world outside your apartment could be spinning at a hundred miles per hour, and in this small space, with your hand on his arm, time feels like it’s standing still.

You’re sitting so close now. The space between you is smaller than the gap in his thoughts. His hand, which had been fidgeting with the glass of water, starts to move on its own. He places it gently on the cushion beside you, just a few inches from your own. His palm is open, but he waits.

And then—he takes a breath.

"Can I?" he asks, voice low, almost a whisper, as though he's afraid you'll pull away, as though he's asking permission for something he should have done a hundred times before.

Your eyes lock with his. They're soft, vulnerable, like you're weighing his words against everything that's happened before. For a moment, the world feels like it’s paused, like there’s no room for doubts or what-ifs. There’s just you and him, and something that’s undeniable between you.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you let your gaze drift to his lips, and then, almost imperceptibly, you lean in.

Mingyu doesn’t wait for a second invitation. His hand slides from the couch to gently cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of your cheek as he moves closer. He feels the heat radiating off you, and his breath catches when your lips are just a breath away.

And then, before he can even think, he closes the distance between you, his lips brushing softly against yours.

It’s nothing like the first kiss. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty—just the sensation of everything falling into place. The kiss is slow, tender, almost like he’s savouring it, wanting to memorise the moment because, for once, it feels like everything is exactly how it should be.

Your lips move against his in a quiet, unspoken rhythm, and he feels the tension that had been building between the two of you melt away. He’s no longer nervous, no longer afraid of saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing. He just wants to be here with you—now, in this perfect moment.

When you pull away, it’s not with distance, but with the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips, your eyes full of something that makes Mingyu's chest tighten. Your breath is still coming fast, like you’re just as shaken as he is.

He doesn’t say anything at first. There’s no need. His heart is still racing, but now, he’s not afraid of what comes next. He feels like he’s finally stepped into something real, something that might not be easy but is worth every bit of effort.

"I think..." he starts, his voice a little hushed, "I really wanted to do that again."

You laugh softly, the sound warm and familiar, as you tilt your head just enough for your forehead to rest against his. "Yeah?" you murmur, your fingers gently tracing the outline of his jaw. "Well, I'm glad you did."

Mingyu can't help but smile, his hand, still resting gently on your waist, pulls you just a little closer, as if to remind himself that this is real. That you're really here, and this is really happening. You don’t pull away. Instead, your hand moves from his jaw to his collar, gently tugging at the fabric like it’s an invitation he can’t refuse.

And Mingyu? He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He leans in again, his lips finding yours with more urgency this time. His free hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you deeper into the kiss. It’s like his body’s on autopilot, all his self-control falling away the moment you’re close enough to feel.

You gasp softly against his lips as his hand slides down to your waist, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip, and he feels you shiver. His pulse is racing in his ears, but it's the warmth of your body against his that completely consumes him. He can't stop. Can't pull away. You taste like the promise of something more, and the way your fingers grip his collar tightens the knot in his stomach until it’s a full-on spiral of heat.

Your mouth moves with his now, more desperate, more demanding, and Mingyu’s heart does that weird, annoying thing again—where it leaps in his chest, and all his thoughts vanish like mist under the sun. He kisses you harder, taking a moment to pull away just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting as if you’ve run miles, even though you’ve hardly moved.

“Mingyu...” you whisper, voice breathless, a little unsteady. He feels the sound vibrating through him as much as he hears it.

"Yeah?" he responds, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth despite how utterly wrecked he feels in the best possible way. "You’re not gonna suddenly tell me this is all a huge mistake, right?"

You laugh—a low, playful sound that makes his chest tighten, and then you kiss him again. This time, it's slow, deliberate, like you’re savouring each second, each touch. And Mingyu’s mind short-circuits all over again, as if he's trying to figure out how it's possible for something so simple to make him feel so—so—alive.

Your hands are everywhere now—on his chest, around his neck, tugging him closer until there’s not an inch of space between you. And that’s when he feels it, that surge of want, a physical ache deep in his chest that spreads out to his limbs, making him burn.

He presses you back gently against the armrest of the couch, his lips trailing down to your neck, his breath hitching when you arch into him. The way you melt under his touch is everything he’s ever wanted—more than he even realised he craved. The warmth of your skin, the way your fingers dig into his back, all of it pulls him in, deeper, until he’s lost in the sensation of just being with you.

“Mingyu, we—” you start, but the words cut off when his lips meet the curve of your neck, and the way you shudder against him makes his pulse stutter in his veins. You can’t even finish the sentence, and he’s so close to being past the point of caring.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “We what?” he asks, his voice rough. "I won't let you talk if you're going to tell me you changed your mind."

Your gaze flickers between his lips and his eyes, a playful challenge in your expression. "I’m just saying," you murmur, your hands shifting down to his shirt as you slowly begin to unbutton it. "You're going to have to transfer to a different team after Langham is done."

Mingyu grins, a breathless huff of laughter leaving his lips. "As long as I still get to see you every day."

"I'd say you're probably going to get to see a lot more of me." Your words are said innocently enough, but the implication mixed with the feeling of your heaving chest against his is making his head spin again.

And just like that, you have him, every inch of him. Mingyu can’t keep his hands from wandering, can’t keep his lips from pressing harder against yours, can’t keep from falling deeper into this beautiful mess of passion and want. The last shred of his self-control slips away, leaving only you—right here, right now.

Your clothes go quickly, his quicker, until you're both laid bare before the other, entirely vulnerable and at peace at the same time. He's drowning in you, his head nested between your legs, feeling as eager to please as he did the first day he met you. You're gasping his name, hands curling into his hair, head falling back onto your couch in utter bliss. 

And then your fingers are wrapping around his shoulders, digging into the muscles and pulling him back up towards you. He almost falls off the couch he moves so fast, but you don't seem to notice. You're too busy looking positively angelic in front of him, with those large, sparkling eyes staring at him and dirty words pouring out of your mouth.

Mingyu has to hold himself together as you tell him, point blank, to "hurry up, and make love to me."

This isn't Mingyu's first rollercoaster. He's a good-looking guy, and he knows it. He's been with others before, but when you speak to him like that, he feels like he's eighteen again and a girl's just sat on his lap for the first time. 

And it feels so good, you feel so good around him. You might not have to worry about transferring teams, because he's not sure he's going to make it. The noises you're making, the warmth of your body, the scraping of your nails against his chest - it's enough to finish him off (or at least allow him to ignore the ungodly sounds pouring out of his own mouth).

He makes sure you've finished as well before pulling out (because he wants to, not because he feels embarrassed that he came first). A blissful look falls over your face and Mingyu has to mentally take a photo of the image to make sure he never forgets it. He's staring at you; he knows it and you know it, and you're giggling a little and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

"Wait here," he whispers, not wanting to break the moment by speaking too loudly. He leans down to peck your lips, before running into your bathroom to dispose of the condom and get some towels and blankets. 

The night fades softly into a comfortable quiet as you and Mingyu lay there, nestled on your couch, your bodies half-melted into the cushions, the air between you warm and thick with the lingering feeling of everything now spoken. 

Mingyu is still processing it all. This. This feeling of being here, with you. He’s supposed to be good at this—the whole dating thing, at least. But everything about tonight has been different. And, if he’s being honest with himself, much better than he expected. He expected the awkwardness, the second-guessing, the inevitable when do I leave? moment, but none of that happened. Instead, all that’s left is you. And him. And the soft rhythm of your breathing in the stillness of your apartment.

He stares at the ceiling, trying to act casual, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. This is fine, he thinks, despite the tiny voice in the back of his head screaming that nothing this nice is ever fine. But the voice is quieter now. A lot quieter.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you mumble, your voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt, your head resting on his chest. Your fingers play with the hem of his shirt absently, as though you’re trying to figure out the material, the way it fits him, the way it feels beneath your touch.

Mingyu chuckles softly, a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his chest vibrating with the sound. “I guess I’m just... trying to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“Well,” you reply, shifting just enough to lift your head, your eyes soft but amused, “if this is a dream, I’m okay with it. I think I’ll stick around.”

Mingyu's heart skips a beat at the words, but he keeps his voice steady, even if the teasing smile he wears is bordering on ridiculous. “Good, because if this is a dream, I’m not waking up."

As the night deepens and the city lights paint soft patterns on the walls of your apartment, Mingyu finds himself drawn to your window. The skyline stretches before him, a tapestry of glowing spires and shimmering reflections, alive with the energy of the place he loves most. He smiles, realising for the first time how much this view has changed for him. It isn't just buildings and lights anymore - it's connection, collaboration, and the quiet promise of something new. A reminder of what you are going to build together, layer by layer, one light at a time.

Divider credit: @cafekitsune

[violet-eng]

F!reader spoils Lil Dragon!Zhongli... at first | Fluff🧸 (with dragon)+ 🔞 (with human Zhongli)

🎨by: @nagarnia_art and @JeanGreyCG

Summary: You're doing some research in the woods, looking for certain minerals, when you feel some tiny tiny eyes staring at you. After Zhongli morpps from a dragon to a human, things get a bit... hot...

Tw: with human Zhongli smut 🔞, PIV. Insinuations of breeding season, with dragon Zhongli just some cute Dragon behavior bc I ended up traumatized after writing some angst.

•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈••✦ ● ✦••┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•

Your research is going well. Your reports to the Fontaine Science Institute were successful during your last expedition, earning you praise from your superiors. You have been living in Liyue for over six months. After learning about minerals that can emanate energy, you sought out information to educate yourself on the subject. 

The rocks in Liyue seem to have a memory, possibly due to the work of their Archon or as a natural result of high evolution and energetic vestiges from ancient wars. 

Zhongli, the Parlor consultant, had told you about a spot at the foot of a valley that might interest you, and you were amazed. You had no reason to doubt the man's wisdom. You had formed a deep bond of friendship with him because you admire his extensive knowledge about everything. You set off almost immediately. He had offered to accompany you, but you had refused because you prefer to do your research alone, surrounded by nature and away from the attractive distraction that Zhongli could become.

Your friend is attractive, in a way that you tried to express in your letters to your friends at Fontaine, but never succeeded. Your banal words and names do not do justice to the physique of this man of unshakable character, steely sense, and tenacious gaze. You could not bear to make a mistake in his presence during the expedition, not because you were clumsy, but because his figure moved your senses, your ground, and betrayed your own perceptions.

So, as you walk through a pleasant area of foliage, covered by the fierce, scorching rays of the sun, you decide to let your guard down, to take off your jacket and your gloves. You use a ribbon to tie up your hair as you walk on, arriving at the place Zhongli had shown you beforehand. The passage is strangely comfortable, very suitable for a quiet investigation, full of strange figures of small rocks of irregular and curious shapes.

Under the canopy of large trees, you spread out your arsenal of tools on the grass, put on your protective visors, and get to work. Sequencing the rock profile takes little time, your agile skills allowing you to avoid unnecessary pauses or clumsy backtracking typical of an amateur. Then you take the samples, tiny particles that do not alter the correct and productive nature that King Geo has protected for years, and while you wait for the filtering to finish, a strange sensation runs down your spine.

You had let your guard down during your experiment, letting the peaceful appearance of the place convince you, something very unprofessional on your part. So you turn to the side and feel a presence. Among the bushes, you spot a pair of curious little spheres, and you jump as the leaves rustle in the presence of an unknown being. 

A deep relief washes over you as the creature in question appears on the scene. A small dragon, microscopic in physiognomy compared to adult forms, with curious eyes and a golden tail twisted into a spiral. Its little paws make furrows in the ground, its face dejected, as if it had been caught doing something illegal.

"Little one, have you been watching me all this time?" You ask the cute little creature, who hides his head between his front paws, realizing he can't do it with his tail, which isn't long enough.

"Come here, don't be afraid of me," you whisper, approaching it cautiously, holding out your hands.

The dragon gathers itself in its own anatomy, growling low, sounding almost like a common cat, you can't help but laugh at it. You bring your fingers up to the growling pellet and stroke its head, right between its underdeveloped horns. You notice a puff of breath coming from the little guy's nose.

"How cute, you liked that, didn't you?" you laugh as you stroke his head and then his back, causing the miniature dragon's tail to wag.

"Come, sit with me, we'll have to wait a long time until the filtering is finished," you take him in your hands, on your palms.

"Wow... I've never seen one of your species so small... and those scales," you comment, bringing your face close to the reptile's, "I'd swear you have very, very soft skin, you're very rare, uh," you add, while you turn to your tools, which emit a strange smell.

You leave the dragon on the ground and approach your machinery, no, nothing out of place... well, now you can turn your attention to the little guy who... what is he doing?

You notice the tiny creature rubbing against your foot, making strange squeaks. It's... it's mating with your shoe? You burst out laughing and shake your foot, pushing it away and picking it up again.

"You horny little bugger," you say, poking him in the nose, "I forgot that your species is in mating season. I regret to inform you that you will get nowhere with me, I am not of the same species... ours is impossible."

A sad sigh escapes from the little animal's chest, and you notice how its whole face becomes depressed, its horns and ears seem to droop in deep disappointment.

"Don't cry," you say, putting it on the ground in the grass and lying down in front of it, "we can play if you want, to distract you a little”.

That got his attention, because he looked at you again. He walks up to you with his little paws and puts one on your nose, he starts to sniff you with that little button in the middle of his little face.

"Ohhh... do you want a little kiss?" you ask, flooded with tenderness, "I would do anything to make you happy" you say, placing a tender kiss on the dragon's forehead. Is like a puppy...

The dragon retraces his steps, accelerating and rolling his head in madness. You see him writhing in place, as if he had suddenly fallen ill, and then... poof... a golden flash and a trail of smoke,  ike the one he had just exhaled through his nose. A faint wave of heat and a faint smell of sulfur as a figure began to form behind the column of smoke.

You straightened up in your seat as the column disintegrated, revealing the very embarrassed image of Zhongli, covering his mouth as he coughs, with traces of smoke and golden flames escaping from his throat.

He is wearing little clothing, a tunic of the same color as the skin of the dragon you spoke to earlier... is that perhaps...? 

"You," you point an accusing finger at Zhongli, and he looks at you with flushed cheeks, "what was that? Aren't you going to say anything about it?" you say to the man, appearing to be annoyed, although in reality, seeing him in that outfit has aroused something pleasurable in you.

"Well?" you insist.

"Are you going to give me that kiss or?" he interjects, his voice still weak and embarrassed.

His embarrassment fades for the next hour, during which he relentlessly thrusts himself into you, waiting for your boring explorer machine to end.

The filtering of the rocks continues, the particles falling into the vessel like sand in a crystal clock. The small machines emit tiny clicks and a faint plume of smoke and gas. The rumble of the cycle's drumbeat advances in rhythm with your moans as you feel Zhongli sink deep into you.

You lie on the grass, your pants and panties around your ankles, your hands on your head clinging to the foliage, your waist encircled by Zhongli's large hands holding you steady so he can work his way into your pussy. You feel his pelvic bone against your center, his balls against your skin, and then he pulls away to enter again. Gently, lovingly, afraid to break you and hurt you. He's painfully slow, but how good it feels.

You hear him make low, rasping noises as faint plumes of smoke rise from his nose, as when he looked like a dragon. His cock twists inside you, slapping against your cervix, massaging your wet, warm depths that mold to the shape of his member. You feel the warmth rush down your legs, an electric current coursing through every fiber of your limbs, your chest heaving in desperation.

The orgasm hits you both at the same time, decorating Zhongli's cock with a white ring as his cum spills into you like thick ropes from his ecstasy. He pulls back your panties and pants, leaving a chaste kiss on your cheek.

"May I mark you?" he asks with a look of honor, his face sublime and devoted.

"Don't even think about it," you say, joining in, noticing the sadness in his eyes, "we weren't even supposed to do it. It was just supposed to be a kiss and that's it," you seem to scold him, though it's you who's scolding yourself for being so unseemly and impetuous, though damn... you've enjoyed it so much... ....

Sensing your hostile tone, Zhongli wraps himself up and immediately transforms into his small reptilian form.

"Please stop being so dramatic," you express, leaning against one of the tree trunks and letting out a laugh. "Come back... I don't want to wait alone," you say, crossing your legs and putting your jacket down.

Zhongli, the dragon, approaches you with short steps, due to the length of his small legs, and climbs onto your lap, where he rubs the fabric of your coat, nestling into the fabric to take refuge, and lets out a yawn before closing his eyes and settling down for a nap. You stroke his back and coo to the little creature, feeling him purr like a cat.

"How cute you are when you sleep," you laugh, stroking his nose, causing him to bite your finger, "did you just mark me without my permission?" You ask, but he just squeals and jumps off your lap, looking for a way to escape. You catch him with your coat and throw it at him like a fleeing rat, but he manages to escape and hide in the bushes... you don't see him again for the rest of the afternoon, but you know that when you return to Liyue Harbour you will demand an apology, an explanation... and maybe a round two.

[keikikait]

ʙᴀʙʏ ʙʟᴜᴇ (ʀᴀꜰᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

pairing: rafe cameron x pogue!f!reader, (not au, both are early to mid 20s)

word count: 4.8k

summary: you're just one of his many conquests, so why does he need you?

warnings: ANGST, friends with benefits, mild yearning/pining, rafe cannot handle his emotions, ward mention, slight jealous!reader, not proofread

a note: idk if i ate. i'm sorry that it's a little short. :( also, my stalker!rafe fic needs SERIOUS work, so i decided to upload this instead. i am very unhappy with it.

please reblog and like, it means a lot! let me know what you think!

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

Sometimes you think you aren’t meant to be loved. 

It’s almost comical, the way you just sit there and take it. The way you let him walk all over you, taking bites out of you just to toss you aside for later. He cut off slices of you when he needed, never taking the full thing. Always little samples, just to keep you hooked. He would chew you up and spit you out, and you would always come crawling back.

You watch as Rafe dresses himself, eyes landing on his ass as he pulls up his boxers. He always dresses so quickly, not even handing you a towel as he paces around your room, gathering his things. At first, you thought he just didn’t like your apartment. You were a Pogue, after all, even though you were lucky enough to move to a nicer area of The Cut. You spent a lot of time redecorating, trying to make it a little bit nicer. A little bit cleaner. Anything to get him to stay.

Your apartment was small. Cozy. Quaint. 

It reeks of you. And that’s why Rafe won’t stay.

Rafe turns around, catching your eye. He can’t help the small smile that stretches across his lips as he pulls his jeans on. “Admiring the view?”

“For as long as I can.” You say.

Your response surprises him, and his eyes widen just slightly. He stares for a moment, unsure of how to respond. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact. “You’re too sweet for your own good.” He mutters, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling his socks on.

“I wish you would stay.” You mumble, aching to reach out and touch him. But you don’t.

“I know you do,” Rafe sighs, tying his shoes on. “But I can’t, sweetheart. You know that.”

“I do.” Your voice is soft.

“So why do you keep asking me to stay?” It comes out angrier than he intended. But maybe you needed that.

“I…” You swallow hard. “I don’t know.”

“My answers always no. Why do you keep askin’?” Rafe stands, grabbing his wallet and keys off of the bedside table. “Shit’s starting to piss me off.”

“I’m sorry.” You say, sitting up, holding the duvet to your chest. You feel like you’re always telling him that. 

“Quit being sorry. Just stop fucking asking it,” He turns to face you. “Jesus. It’s not that hard.”

You don’t know what to say. You nod, looking down.

Rafe sighs, running a hand through his hair. He can’t deny, he loves when you look like that. Sad. Vulnerable. It drives him wild. His gaze lands on your neck, bruised and marked by his teeth. Possession looks good on you, He often thinks. 

But that was it. He could only take so much of your submission. He couldn’t take you asking him to stay, too.

“I won’t ask again.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, still avoiding his gaze.

His jaw tightens and he stares at you. He wants to take you and claim you. To show you were his, and only his. But he didn’t want to keep you. Why would he? “Good.” Rafe walks around the bed and stands in front of you. He reaches out, grabbing your chin and forcing it up. “And look at me when I’m talking to you.”

You nod, looking up at him, mascara still smeared on your under eyes. 

Rafe studies your face. God, you always looked so beautiful like this. Broken and upset. The sight had him wanting to take and claim you all over again. But the look of submission in your eyes makes him want to push you even more. “You look pretty like this.” He murmurs, pushing your neck to the side and looking at the hickeys on your neck. “It suits you.”

“Thank you.” You say, although you don’t like it. You didn’t like this version of you, the pathetic girl who would do anything and everything for one iota of his attention; but it got him into your arms, so that’s really all that matters.

“I wonder why that is? Why you look so pretty when you’re crying?” His fingers lightly trace over your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine. He knows that it doesn’t matter whether you like it or not. You were addicted to him, craving his attention more than you craved anything else. You’d take whatever he gave you. That was the only thing Rafe loved about you.

“Because my lips get all pouty, and my eyes get all red?” You guess, resisting the urge to lean into his palm.

Rafe almost laughs at your answer. It was cute. “Hmm,” He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, gently brushing them. “Yeah, probably.” His eyes meet yours, staring at your face. You were so easy to break. So easy to control. You’d let him do whatever he wanted, no fight or protest. Just endless submission. It was addicting.

You’re getting restless. “Have any plans today?”

Rafe’s hand falls from your face, and his jaw tightens. You always did this. You always try to make small talk, try to create some type of emotional connection between you, even though you knew deep down that he didn't give a shit about you or about your day. “Yeah. I do.” He picks his jacket up from the bed. “Have to go visit my dad's lawyer. Then I’m meeting some friends.”

“That sounds fun,” You say, although meeting with Ward’s lawyer must have something to do with life insurance. “Uh, being with your friends later, I mean.”

“Yeah.” He mutters, shrugging his jacket on. He grabs his keys from the bedside table and glances at you. It’s hard, watching you try to connect to him. He knows that you want more than this. You want to be his girlfriend. You want the world to know you’re his. 

But that couldn’t happen. And you knew that.

“Are you, um…” You shift on the bed, the duvet falling just a little bit. “Are you gonna come back over tonight?”

Rafe glances at you, eyes falling to the duvet. God, he loved how you were always trying to keep him around. He loved watching you try and fail to keep his attention. He lets out a deep breath, running a hand over his buzzed head. “Do you want me to?” He already knows your answer.

“Only if you want to,” You say, trying to not come across as even clingier than you already are. “You know my door’s always open for you.”

He sighs and rolls his eyes. You were always so predictable. So needy. So willing. He starts to wonder when he'll get sick of it. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” He grunts, picking his phone up off of the bedside table and shoving it in his pocket. “I don’t know yet. Might be with Sofia tonight.”

Your soft smile drops, just for a second, and you hope Rafe doesn’t notice.

Sofia.

Sofia?

Who the hell is Sofia?

You knew everyone he hung out with. Every girl. You had tabs on all of them, shamefully. You didn’t know who the hell Sofia was. Had you missed someone? How had she managed to slip through the cracks?

Under the covers, you dig your nails into your thigh. You had to act casual, as normal as you could be. You were always treading thin ice with him, and you couldn’t risk losing him over this. Your smile returns and you give him a nod. “Cool. Just text me.”

Rafe watches as your smile falters for a moment. He knows it. He knows that you’re jealous. There was no way that you weren't. It didn’t take much to make you jealous. He could make one passing comment about a girl, and you’d spend the rest of the day worrying, wondering who she was. That's why he brought up Sofia, and why he always mentions his other girls to you. Something about the idea of you laying in bed, terrified and anxious to lose him, really excited him.

He smirks as you quickly regain composure, knowing that he got to you. “Yeah. I’ll text you.” He says, turning to leave.

“Drive safe.” You say.

He stops as he stands in the doorway. Something about you telling him to drive safe always made him… feel guilty. It was that damn softness you always had and used against him. He glances at you over his shoulder, swallowing whatever sentiment he was feeling. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You hate Sofia.

After a bit of sleuthing, logged into one of your many burner accounts, you finally find her. She’s a Pogue, like you, and for some reason you find that it stings more. She’s gorgeous, absolutely beautiful, the sweetest girl around, and you fucking hate her.

Rafe had a roster. A rotation, the same few girls on repeat until he got bored, where he would swap a few out for fresh meat. You don’t know how you managed to stay on the roster for this long, but you weren’t complaining. Maybe Rafe thought you had another guy out there, filling your cunt and your bed when he was gone, but you didn’t. You’re too busy being Rafe’s to fall for somebody new.

You used to not care about the other girls. The more and more he mentioned them, though, you got curious. You started looking them up on Instagram, stalking their profile through burners and analysing every post. Every story. None of the girls ever looked like you. None of the girls were like you at all. Why did he like them, and why did he like you?

You wonder if he treats the other girls as poorly, or if in some twisted way, you’re special. You could handle being the only girl that Rafe treated like shit if that meant you stood out to him in some way. You wonder if he fills their necks with hickies, too, if he grips their hips too hard and leaves bruises, if he spanks them until his handprints form welts on your ass cheeks.

You hoped to God you were special.

You tried to distract yourself, running errands and tidying your apartment, but you kept thinking about him. About his stupid baby blue eyes, and his stupid pretty face, and his stupid hands and the way they felt around your neck. You didn’t want to be in love with Rafe fucking Cameron, but you feared you were already in too deep, and soon you would drown, falling below the surface, hand outstretched, hoping just this once that he would pull you up.

You sit on your bed, in the dark and the silence, staring at your phone, waiting for it to light up. Waiting for him to text you, to need you.

The hours pass. Midnight. One and two. Three. Before four o'clock rolls around, you still have nothing. You know that you should just give up and go to bed. He probably passed out at his friends’ place, too drunk and too tired to text you, but you keep telling yourself that he's just busy. That he's gonna wake up any moment now and shoot you a text. 

You're praying that something happens, that something keeps you up and keeps you waiting for those messages that you know he most likely won't send. You want him to finally fucking want you in the way that you want him. You didn’t like feeling this way, it wasn’t fun to constantly torture yourself, but is it not fun to feel many other ways? If it wasn’t Rafe, it would just be someone else. Another man, someone else’s son, reminding you that no matter how hard you try, you just aren’t meant to be loved.

Why don’t you do it for him? Why aren’t you enough to get him to stay?

You tap the screen, and it lights up. No new notifications.

“Shit.” You mumble, your hand retreating to your side.

You sigh and lay back, staring at the ceiling. Of course, he isn’t going to text you. Why would he? Why would he do that to you, when he never had before? This is exactly what you expected. This is exactly what he loves. Making you doubt, getting you jealous. It gets him off. It’s a game for him. You were his prey, and he was your predator. 

As you lay, staring at your ceiling, you hear three, quick knocks on your door.

At first, you think you’ve imagined them. You sit up, your feet sliding into your slippers as you pad into the living room. You stand there in silence, in the dark, only listening to your own breathing. You’re about to turn around when there’s another knock, this time loud and pounding against your door.

You cross the rest of the room, undoing the locks and opening the door.

Standing on your doorstep, of course, was Rafe, hands in his pockets as he stares you down. He seems… tired. He had dark circles under his eyes, probably from staying out late. He glances at you from behind those tired eyes, his gaze falling over your body. He’s taking note of the oversized t shirt you’re wearing, and how your hair is dishevelled and messier than it was before. He could tell you had been lying down. “Can I come in?”

Something's off, you can tell. He’s acting different, even though it’s just subtly. You watch him as he chews on his lip, an anxious habit he didn’t think you noticed. “What’s wrong?”

Rafe’s expression falters for a split second, before he quickly regains his composure. He was fine. Nothing was wrong. Except for the fact that you asked him that. He looks over you. “Nothing,” He responds, his voice harsh and biting. “I just wanted to see you. That’s all.”

You don’t believe him. He normally carries himself with intense confidence and gravitas, so much so it constantly inks into your lungs and chokes you, but this was different. He felt different. “Right.”

He swallows hard, shifting on his feet. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like the way you were looking at him. Concerned, like you cared. He glances away from you, sighing. “Can I come in?” He repeats his question, eyes flicking between you and your living room.

You nod, stepping aside and holding the door opening, flicking a light switch. One of your lamps turns on, casting a warm, soft glow over your living room.

Rafe strides into your apartment, immediately heading for your couch. Everything in your place was so damn cozy; the warm light, the soft couch, your scent lingering on every single inch of every single surface. He collapses back onto the couch, arms spread out and legs splayed. He runs a hand over his face, swallowing hard.

You sit next to him, and for a while, you two sit in a comfortable silence. You look over at him, pushing some hair behind your ears. Your voice is soft when you finally speak. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Rafe closes his eyes, sighing as you speak. He didn’t want to tell you about Ward. Not when you were like this, so gentle and caring. He was exhausted, to say the least. He was dealing with so much, all at once, and he didn't know what to do. Finally, he looks at you. In this lighting, with your hair messy and your eyes concerned, you looked even more like the sweet girl he always wished you were. Sweet and caring and loving. “Today was my dad's funeral.”

Your shoulders droop, and your eyes soften. You had no idea. He had only mentioned visiting his father’s lawyer to you yesterday morning. “Shit, I’m sorry, Rafe. I’m so sorry.”

Rafe almost groans. He loved you when you were soft, when you were sweet. He loved it more than he cared to admit, but right now he hated it. He hated it when you were this caring. It made him doubt everything. He glances at you, a lump in his throat. He hated when you looked at him that way. Because he knew that no matter what he did, you would always have that warmth in your eyes when you looked at him. You would always forgive him, no matter what he did.

Part of him wishes his dad could’ve met you.

You reach out and put your hand on his shoulder, trying not to overstep. Rafe stares down at your hand, so small in comparison to his shoulder. Something about it makes his chest tighten. It seems intimate, and he feels… safe. Safe with you. Which is a feeling he hasn't felt in God knows how long. 

His hand slowly lifts, his rough fingers wrapping around your wrist. He brings your hand to his face, cupping his cheek. Your thumb brushes over his cheek gently, back and forth.

God, the feeling of you touching him, comforting him, was too much. Your touch was too gentle and warm, and he hated that he wanted it. He hated the way his chest ached at the sight of your soft, kind expression. He had so many reasons he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be letting you touch him like this, and yet there was something inside of him, a small voice in the back of his mind, constantly begging him to please let you take care of him. “Can I ask you something?”

“‘Course.” You say softly. 

Rafe glances at you, eyes flicking between your hand and your face. God, he hated this. Your touch on his face, the tenderness in your voice, the look in your eyes. It was driving him absolutely insane. His eyes close, as if he was debating if he actually wanted to ask you this. “Am I poison? Am I poison in the water?”

“What do you mean?” You ask, eyebrows furrowing.

He opens his eyes again, hand still holding yours to his cheek. He holds your gaze, eyes softening. He hated how vulnerable he was, and yet there was a small piece of him, buried deep inside, that needed it. He could tell you anything right now, and you wouldn't judge him. You would just listen. Care. “Do I… poison everything I touch? Am I the poison that kills everything?”

“No, of course not,” You move closer to him on the couch. “Why would you ask that?”

God, he could smell you, your perfume a subtle, sweet scent that was driving him crazy. He closes his eyes as you move closer, and his jaw tightens. This was insane; he wasn't weak, he wasn't vulnerable, he did not need you. But then again, the hand on yours on his face had yet to move. “Because,” his voice drops to a whisper. “I know that I'm a sick, twisted bastard. I know that I make others sick. I hurt everyone I care about.”

“Rafe, I will admit you aren’t exactly the nicest guy,” You swallow roughly, unsure of what to even say. “But you still have people that care about you. Your friends, your sisters. They know the real Rafe, the guy underneath all the aggression.”

He lets out a long, shaky breath. God, he hated this. He hated being vulnerable. He hated opening up to you, and seeing that look of concern in your eyes. He wants to run, to close you out, leave and forget this ever happened. He wants to go back to treating you like one of his conquests, instead of feeling like he wanted you to hold him. But for some reason, his mouth wasn't listening to his brain. “But what about you?”

“Of course, I care about you,” You say. “I thought that would at least be obvious.”

He had a thousand different replies on the tip of his tongue, but instead his mouth just opened and closed, words dying when they left his lips. Everything in his mind was screaming at him to get up and leave, but there was a deeper part of him, a small piece of himself that he kept buried inside, deep in the back of his mind, that kept whispering, telling him to sit. It was the part that kept his hand on your wrist. He swallows hard, looking away. “I wish my dad was still here.”

“I know,” You say softly. “I’m sorry.”

He felt his eyes begin to sting, something that only added to his frustration. Frustration at himself, for being pathetic enough to cry. Frustration at you, for making him weak enough to cry. Frustration at Ward, for leaving him and his sisters behind. He suddenly hated everything. He hated you. He hated himself. He hated Ward for leaving him with feelings, making him weak. “I don't even know why I came here,” He mutters through gritted teeth. “I just... I wish I could've been good enough for him. I tried to be good.”

“You don’t know how Ward truly felt about you, Rafe.” You say, stroking his cheekbone again.

He hated the way you were comforting him, hated the way you were so gentle with him. He was always on the defensive, on the attack, so when someone was soft with him... Well, the way his chest ached was proof that it was something he wasn't used to. He swallows hard, closing his eyes. “But I do. His actions spoke louder than his damn words ever did,” He chuckles, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It's so stupid, you know, I... I used to pray I’d be like him, do everything that he did. And sometimes I still do.”

“That’s not stupid.” You say.

He lets his hand fall from your wrist, shaking his head. He hated talking about this, he hated admitting how much Ward’s death has messed him up. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to open up to anybody. The words leaving his lips, however, were not his own. “I hate that I don’t know if he was proud of me... I hate that I’ll never know if I did right by him.”

You remove your hand when he goes to cover his face. You watch him for a few moments, unsure of what to do, when you notice his shoulders shake. 

Is he crying?

Your eyes widen when you hear a sob rip through him, shoulders shaking up and down. “Hey, hey, Rafe, it’s okay. Don’t cry.”

He hated crying, absolutely hated it, but there he was, shoulders trembling, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t stop, no matter how hard he tried. “I’m not even- I…” His voice breaks, chest rattling. He lets out a long, shaky breath, shaking his head as he wipes away the tears from his cheeks. He couldn’t even look at you. He hated feeling so weak. Hated that you were seeing this side of him.

“It’s okay,” You put your arm around him, trying to hug him. “It’s okay--”

Rafe suddenly stands, pushing you back. “No. Don’t… don’t fucking pretend like you care.” He wipes his tears with the back of his hand, ashamed that he let Ward affect him this much. He was supposed to be strong. Powerful. Not weak.

“I’m not pretending.” You say, standing up.

His jaw tightens, his expression hardening into a sharp glare. God, he was tired of you, of your sweet words, of your gentle smiles. It was messing with his head, playing with his feelings. “Yeah, right.” He mutters, shaking his head. “You don’t care, don’t bullshit me.”

“Of course I care about you, Rafe,” You say, taking a step closer to him. “I… I lov--”

“No!” He suddenly snaps at you. He didn't want to hear that. He couldn't. “Don’t… don’t you dare,” You stare at him, confusion on your pretty little face, and it’s driving him fucking crazy. “Don’t. Don’t tell me. Keep that shit to yourself.”

You don’t know what to say, and you don’t want to upset him even more. You just nod, taking a step back.

He wanted to hit something. He wanted to break something. He hated the sight of that look on your face. The confusion, the worry, the disappointment. He didn’t understand. Why did you care? He didn’t deserve it, not one bit. What the hell did you think you’d get out of loving someone like him? That he’d love you back? That he’d change for you?

The silence is deafening. You want to say something, you just don’t know what. You take a shaky breath. “I’m here for you, Rafe. You know that. In any way you need me.”

“Why?” He asks suddenly, eyes meeting yours. “Why are you still here for me? Why do you care about me so goddamn much? Why can’t you just give up on me, like everyone else has?”

“Do I look like everyone else?” You ask.

Oh, but that was the problem. You were different. You were the only person in that damn town who was as sweet as you were patient. Who cared so god-damn much about someone so undeserving of that love. “Don’t you think I know that?” He asks, voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t you think it pisses me off that you are the way you are?”

“I just want you to be happy, Rafe, and if I can make you happy, I want to.” You say.

Why did you have to be so goddamn sweet? It was driving him mad, the way you stood there, so willing and eager to do whatever it took to help him. He let out a long, shaky breath, staring down at you. “It was different when you were just some girl I was hooking up with.” He says, shaking his head.

“I’m still that girl,” You insist. “Nothing has to change. We can go back to normal. Forget this ever happened.”

His eyes narrow as you speak. He hated that you said that, hated how willing you were to forget the fact that he cried in front of you, and yet he hated himself for the fact that he almost wanted to agree. “Really?” He asks, his voice sharp. “You’d just… forget this? Go back to letting me use you, like nothing happened?”

“If that’s what you want.” You say.

He hated the idea of that. The idea of going back to using you. Of treating you like trash when he knew that you cared so damn much. 

Part of him liked hurting you, like watching you fall apart at his hands. But it was the other side of him that hated how good it felt at first, hated the pit of shame in his chest that grew each time you begged him to stay, or cried while he left, or looked at him like he meant the world to you.

Part of him knew you deserved better.

Rafe sighs, looking away. “Fine. We forget about this.”

“Okay.” You say, nodding.

The fact that you didn't say anything, that you didn't fight back, made his chest ache. God, he hated this. He wanted to yell at you. Wanted to push you down, pin you to the couch, and make you cry out his name. He wanted you to ask him to stay, fight him to prove to him that you cared. He hated how your willingness to forget it all made him want to wrap his arms around you. He couldn't stay. He would do something risky, something that he would regret in the morning. He sniffles, wiping his eyes again. “I'm gonna go.”

You swallow thickly. “If you’re sure. My door is always open.”

“Yeah,” He replies, his voice hoarse. He hated that your gentleness, your sweetness, still managed to get to him. He steps closer to you. He wanted to touch you again. To feel your warm, soft skin against his palm. But he knew better. He knew that if he touched you, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. “Thanks for being there.” He mumbles, his voice cracking.

“Of course.” You smile softly.

He hates how your smile makes his chest ache, hates the tug it gives his heart. He hated how he cared about you, hated how he was so weak that he allowed himself to open up to you. And God, he hated how he was thinking about kissing your pretty, pouty lips. “I'll be back tomorrow night. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Rafe nods, licking his lips. He rocks back and forth on his feet before reaching out and cupping the back of your head, pressing his lips to your forehead. Enough to keep you hooked. “See you later, sweetheart.”

Your entire body is buzzing. “Drive safe.”

You’re still standing in the same spot when he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

And you will wait for the next time he wants you.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

blagh

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[peachversace]

fashion killa

chapter two ; and fall into you

[nsfw] — smut (18+) ; bakugou katsuki x reader

word count: 20,014 — read on ao3 — read part one on tumblr

tags: strangers to lovers, friends with benefits, pro hero bakugou katsuki, explicit language & sexual content, aged-up characters, porn with plot, model!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, mutual pining, bakugou is a soft yearning idiot who i want to eat up, kirishima eijirou is a good friend, not beta read!

summary:

Fashion Week was supposed to be simple-walk the runway, collect your check, and, if all went according to plan, spend the night with Pro Hero Dynamight. Just a little fun. Nothing more. But getting rid of Bakugou Katsuki proves to be harder than slipping out of a too-tight sample size.

Or, in which a one-night stand with one of Japan's most famous men turns into a relentless game of cat and mouse-and the worst part? You don't hate it.

notes:

the final chapter is here! thank you so much for all the love on the first chapter—it really means a lot to me. this was supposed to go up on sunday, but i didn’t like the ending, so i changed it last minute lol. i hope you guys like it and that it lives up to your expectations. thank you in advance, and happy reading!

enjoy! :D

Things get stranger after that night, but not in a way you could have anticipated. 

You and Katsuki seem to grow closer, slipping into each other’s lives with an ease that feels both natural and unsettling. It's not what you expected. You thought things would stay casual. But there’s a shift now—something in the way you reach for your phone more often, his name lighting up the screen with more frequency.

It starts with simple things. He calls you more, which surprises you because Katsuki’s never been one for chit-chat, but his voice on the other end of the line feels steady, grounding. You catch yourself waiting for those calls, anticipating the sound of his gruff voice grumbling about some villain he had to deal with or asking how your day went. It's not just calls either. Texts come in, pictures too. You send him photos of you in a photoshoot, all glammed up in haute couture, and he replies with short, dry comments, ‘Looking good,’ or ‘Too fancy.’ But you can tell he's looking, really looking. You send pictures from the gym, hair tied back, sweat glistening on your skin. And in return, Katsuki sends you his own pictures. They’re blurry sometimes, like he doesn’t know how to properly frame a shot, and he always scowls in them, half his face obscured. 

He grumbles, “Ain’t good at this photo crap,” but you can see the effort. It’s adorable, especially when he sends you pictures from bed, messy hair and bare chest, a hint of vulnerability in the way the camera captures him. You wonder if he realizes how soft he looks.

You start spending more time together too—more than you’d planned for. It’s not always about the sex now, though that’s still a big part of it. But there’s a sweetness in how you share space. Sometimes, it’s cooking together, and he’ll stand beside you, watching your every move with that sharp focus he has for everything. Other times, it’s movies, the two of you sprawled out on the couch, his arm slung lazily over your shoulders. Katsuki’s not great with words, not in the way some people are, but he doesn’t need to be. His actions speak for him—whether it’s making sure you’re comfortable or tossing a blanket over you when you doze off mid-movie.

The softness between you is unexpected. You’ve seen his gruff, explosive exterior, the way the media paints him as some sort of untouchable force. But here, with you, he’s different. He’s cuddly, something you never would’ve expected from him. He pulls you close without hesitation, his arms firm and warm, always keeping you near. You don’t question it, but it throws you off. This wasn’t what you signed up for—this quiet intimacy that feels more like a relationship than something casual. He’s not supposed to be so sweet, so soft.

One thing that surprises you most is how much he enjoys taking pictures with you. 

You’d never have guessed the gruff, no-nonsense Pro Hero would indulge in such a thing, especially when he’s always grumbling about media shoots and press. But when you’re in one of his hoodies, and you tug him down to take a selfie, your hand gently curling around his jaw, he leans in without protest. There’s this small, content smile that tugs at his lips—subtle but real, and it lights up his face in a way that makes your heart skip. You snap the picture, and he’ll grumble, “Didn’t ask for this,” but you catch him later, zooming in on the photo, his thumb lingering over the screen. There’s a softness in his eyes as he looks at the two of you together.

He’s not one for skincare, either, but when you do face masks or anything remotely involving pampering, he sits there and lets you do it, his face a picture of calm contentment. His quirk may have blessed him with great skin, but he indulges you, letting you push his wild hair back with a fluffy headband, revealing his sharp features. You prep his face, and he just watches you with half-lidded eyes, relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before. He doesn’t even protest when you lean down and kiss him in the middle of it, his lips curving into a small, lazy smile. It’s cute how unbothered he is, how he lets you do whatever you want to him.

You’ve gotten more comfortable with each other in general.

More touching, more kissing, and sex has become something deeper. It’s no longer just an outlet, no longer just physical. It’s a way for the two of you to connect, to be closer. There’s a vulnerability in how he touches you, how his hands roam your body with a quiet reverence. When he presses against you, his skin flush against yours, you feel it—the way his guard drops, the way he lets himself need you in those moments. Your head will fall back, and he takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, his mouth warm and insistent, before his firm hand finds your face, guiding you back to him for another kiss. You feel like you’re floating in those moments, lost in the press of his body, the sound of his voice, and the way he holds you as if you’re something precious.

One night, after several rounds of unraveling each other, Katsuki does something he’s never done before—he opens up. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, as he starts to talk about the Final War. You weren’t prepared for the weight of it. He tells you about being sent to the frontlines as a child soldier, about how his heart ruptured, the physical agony and the fear that came with it. His right arm, crushed beyond recognition, left him scarred—inside and out. He talks about rehab, about how long it took him to get his arm functioning again. 

And then, in a softer tone, he admits something that surprises you: “I still wanna be number one... but I’m content, y’know? With where I’m at right now.”

You’re lying beside him, his hand heavy on your waist, and you look up at him. His face is dimly lit, and there’s a vulnerability in his expression that makes your heart twist. “I think you’re amazing,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure, your fingers reaching up to gently curl around his jaw, pulling him down for a kiss. It’s slow and sweet, and when you pull away, his cheeks are flushed, a faint pink creeping across his skin.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, embarrassed, but you can see the small, content smile tugging at his lips again, the same one he gives you in those quiet moments when his guard is down.

You smile back, your heart swelling in your chest as you kiss him again. There’s a softness to this moment, to him, and it feels like something has shifted between you. Something you can’t quite put into words yet, but it’s there, lingering in the air, unspoken but undeniable. 

But then there’s a pause, a hesitation. Katsuki’s expression changes, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter. "You’re the one that’s amazin'," he repeats, his voice low, almost like he’s afraid to say it too loudly. The way his words hang between you makes your heart do a strange little flip. You can feel the weight of them. 

You tilt your head slightly, giving him a teasing smile to ease the tension. "What, for walking in 120 mm heels or for letting you do facemasks with me?" you whisper, fingers brushing the scar on his cheek, tracing the jagged line that’s become so familiar to you now. 

He huffs, but there’s a flicker of something more behind his eyes. "Nah," he says, shaking his head. "For bein’ you. For workin’ hard as hell, doin’ all this stuff, and still bein’ able to… to put up with me."

The words hit you harder than you expect. You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You hadn’t realized he saw it that way—like he was a burden, like being with him was something difficult to endure. There’s a vulnerability in the way he avoids your gaze, his usual cocky demeanor gone, leaving just Katsuki—raw and exposed in front of you.

"You’re making it sound like I’m putting up with someone from hell," you say, your voice softer now, trying to coax his eyes back to yours.

He grumbles again, that same frustrated sound, but he still doesn’t look at you, and that’s when you realize just how much he doubts himself. How much he carries with him—his past, his insecurities, the weight of being a Pro Hero. And for the first time, you see how deeply it cuts him, how much he worries that he’s too much for anyone to handle.

"Hey," you whisper, your hand gently guiding his face back to you. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and his eyes, reluctant at first, finally meet yours. "I like putting up with you. You always think so bad about yourself. Stop doing that. Sometimes people just want to be around you, to spend time with you. It’s not weird, and I like spending time with you."

Katsuki’s cheeks flare up with a faint blush, his ears turning a little red at your words. He scoffs again, the sound almost automatic, like he’s trying to shake off the embarrassment. "You’re fuckin’ clingy," he mutters, but the bite in his tone is weak. His eyes flicker with something softer, something grateful.

You grin at him, laughter bubbling up in your chest. "Says the man that’s clinging to me like glue." You lean up on your elbow a little, your smile widening. "I have the pictures to prove it, by the way."

Before you can react, he’s turning his head and biting lightly at your fingers where they rest on his jaw, his teeth just grazing your skin in a teasing nip. It sends a small jolt through you, and you laugh softly, falling back into the pillows, your chest rising and falling with quiet giggles as you look up at him.

Katsuki’s grinning now, a real grin that lights up his face, his usual intensity tempered with affection. He leans down closer, his breath warm against your cheek, and you can feel the way his body relaxes against yours. There’s no distance between you—no walls, no masks. Just you and him, sharing the space in a way that feels... real.

"What?" you whisper, still smiling as you reach up to smooth a hand through his messy hair. "Is my skin glowing or something?"

Katsuki scoffs lightly at your teasing, though there’s a small tug of a smile at the corner of his lips. His crimson eyes stay locked on yours, searching your face with an intensity that always makes your heart race. The heat of his body radiates against you, and even though you’re joking, there’s a flicker of something deeper in the way he holds your gaze, something vulnerable he’s still not used to sharing. 

"Yeah, sure, your skin’s glowin’," he mutters, his voice rough but soft, leaning down closer. "From all those dumb facemasks you make me do." His lips brush your temple, but the grin on his face betrays his usual gruffness.

You laugh, a light sound that melts between the two of you in the dimly lit room. "Dumb facemasks that you enjoy way too much," you fire back, playfully nudging him. "Don’t think I don’t notice how relaxed you get."

He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but there’s no real bite behind it. His hand, rough from years of hero work, trails absentmindedly along your side, his fingers brushing lightly over your skin, sending tiny shivers down your spine. His touch is softer than you ever expected when you first got involved with him, but now it’s familiar—comforting in its warmth and weight.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you, the usual fire in them dimmed into something warmer, more intimate. "Maybe," he mutters, his voice low. "But I like you better without all that makeup anyway."

The simplicity of the statement, the raw honesty of it, makes your heart squeeze. You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head slightly as you press a kiss to his lips, slow and lingering. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, deepening the kiss for a moment before pulling away, his forehead resting against yours.

There’s a stillness in the room now, a sense of peace that settles between the two of you. It feels like the world outside doesn’t exist, like all the noise and chaos of your lives as pro heroes and public figures has melted away. In this moment, it’s just you and Katsuki—no expectations, no pressure. Just the quiet, simple warmth of being together. 

"You're an idiot," you whisper playfully, breaking the silence as you tap his chest lightly, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin as he presses another soft kiss to your forehead. "Guess I am for you."

Katsuki's words make your heart skip a beat, and you have to bite your lip to stop the smile threatening to break through. The way he says it—so casually yet so earnestly—makes warmth bloom in your chest. You’re not used to this side of him, this softness that he reserves just for you.

“What are your plans tomorrow?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he’s afraid to disturb the peace between you.

You think for a moment before replying, "Well… I have Pilates in the morning, and then I’m getting my nails done. Do you have any suggestions?" You stretch your arms lazily above your head, watching him with a playful glint in your eye.

Katsuki shrugs, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck. His hair tickles your skin, and you can’t help but let out a soft sigh as your fingers instinctively move to scratch his scalp. The sound he makes in response—a low, content rumble—reminds you of a cat purring, and it makes you smile. He presses a kiss to your cheek, his lips warm against your skin, before mumbling, “Dunno. Whatever makes you feel good.”

You grin, already knowing what will get a reaction out of him. “So if it’s an ugly purple color, you’ll be okay with it?”

As expected, he makes a face, his brows furrowing in clear disapproval. The corner of your mouth twitches in amusement as you roll your eyes. "Don’t worry, I’ll probably go for a nude pink," you murmur, leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his. The closeness between you feels so natural now, like a second skin. "And then I have a meeting with my agent about being a brand ambassador for an upcoming label, but I’m still thinking about it. That’s all."

He hums, a low sound of acknowledgment vibrating through his chest, and then you return the question. "What about you?"

"Got the day off," he says after a beat, his voice a little hesitant as if he’s testing the waters. "Thought… thought maybe I’d cook for ya or somethin’." His fingers brush against your lower back, the warmth of his touch drawing you even closer. It’s so subtle, the way he pulls you in, but it feels like he’s trying to close any remaining distance between your bodies. "Make ya those sushi rolls you liked. The ones you had in the US."

The way he remembers something so small, something you mentioned offhandedly during a trip, makes your breath hitch slightly. It’s not just the gesture itself—it’s the meaning behind it. How vulnerable and open he’s become with you, how he always wants to do things for you, to make sure you’re comfortable. His actions say what his words sometimes struggle to—how much he cares, even if he’s not always good at expressing it.

You swallow, the emotions swirling inside you making your chest feel tight in the best way possible. "You don’t have to do all that, Katsuki," you say softly, your fingers tracing small circles along his shoulder, feeling the strength and warmth beneath his skin. "But I’d love it. You know I’d never say no to your cooking."

He grumbles, his usual tough exterior showing through even in moments like this. "Yeah, well, don’t expect it all the time," he mutters, but the way his fingers tighten slightly on your back tells you he’s already looking forward to it. He likes taking care of you, even if he’ll never admit it outright.

You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, your lips lingering there for a moment. His skin is warm, and the simple act of affection makes him relax even more against you, like he’s letting go of something heavy he’s been holding on to. 

"I’m looking forward to it," you whisper, and the sincerity in your voice seems to catch him off guard. He looks up at you, his usual sharp gaze softened by the quiet intimacy of the moment. There’s something vulnerable in his eyes, something that makes your heart ache in a way that’s both beautiful and terrifying. 

"Yeah," he says, his voice rough but tender. "Me too."

And in that moment, with the quiet warmth of the room surrounding you, it feels like everything is exactly as it should be. The casual arrangement you once had has blurred into something deeper, something more profound. You can feel it in the way he holds you, in the way he speaks to you, in the way he cares for you. 

You never expected this to happen, but now that it has, you’re not sure you want it to stop. Katsuki has wormed his way into your life in a way you hadn’t anticipated, and it scares you, just a little. 

But when he’s this close, when his touch is this gentle, and when his words are this soft, it’s hard to imagine ever wanting to let him go.

It’s like stepping into a high-end restaurant when you walk into Katsuki’s apartment the next day, after finishing up your schedule. 

The moment you enter, the smell of freshly prepared food hits your senses, and the sight of the spread on the dining table takes your breath away. He’s really gone all out—sashimi platters laid out beautifully, with slices of the freshest fish you’ve ever seen; multiple types of sushi from nigiri to uramaki and temaki, each piece looking meticulously crafted. The fried dishes, like ebi furai and karaage, are golden and crisp, making your mouth water at the sight of them.

It’s a lot. More than you ever expected from him, especially after how shy he seemed about cooking this for you. 

But what really catches your attention isn’t the food—it’s the bouquet of flowers sitting at your usual seat.

Your breath hitches as you step closer, reaching out to touch the delicate petals. The bouquet is a stunning mix of roses, lilies, orchids, and carnations, all in varying shades of pink. The arrangement is soft but vibrant, delicate yet full of life, and you can’t help but be completely charmed by the gesture. You pick it up carefully, the scent of the flowers filling the air as you lift the bouquet closer to your face. The blend of colors is beautiful, and it makes your heart flutter.

With the bouquet in hand, you turn to look at him, your expression softening into a teasing but warm smile. "Flowers, huh?" you murmur, your voice light with affection, though there’s an underlying sense of surprise too. You’d never thought Katsuki would go this far, to do something so thoughtful and gentle.

Katsuki stands a few feet away, looking a bit out of his element, his usual confidence slightly faltering. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, a telltale sign of his discomfort with this kind of vulnerable gesture. His eyes flick to the flowers in your hands, and then back to you. His mouth twitches like he’s about to say something, and after a beat, he murmurs, almost bashfully, “It’s the same color as your nails.”

You blink, and then you realize—he’s right. The delicate pink flowers are nearly an exact match for the nude-pink shade you’d mentioned getting done at the nail salon earlier that morning. It’s such a small detail, something you didn’t even think he’d remember, let alone match. It’s thoughtful in a way that makes your chest tighten and your heart swell.

You think you might just melt right there. He’s always been sweet in his own gruff, awkward way, but this? This feels different. This feels like he’s trying to show you something more, to express something he doesn’t have the words for.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, your voice a little breathless as you take a step toward him, the bouquet still in your hands. You want to say something else, to tease him maybe, but the lump in your throat won’t let you. Instead, you just stare at him, feeling the warmth in your chest grow, spreading like wildfire.

He looks away, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, his lips curling into a small scowl. But there’s no bite behind it. If anything, he just looks a little embarrassed. “Don’t make a big deal outta it,” he grumbles, though the way his eyes flicker back to yours betrays his nerves.

But you can’t help it. How can you not make a big deal out of it? He went through all this trouble just to match a detail as small as your nails with the flowers he picked. He cooked an entire feast for you, filled with dishes you love. And all of it—all of it—is done with the kind of care and thoughtfulness that makes your heart ache in the best way.

You set the flowers down gently on the table and step closer to him, your hands reaching for his. You feel the callouses on his fingers as you intertwine them with yours, and he stiffens slightly before relaxing, allowing you to pull him closer. “You didn’t have to do all this,” you whisper, your voice soft and tender. “But I love it. I love everything. Thank you.”

Katsuki’s gaze flickers down to your hands, then back up to your face, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out how to respond. He shifts his weight, looking uncharacteristically shy. “S’nothin’. Just wanted to do somethin’ nice.”

Your smile grows, and you can’t resist the urge to stand on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin flushes under your touch, and you feel the way he holds his breath for a second before he relaxes. “Well, it means a lot to me,” you murmur against his skin, your lips lingering just a little longer than necessary.

When you pull back, his gaze locks onto yours, and there’s a softness in his eyes you don’t often get to see. For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the world feeling a little smaller, a little more intimate. The bouquet, the dinner, the way he remembered something as small as the color of your nails—it all feels like more than just casual affection. It feels like he’s slowly, hesitantly opening himself up to you in ways he’s never done before.

And it makes your heart race.

“Now, come on,” you say, breaking the silence with a grin as you tug him toward the table. “Let’s eat before this masterpiece gets cold.”

He huffs, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Sit down already.”

As you take your seat, you can’t help but feel a little giddy. Katsuki takes his seat across from you, and for a moment, the two of you just sit there, surrounded by the feast he’s prepared. There’s a warmth in the air, a sense of quiet happiness that lingers between you.

And as you pick up your chopsticks and dig into the meal he made just for you, you realize that whatever this is between the two of you, it’s something more than you ever could have imagined. Something real. Something that’s growing in ways neither of you expected.

That night feels like a memory already etched into your soul, a moment you know you’ll never forget. 

The signs were all there from the start—the flowers, the dinner, the shy glances exchanged between the two of you over the table. There was a softness in the way you spoke to each other, a quiet warmth that lingered in the air, charged with something more than just affection. 

It was inevitable, the way the night would unfold.

Now, the room is filled with nothing but the quiet creaking of the bed, the sound of skin meeting skin, and the breathless, intimate sounds you and Katsuki make together. Your hands grip the pillow beneath your head as his strong hands hold your thighs, keeping them folded around his hips. He moves with a steady, deliberate rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body. There’s something deeper in the way he touches you tonight—something tender and almost reverent.

Through the haze of pleasure, your eyes blink up at him, catching the intensity of his gaze. It’s overwhelming, the way his molten eyes lock onto yours, filled with an emotion so raw it almost makes your chest ache. You can’t help but tug him closer, wanting to feel his warmth, his skin against yours. He obliges, his forearms coming to rest on either side of your head, bracketing you in. Your legs instinctively tighten around his waist, your ankles crossing at the small of his back, pulling him even closer.

“Katsuki,” you gasp, the word slipping from your lips in a whisper. It’s a plea, a confession, everything wrapped in one. He answers you not with words but with a kiss—soft, slow, and wet. His lips press against yours with a tenderness that belies the strength of his body, and it makes you shiver with how gentle he’s being. There’s something different in the way he’s moving, like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t quite put into words.

Then, his voice breaks the silence, low and vulnerable. “Say my name,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your neck.

The need in his voice makes your heart stutter. You feel his vulnerability, the rawness of him asking for something so simple, yet so important. So you do—you say his name over and over, like a mantra. “Katsuki, Katsuki, Katsuki…” Each word is punctuated by a kiss, your lips brushing against his in fleeting touches. His name feels sacred on your tongue, like it’s the only thing that matters in this moment.

His eyes darken, flecks of gold and violet swirling in the molten depths of his gaze. It’s like he’s seeing straight through you, into the deepest parts of you, and it makes you feel bare, exposed. But in the best way. You’re not just giving yourself to him; you’re sharing something far more intimate, something unspoken but understood. The two of you are drowning in each other—in the kisses, the warmth of your skin pressed together, the way he holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

He’s exploded you, just like his quirk, and in his touch, you feel like fireworks—bright, burning, alive. Every time he moves, you feel like you’re breaking apart in the best way, only to come back together, more whole than before.

And then, Katsuki slows his movements, like he’s trying to savor every second of this. His thrusts become deep, deliberate, each one dragging out the moment as if he never wants it to end. There’s something reverent about it, like he’s worshipping you, wanting to memorize the way you feel, the way your body responds to him. It’s so intense, so real, that it almost overwhelms you. 

You can’t help but moan softly, your body arching into his as he moves within you. The sensation is slow, building like a crescendo, and you feel like you’re on the edge of something greater than either of you. You’re not just feeling pleasure—this is something deeper. His touch, his kiss, the way he holds you, it all makes you feel like you’ve become something otherworldly, like a star burning brightly in the night sky.

His lips brush against your ear, and in the quiet between breaths, you hear him whisper, “You’re incredible.” The words are hushed, almost like a secret, but they hit you hard, sinking deep into your heart. He’s never been great with words, but in this moment, he doesn’t need to be. The way he touches you, the way he holds you, speaks volumes.

And just like that, you feel yourself slipping, falling into that blissful oblivion, with Katsuki right there with you. The world outside disappears, and all that exists is this—the two of you, tangled together, lost in the feeling of each other. Time slows, the space between each breath stretches, and for a moment, it feels like you’re not just two people anymore. You’ve become something greater, something inseparable, something you never want to let go of. 

As the two of you finally find release, together, it feels like the stars themselves have exploded inside of you, leaving you breathless, weightless, and utterly content.

It’s close to dawn, and the first hints of light peek through the blinds, casting a soft glow across the room. 

You’re completely spent, bodies tangled together, exhausted after countless rounds of pleasure, yet it’s not just the physicality that keeps you close. It’s the warmth of his touch, the familiarity of it, the way his body instinctively presses against yours. Katsuki is holding you like you’re something precious, his lips brushing over your skin—your jaw, your neck, your shoulders—leaving behind tender kisses in his wake. His hands glide over your hips, your stomach, your thighs, tracing your curves with a gentle reverence that makes your breath hitch. There’s something so intimate in the way he touches you now, not just as a lover, but as someone who’s cherishing every moment.

You nuzzle closer, your head resting against his muscular bicep, pressing a soft kiss to it with a smile. His warmth surrounds you, and you can feel his chest rise and fall with every breath he takes. The silence between you is comfortable, peaceful, only filled with the sound of your shared breaths and the occasional rustling of the sheets.

In a teasing, hushed tone, you break the stillness, “You never told me what you think of my nails.” 

Katsuki huffs a quiet laugh against your cheek, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Idiot,” he mumbles, the insult carrying no real bite. His teeth sink into your skin teasingly, making you let out a startled squeak, but you laugh when you feel his lips press a soft kiss in the same spot. His voice is a little rough, but warm as he admits, “They look good.”

You smile at his response, feeling the warmth of his approval as it spreads through you. “Good,” you whisper back, your voice soft in the quiet room. You let the moment drift into comfortable silence once again, enjoying the simple pleasure of being close to him, his body still pressed to yours. The bed shifts slightly as you both move, adjusting your positions to be closer, your limbs lazily draped over each other.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through the silence, and you instinctively reach for it. You scroll through a few messages before opening the camera, catching your reflection on the screen. There’s a faint flush to your cheeks, and you can see the small marks he left on your skin—little love bites trailing down to your collarbone, proof of the night’s passion. You look at yourself, and you can’t help but smile.

You’re glowing.

Before you can dwell on it, Katsuki shifts beside you, slowly leaning in to rest his head against yours, his weight a comforting presence. Your smile softens as you press the button on the camera, capturing the two of you in the frame. He doesn’t protest—he never really does when you take pictures anymore—and there’s a softness in his eyes, a quiet contentment that’s so different from the sharp, hardened persona he shows the world. Here, with you, he’s just Katsuki, sleepy-eyed and tender, his face relaxed in a way that makes your heart swell.

You click on the video option, and still, he says nothing, just watches as you record. He leans further into you, his body language loose and easy, completely at peace in your presence. You lift your hand to his jaw, gently scratching at the stubble growing there, and he blinks lazily, his eyes half-lidded as he leans into your touch. His vulnerability is on full display, and it’s something so personal, so special, that it makes your chest tighten with affection.

Without thinking, you turn your head and press a soft kiss to his lips. He lets you, meeting your kiss with a slow, sleepy response, his lips warm and slightly chapped. The kiss is tender, and when you pull away, it leaves behind a small, wet sound that makes you smile. You press another, quicker kiss to his lips before glancing back at the camera, capturing the quiet intimacy of the moment. 

On the screen, you see him with that small, almost shy smile curling at the corners of his lips. It’s a rare expression, one that he only seems to show when he’s with you, and it makes your heart flutter. There’s no mask here, no front, just him—content, soft, and utterly at ease with you.

And in that moment, you realize how deeply you’ve both fallen into this. How much you’ve come to mean to one another. His presence feels like home, like something you’ve been missing all along. 

There’s something deeper here, something you didn’t expect, and now it feels terrifyingly real.

And that thought scares the hell out of you.

You avoid him after that night.

It’s dumb; it’s stupid; it’s insane, but after that night, the intimacy had shaken you to your core, and you’re not ready to deal with the weight of what that means. The soft way he touched you, the vulnerability in his voice when he asked you to call him by his name—those aren’t things that fit into your neat little box labeled casual. And you don’t want to face the fact that whatever this thing is between you and Katsuki, it stopped being casual a long time ago.

So, you pull away. You don’t call him, don’t text back as often, and when he tries to reach out, you tell him you’re busy. It’s not entirely a lie. Work is busy. You’ve been booked back-to-back with photoshoots for Vogue China, campaigns for Kintsugi and Chanel, and appearances for Tsukiyo. Haute Couture Week is just around the corner, and you’re drowning in preparations. 

But the truth is, it’s easier to hide behind your schedule than face the reality of what’s happening between you and Katsuki. You bury yourself in work, hoping the distance will clear your head, will give you time to sort out your feelings. Because you’re not sure what you want anymore. Do you still want something casual? Or has it become something more? You’re not ready to answer that question, not ready to confront the feelings that have begun to creep up on you.

And then, late one night, the consequences of your actions come knocking—literally.

It’s around one in the morning when there’s a knock at your door. The sound startles you, breaking the quiet of your apartment, and you instantly know who it is. You hesitate for a second, your heart racing as you walk over and pull the door open.

Katsuki stands there, still in his hero gear, covered in soot and sweat, fresh from patrol. His eyes are sharp, but there’s a softness in the way he looks at you—something like confusion, or maybe even hurt. He doesn’t waste any time.

“You avoidin’ me or somethin’?” His voice is gruff, but there’s a vulnerability in it, the kind that makes your chest tighten.

“No!” you blurt out, too quickly. Your voice sounds high, and you can’t even convince yourself. “No, I’ve just been... busy. You know how it is.”

He narrows his eyes, his expression hardening. “Busy, huh?”

You nod, trying to hold his gaze, but your heart is pounding in your ears. “Yeah. Work’s been crazy lately.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at you with that intense, unreadable look of his, and you feel the guilt crawling up your throat. You expect him to yell, to snap at you, but when he finally speaks, his voice is low, hesitant.

“Did I... do somethin’ wrong?”

The question hits you harder than you expect. You see the hurt in his eyes now, the way his jaw tightens, like he’s bracing for something. Your chest tightens, and you want to reach out, to reassure him, but you hesitate. You shake your head quickly. “No, Katsuki, you didn’t do anything. It’s... it’s not you, it’s me.”

His entire body tenses at your words, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?”

You take a step back, rubbing your arms nervously. “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you say quietly, almost like you’re hoping he won’t hear you.

He takes a step closer, his voice firm, almost demanding. “Do what?”

You swallow, trying to find the right words, but they stick in your throat. “This... us. I wanted things to stay casual, you know? Casual but serious? But now... everything feels different… and I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship.”

He’s silent for a beat, his jaw clenching, his fists tightening at his sides. “So avoidin’ me was your solution?” His voice is sharp now, tinged with frustration and hurt. He’s not yelling, but his tone cuts through you.

“No, it’s not like that. I just didn’t know how to—”

“Didn’t know how to what?” He interrupts, his voice rising slightly, his eyes flashing. “Didn’t know how to tell me I’m just some fuckin’ fling to you?”

“No!” you shake your head desperately, stepping forward, but the words feel stuck, like no explanation is good enough. “It’s not like that, I just—”

“Then what?” His voice cracks, and for a moment, you see something raw in his expression. He lets out a shaky breath and takes a step back, his shoulders slumping as he runs a hand through his messy hair. The usual fire in his eyes dims, replaced with exhaustion—emotional exhaustion. He looks tired. Tired of fighting for you. “Y’know what? Whatever. Do whatever the hell you want.”

You freeze as he turns, his back to you, and walks toward the door. Your mouth opens to stop him, but no words come out. You watch helplessly as he reaches for the door handle, his movements slow and heavy, like he’s waiting for you to say something—anything. 

But you don’t. 

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening. 

You stand there, your heart pounding, staring at the empty space where he just stood. The weight of the conversation, of everything you didn’t say, settles in the pit of your stomach, and for the first time, you realize just how badly you’ve messed up. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to feel this way. But it does. And now, you’re left standing in the aftermath of your own avoidance, the silence of the room echoing with the absence of him.

And for the first time, you wonder if it’s too late to fix things.

────────────────────────

The weeks after your... breakup? Was it even that? You still don’t know how to label it, but whatever it was, it’s hard. It hurts more than you thought it would, more than you ever expected it could. You don’t cry easily, you’ve never been the type to fall apart over someone, but Katsuki—Bakugou—was different. His absence feels like a missing piece of your life, a hole that you can’t seem to fill no matter how much you try.

You find yourself crying at night, tears slipping down your cheeks as you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s a quiet kind of crying, the kind where your chest aches and your throat tightens, but you don’t make a sound. It’s unexpected, this grief, this sense of loss. You hadn’t realized how much he meant to you until he wasn’t there anymore. Until the warmth of his presence, his gruff voice, his touch was gone, leaving you cold and hollow.

But you push through it. You force yourself to keep going, to focus on your work, because that’s what you do. You’ve always been good at throwing yourself into your career when things get hard, and this time is no different. Even if your heart feels like it’s been ripped out. Even if you feel like you’re walking around with this empty, aching space inside you. 

Even if it feels like... love.

But you don’t let yourself dwell on that thought. You shove it down, deep inside, where you don’t have to deal with it. Instead, you work. You focus on your job, on the constant demands of your schedule. Haute Couture Week in Paris comes quickly, and you’re on a plane before you even realize it, throwing yourself into the chaos of the fashion world.

Paris is as hectic and glamorous as always. You’re swept into a whirlwind of fittings, castings, and shows. You walk down runways draped in the most luxurious fabrics, you pose for countless photoshoots, you attend brand events where everyone looks perfect, where everyone seems to have it all together. On the surface, you look the part—you’re poised, composed, radiant. But inside, your thoughts are consumed with him.

Every time you stand still for more than a second, your mind drifts back to Katsuki. To the way he looked that night at your door, the hurt in his eyes, the way he walked away. You think about the nights you spent with him, about the softness in his touch that you hadn’t expected, about the way he kissed you with such intensity that it made you feel like you were the only person in the world. 

You miss the way he would scowl when he was embarrassed, the way he’d flick your forehead when you teased him, the way he’d grumble but still pull you closer when you were lying in bed together. You miss him, and no matter how much work you bury yourself in, that feeling doesn’t go away. 

And you do bury yourself in work. 

You walk runway after runway, your legs aching from the hours spent in heels. You attend fittings, standing perfectly still as designers adjust fabric on your body, their hands moving with practiced precision. You barely eat, following the strict diet that keeps you in shape for the shows, even when your stomach growls in protest. You push through photoshoot after photoshoot, your face a mask of calm professionalism even when your head feels like it’s going to burst from exhaustion.

By the time Haute Couture Week ends, you’re exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. But there’s no time to rest, no time to stop and process the whirlwind of emotions that have been swirling inside you since that night with Katsuki. September is coming fast, and with it, the next fashion month. Castings have already started, and of course, you’re booked solid. Tsukiyo, Ryūmon, Dsquared2, Dior—they all want you, and you don’t have the luxury of slowing down.

You tell yourself that this is what you need. That keeping busy is good, that focusing on your career will help you forget. But late at night, when the city around you is quiet and your hotel room feels too big, too empty, you can’t stop your thoughts from drifting back to him. To the way he said your name, his voice rough but soft at the edges. To the way he held you close after everything, his hands gentle on your skin. To the way he looked at you, like you were more than just some casual fling, like you were something that mattered.

And that’s what scares you the most.

Because deep down, you know it was never just casual for him. You saw it in the way he touched you, in the way he let you call him by his first name, in the way he always made sure you were comfortable, that you were okay. You could feel it in the way he held you close, even when he didn’t say the words. Katsuki was serious about you, and that terrified you because you hadn’t let yourself believe that you could be serious about him too. 

But now, lying in your hotel bed, staring at the ceiling in the dim light, you wonder if maybe... maybe you were serious about him too. Maybe this wasn’t just some casual thing for you either. Maybe you let your fear get the best of you. Maybe you pushed him away because you were scared of what it meant to feel this way about someone.

Maybe... it’s too late to fix it.

You first meet Kirishima Eijirou at the brand event for Yūgen, a high-end luxury brand that’s slowly carving its name into the industry. 

The event is bathed in understated elegance, the kind that makes everything feel weightless, like an ethereal dream. The fragrance of Yūgen lingers in the air, soft but pervasive, the scent weaving in and out of your senses. It’s a haunting aroma—woody, floral, with a touch of something mysterious that stays with you long after you leave the room. The brand’s aesthetic mirrors that feeling, subtle craftsmanship and poetic beauty all wrapped in quiet luxury.

You’re wearing one of Yūgen’s finest designs: The Moonlit Silk Gown, a floor-length masterpiece in pearlescent ivory that moves like liquid moonlight against your skin. The cherry blossom embroidery is so delicate, it looks as though it might dissolve at any moment. The backless design leaves a trail of silk down your spine, each movement making you feel like a walking work of art, fragile but powerful. You look flawless—because you have to—but inside, you’re far from it. 

It’s been a long week. A long month, really. 

Physically, you’re exhausted. Every photoshoot, every runway, every campaign pulls energy from you in a way that leaves you hollow by the end of the day. But emotionally? That’s where the real toll is. It’s been weeks since you and Katsuki—Bakugou, you remind yourself, like a bad habit you need to kick—had your falling out, and despite throwing yourself into work, the ache hasn’t dulled. 

A vacation sounds tempting, but the thought of having time—time to rest, time to think—is too much. You don’t want to think. Not about what happened, not about the way you avoided him, not about the hurt in his eyes that still haunts you late at night. So you bury yourself in everything else—work, events, anything that keeps you moving forward without looking back.

The event is in full swing, and you’ve spent hours mingling, moving through the crowd like a ghost, smiling, nodding, talking to people whose faces blur together after a while. Celebrities, designers, businessmen, all wanting a piece of your attention. You’re good at it—the small talk, the easy charm, the graceful way you handle yourself. But by the time you finally find a moment to sit down, you feel like you’re about to collapse.

Your feet ache from the heels you’ve been wearing all night, sharp pains shooting through your legs with each step. Your head pounds from the constant hum of conversation, lights, and the weight of it all. You take a deep breath, trying to center yourself, to focus on anything other than the discomfort coursing through you. You consider finding an excuse to leave early, to escape the noise and the pressure, but before you can even act on it, a voice cuts through the noise around you.

“Hi, may I sit here for a moment?”

You blink, looking up, surprised to find a tall figure standing over you, smiling. It takes you a second to place him—Kirishima Eijirou, also known as Pro Hero Red Riot. 

He’s famous, one of the top heroes in the country, known for his kindness as much as his strength. You’ve heard about him before, mostly from Katsuki. Despite Bakugou’s endless grumbling about Shitty Hair this, Shitty Hair that, you could always tell there was a lot of affection there. Kirishima is one of Bakugou’s closest friends, a bond that goes back to their high school days. 

It’s odd, meeting one of Bakugou’s friends now, after everything that’s happened between you two. You’ve only met Kaminari and Ashido briefly, and that was back when things with Katsuki were... different. Now, you don’t know where you stand with him, let alone the people in his life. 

But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Not after how things ended.

“Yeah, go ahead,” you say, forcing a polite smile. Your voice is steady, though inside, you feel the familiar tension creeping back up your spine. You watch as Kirishima sits down beside you, his broad frame filling the space with a kind of easy warmth. He’s dressed in a sleek black suit, the fabric perfectly tailored to his muscular form. A golden chain hangs around his neck, catching the soft light of the room. 

He doesn’t feel overwhelming, though. Despite his large frame and the unmistakable air of strength he carries, Kirishima exudes a kind of gentleness that puts you at ease almost immediately. His presence is the complete opposite of the tension that’s been gnawing at you all night. 

“Long event, huh?” Kirishima says, his voice light, but there’s a genuine empathy in his tone. It’s the kind of voice that invites you to relax, to drop the mask you’ve been wearing all night.

You nod, offering him a tired smile. “Yeah. It’s been a long week, actually.”

He chuckles softly. “I bet. These things can be exhausting, even for someone like you.” His eyes flicker down to your gown, admiration clear in his gaze. “You look incredible, by the way. That dress... it’s something else.”

You let a tired smile curl around your lips. “Thanks,” you say softly, though the compliment feels weightless. You’ve been hearing it all evening, and the words don’t really touch you anymore. 

Kirishima smiles back, but his expression carries a hint of concern now. His easygoing demeanor is still there, but there’s something more perceptive in his gaze. 

There’s a pause, a moment of silence between the two of you, as the murmur of the event continues around you, but Kirishima doesn’t seem to mind the quiet. “You seem overworked,” he says after a moment, his voice gentle but probing.

You shrug, taking a sip from the champagne in your hand. The bubbles fizzle, but even the sharp taste of alcohol does little to break through the numbness you’ve been carrying all night. “I am,” you admit.

He raises a brow, clearly concerned. “Why don’t you take a break then?”

The answer comes to you immediately, almost on instinct. “I don’t want to,” you say flatly. “Taking a break means having time for myself, and that’s the last thing I need right now. Plus, I can’t.” You gesture vaguely, feeling the weight of your schedule already pressing down on you. “Fashion Week is in two months, and my calendar’s already packed. There’s no time.”

Kirishima hums in understanding, but there’s something unsaid in the air between you. His gaze softens as he looks at you, clearly mulling over his next words. The silence stretches, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he knows about you and Bakugou—if Katsuki ever mentioned you to his friends. Did he talk about you? Did they know you were… something, once? The thought makes your heart flutter, but it’s quickly followed by the familiar ache. You feel a lump rise in your throat as you try to push it all down.

Before you can dwell on it further, Kirishima finally speaks. “You know, I have a friend,” he says, his tone casual but laced with something deeper. “He kind of reminds me of what you’re going through. Recently, he went through something… rough, and it’s been hard on him. He’s been burying himself in work, and honestly, he’s not the same as he used to be. Not as happy, not as... alive. Like, something’s missing, you know?”

Your breath hitches. You know where this is going, but you can’t stop yourself from listening, from feeling every word sink deeper.

“The funny thing is,” Kirishima continues, his voice softening, “he never really told us about it. We found out by accident, actually—one of our friends snooped through his phone and found a picture.” He chuckles lightly, but it’s a sad sound. “He was pissed, obviously, but he didn’t stay mad for long. I think it’s because back then, he was still happy. Whatever he had, it made him content. But then… things happened.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile is sympathetic, almost knowing. “I think you understand.”

Yeah. He definitely knows. 

The weight of his words settles in your chest, heavy and suffocating. You feel the guilt rise up, thick and choking, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. You don’t want to show just how much it’s affecting you. “I hope your friend is doing okay,” you manage, though your voice comes out quieter than you intended.

Kirishima shrugs, his eyes flickering with a sadness of their own. “He says he is, but… I know him. He’s not.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. It’s all your fault. You can feel it—deep down, you know it. You’ve hurt him, and now he’s suffering because of it. The thought makes your chest tighten painfully. “I bet that… something he had misses him, too,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe they didn’t realize how important he was until it was too late.”

Kirishima smiles, but it’s tinged with that same sadness. “Yeah. That’s usually how it goes, isn’t it? We don’t realize what we’ve lost until it’s gone.”

You let out a small, bitter chuckle, nodding in agreement. The weight of the truth in his words is almost unbearable. You didn’t realize. Not until it was too late. And now, you’re left with nothing but the hollow ache of what used to be.

Kirishima watches you carefully, as if weighing his next words. “But, you know,” he says after a pause, “my friend, for all his gruffness… he’s pretty forgiving. He’s changed a lot since we were kids. He’s softened, in his own way.”

Your heart stutters at his words. You feel the lump in your throat grow bigger, making it hard to breathe. “Do you…” You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Do you think he’d forgive that something? If they tried to make things right?”

Kirishima shrugs, but there’s a softness in his gaze as he looks at you. “I think he would. He misses them more than they probably realize. But… they won’t know unless they try.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, and before you can say anything else, Kirishima stands up, offering you a kind smile. “It was nice talking to you. And hey, think about that vacation. It might be exactly what you need.”

You nod, too overwhelmed to say much in response, and watch as he walks away, his presence fading into the crowd.

The second he’s gone, your mind spins in a thousand directions. You sit still, your thoughts a jumbled mess of guilt, regret, and longing. You think about what Kirishima said—about Katsuki, about how he misses you, about how he might forgive you if you reached out.

Is it possible? Could he really forgive you? After everything?

Your heart races as you play the conversation over and over in your head, and slowly, a realization starts to settle in. You’ve been running from your feelings for weeks, but now… maybe it’s time to stop. 

Maybe it’s time to try. 

That’s when you make your decision. 

You’re done hiding; done avoiding the truth.

The commute to his apartment is hell. 

Everything that could go wrong, does. There’s an accident on the highway, forcing your driver to navigate the congested streets of Musutafu. The city is thick with humidity, and a summer storm has turned the streets into rivers. The rain pounds against the car windows relentlessly, and every drop seems to mock you, making you feel like the world itself is pushing back against this decision.

A few blocks from Katsuki’s apartment, the road is blocked by construction. Of course it is. Because, why wouldn’t it be? You’re so close, and the frustration bubbles up inside you until it spills over. Without thinking, you throw the door open and leap out of the car, pulling off your heels and clutching them in your hand. The rain immediately drenches you, soaking through the silk of your gown. 

But you run. Barefoot through the city streets, you run.

By the time you reach his building, you’re a sight—your silk dress clings to your skin, the once-elegant fabric now heavy and dripping, your hair plastered to your face. Your heels, still in your hand, are soaked through, and your feet slap against the slick pavement as you take the final steps to his door.

You knock, and it only takes a few moments before the door swings open. Katsuki stands in the doorway, his body immediately tensing as his gaze sweeps over you. His eyes go wide, and you can see the confusion—maybe even concern—flicker in them as he takes you in. 

You probably look like a drowned rat, soaking wet and panting from your sprint, but that’s not what gets to you. It’s him. It’s the way he looks. He’s tired. So tired. His eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, and the bags under them make it clear he hasn’t been sleeping. His broad shoulders are hunched, his usual fire subdued, and that alone breaks something inside of you. 

You did this to him.

“What the fuck—” he starts, his voice rough, but you cut him off before he can get any further.

“No. You listen to me.” You step forward, your heart hammering in your chest, your breath coming in shallow gasps from your run. “I want to talk. I couldn’t do that last time.”

His mouth snaps shut, and he blinks, clearly thrown by the intensity in your voice. He nods, just slightly, a gesture so small that most people wouldn’t even notice it—but you do. He’s listening.

You take a breath, trying to steady the storm of emotions swirling inside you, and then you begin. “I never meant to avoid you,” you say, voice shaky but determined. “I just… wasn’t ready to deal with the weight of what happened. I wasn’t ready to confront the feelings that you—” You swallow hard. “—the feelings you gave me.”

Katsuki’s eyes stay locked on yours, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way he’s trying to keep himself calm, to hear you out.

“I always thought I wasn’t ready for a relationship,” you continue, feeling the words start to spill out faster, as if you need to get them out before you lose your nerve. “I thought I wanted something casual. But you… you changed that. You made me realize how wrong I was.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you force yourself to keep going. “I miss you. I miss you all the time. I miss your warmth, your kisses, the way you hold me close, the way you always make sure I’m comfortable, the way you’re grumpy but always so sweet… I miss everything about you.”

His breathing picks up, a faint hitch in his chest, and you notice the way his hands flex at his sides, like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

“You were never just a fling to me,” you say, your throat tightening with emotion. “And I’m sorry I made you feel like you were. I’m sorry for everything. I was scared, and I didn’t know what I wanted, but now I do. I want you.”

You see him stiffen at those words, his expression shifting, but you press on. You have to say it all, everything.

“Today… today made me realize just how stupid I’ve been,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t know what I had until I lost you. And I’m—” You choke slightly on the words, but push through them. “I’m in love with you.”

He inhales sharply, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet hallway, but he doesn’t move. His eyes widen slightly, but you can’t stop now.

“I think about you all the time,” you continue, your voice shaking with every word. “I feel like such an idiot, because I had everything—you—and I screwed it up. I was scared, and I—I let you walk away, but I don’t want to make that mistake again. I want you, Katsuki. I’m choosing you.”

The words hang heavy in the air between you, each one carrying the weight of everything you've been too scared to admit, too scared to confront. The hallway is quiet, save for the sound of your uneven breathing and the faint drumming of rain against the building outside. Katsuki is still standing there, his broad frame taking up the entire doorway, but he's utterly still. His eyes are locked on yours, wide and unblinking, as if he's trying to process every single word you’ve just thrown at him. 

And you know Katsuki. 

You know him in ways most people don’t. He’s strong, stubborn, and often explosive, but beneath that tough exterior is a vulnerability that he hides from the world. He doesn’t let people in easily, not really. His sharp edges and brash attitude are a shield, a way to protect himself from the constant pressure, the overwhelming expectations. He’s used to people seeing him as a weapon, a force of nature. But never as something to be chosen—never as someone who could be the safe place for someone else.

So when you stand here, drenched in rain and raw emotion, telling him that you do choose him, that you’re in love with him, it shakes him to his core. You can see it in the way his breath catches, in the way his body tenses like he’s bracing for impact. His eyes, usually so full of fire, are now filled with disbelief, as if he’s trying to convince himself that this is real, that you're real.

His lips part slightly, but no words come out. It’s like he’s frozen, caught between wanting to say something and not knowing how to. Bakugou Katsuki, the man who always has something to say, who always knows how to react, is speechless. 

The silence stretches on, and with each passing second, your heart feels like it’s being squeezed tighter and tighter. You’ve laid everything out—your heart, your soul, your fears—and the silence in return feels like a weight pressing down on your chest. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and your throat tightens, making it hard to breathe.

“Say something,” you whisper, your voice trembling as the tears finally start to spill over. You can’t stop them anymore. They fall freely now, mixing with the rain still dripping from your soaked hair and clinging to your skin. “Please.”

Katsuki’s eyes flicker, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting some internal battle. He’s never been good with words—he’s never been good with feelings—and you can see how much he’s struggling right now. The vulnerability on his face is something you’ve only seen a handful of times, and it cuts through you like a knife. 

Finally, he exhales sharply, a sound that’s more like a growl than a breath, and he takes a step forward. His hand reaches out, hesitating for just a fraction of a second before he cups your face, his palm warm against your cold, rain-soaked skin. His thumb brushes away a tear from your cheek, the gesture so uncharacteristically gentle for him that it makes your heart ache even more.

“You… fuckin’ idiot,” he mutters, his voice rough and thick with emotion. There’s no anger in his words, though—just a kind of raw frustration and something deeper, something more vulnerable. His crimson eyes are locked on yours, searching your face as if he’s trying to make sure this is real, that you’re not going to disappear on him again. “You think… you think I didn’t fuckin’ want this? That I didn’t want you?”

You blink up at him, the tears still blurring your vision. His voice is cracking in a way you’ve never heard before, and it hits you just how much this means to him. 

“I wanted you,” he says, his hand still cradling your face as he leans in closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Fuck… I still want you.” His voice is raw, the vulnerability bleeding through with every word. “But you…” He swallows hard, his other hand coming up to grip your waist, pulling you just a little bit closer. “You pushed me away. You made me think… I wasn’t enough. Like I wasn’t worth shit to you.”

The pain in his voice is palpable, and it makes your chest ache in a way that feels almost unbearable. You shake your head, your own voice cracking as you try to get the words out. “No. No, Katsuki, that’s not—”

He cuts you off, his grip tightening just slightly, but not in a way that hurts. It’s like he’s holding on to you for dear life, afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear again. “You don’t get it,” he mutters, his breath hot against your skin. “No one… no one ever fuckin’ chooses me. Not like this. You think I didn’t want you to come after me? You think I didn’t want you to fight for me?”

His words hit you like a freight train, and you can’t stop the sob that escapes your lips. He’s right. You did push him away. You made him feel like he wasn’t worth it, like he didn’t matter as much as he should have. And now, seeing the pain in his eyes, hearing the hurt in his voice, it feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Katsuki. I was scared, and I didn’t know how to handle it, but I… I love you. I love you so much, and I don’t want to lose you again.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find the truth in your words. Then, slowly, his expression softens, the hardness in his gaze melting away as he exhales a shaky breath. His thumb brushes over your cheek again, wiping away the fresh tears. 

“Shitty timing,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words. In fact, there’s something almost tender in the way he says it, like he’s trying to hold on to his usual roughness, but it’s slipping through his fingers. 

You let out a shaky laugh, your tears still flowing, but now there’s a warmth building in your chest—hope, maybe. You can feel it in the way he’s holding you, in the way his body is slowly relaxing against yours. He still wants you. He still cares.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I know.”

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The rain continues to fall outside, the world around you moving on without care, but in this small space, it’s just the two of you. Just Katsuki and you, standing in the doorway of his apartment, soaked to the bone and hearts laid bare.

Finally, he pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace that leaves no space between you. His chin rests on top of your head, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his heart beats against yours. 

“Don’t run from me again,” he murmurs, his voice gruff but laced with something soft, something tender. “I won’t fuckin’ let you.” 

You nod against his chest, your arms wrapping around him as tightly as you can. “I won’t. I promise.” 

He’s warm and so familiar, and you pull away from the embrace slowly, your fingertips grazing the sharp edge of his jaw as if grounding yourself in the solidity of him. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and there’s a slight tremor in his breath, a vulnerability that only you get to see. With your hands framing his face, you look up into his eyes—those deep, crimson eyes that burn like embers in the dim light of the hallway—and you murmur, “I love you.”

The words are soft but sure, slipping from your lips like a secret, and they hang in the air between you, filling the space with something fragile yet undeniably real. Katsuki’s breath hitches, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that betrays the storm brewing inside him. His hands, which have always been rough, steady, and unyielding, now grip your waist gently, like he's afraid you might vanish if he holds too tightly.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he closes his eyes for the briefest moment, letting the weight of your confession settle inside him, and when he opens them again, there’s a softness in his gaze that you rarely get to see. It’s raw, unguarded, and it steals the air from your lungs. His head dips, and with a shuddering breath, he captures your lips with his own.

The kiss is tender, a slow unfolding of everything unsaid. It’s not rushed or frantic—it’s a return, a homecoming. It feels like stepping back onto familiar shores after being adrift for too long. His lips, warm and firm, taste of all the things you missed, of safety and fire, of passion restrained but not diminished. His kiss is like the first light of dawn breaking across the horizon, soft yet full of promise. It’s the summer sun that melts the tension from your bones, the serene hush of winter’s first snow, the gentle bloom of spring flowers, and the quiet fall of autumn leaves—all of it wrapped into one. A constant rhythm, pure and right, grounding you in the moment.

Before you realize it, he’s pulling you into his apartment, the door shutting behind you with a soft click. Your heels clatter to the floor in the genkan, forgotten as his strong arms wrap around you, lifting you with effortless grace. Your hands find their place again, cradling his jaw, your fingers tangling in his hair as his lips seek yours with a fervor that leaves you breathless. You’re weightless in his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he guides you down the familiar hallway, each step measured and deliberate, leading you toward the sanctuary of his bedroom.

The scent of him surrounds you, filling your senses—sharp and smoky, like burning embers, mixed with something inherently Katsuki. You missed this. You missed the way he feels against you, the steady pulse of his heartbeat as it thunders beneath his skin, the way his presence alone fills every corner of the space with warmth.

He lays you gently on the bed, the mattress sinking beneath your weight, and for a moment, he pulls back. The loss of his warmth is brief, but you feel it keenly until he’s tugging his shirt over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, every scar etched into his skin like a map of battles won and lost. His body tells stories—of strength, of endurance, of survival—but all you see is the man who holds you now, the man who wears his heart hidden beneath layers of gruffness and fire.

Your hands move instinctively, tracing the familiar lines of his chest and shoulders. Your fingertips ghost over each scar, each ridge, as if memorizing him all over again. His skin is hot beneath your touch, and your hands curl around the back of his neck, pulling him back to you. His mouth meets yours once more, but this time the kiss is deeper, more urgent, the heat between you building with each passing second.

He welcomes you back like the dawn welcomes the night—slowly, but with an inevitability that feels like fate. His touch is reverent, as if you’re something sacred, something to be cherished. His hands, rough and calloused from years of combat, move with a surprising gentleness as they begin to peel the wet fabric of your dress away from your body. It clings to your skin, soaked through from the rain, but he is patient, his fingers working carefully, unwrapping you from the silk like a gift.

His touch is molten, a slow burn that spreads through you, lighting up every nerve. It’s like molasses—thick, slow, and deliberate—filling the space between you, pulling you deeper into the moment. Katsuki is fire, fierce and untamed, and in his hands, you feel like molten gold, soft and pliable, shaping yourself to the heat of his touch. He moves with purpose, his gaze never leaving yours as he strips away the last barrier between you, leaving you bare beneath him.

When he finally presses his body against yours, skin to skin, it feels like everything you’ve been missing. His warmth envelops you, his presence grounding you in a way that nothing else can. His hands roam over you, tracing every curve, every line, his fingers mapping out the soft planes of your body with a tenderness that contrasts with the fire that burns in his eyes.

There’s something unspoken between you now, something that doesn’t need words. His touch is a silent claim, his fingers skimming over the dips of your waist, the arch of your spine, the softness of your thighs. He knows every inch of you, and yet it feels new all over again, like he’s discovering you for the first time. His hands are steady, but there’s a quiet desperation in the way he holds you, like he’s afraid this moment might slip away if he lets go.

Katsuki’s breath is hot against your skin as he lowers himself down, pressing kisses along your collarbone, down to the hollow of your throat, each one a promise, a vow. His touch is deliberate, a slow, deliberate worship of your body, as if he’s reminding you of everything you are, everything you mean to him. His hands glide over your hips, his fingers brushing the tender skin of your inner thighs, and you arch into him, your breath hitching as you feel the weight of his love in every movement, every touch.

In his arms, you are safe. In his arms, you are whole.

He is fire and strength, and you are his, claimed by the fierce heat that only he can bring. You are molten gold, shaped and refined in the crucible of his love, and together, you burn brighter than the stars.

His lips press against yours, fueled by a newfound hunger, a kind of urgency that pulls a gasp from your throat, a soft whimper that escapes into the space between you. His hands roam your body with a heated reverence, fingers tracing the curves of your waist, the swell of your hips, until one hand dips lower, slipping between your legs. When his finger slides inside you, the sensation is immediate, raw—a sharp intake of breath echoes through him as he feels you clench around him. You’re so warm, so wet, and it sends a shudder down his spine.

You can feel the tremor in him, the restraint, the overwhelming desire bubbling beneath the surface as his forehead presses against yours, breath mingling with yours in the stillness of the room. Another deep pant leaves him as he moves his finger inside you, the motion making you arch into him, your body responding to him as if you were always meant to. But before you can even catch your breath, he pulls away, eyes burning with a fire that ignites something deep inside you, and in one swift motion, he’s pressing his hips against you, rutting the length of his cock against your slick heat.

His body trembles with restraint as he teases you, but soon enough, he can’t hold back. His hand grips your thigh, pulling you closer as he lines himself up, and then he slips inside you—slowly at first, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, taking you inch by inch until he’s seated fully within you. The world stills, and for a brief moment, it’s just him and you—joined together as one, moving in a rhythm older than time itself.

It feels like floating—weightless, untethered, as if you’re both suspended in the space between worlds. He rolls his hips, a slow, rhythmic tide, and you meet him, each thrust a push and pull, the two of you locked in a quiet dance. It’s like the meeting of the sea and the bioluminescent sands, glowing with heat and light, each touch sparking something deep and primal within you.

You murmur his name, “Katsuki…” your voice breathless and needy, and he responds with a kiss, his lips soft but insistent as they claim yours. He thrusts into you, achingly gentle, his movements precise but tender, each one filled with care. His hips move steadily, his hands cradling your body as though you’re something delicate, something priceless. To him, you’re precious—a masterpiece he’s lucky enough to hold, a delicate thing that he handles with reverence. Every time he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are filled with something deeper than desire—something raw and unspoken, something that ties the two of you together in ways words never could. 

Your hands drift over the hard planes of his chest, tracing the scars that mark his skin—testaments to battles fought and won, to the life he’s lived. Your fingers explore the rough edges of his body, skimming over the taut muscles that ripple beneath his skin, and the stubble along his jaw that scratches lightly against your fingertips. Each touch is full of reverence, because to you, Katsuki isn’t just a work of art; he’s a force of nature. He’s beauty in its rawest form, an Adonis sculpted from lava and tempered by explosions. He’s the embodiment of power, but beneath it, you feel the vulnerability he only ever reveals to you.

Your hands continue to explore his body, memorizing every part of him. You thumb the scars along his shoulders, fingers dancing along the ridges of his abs, and as you do, you marvel at how someone so strong, so unyielding, can be so gentle, so loving. He moves inside you with reverence, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and heavy against your lips. His body presses down against yours, the heat of him sinking into your bones as he thrusts deeper, driving you further into the mattress. His movements are unhurried but deliberate, each one building on the last until the tension in your body coils tight. 

And then it snaps, the pleasure washing over you in waves, pulling you under as you come undone beneath him. His name is the only thing you can manage, whispered over and over like a mantra, like a promise, your hands clutching at him as though he’s the only thing anchoring you to this moment. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes, not from sadness but from the overwhelming emotion of it all—of being with him like this, of feeling loved, cherished.

Katsuki follows you into that blissful fall, his own body trembling as he reaches his release. A broken moan escapes him, raw and guttural, his forehead pressing into the crook of your neck as he holds you close, his thrusts slowing to a stop. His breath is warm against your skin as he cups your cheeks, tilting your face toward him for a kiss that’s softer now, full of unspoken words and emotions too heavy to name.

When he pulls back, his forehead resting gently against yours, his eyes flicker open, and you see everything in them—gold, violet, amber, the brightest and most precious colors shimmering in the depths of his gaze. It’s as though he holds the universe within him, and all of it is focused on you. His lips brush against yours, the softest of touches, and he whispers in that deep, gravelly voice, “I love you too.”

The tears you’ve been holding back spill over, but they’re happy tears, and you blink them away as you smile. You press another kiss to his lips, your heart full, knowing that whatever happens next, you’ve found your way back to him. 

And that’s all that matters.

The aftermath is a world all its own—silent, untouched by the chaos that exists beyond the walls of his bedroom. 

Here, in the quiet glow of the moonlight, everything feels simple. The unspoken tension and complicated emotions that usually color the spaces between you seem to fade, leaving only this moment. It’s just you and Katsuki, wrapped up in each other, connected by something deeper than words could ever capture.

You’re cradled against him, his body solid and warm beneath you. His fingers trace slow, languid lines up and down your side, a repetitive, soothing motion that makes you feel grounded. Your own fingers mirror his, lazily drawing circles over the hard planes of his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths under your touch. The scent of him—burnt caramel, cloves, sandalwood—wraps around you like a familiar blanket. It’s intoxicating and comforting, a part of him that feels so deeply etched into you now, as permanent as carvings on an ancient tree.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The stillness is sacred. But then, as if the weight of everything unsaid finds its way to your lips, you break the silence. "You know," you whisper, your voice soft as it brushes against the darkness, “today I realized that I deserve to take a break. To stop running away from everything.”

Katsuki’s fingers still for a moment on your skin, but then he leans down slightly, a silent acknowledgment that he’s listening. His hand rests at your hip, grounding you both.

“And… and you do too,” you continue, your voice growing a little stronger, though still fragile. "Your mom’s always on you about taking a vacation, right?" You feel his chest rise sharply beneath your head, his body stiffening just slightly. You take a shaky breath, pushing forward with the thought that’s been growing in your mind. “So… I booked two tickets. In the car. On my way here. To Indonesia. A luxury vacation. The plane leaves tomorrow morning.”

For a second, the world pauses. Katsuki freezes, his hand stopping mid-motion, his entire body going still as if he’s trying to process the words. Slowly, he leans up, propping himself on his elbows, his gaze searching your face with a mix of disbelief and confusion. His fingers find your chin, tipping your face toward him so your eyes meet. “You did what?” His voice is low, rough, not quite angry but edged with a bewilderment that you rarely see from him.

You lean into his touch, your heart swelling at the feel of his calloused fingers against your skin. “I want to go away with you,” you say, your voice steady and honest. “I’m tired, and you’re tired, and I just… I want to be with the man I love. To take time for us. Away from everything.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his breathing. His chest rises and falls beneath you, each breath coming in measured, as if he’s trying to contain the flood of emotions threatening to break through. His jaw tightens, muscles clenching as he looks at you, something raw and vulnerable flickering in his gaze.

It’s like he can’t believe it. Like he’s struggling to understand that you, here in this moment, are choosing him. That you’ve made this grand, impulsive decision for him—for both of you. His eyes dart away, unable to hold your gaze, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. You watch the way his emotions twist inside him, how they tangle up in his mind like a storm that he can’t quite put into words. You can see it all—the disbelief, the hesitation, the way this feels too good to be real for him.

He doesn’t speak, but the weight of his silence says everything. For someone like Katsuki, someone who’s spent his whole life being told he’s too much, too harsh, too aggressive—it’s hard to let himself be wanted like this. To be chosen. And it breaks your heart a little, knowing that this is how deep his vulnerability runs, how much he’s carried on his own without ever asking for anything.

Gently, you reach up, brushing your thumb along his jaw, guiding his face back toward yours. “You deserve this too, Katsuki,” you whisper. “You deserve to take a break. To just… be with someone who loves you.” Your voice softens, a faint crack in the quiet. “Let me love you.”

His breath stutters at those words, his eyes meeting yours again, this time filled with something deeper—something fragile. His hands tighten on your body, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But then, he just exhales shakily, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

You can feel the tension slowly leaving his body, the weight of his resistance melting away as he allows himself to accept what you’re offering. He doesn’t speak, not yet, but his lips brush against yours in the softest of kisses, and you know he’s heard you.

It’s a moment of surrender, not just to you but to the idea that he can have this—that he’s allowed to be loved like this. And as you both lay there, tangled in each other, you realize that this is the start of something new. 

Something real. 

Something that, for once, feels like it’s yours to keep.

There has to be someone sabotaging Tsukiyo, you think. There’s no way this could happen two Fashion Weeks in a row—the final outfits not fitting again.

It’s déjà vu. Minase looks like she’s on the verge of a breakdown. The tension in the room is thick as assistants, stylists, and tailors dart around like bees in a hive, scrambling to fix the chaos unfolding before them. You’re sitting in the same spot you were last time, watching the chaos but strangely calm, Amanai seated beside you. The familiarity of it all is almost comical.

“This can’t just be bad luck, right? Someone has to be sabotaging the brand,” you muse aloud, watching Amanai get her hair touched up while your own makeup artist carefully layers shimmer onto your eyelids. 

Amanai snorts, tilting her head slightly as the stylist adjusts a stray curl. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But at this point, I’m almost used to it. Minase will just do what she always does. Cut some outfits and make sure the important ones fit. These are summer pieces anyway—more skin showing means less fabric to worry about.”

You chuckle, a tired sound that mingles with the hum of panic around you. The Spring/Summer collection is about fluidity and celestial romance, staying true to Tsukiyo’s ethereal identity. You’re supposed to embody that dreamlike essence, but right now it feels more like a fever dream than a romantic one.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. She always manages to pull something off.”

Like clockwork, Minase’s voice cuts through the frenzy. “We’re cutting some outfits!” she announces, her voice laced with an edge of barely-contained frustration. “We’ll focus on the most important pieces. It’ll shorten the show, but it’s all we can do.” She turns to one of the stylists, rubbing her temples with a groan. “At least The Celestial Ripple Dress still fits,” she mutters under her breath, almost as if she's trying to convince herself that this won't be a complete disaster.

You exhale, grateful that your outfit isn’t one of the ones causing trouble. 

With hair and makeup done, you’re hurried to the fitting room, where the assistants and tailors usher you into your first outfit of the night: The Sakura Veil Jumpsuit. It’s an airy, pastel pink piece, with floral appliqués floating on a sheer overlay. The deep V-neckline glimmers with crystal embellishments, catching the light as you move. You feel the soft iridescent embroidery brush against your skin, mimicking the delicate movement of petals in the wind.

It’s snug, but the tailors make some quick adjustments, and soon enough, you’re able to walk comfortably in it. With one final touch-up to your hair and makeup, you prepare yourself for the runway, the whirlwind of activity swirling around you like an unseen storm.

Amanai and Hanari are already at the curtains, peeking out at the venue. Amanai is dressed in The Moonlit Nomad Ensemble, a layered kimono-inspired blazer in misty gray, paired with fluid silk palazzo trousers that make her look like she’s gliding. Embroidered constellations shimmer faintly on the blazer, cinched at the waist with a metallic indigo belt, adding a regal structure to the otherwise ethereal look. 

Hanari is draped in The Ocean Mirage Dress, a sky-blue gown made of sheer layers of chiffon that ripple like water. The bodice is structured with wave-like 3D elements, flowing seamlessly into a skirt of cascading ruffles edged with micro-crystals that glitter with every movement.

Amanai turns to you, her expression calm despite the chaos. “So? Ready?”

You smile wryly, adjusting your boots. “I think so. Just hope I don’t face-plant. These boots are a little slippery, and I don’t think I can handle the embarrassment of falling in front of everyone.”

Hanari snorts, barely suppressing her laughter. “Just make sure to fall gracefully, then. That’ll still fit the theme, right?”

You all share a brief moment of amusement, but soon enough, it’s time to get serious. The smirks and giggles are quickly replaced with the practiced poise of professionals. 

Time to focus.

One by one, you step onto the runway. Hanari goes first, her gown flowing like liquid, followed by Amanai, whose ensemble glints subtly in the soft lighting. Finally, it’s your turn.

The second your foot touches the glossy floor of the runway, the world condenses into a singular moment. The backstage chaos falls away like a distant memory, and all that remains is the rhythmic click of your boots against the floor and the steady pulse of your own breath. The lights are blinding, but you keep your gaze forward, your body moving with effortless grace. You’ve done this a hundred times, but tonight, there’s something sharper about your focus, something more intense.

The audience fades into the background, their murmurs barely registering in your mind. Each step feels deliberate, every movement controlled. You feel the fabric of your jumpsuit shift against your skin, the weight of the crystals on your chest catching the light as you move. The shimmering appliqués float as if alive, and you become a part of Tsukiyo’s dreamscape—an ethereal figure, moving through a world of starlight and fluid beauty.

As you near the end of the runway, you pause, turning slowly to give the audience a full view of the outfit. You hold your head high, projecting an aura of quiet confidence. 

You turn on your heel, making your way back down the runway with steady, deliberate steps, the sound of your boots echo with each click, vibrating deep in your chest. There’s a practiced grace to your movement, but every step feels charged with a weight that goes beyond the runway. You remind yourself to stay poised, to let the outfit speak through your body, through your calm. The audience’s eyes are still on you, but their murmurs barely pierce your bubble of focus.

When you finally step off the runway, a quiet exhale of relief escapes your lips. You feel your muscles relax, but only slightly. There’s still one more outfit to showcase—the most important one of the night. As you slip into the organized frenzy of backstage, assistants swarm you with quick, precise hands, ushering you toward the fitting area for the final look: The Celestial Ripple Dress.

The jumpsuit slides off with ease, and in its place, the assistants fit the silk of the Celestial Ripple Dress against your skin. The fabric feels like liquid, molding to you as though it’s alive. The iridescence of the material shifts between hues of lavender and warm peach, flickering like the first light of dawn. The architectural collar frames your neck and shoulders, delicate patterns flowing from it like lacework, lending you a regal air. The beaded obi-style belt cinches your waist, and as you glance down, you admire the laser-cut lace at the hem, each detail a testament to the craftsmanship of the design.

It’s a vision, a dream, and as you catch your reflection, you feel like a celestial being. But the reality of what’s about to come slams back into you with the controlled chaos around you—stylists pulling at your hair, makeup artists adding touches of shimmer to your already glowing skin. You still carry a faint tan from your trip to Indonesia two months ago, and the subtle golden tone contrasts beautifully against the soft tones of the dress.

Before you can fully immerse yourself in the calm before the storm, Minase appears at your side, her energy frantic but precise. She adjusts a few last details on the dress, her fingers working quickly.

“Listen,” she starts, her voice low but urgent. “Remember what I told you. Confidence. You need to own this moment. Make sure every single person in that room sees you—sees the dress. And that final pose?” She gives you a meaningful look, her eyes wide with intensity. “It has to be perfect. You need to look like you’ve stepped straight out of the stars. When the lights dim, and you see those white LEDs flicker, that’s your cue. Got it?”

You nod, giving her a reassuring smile despite the nerves twisting in your stomach. “Don’t worry, I got this.”

Minase’s eyes flicker with a mix of tension and trust, and she nods before stepping back to allow the final touch-ups. The makeup artists dab a bit more highlighter on your cheekbones, and the hair stylists smooth out the last few tendrils framing your face, ensuring everything is in place.

As you take a deep breath, steadying yourself, the assistants guide you toward the runway entrance. Your pulse races, but the adrenaline is steadying, sharpening your focus. Around you, the backstage murmurs grow softer, almost muted against the steady beat of your own heart. Several people wish you luck as you pass, but their words blur into the background as your mind narrows into a singular focus: the final walk. Amanai and Hanari catch your eye from the side, their reassuring smiles grounding you in the moment. You return the smile, grateful for their support, but you know that no amount of encouragement can ease the pressure bearing down on you.

The runway lights begin to dim, casting the space into an ethereal shadow. The energy in the room shifts—hushed but charged with anticipation. A shiver of excitement runs through you as the white LED lights flicker, signaling the start of your walk. 

Here we go.

You step onto the runway, and the moment your heels hit the floor, every pair of eyes in the room locks onto you. The dress catches the dim light, shimmering like a pool of liquid starlight, and with each step, the fabric shifts between hues, casting soft reflections across the room. The collar frames your face, a delicate extension of your own elegance, and the beaded belt accentuates your silhouette, guiding every movement with a subtle grace.

The world seems to fall away again. It’s just you, the runway, and the audience. You walk with the kind of confidence Minase drilled into you—a confidence that commands attention, yet exudes an effortless air. The hem of the dress whispers against your legs as you move, the intricate lace catching the softest hints of light with every step.

You hear the faint click of cameras, the subtle murmurs of awe from the audience, but it all blends into the background. In this moment, you are no longer just a model walking the runway; you are the embodiment of Tsukiyo’s celestial dream, a being that belongs to the stars.

As you approach the end of the runway, you pause, turning gracefully to give the audience one last view of the dress. The delicate collar flares slightly as you move, and you hold your final pose—a celestial queen, untouchable yet mesmerizing. You feel the weight of the moment, the pressure, but also the thrill of it. The audience is enraptured, their eyes drinking in every detail, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to hold its breath with you.

And then you turn, gliding back down the runway with the same deliberate grace. The energy in the room hums, and you can feel the attention still on you, as if the entire space is caught in the glow of your presence. 

As you step off the runway, the weight of the night slowly lifts from your shoulders, and you release a deep sigh of relief. The adrenaline that had been pumping through your veins starts to ease, leaving you with a calm satisfaction. “Good job!” echoes from all around you, stylists and assistants offering you quick words of praise as you make your way further backstage. 

Minase rushes toward you, her arms enveloping you in a bone-crushing hug, squeezing tightly. You return the hug, a wide smile spreading across your face. You know you did good tonight—really good. 

The look on Minase’s face is proof of it. 

You’ve done it again. 

The afterparty is in full swing by the time you arrive. 

The warm hum of low conversation and soft jazz mixes with the gentle clink of glasses. Dim lighting washes the room in an intimate glow, as glittering gowns and sleek tuxedos fill the luxurious space. The familiar click of your heels echoes against the polished marble floor, blending into the cadence of the night. Your eyes sweep the crowd, taking in the lavish surroundings, but you're instantly drawn to Amanai and Hanari, who are comfortably seated near the bar, their faces bright with laughter.

You’re dressed in a liquid gold slip dress that shimmers like molten metal with every movement. The delicate spaghetti straps highlight your shoulders, and the draped cowl neckline adds a touch of sensuality, balancing elegance and allure perfectly. The fabric clings to your body just enough to accentuate your figure before pooling subtly at your feet in a way that feels ethereal, otherworldly. Every step you take makes the high-shine metallic fabric catch the soft lighting, creating a fluid, rippling effect as though you’re a goddess dipped in gold. Paired with minimalist strappy heels, you feel the kind of confidence that only comes with wearing something that makes you feel utterly captivating.

But before you can reach Amanai and Hanari, you feel the familiar warmth of a hand sliding against your back. You already know who it is before you even turn around. There’s no mistaking the touch, the possessive yet gentle slide of a palm against your spine, the electric tension that runs through your body when he’s near.

A slow smile curls onto your lips before you even look over your shoulder, and when you finally glance back, your heart gives a small flutter as you meet Katsuki’s gaze. His expression is amused, eyes glinting with that familiar intensity you know so well. The edges of his mouth are curved slightly upward, a rare smirk tugging at his lips as if he’s just as aware of the magnetic pull between the two of you.

“Hi,” you breathe, the word barely a whisper as you turn fully toward him.

Without a second thought, your hand comes up, fingers curling lightly around his strong jaw, guiding his face down to yours. The kiss that follows is soft, slow, and searing. There’s something intoxicating about the way his lips move against yours, the way he holds back, teasing, yet still letting you feel the depth of his affection. When you pull away, you press another quick kiss to his lips, something playful. His eyes are half-lidded, lazy but brimming with affection, a softness in his expression that only you ever get to see.

Katsuki presses a kiss to your thumb, his lips warm against your skin. You wipe the smudge of lip gloss from his lips with your thumb, a soft chuckle escaping you. “You didn’t answer my texts,” you say quietly, your voice carrying a playful edge. “I didn’t know if you’d already arrived or not.”

He lets out a tch, glancing over his shoulder toward the back of the room where his friends are lounging. “Came with Shitty Hair and the others,” he mutters, nodding toward Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, and Mina. They’re grinning and waving at you like a bunch of excited kids. You smile and wave back, but your focus quickly returns to Katsuki.

“You did good out there,” he says, his voice almost too soft for him, but it’s laced with pride. It sends warmth flooding through your chest.

“You think so?” you ask, searching his face, feeling your heart swell when you see the genuine admiration in his eyes.

He hums, nodding slightly. “Yeah.” His tone is gruff, but the sincerity is clear.

You tease him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “So, I looked good then?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes in that familiar way of his, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. “You always do,” he mutters, his hands slipping down to rest on your hips, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress. There’s an understated affection in his touch, like he’s always more comfortable showing his feelings through actions rather than words.

Your fingers smooth over the fabric of his blazer, admiring the sharp, tailored fit of his all-black ensemble. He looks effortlessly handsome, dressed in a sleek black blazer with subtle metallic details that add an edge to the classic silhouette. The buttoned-up dress shirt underneath enhances his sharp jawline, and the wide-leg pleated trousers give him a sense of casual elegance. He looks sophisticated, polished, but still undeniably him. 

Your Katsuki.

“Well, you look pretty good yourself,” you say, your smile widening as you take in his appearance, your hands lingering on his chest. “Real handsome.”

He scoffs again, but you catch the faint blush dusting his cheeks, and it makes you smile even more. He always does this—acts tough, but you know how much your words affect him. His fingers flex against your waist, a small tell that he’s pleased.

He still has a faint tan from your trip to Indonesia, and the memory stirs a warm ache in your chest. It's hard to believe it's been two months since that whirlwind adventure. You can still picture the lush rice fields, ancient temples, breathtaking sunsets, traditional villages, and those perfect beaches.

Indonesia had been like a dream. 

It was everything you both needed. The two of you sat down and talked, really talked, about your feelings. Katsuki had opened up in his own gruff way, admitting how he felt after walking out of your apartment that day—how he wasn’t sure if he was just a fling or something more. You shared your own fears, how you’d been too scared to admit to yourself how much he meant to you.

And in that moment, everything felt right. 

The rest of the vacation was a dream—relaxing on the beach, hiking through the jungles, trying local food, and, of course, spending every night tangled in each other’s arms. You hadn’t realized how much you missed his touch, his voice, until you had it again. Every morning and night spent wrapped in him felt like a piece of you had been restored.

And now, you’re dating. Officially; something you hadn’t dared to hope for before the trip, and the thought still makes your heart race sometimes.

“So, I look good now as well?” you tease, a playful glint in your eyes as you step closer to him, feeling the heat radiating from his body.

Katsuki raises a brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His thumb brushes over the golden necklace around your neck—the one with the first kanji of his name as the pendant, a gift he gave you after the trip. His other hand remains firm against your back, his touch grounding you.

“‘Course you do,” he mumbles, voice low and steady, filled with that quiet, unspoken affection only he can give.

“Sweet talker,” you tease softly, your lips quirking into a smile as you gently smooth a hand down Katsuki’s chest. His warmth seeps through the fabric of his sleek black blazer, grounding you in this moment of intimacy. 

He raises a brow but doesn’t refute it, letting your words settle with that usual gruffness, though you can see the faint trace of a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. “Let me say hi to the girls, then I’ll join you at your table, okay?” 

He nods and leans in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to your lips, and you can feel the possessiveness in the way he lingers for just a second longer than needed. His lips brush against yours with a tenderness that feels almost out of character, but you know it’s him—Katsuki showing affection in his own way. You pull away and pat his chest, turning to make your way toward Amanai and Hanari at the bar. 

You glide through the room, feeling the eyes on you once more—not from the runway this time, but from the afterparty’s crowd. Your golden slip dress catches the ambient light, shimmering like liquid gold with every step. You’re in your element, but your heart is still wrapped up in Katsuki’s touch, in the way he looks at you like you're the center of his world, even in a room filled with people.

Greeting Amanai and Hanari doesn’t take long—just a quick exchange of hugs and a few words of praise for your performance on the runway. You laugh softly as they gush over your dress, the compliments filling you with warmth, but there’s an eagerness to get back to Katsuki. 

By the time you return to his table, he already has a drink waiting for you, of course. He always pays attention to the details, even when he pretends not to. As you approach, you quickly go around the group, greeting everyone with hugs and smiles. Kirishima gives you a bear hug, Kaminari’s enthusiasm is infectious, and Mina’s wide grin feels like a mirror to your own.

“You looked so cool!” Kaminari practically bounces in his seat, his eyes wide with admiration. 

Sero, his usual laid-back self, nods in approval while toying with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He smirks. “Yeah, you killed it out there. Not surprised, though.”

You settle into your spot beside Katsuki, his arm naturally wrapping around your waist as you lean into his solid frame. His presence is comforting—like a rock in the midst of the swirling energy around you. You smile and shrug modestly. “Thanks, guys. I’m just glad that starting tomorrow, I have a few days off. A mini vacation before the real work starts.”

It feels good to let that thought settle in—time to recharge before diving back into the hectic world of photoshoots and campaigns. You’ve been looking forward to this breather for weeks now.

Kirishima, always the supportive one, grins at you. “Good for you! You should take all the time you need.” His warm, encouraging tone is typical of him, and it only adds to the sense of relief that washes over you.

Mina hums in agreement, her bright eyes twinkling as she takes a sip from her drink. “Yeah, you deserve it. Fashion Week looked intense this year.”

You nod, feeling the tiredness start to creep in, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes after you’ve given it your all. “It was, but honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s just… fulfilling, you know?”

Katsuki’s hand tightens slightly around your waist at your words, his quiet approval always there even when he doesn’t voice it. His presence beside you, even in these small moments, is grounding. He’s never one to shower you with compliments in public, but his actions—the way he holds you close, the way he’s always there when you need him—speak volumes.

Mina leans in, her smile mischievous. “So, what’s the plan for your mini vacation? You and Bakugou jetting off somewhere?”

Katsuki scoffs, his eyes flicking toward her with mild annoyance, but you catch the subtle way his hand remains on your back, protective and reassuring. You laugh softly. “We haven’t decided yet. Maybe something low-key. Relaxing.”

Kaminari nudges Sero with a grin. “Bet it’ll involve lots of… relaxing.”

You roll your eyes, chuckling at the innuendo, while Katsuki gives Kaminari a warning glare that shuts him up quickly. “Keep talkin’, Sparky, and you’ll regret it.”

“Jeez, I’m just kidding, man,” Kaminari holds his hands up in surrender, laughing nervously. 

You smile and lean your head against Katsuki’s shoulder, feeling his body relax under your touch. “Honestly, I’m just excited to spend some time with this guy. We don’t get enough of that these days.”

At that, Katsuki glances down at you, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll figure something out.” His voice is low, private, as though the two of you are the only ones in the room.

You smile softly, leaning up to kiss Katsuki’s cheek. The subtle gesture of affection makes his face flush slightly, but he keeps his composure by pretending to sip on his drink, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone. It’s a small, rare show of his vulnerability, the way his cool façade slips just for you. Even though he’s trying to play it off, you can feel the warmth in his posture, the way his arm tenses slightly as if to pull you closer. 

His friends, however, are far from oblivious. Kaminari and Mina are practically glowing with grins as they exchange glances, amused by the way Katsuki tries so hard to act nonchalant. Kirishima's grin is wide and genuine, clearly happy for his best friend. They know this side of him, the softer side he shows only to you, and it’s a sight they cherish—though they’d never dare tease him about it, not seriously anyway.

“I just want somewhere with a beach,” you continue, keeping the conversation flowing as you sip your drink. “Maybe Okinawa. Maybe the Caribbean. I’m still figuring it out with our schedules, too.” Your voice is light, relaxed, but the longing for a break is evident in the way you speak. The whirlwind of fashion shows and shoots, though thrilling, has left you craving some time away—a place where you can unwind and just be.

Katsuki’s thumb absentmindedly strokes your waist as you speak, his subtle way of showing that he’s listening, even if he doesn’t say much.

“But I do know that I need a break,” you laugh softly, the exhaustion creeping into your tone, though it’s balanced with a sense of excitement for whatever comes next. “Something relaxing, somewhere far away from all of this chaos.”

Kaminari nods in understanding, his carefree grin softening into something a bit more thoughtful. “No, I get it. This whole thing is a lot, and you’ve been working hard. You gotta enjoy some time off.” His words are simple, but there’s an appreciation in his tone for the effort you’ve been putting in. Hero work, modeling, it’s all a lot, and sometimes people forget how much goes on behind the scenes.

You nod in agreement, grateful for his words, and the conversation begins to shift. Soon enough, they start talking about their hero work—patrols, training sessions, recent missions. You find yourself listening more than speaking, content to let the conversation flow around you. Your hand rests on Katsuki’s thigh, the soft fabric of his trousers warm under your palm. Absentmindedly, you run your fingers up and down, feeling the solid muscle beneath your touch. It’s a comforting gesture, one that feels natural between the two of you now, and you notice how it subtly relaxes him.

Katsuki, who usually has a sharp edge in his voice when he talks, is different tonight. His gruff tone is still there—because that’s just him—but it’s not harsh. He doesn’t bark his words or throw in as many biting remarks. When he speaks, it’s with measured authority, chiming in with his own thoughts on their hero work without dominating the conversation. He’s relaxed, at ease with you at his side.

You catch snippets of the conversation: Kaminari rambling about a recent mission that went awry, Sero and Mina debating the best techniques for urban rescue, Kirishima enthusiastically talking about new training regimens. Katsuki listens, occasionally grumbling an opinion or a sarcastic comment, but you can feel the quiet respect between him and his friends. They look up to him, even when they joke around, and he, in his own way, values their friendship deeply.

Every now and then, Katsuki’s hand moves to your back, brushing against your skin as if to remind himself that you’re still here, grounding him. It’s a small gesture, but it makes your heart flutter every time.

You gaze at him—really look at him—and it hits you: your boyfriend is like a supernova. His eyes, red but gleaming gold in the light, his messy blonde hair somehow still effortlessly handsome, and the way he fills out that sleek black blazer and those perfectly tailored pants. He looks absolutely irresistible.

And then, an idea starts to take shape in your mind.

You can’t help but grin mischievously, leaning further into Katsuki's side. You press a quick, feather-light kiss against the corner of his jaw when no one's looking, letting your fingers lazily trace patterns on his thigh. Your foot slides up and down along his ankle, a slow, deliberate tease that makes him stiffen slightly, his breath catching in his throat. For just a moment, his usual composure falters, and you feel the way his muscles tense under your touch.

A wicked grin spreads across your face as you lean in close to whisper, your breath warm against his ear, "Meet me in the bathroom from last time."

Katsuki’s sharp inhale is barely audible, but you hear it, and it only makes your grin widen. His reaction is perfect—a mixture of shock and anticipation. He tries to maintain his cool, but you can feel the tension radiating off of him, his grip on the glass in his hand tightening just slightly.

You pull back as if nothing happened, your expression innocent as you stand up. "I’m just heading to the bathroom," you tell the group with a casual smile, and no one bats an eye. But Katsuki knows better. His gaze follows you, smoldering, even as he tries to act unaffected.

With a teasing sway of your hips, you walk away, knowing full well that he's watching. The sounds of the party fade as you make your way to the more secluded part of the venue, the quiet settling around you. There’s a pleasant thrum in your body, the buzz of alcohol adding to the heady anticipation that builds with each step. You move through the hallways with ease, your heart pounding just a bit faster as you turn the familiar corners.

Slipping inside the private bathroom, you take a moment to check your reflection. The liquid gold of your dress shimmers under the soft lighting, clinging perfectly to your curves. You snap a few mirror selfies, the excitement bubbling up inside you, and even take a moment to fix your makeup. 

A few minutes pass before you hear the door creak open behind you. Katsuki slips inside, his presence filling the small room immediately. His face is flushed, his usual scowl more pronounced, but you can tell he’s fighting it—his embarrassment, his frustration at how easily you get to him. It makes you laugh, a soft, teasing sound that fills the space.

"Don't look so grumpy," you tease, turning to face him fully. "You're about to get the best head ever, honey."

His ears turn an even deeper shade of red, the blush spreading across his neck, but all he can manage is a low, unintelligible grumble. He looks almost flustered, which is rare for him, and it only makes you smile wider. Before you can say anything else, he steps forward, wrapping his arms around your waist, his body pressing against yours from behind. His breath is warm against your skin as he buries his nose in the crook of your shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss there.

The warmth of his mouth on your skin sends a shiver down your spine. His lips linger for a moment, soft and deliberate, before he pulls back, resting his head against yours. He’s relaxed now, his earlier tension melting away as his eyes become heavy-lidded, the earlier scowl gone. His hands stay firmly on your waist, holding you close, and you can feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.

You smile at both of your reflections in the mirror—Katsuki looking uncharacteristically soft, his gaze half-lidded and affectionate, while you’re practically glowing with warmth. It’s moments like this that remind you of why you love him so much. Despite the brash exterior, the sharp words, and the gruff demeanor, he’s always so gentle with you. He’s always so careful, so loving, in a way that makes you feel treasured.

"I love you," you say softly, turning your head to press a kiss on his cheek. He lets you, his lips curving into a faint smile before he tilts his head to capture your lips in a soft, whispery kiss. It’s slow, tender, and full of unspoken affection, his way of saying what he’s never been good at putting into words. 

"Love you too," he mumbles against your lips, the words barely audible but sincere.

The simple exchange fills you with a sense of warmth, but you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face next. "Now, let’s get down to business," you say, your voice light with amusement.

Katsuki snorts, rolling his eyes, but there’s a trace of a smirk on his lips. "Yeah," he grumbles, his tone playful, "let’s get down to business."

You laugh softly, your heart swelling as you realize—this is your life now. Moments like this, the quiet intimacy, the teasing, the shared affection—it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of it. 

With Katsuki, it’s always exciting, always a perfect blend of passion and tenderness. 

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

final notes:

thanks for sticking around and for reading! this was such a fun story to write, and i hope you guys enjoyed it as much as i did.

here is my ko-fi :) as some of you may know, i’ve been sick and haven’t been able to work as much, so any support would mean a lot. no pressure, of course!

again, thank you so much, and until next time!

[applejusue]

ellie williams ─── imposter syndrome alternate ending

After years of fighting, the two of you let it rest. Ellie wasn't getting better, she probably never would. You found comfort in each other's company, good and bad. Then, on a Thursday night, Ellie feels different.

◟`# cw: dissociation, intrusiveness, grief, angst, violence, sexual themes, comfort, love, slow-burn, illness, blood, gore descriptions, mature themes, dyspraxia.

never have sex | headcanons | original ending . . .

Ten years.

Ten long, painful years of watching the woman you loved crumble into a shell. Early on you'd hoped that maybe, eventually, she would get over it. That maybe, she'd get better. When that never came, you were forced to accept that this was her, that there no longer was a way she used to be.

Things had gotten easier, she'd gotten used to herself. You could understand the pattern of your wife's behavior, meltdowns, breathing. And yes, Ellie was your wife. There was no ceremony, no flowers or puffy gown. It happened on a quiet Sunday evening, rain pouring down outside. You'd helped her hand sign the papers, kissed her when she did. That only happened around a year or two ago, what followed before was an ongoing battle to keep her.

After a few months of accepting that her condition wasn't reversing, you knew it would be impossible to look after her while maintaining a job and a place. It was something similar to a carers allowance you'd hoped for, something to keep the two of you afloat. The problem, was that the government didn't exactly see an infected as something that should be taken care of. Months of court, pleading, contracts. Eventually, you managed to get Ellie onto the exemption list in Jackson.

That time was difficult for you both. Ellie, she had to pass a variety of tests to prove she was still somewhat functional, that she wasn't hostile. You, you had to trust that they wouldn't take her life the minute she passed through the doors to the ward. The both of you were broken down in tears by the time she returned, too attatched to cope. You weren't sure if it was sympathy that dictated the decision, but you thanked your stars every damn night that it came to the right one.

Having her exempt ment Ellie was allowed outside, as long as she was accompanied. While she didn't like to go out often, sometimes she would join you shopping or for a walk in the park. You knew Ellie didn't like the stares, and you can't say you did either. It wasn't dirty looks, it was pity. People would come up to you often, say how brave you are, loyal. As though being married to her was a sacrifice. In some form, maybe it was, but not in the way that everybody else thought.

Things like that was easy to ignore though, letting it pass like a soft breeze. Despite how scary getting Ellie registered as an active infected was, it ment that you were up in line whenever any new information was put out. You liked to call it her little part-time job, letting the doctors take blood samples for study or monitoring their latest vaccine. She'd come back to you with a plaster and pink cheeks, she liked feeling useful.

Life had slowed to a softer blur. You didn't spend much time at the childcare centre anymore, but you trusted your staff to keep it running. Not everything was perfect, you still butted heads and it wasn't uncommon for stress to twist both of you in the wrong way. The difference, was that you always ended up in each others arms. Ellie needed you, and you needed her. That was something that never changed. You didn't hope for a cure anymore, not after so many years, but you were okay with that.

𓏲 ๋

It was Thursday, a moody evening in November. You were curled up on a sofa, warm with a blanket as you filled out a crossword puzzle. You definitely felt forty. A gentle smiled beamed at your lips as you glanced down at your wedding ring, the simple band twinkling against the firelight. It was Joel's, at least that's what Ellie seemed to think. You weren't sure where else she could've gotten it, so you went with that too.

Speaking of your wife, she had gone to the use the bathroom. With a small frown you glanced at the clock on the wall, it'd been a while. Pushing yourself up with a gentle sigh, you approached the bathroom door, rasping it gently.

"Ellie? Everything alright in there?"

You spoke softly, trying the handle and finding it unlocked. With no response you continued, knowing in the past she'd fallen asleep in there or got distracted staring at herself. As you opened the door, your hand flew to your mouth. Ellie lay on the cold tiles, completely naked, body shivering like a fish on deck. You were quick to fly down beside her, pulling her up to your chest.

"Shit, Els.. should've called me baby.."

You muttered, reaching for her discarded shirt and laying it over her chest. Ellie grasped onto you, warm from the fire and snuggled closer to your chest. It wasn't rare for you to find her naked, it happened when she got stressed. Thankfully, she never usually did it outside. As you chastisted her gently, her voice cut through.

"Feels.. feels different-.. feels different.."

Normally, you could brush off her ramblings, but when it came to how she felt you always took it seriously. You tucked some of her hair out of her face, her dark eyes focusing on you as best they could. Her dry lower lip pursed gently, and you raised a brow as you continued to redress her.

"What feels different? Can you show me.."

Ellie guided your hands along her body, mainly around her abdomen and up near her forehead. Your brow furrowed, gently pressing a palm to her face. She didn't seem to have a fever, nor did she look ill. Her abdomen though, normally covered in veins, did look a little clearer. Your heart stuttered.

"Probably just the vaccine you tried earlier, c'mon.."

Ellie grumbled in protest as you helped her up, now clad in just her oversized t-shirt. She followed along to the armchair, clambering onto your lap like she belonged there. You tried to focus back in on your crosswords as she snuggled sleepily into your neck, breaths warming your shoulder. You'd had your 'what ifs' sure, especially after her very first injection, but never had there been any reaction. You weren't going to get her hopes up.

The doctors had said in the beginning that if anything changed, write it down. You took that to heart. You had a whole notebook dedicated to her, name written in marker and small stickers pressed to the cover. You kept note of every fever, every meltdown and medication in case anything had ever happened. Ellie slept heavily beside you, face soft. You stared for a few moments before opening the diary.

'8.46pm, Ellie feels different.'

𓏲 ๋

Slowly, the veins had started to fade. The last time you'd given her a bath you started to cry because of it, getting to see her soft skin again. The doctors couldn't believe it, couldn't explain it. She'd done a hundred extra tests and they seemed to be convinced that she was capable of being cured. The word felt silly on your tongue after all those years. That part of you, way deep down wanted to believe, to hope.

She'd started to talk more, eat more. Her hands, though still shaky, could hold onto yours. You weren't sure there was a day you hadn't cried, how couldn't you when you were watching the love of your life find herself after so many years. In your twenties you'd thought maybe one morning she'd wake up fine, but the healing wasn't like that.

It took weeks, physio, patience. Some days were better than others. There was that little bit of light in her eyes, now that she knew that she was getting better. You'd been so scared to give her hope that wouldn't last, but seeing her so wistful of the life she wanted, the life she wanted to give you, it was impossible to try and crush her spirit. Her kisses were gentler, touch more precise. She was oh so thankful, especially when she had the words again. Tears and kisses and love that she'd only dreamed about giving to you, that her body never allowed.

"Easy does it.."

You spoke, arms wrapped around her waist from behind as she poured the cup of flour into the baking bowl. Half of it missed, puffing up into the air. Ellie was still clumsy, no amount of medication would fix that. You giggled softly into her shoulder, shaking your head as she tried to hide her embarrassment with a small grin.

"M' trying.."

She mumbled, hands stirring the baking mix as the two of you lingered in the kitchen. It was warm, comfortable. Parts of the old Ellie peeked through, and parts of the new still remained. She was something different now, a blend of the two. It didn't matter, whatever she was, she was yours. That would never change.

[erosiism]

GENSHIN MEN AND…

prompt: HOW THEY WOULD REACT IF YOU SACRIFICED YOUR LIFE FOR THEM

character(s): diluc, zhongli [part one] childe, ayato [part two, out]

warnings(s): angst ofc—mention of blood, my first post on tumblr so my writing style may be a little icky, inaccuracies since I haven’t looked up genshin lore for a hot minute 

note(s): male reader, second person, present tense, not beta read

DILUC

There’s a lot of things you haven’t told him yet. Things you wished you had told him—but everything’s fine, because in this single action you are willing to do for him—your feelings will come inevitably with it and it’s a torrent of emotions that you’re about to burden him with.

He’s been your childhood friend for seventeen years now. All those times you have seen him, smiling, his merry laughter carrying over the breeze, his lips purple from sampling grapes, to the time where that very laughter and smiles disappear to smoothen into a stone face. After the death of his father, Diluc has become reserved, cold, and rather distant. Bitter.

You two were close, once.

You two had a bond that many could not quite interpret— it was as clear as day that you both trusted each other fully, but each always had secrets to hide. Some say proximity is the reason why both of you got close — your manors were near to each other, but truthfully, it was as simple as it was: you two had the same social standing. Both you and Diluc were, for each of their families, supposed to be close for the sake of future alliances and unions, but the friendship soon turned genuine, only for it to crumble under the weight of guilt and grief.

Only for it to crumble on the day Crepus died.

You still remember it vividly; in all its sickening, gruesome, heart wrenching detail. You were fortunate enough not to witness it, but etched in your memory, all you can think of is Diluc’s ravaged expression when he trembled before his father’s corpse.

You were helpless then. You could have extended an arm, you could have done something.

You didn’t.

But now would be different. You know the archons have it in for him when the incident happens the same way it happened with his father: via a carriage incident. 

You laugh then at its bitter irony.

Bandits come, a whole load of them, and this time Diluc fights while you are there helpless once again, trembling when you hear the clash of swords and arrows. When you hear his claymore smash against flesh. You don’t have a vision. Diluc has. You don’t have any particular skill in handling a sword; Jean has tried to teach you once, but it has failed. Your brain may be quick and witty, but your steps aren’t. 

The bandits have delusions. The archons really are cruel.

You see it before he does. There’s a burst of electric power that he's battling, the elementals clashing with each other—you’re still lagging behind, barely missing the whizzing arrows that skim your flesh, your heart wrenching as you see Diluc’s pained expression. You know what he’s thinking of, and it isn’t you. His memories are reverting back to his father’s death. His birthday. And perhaps that’s why his usual sharpness is wearied down.

You see the sword about to plunge his back before he does.

You scream to tell him.

Your body moves before anything.

Your fingers fumble to clasp the fabric of your clothes, before you tug him out of the way. You feel the weight of a sword against your back; you feel the way it slices through your skin before it presses against your flesh. You taste blood on your tongue, before a myriad of colors burst out; crimson, carmine. All the shades of red. You wobble then, choking out blood, before you stumble. You hear a few slices; razor, swift sharp ones. Then the last of the assailants falls down, and you are made aware that your decision has been the right one.

Diluc has survived. 

You stumble. You feel your body hit the ground. Murkiness runs your vision.

“[Name],” you hear a soft, whispering voice carry to your ears. You try your best to cling onto the words. But pain is burning within you—it’s ironic, how they feel more scorching than Diluc’s flames have ever felt. You try your best to swallow down your pants and your pained noises, but it ends up slipping from your mouth in broken, mottled syllables.

Your blurry vision makes out a face.

He cannot be Diluc. He’s crying. And the last time you have seen Duluc cry is when—

Oh.

“Don’t cry,” you say weakly. “Don’t cry, Diluc. I’m sorry I wasn’t of much help.” You try to reach out to his cheek. You regret it a split second afterwards because blood stains his cheeks wet from tears. You end up smearing red all over his face.

“Why?” Diluc says, and it sounds guttural, like the words have been punched out from him. “Why, [Name]?” You hear a flurry of footsteps behind. You assume it’s some surviving witness who has gone to call for backup. But you doubt you’ll survive.

You don’t even know why. To begin with, you aren’t even sure if you are in love with him. The swirling butterflies that flutter about when you see him tells him you are, but society’s expectations push those down. You have been in love with him for as long as you can remember; you have loved him. You have annotated every inch of him down to your memory, every contour, every bit. In your dreams he visits you, smiling sweetly. And you try to remember him when you wake up, trying to pretend that he’s still there, that he’s no longer bitter. 

“I don’t know.” Your words come out broken, punctuated by the gurgling of blood from your windpipe. 

It’s a half truth. You love him. You don’t know if you do.

“I’m sorry.”

Diluc is sobbing now. It’s uncharacteristic of him. You are brought back to the night when you saw him break down in front of his father’s corpse. And you aren’t yet a corpse: your heart is still beating faintly, your lips are still moving, your body is still trembling. “There’s a lot of things I wanted to tell you, Diluc.”

“Don’t die,” he pleads fervently. His lips graze your forehead, then—and before you know it, he’s embracing you, his tears wetting your shoulder. His begging is childish. Does he not know that the Archons have long abandoned their people? Does he know the sky is empty, and that no amount of pleads can bring a person back to life? You doubt so. “Don’t die, [Name]. I love you.”

He loves you. You smile. He loves you. Words have never felt so sweet befor, and it curbs the bitterness of death upon your tongue. “I love you, [Name]. I love you, so don’t die.”

He loves his father too. But still his father had perished. Similar to you.

“I’m so happy to hear that,” you smile weakly. Your finger starts to fall. “I’m really happy to hear that.”

You don’t have enough time to say those three words back, but it’s fine.

Your actions already did. 

ZHONGLI

note(s); reader is an adepti, takes place during archon war

A God has seen their fair share of grieving. So have Adepti. Some come with age—it’s normal for mortal alliances to die before those who are immortal, after all. There is also the Archon War, which has already torn away Zhongli’s beloved companion, Guizhong. And everyday he chokes down the bile in his throat and continues to annihilate and fight. He’s always been built for this, after all, he’s an Archon. He’s a ruthless one at that, known for his brutality and his power. And everyday he looks at you and can only pray again and again to Celestia, that you remain alive.

Guizhong and you have both been his favorites since you two have met. It was Guizhong and you first, before Zhongli met you. Both you and Guizhong were best friends; almost; like sisters and brothers. Guizhong was gentle and sweet, reprimanding at times. You were sweet too, but could be more uncouth. Strong language littered your sentences at times, and Zhongli would see it then; the way Guizhong tugged at you to scold you, or the way you would smile at her. Brother and sister.

Naturally, when Zhongli grew close to Guizhong, he grew close to you. It was funny to see that you hardly knew much about history, though Guizhong clearly loved it. And so it was almost a cycle. Whatever Guizhong taught Zhongli, he taught you. Guizhong had remarked a few times, what an incredible person he was to make even you listen to facts you had earlier called boring.

(“You mellowed a lot, Morax,” Guizhong had told him once. “[Name] mellowed you. You really do care alot for him, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”)

Gods aren’t meant to be mellowed. They are meant to be powerful. Strong enough emotionally so as to not bat an eye when it comes to deaths.

But everything falls apart when Guizhong dies.

He sees you fall to the ground, sobbing and sobbing and crying at the loss of your beloved sister. He sees the way  you touch her statue, turned to stone, cradling her face and wishing you were touching soft skin, instead of cold stone. Not sister by blood, but sister in name. He sees the way you break apart after that; Zhongli feels a human sense of emptiness and pain that comes with her death.

It’s all right, he told himself repeatedly. In his grief he has started to flood himself with reassurances. I still have [Name]. I still have [Name]. I still have [Name]. 

He sees the way you lose yourself in battle after that. Your attacks become sloppy, you become more careless. You become more injured. Zhongli never bothered with your skill. You were talented and strong enough. But now he finds himself protecting you the times you stumble, the times you start to choke out sobs during battle, the times you go wild and bloodthirsty against those you assume have contributed to her death. 

Guizhong has said once that he loved you. Zhongli never bothered to think about that. He assumed he would know it himself, when time came. He didn’t need to worry about being in what mortals called a relationship—he would get this war finished with you, become a mortal, and love you freely. It didn’t matter if you didn’t love him. Zhongli could love you at a safe distance. It would all be all right. 

He never imagined your declaration of love towards him would come so easily and devastatingly.

Zhongli sees you struck by a burst of elemental power before anything. He sees the way you shoved him inside; he sees the irony. He was so preoccupied with watching you. He hadn’t seen the enemy crawl up to him or nearly kill him. Like how he was watching you, you were watching him. And now his care has killed you.

“[Name].”

There’s an avalanche of emotions. First, he’s furious. He will leach out the killer and will inflict a thousand times more pain on them. Second, he’s heartbroken. He’s terrified of losing you. He can feel your life ebbing away with each passing moment, and he has seen enough wounds to know no healer can save you. He feels your pulse thrumming beneath your skin and he knows you’re dying.

You smile. It looks more like a grimace. “Just survive this goddamn war.”

Zhongli isn’t sure if he will. He feels like he might kill himself, that he might lay his body down next to yours, so that after death your souls would be intermingled, of sorts. It sounds romantic, but there’s absolutely nothing romantic about your death. He does what the Gods are not supposed to do. He feeds into his humanity; he cries.

“Afterwards, just live as a human. I don’t know. Be a dusty collector of antiques. Be a funeral planner or something strange like that. Just live, okay? You look like you want to die.”

You continue to ramble on. Your sentences become connected with each other. Your eyes start to flutter. Your words become faint and faltering.

“I can’t live with you,” he whispers. “First Guizhong, then you…” it’s all his fault. He should have seen it. He should have been more aware. He should—he should…

It’s too late. You’re dead, and he mourns just like a human; sobbing, aching, and dying a little inside.

For a brief moment Zhongli isn’t a God. 

hope everyone liked it! it’s my first post so im apprehensive haha be sure to like/reblog & leave a comment if u can

[dokoni-mo]

Waiting Drives You Crazy || Springtrap x GN! Reader

summary: you reunite after 30 years

SFW // angsty fluff

word count: 3252

warnings: swearing, canon-typical violence, mental health issues including but not limited to anxiety, depression, and thoughts of unaliving, springtrap is smelly af, established relationship, angst, fluff, will is just a bad person lmao

masterlist

a/n: wow my first fic in more than a year,, i really hope that I've still got it!! This story doesn't really connect to crave toooooo muchhh?? but i've still tagged my normal list for crave anyway!! pls lmk if i missed you or you don't want to be tagged in stuff like this! also, this is based off one of my fav fnaf vhs series!! i'll link it here! enjoy!

~~

When they called you saying that they had found William, you spilt your coffee mug all over the kitchen floor.

"What?" Was the only thing that managed to slip past your trembling lips, breathless as if you had been kicked in the chest full-force. And that's what it felt like, honestly, hearing William's name again. Nobody ever talked about him anymore. After what had happened, all that came up about him after his disappearance, it was taboo to even mention him in passing. Let sleeping dogs lie, they said. Leave the demon to his demons.

But a part of you always wondered.

"Yes, you heard me correct." The agent reassured you, and you could hear how he tapped his pen against his notepad on the other end of the line. "We found him, er, we found William. The DNA samples we collected all matched the ones we had on our database. And Michael gave a positive ID."

You fell silent again, your blood feeling as if it were ice in your veins. The room was fuzzy, with a ringing in your ears that you couldn't pinpoint when it began. You stood motionless for a moment before your legs gave out from under you. Your body stumbled to the side, making you fall against your kitchen counter with an oof.

"(Y/N)?" The agent's voice asked, a note of concern in his otherwise flat, professional tone, "Are you alright? Are you still there?"

You took a few deep breaths to steady yourself, nodding even though the man on the other line couldn't see.

"Y-Yes, yes, I am." You confirmed, gripping on to your phone tighter. In order to make sure you wouldn't stumble again, you slid down your wooden cabinets to sit on the floor, not caring about your shattered coffee mug and the pool of steaming coffee next to you. "Sorry, I just... I..."

"No worries," the agent replied, seeming to understand you despite not saying a word, "I get that this is a lot to take in. Just, take a few deep breaths, yeah?"

You take his advice and take in a few deep breaths, the quiet moment allowing you to feel just how fast your heart was racing in your chest. You swallowed thickly after composing yourself, hugging your knees close to your chest.

"I-I just... Is he okay? Is Michael okay?"

"Oh, yeah, Michael is fine. William, however..."

The man trailed off, an awkward silence hanging over the air between the two of you. Your impatience got the better of you, and you were the first to speak up.

"What? What's wrong with him?"

Silence again, only broken up by a sigh and the faint sounds of whispers to a colleague you didn't make an effort to discern. You were about to ask the same thing again, only firmer, when the agent finally spoke again, calm enough to make you slightly annoyed.

"We think it might be best for you to come and see for yourself. William's situation is... quite complex. And we're it would do him some good to see you again."

The annoyance you felt slowly faded away into the ether at the offer, your lips parting in surprise.

Come and see for yourself.

Could it really be that easy? Thirty years you spent wondering what happened to William. Searching for any little piece of evidence that might have pointed to where he would have gone. All those nights of tossing and turning, rereading the newspaper articles over and over, booking therapy appointments just to cancel the night before, just to be handed a reunion on a silver platter? If it weren't for the ceramic shard digging in to your heel, you would have thought you were dreaming.

"Uh- O-Of course we understand if you would prefer not to--"

"No. Sorry, n-no, no..." You rasped, only just then realizing that you hadn't said anything, "No, I want to. I definitely want to. I just thought... It's been so long..."

"We understand. We thought so as well, but... I-It'll be easier to explain when you get here. We could have a car come and get you as soon as tomorrow afternoon, if that works for you?"

You stood up from your seat on the floor, carrying your phone over to look out the window. You could see the sun setting overtop of the buildings surrounding your shitty little apartment complex. Your left hand absent-mindedly fidgeted by your side, touching the ring on your finger and twirling it over and over again on the digit.

"Yeah, that's fine." You replied, knowing full well you had work in the morning. To hell with it. Fuck it.

This was far more important.

~~~

Nearly the entire ride to the facility was spent by you fidgeting in the back seat of the van with not a word spoken to the driver. You couldn't find a position to where you could sit comfortably, making you shift around every so often. Looking out the window to the drab, grey sky that stretched out in front of you, you tried to distract yourself to no avail. Your thoughts constantly drifted back to William, thousands of thoughts drifting through your mind.

Where the hell had he been the last thirty years? How was he even still alive? Why didn't he ever try to contact you? What exactly did these people mean when telling you it would be easier to explain in person? And most importantly, what the hell were you even going to say to him?

You didn't know. But you needed to try. Hopefully you could wing it as you go.

Eventually, after passing by some rather sketchy looking buildings on the highway, you scooted forward in your seat to talk to the driver, leaning against the passenger seat as you looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

"Hey," you said, "How much further are we out?"

"Just around five minutes." The driver replied, "Just gotta take the exit and we're there."

The driver put the blinker on and merged out of the highway, taking the exit ramp down closer to some of the buildings. He drove for a few more minutes before pulling in to the parking lot of one of the shorter buildings, a few security guards around the perimeter. The two of you drove up to what appeared to be the front door, where two men in suits were waiting outside for you once you parked.

The driver walked around to the opposite side of the car to open the door for you, letting you walk the short distance up to the door. The two men standing there looked at you as you approached, one of them reaching out to shake your hand. This one had glasses with salt-and-pepper hair, the other one with brown hair and deep wrinkles.

"(Y/N), yes?" The agent shaking your hand greeted, offering you a small, almost sympathetic smile, "We're glad you could make it out. I'm agent Carter, the one you spoke with on the phone. This is my colleague agent Smith."

You glanced to agent Smith, who only gave you a little nod before you looked back to agent Carter. It was clear who was the more friendly of the two.

"I see. Nice to meet you too." You replied, shifting your bag on your shoulder somewhat awkwardly. "Thank you both for inviting me here. It's... This is an opportunity I didn't think I'd ever get."

"Oh, it's no trouble--"

"Let's just get down to business, yes?" Agent Smith interjected with a sigh lacing his voice, turning and walking off in to the facility. Agent Carter followed behind him quickly, and held the door open for you as you followed. You walked behind the two men as they led you deeper into the building, seeing the different people in business-casual attire milling about the area.

"We found Mr. Afton a few weeks ago, but it's only now that we have seen any signs of life from him." The brown haired agent told you, making you pause and raise a brow.

"Signs of... life?" You questioned, earning a sideways glance from both agents.

"You'll see for yourself in due time." Smith replied before ducking inside of a room, Carter holding the door for you again as you stepped inside.

You took a moment to stand in the doorway and take in what you saw inside of the room, your breath catching in your throat. A plethora of large, flat TV screens lined the far wall, some displaying images of bare rooms, and others just showing static. There was a microphone on the desk lining the same wall, along with some computer monitors, keyboards, notebooks, abandoned cups of coffee and three different swivel chairs. Even though none of these were threatening by themselves, the combination of all of them made you shift in your stance and clear your throat.

"Wh... So, where is he?" You asked as you looked to Agent Carter for some answers, who just gave you a small smile.

"He's just behind this door." Smith replied as he gestured over his shoulder, nodding in the same direction. Looking behind him, you saw a reinforced door with barred, reinforced windows and several different locking mechanisms. Your brow furrowed in confusion and you opened your mouth to question it, but Agent Carter had interrupted you before any words could come out. He walked up to you and pressed something long and metal in to your hands, only adding to your confusion.

"We require that you to take this in with you." He said, his eyes flashing with hint of sympathy as you turned the object over in your hands; a shocking prod. "It's for your own protection in the event we can't get the door open in time."

"Wh-What?" You questioned as your eyes widened, turning the shock prod over in your hands again. "Are you serious? Will wouldn't."

"You have one hour to be with him. After that you'll have to sign a form and undergo a medical examination." Smith interrupted, placing a hand on your shoulder and practically pulling you over to the reinforced door.

You tried to protest, but he either didn't hear you or didn't care as he undid the locks to the door. The agent opened the door the bare minimum amount required to get you through the threshold before practically shoving you inside, nearly knocking you off your balance. You clutched on to the shock prod tighter as you flinched at the sound of the heavy door shutting behind you then the clicking of several locks closing shut. You stood in silence for a moment before the lights flickered on in the room, your eyes stinging as they adjusted to the harsh, cool-toned lighting.

Inside of the room was a metal table with two chairs, with scratches, marks, and mystery stains lining every surface. Scanning over the room, your eyes eventually landed on something in the corner, slumped over and sitting on the ground. It took you a moment to decipher what it was, earning a gasp from you when you eventually did. It was the spring-bonnie suit William used to wear, all those years ago. You could recognize that yellow fur and rabbit ears anywhere. Although, it was clear that time had not been kind to old bonnie, his fur matted and full of holes and stains, with obvious chunks missing, not to mention the horrible smell.

You stared at the yellow rabbit for a long moment before your grip on the shock prod tightened again, your brow furrowing. You felt frustration and anger rise inside your chest, feeling the heat in your cheeks. You were promised to see William. And this was all you got? A rotting costume?

"Is this some sort of sick joke?" You sneered as you looked around the room again, your eyes eventually landing on the security camera hanging from the ceiling. You glared in to it before turning and pounding on the iron door, your frustration only growing with each loud bang.

"Are you two serious?! What is this?! Get me out of here! Hello?? HELLO--"

"B... Bun... ny... Bun-ny..."

You freeze, your face growing pale and your motions falling away to a halt. You feel a chill run down your whole body, as if a ghost had passed through you and stole your soul.

No... it wasn't. It couldn't be. It was impossible...

But who else had ever called you bunny before?

Slowly, you turn around, your hands shaking and your bottom lip trembling. Your wide eyes take in the sight before you, sending another chill down your body. Spring bonnie, who was originally sitting down, was now upright, hunched over and twitching every so often in a manner that made your body ache. Two white, glowing eyes were staring right at you, almost as wide as your own. You could feel your body tremble with fear, but your mind felt oddly blank, as if trying to catch up with reality.

It couldn't be. I just couldn't--

"W... Will?" You heard yourself say before you could register it in your mind, your body acting on pure instinct alone.

The decrepit Spring Bonnie seemed to twitch again at this, the rusty joints creaking and popping in an unnatural manner. The animatronic takes a heavy, labored step closer to you making you flinch.

"B-Bun-ny... m-my... bunny..." Spring Bonnie's voice spoke to you again, sounding as if his throat were full of wires and metal. He takes another painful-looking step towards you, and you flinch again, your back pressing against the metal door as the shock prod dropped out of your hand and clattered to the floor. The animatronic seems to take note of this and stops his approach, an almost pained, heartbroken look flashing in his mechanical eyes.

"D-Don't be... scared." Spring Bonnie tells you, even as you felt your lungs rapidly rise and fall in your chest. "It's me... (Y/N). I-It's me..." I would... never... hurt you."

You heard a ringing in your ears as you listened to the animatronic... William's words. No, there was no denying it anymore. You knew in your heart that this was William. Those glowing, robotic eyes; you could still see the remnants of the man you loved behind him. The grey eyes that you used to love with all your heart.

Tears stung in the rims of your eyes as you stared ahead at William, the cold air of the room stinging inside your chest. A pained look flashed in your eyes, and you started to shake your head.

"N-No... i-it... That's not..." You choked out as you felt hot tears slip down your cheeks and dribble down your chin. "How, I... I-I don't understand--"

William shushes you before you could get out any more words, to the best of his ability, at least. He takes a few more labored steps closer to you until he's within arms length, the smell of rot and mold filling your lungs. You ignore it, however, glued in place as you watch his... hand? paw? Reach up to you. A metal finger lifts to your face, and wipes a tear from your cheek with a shocking amount of gentleness.

"You're... s-still as... stunning... as I... remember." William rasped, making your lips part as a warmth flooded your chest. Even now, all these years later, he still remembered you? Made you swoon? It was all you ever hoped for.

You took in a deep breath and let it slip from your lips, feeling how they curved up into the slightest of smiles. You reached up to your face and wiped your eyes as best you could, taking a moment to look William's new body up and down before meeting his gaze again.

"You thought about me?" You asked in a rasp of a voice, feeling the rotted furry palm of William's drop from your face and scrape down your arm.

"C-Constantly." He replied, and you swore you saw the rabbit ears on the top of his head perk up.

Your small smile lingered for a moment as you stared into William's glowing eyes, your gaze eventually trailing down his body once more. You could see the mold and rot on the tattered fur, along with remnants of what was probably blood and other gore you didn't want to think too much about. The more you looked, the more your smile faded, until it was just a frown.

"I just..." You began, shaking your head in disbelief. "I just have so many questions. How are you even alive? What happened to you?"

William's shoulders squared in response to your interrogation, a deep rumbling emanating through his voice box. He looked off to the side, deep in thought and pausing for a long moment, as if the memory was far in the depths of the remnants of his mind. After a beat, I looked back up into your eyes, and you felt his paw grab on to your hand.

"It is... a long... story." He rasped, tugging on your hand as he turned. He took a few heavily labored steps back to the corner of the room, and you followed after him. Slowly, he moved his giant body so that he could sit back on the floor, lifting up his arm for you to join him by his side. You looked at the obvious signs of decay where you were supposed to rest yourself, and pulled your jacket tighter around your body. You knew Will probably wanted some human contact and connection with you after so long, but you really didn't want it to end with having to go to the ER for a tetanus shot.

You knelt down before moving to sit next to William, feeling his heavy, robotic arm wrap around your shoulders. He pulled you in as close as you could go to him and let out a sound akin to a purr, his other paw moving to rest on your knee.

"I-I never meant... to leave you... bunny." William wheezed, his glowing eyes never leaving your face. "I was... chased. Trapped."

"Chased by who?"

The golden rabbit man paused, as if to search for what to say.

"Spirits... after me. Th-They wanted... revenge."

"Spirits? Revenge? Revenge for wha--"

"I-I was... terrified. So I... hid. In the suit. My sweat... made the... sp-springlocks... go off. I-I died slowly... painfully. But... came back later. S-Stuck in pain for... thirty years..."

Your eyes softened as you listened to William's story, feeling an ache in your chest. You couldn't imagine just how scared he must have been; scared, alone, and in pain for thirty years. It sounded like absolute hell. Worse than hell, even. It sounded like agony for him to even talk, let alone just exist inside of the Spring Bonnie suit for so long. Your eyes stung with tears again as you placed your hand over his, careful to avoid any sharp pieces of metal or wires.

"Oh, Will... I'm so sorry. That sounds... Just horrible."

You sniffled back your tears before lifting your hand to his rotted cheek, gently cupping it where you knew it would be safe. He immediately let out another purr, leaning in to your touch as his eyes turned half-lidded.

"Are you in pain right now?" You asked, bracing yourself for the answer.

"Y-Yes..." He responds, closing his eyes for a moment before gazing back at your face.

"B-But having you... makes... the pain... bearable."

~~~

tags: @guinea-pig16 @the-official-memester @randomwriteralan @mrsrogerwaters @laylaaftonshit @cherry-slushee @insert-memical-username @mrssafton @horrorking2000 @artist-anon08 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @jamiethenerdymonster @kimyona-san @purplewolfcoffee @violetlmfaoo @reapersimps @wawuwe @lovinglenore @zoey5252 @000-mika @strawberrysandhim @sopiasleeps @mxstly-melancholy @kinniewhre @myglife @coffeeforthecatgod69 @glitched-out-dusk @bagelbxtch @confiscated-peaches-main @itswolfie @zenhatescats1 @sat10 @dfghfjfjfjfjfj @strawberry-gothic

apologies to blogs tumblr won't let me @ ! If I missed you or you want to be added, please let me know!

[zorosangell]

⛥ﾟ・。 wedding

SECRET BONUS/prequel to pocus -- (after sample, before merienda) a sneak peak into the reception of your wedding, where a rather interesting conversation took place between the oldest charlotte siblings... the topic concerning you.

cw: fluff, comfort, angst if you squint, katakuri is a bit socially awkward, he is twenty-one (same as daifuku and oven), you are twenty (same as amande), cracker is eighteen, smoothie + sisters are eight, galette and poire are four, raisin is one, katakuri's got it BAD, oven and cracker are kinda skeezy.

a/n: took way too long pt.2 </3 i'm tearing up

"Never thought I'd see the day," Oven smirked, eyeing the Sweet Commander with an amused air. "My big brother... in a suit."

Daifuku chuckled in agreement, taking a sip from his glass with a tipsy grin.

"On his wedding day, no less," the Minster of Beans chortled, swirling his booze around. "I was almost certain he'd walk down the aisle in a leather vest!"

Together, they shared in uproarious, intoxicated laughter, though their noise was promptly drowned out by the particularly boisterous party going on a few feet away.

The party of the century... Charlotte Katakuri's wedding.

Every major player in the New World was in attendance, drinking, laughing, and dancing the night away at what was certainly a celebration for the ages.

Even members of the Charlotte family were joining in on the festivities, serious-types like Perospero and Compote taking a load off for once and enjoying the party.

Hell, Big Mom herself was quite drunk, having broken out into her thirty-second musical number of the night, both her and her screeching homies prancing about the roof of the Whole Cake Chateau with a look of happiness many hadn't seen in a long time.

But, if there was one person who wasn't in the highest of spirits, it was—to no one's surprise—the groom.

With a tired sigh, Katakuri rolled his eyes, ignoring his brothers' inebriated teasing as he hooked a finger on the neck of his tie, loosening it before unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt.

He hated constricting clothes, and was certain if he kept the tie on for any longer, it would strangle him to death.

But, in the same sentiment, he hated everything about this damned wedding.

The bright lights...

The loud music...

The obnoxious party-goers...

Were it not for you—and the rather unscrupulous characters gathered around his family—he would have certainly slipped away by now.

But, alas, it was not in the cards; and he would not be able to truly retire until his mother announced that the party was over.

Which could be hours from now...

At the thought, the furrow in his brows only deepened, turning his gaze into a full-on glower.

"You're rarely this tense, big brother," Amande commented, seemingly out of nowhere, startling Daifuku and Oven.

Of course, Katakuri sensed her coming, and predicted what she was going to say before the words even came out her mouth.

"Should we have reason to to worry?"

Knowingly, Daifuku grinned, waving his little sister off as he poured himself another drink.

"No reason at all," he assured with a slightly teasing tone. "Our brother's just sulking, is all."

"Sulking?!" Cracker exclaimed, drunkenly interrupting the conversation. "At a party like this? With a wife like yours?"

He scoffed, the sound morphing into a boisterous laugh mid-way.

"You're killin' me, big bro."

Lifting his head, Katakuri glanced at his purple-haired sibling, analyzing his uncharacteristic sway and the uneven slur of his words before ultimately surmising that the boy was completely hammered.

'Looks like somebody got into the wine when no one was looking...'

"He does have a point," Oven chimed, thoughtfully, "The party is one thing, but you lucked out in terms of arrangment."

Unanimously, the five turned toward you, each one having their own reaction to the sight laid before them.

You were sitting at the kiddie table, smiling brightly as Smoothie, Citron, and Cinnamon took turns braiding your hair, Galette and Poire at your feet as they played tug-of-war with your veil, baby Raisin cooed softly in your arms.

It was a rather heartwarming sight, which assisted in combating some of Katakuri's tension, allowing his shoulders to sink slightly.

You were so... you that at times it truly baffled the man.

Amidst all this chaos and confusion, all this uncertainty, you still found the strength to remain open-minded and kind, never once becoming cold or changing your tune due to the circumstances.

It was an effectively enviable trait, and one that stupefied him to no end.

How could one woman remain so perfect all the time?

Oven smirked, eyeing you up and down with a rather seedy look.

"Coulda ended up with a lot worse."

Cracker scoffed, pouting like a child as he plopped himself down in an empty chair, dropping his head on the table with a defeated sigh.

"Tch. You can only go down from the top," he grumbled, the booze thoroughly loosening his tongue. "Most eligible hottie in all of Whole Cake... wasted."

Katakuri's jaw ticked at the rather crude comment, forcing him to send a subtle but sharp glare his brother's way.

"Wish Mama had given her to me," Cracker rested his cheek in his palm, donning a rather sleazy smile. "I coulda showed her a whole new world, if you catch my drift."

At that, Daifuku and Oven burst into a fit of laughter, tears welling in their eyes as they slammed their hands on the table, disbelieving of the boy's confidence.

"What would you know, boy?" Daifuku scoffed, thoroughly amused.

"Have you even had your first kiss yet?" Oven raised a brow, honestly skeptical.

Embarrassed, Cracker flushed, sitting up rigidly in his seat.

"Hey, I totally have!" the older teen exclaimed, voice slightly cracking. "I've been with tons of girls!"

"I'm afraid your biscuts don't count!" Daifuku snorted, the comment sending him and Oven falling out of their chairs with hysterics.

Mortified, Cracker turned red as a cherry, furious, as he abruptly stood from the table.

"Screw you guys!" he barked, pointing at the two.

At the pitiful scene, Amande rolled her eyes, face remaining expressionless as always.

"I'd rather she be with Katakuri than you savages," she stated in a monotone. "She's a sweet girl and—"

"Mama mama! Katakuri, tell me!" Big Mom chirped, her drunken footfalls loud and thumping as she made her way over to the siblings. "How is that new wife of yours? Is she enjoying the party?"

Remaining cool, the Sweet Commander simply nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back.

"She is well, Mama," he answered plainly, not giving her much to work with as to avoid any follow-up.

Sadly... it did not work.

"That's wonderful!" she beamed, her happiness that of a pleased child. "Pretty little thing, isn't she? I knew she would be perfect the moment I saw her!"

Suddenly, an idea popped in her head, one that instantly caused her face to brighten.

"As a matter of fact, where is she? I'd love to have a little chat."

The notion sent a cold shiver down the man's spine, the thought of you alone with his mother introducing a certain feeling in his chest that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Fear.

"Actually, Mama, I think (y/n) and I are going to retire," he seamlessly deflected, standing from his seat with effortless ease. "She has a rather early start tomorrow making your congratulatory doughnuts."

His face didn't betray a single thought running through his mind—most of which about all the ways his mother could kill you if you accidentally insulted her during a one-on-one interaction.

Somehow, he had no idea what he'd do were that scenario to occur.

In fact, the mere possibility of it suddenly brought him a sense of overwhelming and all-encompassing dread.

He needed to get out of there.

And fast.

At the mention of desserts, Big Mom's eyes went starry, all memory of what she was originally saying flying out the window.

"I see!" she squealed, suddenly incredibly excited. "Well, then, please! Take her! I can't wait for those sweets tomorrow!"

Curtly, he nodded, smoothly turning on his heel and making his way over to you.

"All right, then. Good night."

Crisis successfully averted.

Internally, Katakuri let out a deep sigh of relief, the tension building in his back slowly melting away the further he got from his mother.

How he was going to keep this up for the rest of his life, he didn't know.

But—as he looked up from the ground, eyes landing on your perfect form—what he did know was that you looked drop-dead gorgeous in your dress, its cut, style, and color embodying you better than he ever could've imagined.

You were so radiant, so naturally brilliant and bright that he often felt blinded by your looks, and effectively intimidated.

You had a certain way of gazing, and a certain way of speaking, that kept him hanging on to your every word—and rendered him suddenly unable to muster his own.

It was all a mess.

A large, political—if he'd ever admit it, romantic—mess.

But, if one thing was for certain, he was pleased to finally have a moment alone with you on your wedding day.

Even if, due to his crippling shyness, it was in relative silence.

[hockeyluvrr]

The Moment It All Began

au masterlist all other works

pairing: umich luke hughes x plus size oc

summary: the first meeting and everything after...let's just say, feelings are hard huh?

warnings: mild language, internalised fat-phobia, body image/insecurity, self-isolation, angst, self-esteem issues, unresolved tension that is eventually resolved, mutual pining, vulnerable moments, emotional vulnerability, body image issues, panic response

word count: 4,690

It started, like most disasters, with a favour.

“He’s not dumb,” Emily had insisted, propping her chin on her palm as they studied in the common area. “Just… distracted. And you’re the only one I know who can explain physics without making someone cry.”

Phoebe snorted. “So naturally you thought of me?”

“Come on. You’re good at this. You make that professor sound like a guy who actually knows what he’s talking about.” She nudged her. “It’s just one session. Two, tops.”

“Fine,” she sighed, like it wasn’t already a yes. “But he better not be an asshole.”

Emily grinned. “It’s Luke Hughes. He’s literally a golden retriever in human form.”

That should’ve been the first red flag.

———

He was ten minutes late. She was packing up her notes, already annoyed, when he stumbled into the library lounge with a lopsided smile and wind-tousled hair.

“Sorry—practice ran late.” He dropped his bag like it had personally offended him. “You’re Phoebe, right? Emily’s friend?”

“That’s me,” she said, folding her arms, trying to ignore the way he smelled like cold air and something expensive. “You’re lucky I’m patient.”

Luke grinned, sheepish. “I’ll owe you big. Physics is kicking my ass.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—you missed the lecture on Newton’s Third Law because you were doing, like, a triple axel on ice or something?”

He blinked, then laughed, a full-body kind of laugh that startled her with how genuine it sounded.

“Not exactly, but close.”

It was just tutoring. A few sessions here and there. Explaining concepts like vectors and momentum and resistance, drawing diagrams in her notebook because he said it helped him to see it. He was a little scattered, sure, but not in the way she’d expected—he listened. Took notes. Asked questions. And he was funny, in a boyish, easy way. Always a little bit of a mess but never mean about it.

Which made it so much worse when she caught herself watching his hands one afternoon, pencil tapping thoughtfully against his bottom lip, and thought: God, his mouth is pretty.

The thought hit like a freight train. She blinked down at her notes, horrified.

No. Absolutely not.

She shoved the thought down hard and buried it under the safe, familiar weight of physics.

———

The sessions continued. Luke got better. She got worse.

Not at physics—never that. But worse at pretending she didn’t notice the little things.

Like the way he leaned in when he was confused, brow furrowed, lashes dark and long. Or how he laughed with his whole chest, loud and unfiltered. How he always offered to carry her bag, even when she told him not to. How he looked at her—not like she was invisible, or just another tutor-for-hire, but like he actually saw her.

And that terrified her.

Because somewhere along the line, she’d started looking forward to him. To the texts that said “u around? i have no clue what a free-body diagram is”, to the quiet walks back across campus after late-night study sessions, to the smell of cologne and coffee and cold air that followed him everywhere.

And once she’d noticed that? Everything started to unravel.

———

The breaking point was stupid.

A Thursday afternoon. Mid-March. The sky was heavy with the threat of snow, and the library was almost empty. They were hunched over her laptop, going over sample problems, when he stretched his arms above his head and said, “You know, you’re really good at this.”

She shrugged. “I like it. Explaining things helps me learn too.”

“No, I mean…” He sat back, tilting his head. “You’re smart. And you’re nice about it. Most people make me feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she said, too quickly.

He smiled at her then—soft, grateful. That smile that cracked something open inside her every time.

“I like hanging out with you.”

It was such a simple sentence. But it hit her like a punch to the chest.

She looked away. “Luke—”

“What?”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just stood up too fast, heart hammering, stuffing her notebook into her backpack like it had personally betrayed her.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I forgot I—I have a thing. I have to go.”

“Phoebe?” His voice was puzzled, concerned. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” she lied, already halfway to the door. “You didn’t.”

———

She didn’t cry until she was halfway home.

And when she did, it wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was the kind of quiet sobbing that felt like shame in motion—tears she didn’t want, for a truth she didn’t want to admit.

She liked him.

God, she liked him.

And how pathetic was that?

Luke Hughes: 6’2”, soft-eyed, NHL-bound, with a smile that could melt glaciers. She could already hear the voice in her head: Delusional much?

Because girls like her—soft and wide and invisible in the way society decided some bodies should be—didn’t end up with boys like that. No matter how sweet he was. No matter how many times he offered to buy her coffee or walked her home or laughed at her dumb jokes. That was just Luke being Luke.

And she—she was ridiculous for thinking it meant something.

She curled up on her bed, stared at the ceiling, and hated herself a little for hoping.

———

She avoided him for four days.

No texts. No library sessions. No walking paths that cut across the hockey facility. When she saw his name light up her phone.

Luke: hey, everything okay?

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t know how to explain that she wasn’t mad at him. She was mad at herself. For slipping. For letting him get too close. For thinking—hoping—that maybe she could be the exception to the rule.

By Sunday, Emily cornered her in the hallway outside their dorm.

“You ghosted him.”

She looked away. “I’ve been busy.”

Emily crossed her arms. “He asked if he did something wrong. He looked like a kicked puppy.”

Don’t say that, she wanted to snap. Don’t make him sound sweet when I’m trying to erase him.

Instead, she muttered, “He didn’t. It’s fine.”

“Then tell him that,” Emily said, gentler now. “He’s not a mind reader.”

The thing was—she wanted to. She missed him. Missed his voice, and the way he chewed his lip when he was stuck on a question, and the way his laugh made her stomach flip even when she hated herself for it. But she also knew that if she let him back in, the feelings would follow. And if he didn’t return them—if she caught a flicker of pity in his eyes—it would ruin her.

Hope was a dangerous thing. She’d spent most of her life learning how to live without it.

———

Tuesday night, he caught her.

Literally—rounded the corner outside the library and nearly walked straight into her.

“Oh shit—Phoebe?”

She froze. Too late to run. And honestly, she didn’t have the energy to pretend.

“Hey.”

Luke blinked, then gave her a cautious smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “Just busy.”

“Right.” He shifted his weight, awkward. “You, uh… weren’t answering my texts.”

Her stomach twisted.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A pause. She could feel him watching her—really watching, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“Did I do something?” he asked finally, voice quiet.

“No,” she said, then forced herself to meet his eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Okay. Good. I just—I wasn’t sure. You kinda vanished.”

“I know,” she said again. Her fingers curled around the strap of her backpack. “I just needed some space.”

He nodded slowly, and something about the way he stepped back—gave her that space—made her heart ache even more.

“Well,” he said, voice lighter now, “if you ever wanna go over the review packet, I, uh… I still don’t know what the hell potential energy is.”

She almost smiled. Almost.

“I’ll think about it.”

———

She didn’t mean to let him back in. But a few days later, she found herself at their usual table, notes spread out, laptop open, when he dropped into the seat beside her like no time had passed.

No questions. No guilt. Just his usual grin and a half-empty smoothie in hand.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, sliding the packet over. “You’re gonna keep me from flunking.”

“God forbid you be academically ineligible,” she teased, grateful for the normalcy. “Then who would they use in every single recruiting post?”

“Exactly,” he said with mock-seriousness. “You’d be letting down the entire future of hockey.”

She rolled her eyes, but her throat felt tight.

Because he was still here. Still looking at her like she mattered.

And she still didn’t know why.

————

It happened again the next week.

They were sitting in the back corner of Bert’s Cafe, rainy afternoon light bleeding through the windows, and Luke was chewing on the sleeve of his hoodie while she tried to explain electric fields for the third time.

“Okay,” she said, tapping the diagram on his tablet. “Think of it like gravity. But instead of mass, it’s charge. Opposites attract, remember?”

“So like… if I’m positive, and you’re negative—”

She gave him a look. “You calling me negative?”

He grinned. “You said it, not me.”

She shook her head, biting back a smile—and that’s when he said it.

“You’re cute when you’re frustrated.”

The words landed with a thud in her chest. She went still.

“What?”

Luke blinked. “What?”

“You said—” Her voice caught. “Never mind.”

But he was watching her now, head tilted, brow creased. “Did that make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she said too quickly. Then again, softer, “No. It’s fine.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else. But the moment passed. And she was already pulling the conversation back toward electric fields and potential difference and the safety of things that didn’t make her want to cry.

———

Later that night, alone in her room, she stood in front of the mirror and tried to understand what he saw.

She wasn’t soft in the way magazines liked. She wasn’t curvy in the way Instagram liked. She had thick arms, a round belly, wide hips that pulled at the seams of her jeans. Her thighs rubbed holes in leggings by week two. She knew what people like her were called. Knew the names muttered under breath in middle school, the backhanded compliments, the jokes.

And Luke—he was tall and golden and seen. He existed in a world she’d only ever watched from the outside.

So why would he look at her like that?

She squeezed her eyes shut. Swallowed down the guilt of even asking the question.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t mean it. It was just a throwaway comment. A stupid flirt without weight. A joke.

It had to be.

Because the alternative—that he saw her, wanted her—was something she didn’t know how to live with.

———

The physics midterm came and went, and Luke passed—with a B+, no less.

He texted her the second he got the grade.

Luke: ur a genius. my saviour. my queen. how do i repay u

Phoebe: one coffee and maybe a sticker that says “I’m smarter than a hockey player”

Ten minutes later, he showed up at her dorm with two lattes and a pack of glitter star stickers.

“Put one on your forehead,” he said, grinning. “It’s only fair.”

She did. She didn’t even hesitate.

———

After that, the tutoring faded into something else.

They still studied. But now he invited her to late-night diner runs. Walks after class. Study breaks where he begged her to explain memes he didn’t get or tried to teach her how to flick a mini hockey puck across a table using only a spoon.

It wasn’t tutoring anymore.

But it also wasn’t anything else.

Sometimes, she caught him looking at her when he didn’t think she’d notice. And it wasn’t like the way people looked when they were comparing sizes or judging or assessing.

It was soft. Focused.

And God, did that mess her up.

Because she wanted to believe it meant something. Wanted to let herself fall the rest of the way. But the voice in her head always pulled her back.

Don’t be stupid. Don’t embarrass yourself.

She couldn’t afford to lose him. And wanting more? Wanting him?

That was a risk she didn’t think she could take.

———

One night, late April, they found themselves sitting on the grass outside his apartment building after a study session. The air was warm and smelled like budding leaves and cheap beer from a nearby frat house. Luke had his hoodie pulled halfway over his head, eyes squinting up at the sky.

“You ever think about how dumb stars are?” he said suddenly.

She laughed. “What?”

“They’re just… balls of gas. But people write poetry about them and make wishes and shit.”

“That’s not dumb,” she said, pulling her knees to her chest. “It’s kind of beautiful. That people want to believe in something that far away.”

He turned to look at her. “You believe in stuff like that?”

She hesitated. “I want to.”

Luke was quiet for a second. “I think I do. Believe in that stuff.”

She looked over, and he was still watching her. Really watching her. Like he could see right past all the things she tried to hide behind sarcasm and notes and perfectly rehearsed explanations of Coulomb’s Law.

“Do you ever wish for anything?” she asked before she could stop herself.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, just for a second.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

The silence stretched. The air went still. She could feel the pull between them like gravity—heavy, inescapable, terrifying.

She turned away before he could see the hope in her eyes.

———

After that night, everything felt different. Closer. Louder.

He texted more. Sat closer. Let his leg press against hers and didn’t move away. He played with her pen during study sessions, let his fingers brush hers when he handed her his notebook. All little things. All nothing, probably. But to her, they felt like cracks in the dam.

And still—she didn’t say anything.

Because what if she was wrong?

What if this was just how Luke Hughes was with everyone? Warm. Open. Easy to fall for. And what if she confessed and ruined it? Lost him entirely?

She would rather take the ache than the silence of a goodbye.

———

The day it nearly all came crashing down, it was raining.

Not just drizzling—pouring. She’d left class without an umbrella, already soaked by the time she made it to the library steps.

Luke was there.

Waiting.

He was holding an extra hoodie and a coffee, like he’d known exactly how her day would go.

“Jesus,” she said, breathless. “Are you psychic now?”

He grinned. “I knew you’d forget your jacket.”

He draped the hoodie over her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was warm and smelled like him—mint and soap and something woodsy she couldn’t name.

She stared at him. Something in her chest cracked.

“Why are you so nice to me?” she asked quietly, almost too quiet to hear over the rain.

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… you don’t have to do this. Bring me coffee. Wait in the rain. Let me steal your hoodie. Why do you—” She broke off. Her throat was thick with it. “Why do you treat me like I’m—special?”

Luke was quiet for a long time.

And then, softly, he said, “Because you are.”

It felt like the world stopped spinning. Just for a second.

She stepped back. Shook her head.

“No,” she said, too fast. “Don’t—don’t say that. You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying.” His brows knit, confused. “Why would I—?”

“Because I know how this works,” she snapped, voice sharp with hurt. “I’ve seen the girls you hang out with, Luke. I know what people expect you to want.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about me!” she said, voice breaking. “Look at me. I’m not—God, I’m not the girl guys like you fall for.”

Silence.

Luke looked at her like she’d said something impossible. Like she’d just told him gravity wasn’t real.

“That’s bullshit,” he said, voice low.

Her breath caught.

“You think I don’t see you?” he continued. “You think I don’t notice the way you light up when you explain something? Or how you make everything easier just by being around?”

She shook her head. “Don’t—”

“I’m not playing with you,” he said. “I don’t do that. Not with you.”

She stared at him, rain clinging to her lashes, hoodie soaked through. Her heart beat so loud she thought it might split her ribs.

“I don’t get it,” she whispered. “Why me?”

His voice cracked, just a little.

“Because you make me feel like I’m more than some dumb hockey player. Because I like you. I’ve liked you.”

The words were soft. Real. Terrifying.

She didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Because if she opened her mouth, she might say I like you too—and she wasn’t ready for what came next.

So she turned.

And she ran.

———

She didn’t sleep that night.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Luke’s face—wet hair stuck to his forehead, eyes wide and confused and hurt. Heard his voice: Because I like you. I’ve liked you.

She pressed her palms over her ears like it would make it all go away.

It didn’t.

————

The next morning, Emily was already in their room, curled up with a blanket and laptop, when she stumbled in.

“You look like you fought God,” Emily said around a spoonful of yogurt.

She dropped onto the bed. “I ran away from Luke.”

Emily blinked. “What?”

“I mean literally ran.” She stared at the ceiling, voice hollow. “He told me he liked me. And I panicked and left him standing in the rain like a goddamn rom-com cliché.”

Emily’s spoon hovered in midair. “Wait—he said he likes you? Like, actually said it?”

She nodded.

“And you ran.”

Another nod.

“Okay. First of all, what the fuck, and second of all—WHAT THE FUCK.”

She groaned, pulling a pillow over her face.

Emily yanked it off. “Phoebe. I love you, but what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t!” she snapped, sitting up. “I was—scared. I am scared.”

Emily’s face softened. “Hey. I get that. But you’ve been pining over him for months. And now he says he likes you back and you think what—he’s lying?”

“Not lying,” she mumbled. “Just… confused.”

Emily narrowed her eyes. “You really think someone like Luke Hughes confuses liking someone with what? Friendship? Pity?”

She didn’t answer. Because that was exactly what she’d thought.

Emily sighed. “You know, just because you’ve been told you’re not the kind of girl someone could want doesn’t mean it’s true.”

She didn’t respond.

Because some truths lived too deep to root out in one morning.

———

She didn’t hear from Luke the rest of that day. Or the next.

He didn’t show up to their usual study spot. Didn’t text. Didn’t like her dumb meme about Schrödinger’s cat. His silence hurt more than anything else he could’ve said.

But she didn’t blame him.

Because she knew what it was like to reach out and get burned.

She’d just never imagined she’d be the one holding the match.

———

By Thursday, the guilt was eating her alive. So she did what she always did when she needed to think: she went to the library.

Their table was empty.

Her heart sank.

She sat down anyway, pulled out her notes, and tried to pretend she wasn’t scanning the door every five minutes.

And then—like her thoughts had summoned him—Luke walked in.

He looked tired. Not angry. Not even sad. Just… guarded.

She stood the second she saw him.

“Hey.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Hey.”

They stood there, books and silence between them, until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to run like that.”

Luke didn’t say anything.

She tried again.

“I panicked. It’s not because I don’t—” She swallowed. “It’s not because I didn’t want to hear what you said.”

He looked at her then. “Then why?”

God, she didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to lay herself bare like this. But he deserved the truth. Even if it came out ugly.

“Because I don’t understand why you’d like me,” she said, voice cracking. “I don’t look like the girls you’re supposed to want. I’m not skinny or pretty or—whatever.”

He stared at her like she’d slapped him.

“That’s what you think this is about?” he asked, low.

She blinked.

“Jesus, Phoebe.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You think I care what other people expect me to want?”

“You’re you,” she whispered. “And I’m just—me.”

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just enough to make her feel it.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything.”

She looked away. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” he said. “But I want to.”

A pause. He softened.

“Let me get it.”

She blinked fast. “I don’t want to be someone you regret.”

Luke’s jaw clenched. “I could never regret you.”

The words sat heavy between them.

He looked at her for a long moment, then said quietly, “I’m not going to push you. But I meant what I said. I like you. And not in some passing ‘oh she’s cute’ way. I like the way your brain works. The way you ramble when you’re trying not to smile. The way you take care of people even when you’re breaking.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears stinging behind her eyes.

“I don’t want this if it’s going to hurt you,” he added. “But if it’s just fear holding you back—please don’t let it win.”

Her heart cracked open.

“Luke…”

“I’ll wait,” he said gently. “Just tell me there’s a chance.”

She looked up at him. Really looked. Saw the honesty, the warmth, the hope he hadn’t let go of—even when she’d tried to push him away.

And for the first time, she let herself believe it.

“Okay,” she whispered. “There’s a chance.”

Luke’s shoulders dropped, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time.

“Okay,” he echoed, soft and sure.

————

They didn’t kiss that day.

He didn’t pull her into his arms or say anything grand or cinematic.

But he did sit beside her, closer than usual, and opened his notebook.

And when their hands brushed, neither of them pulled away.

—————

They didn’t define it right away.

There was no official we’re dating talk, no grand proclamations. But after that afternoon in the library, everything shifted.

Luke texted her good morning now.

He walked her to class, even when it was out of his way.

When they studied, he let his thigh press against hers like it belonged there. Sometimes he brought snacks. Sometimes she brought extra pens because he always lost his. He started saying things like missed you today or this song reminded me of you or you looked really pretty earlier, just so you know, and he said it so easily—so genuinely—that eventually, she stopped flinching when he did.

Eventually, she started believing him.

The voice in her head—the one that told her she wasn’t enough—still lingered. Some days it shouted. But when Luke looked at her like she hung constellations, it was easier to quiet it. Easier to say, Maybe he sees something I don’t. Maybe that’s okay.

————

One night in early May, he texted her.

Luke: come outside

She blinked at the message.

Phoebe: ??? it’s almost midnight

Luke: and? bring a hoodie. trust me.

She found him standing outside her dorm, hair tousled, smile soft, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms. He had a blanket tucked under one arm and two milkshakes in hand.

“You kidnapping me?” she teased.

“Nah,” he said. “Just stealing you for a bit.”

He took her to a hill just outside campus—secluded, grassy, high enough to see the city lights blur in the distance. It was quiet. Private.

He spread out the blanket. Handed her the chocolate shake. Sat so close their shoulders touched.

“Remember that dumb thing I said about stars?” he asked after a while.

She smiled. “That they’re just gas but people still write poetry about them?”

“Yeah.” He looked up. “I get it now.”

She tilted her head. “Yeah?”

Luke turned to her, and his expression made her heart stop. So open. So gentle. Like she was the only thing he saw.

“Some things are beautiful because of what they make you feel,” he said quietly. “Even if they don’t make sense. Even if they’re far away or hard to reach.”

She swallowed. “Are we still talking about stars?”

“No,” he said, soft. “We’re not.”

Silence fell again—but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was full. Buzzing. A calm before something that felt like lightning.

Luke leaned in, slow and careful.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

When he kissed her, it was gentle. No fireworks or fanfare. Just warm, steady lips and the feeling of finally, finally, landing somewhere safe.

Her fingers curled into the sleeve of his hoodie. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just beneath her eye. He pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded, heart pounding.

“Yeah,” she said. “More than okay.”

He smiled. Pressed another kiss to her temple like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

————

After that, there were words.

He started calling her his girl.

Introduced her to his teammates—who, shockingly, didn’t bat an eye. If anything, they seemed happy to see Luke looking so settled. (One of them winked at her and said, “Thank God. He’s been unbearable. You’re doing God’s work.”)

Luke held her hand in public. Let her wear his hoodie even when he pretended to pout about it. Texted her things like thinking about you during team meetings and wanna come over and watch dumb sci-fi movies so I can pretend to understand physics.

He never made her feel small.

Never made her feel like he was hiding her, or settling, or choosing her in spite of something.

He just chose her. Over and over again.

And that did something to her.

Something healing.

————

Finals came and went in a blur of caffeine and highlighters and three a.m. breakdowns. She helped him study. He brought her snacks. 

On the last day of the semester, after they submitted their final lab report, he took her hand and said, “I think this is the first time I’ve ever liked physics.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Even after all the crying over projectile motion?”

He grinned. “Especially after that. You looked cute when you yelled at me about parabolas.”

She shoved him lightly, but she was smiling.

————

The night before she left for home, he showed up at her door with takeout and a bouquet of wildflowers.

She blinked at them.

“You know this is such a rom-com move , right?” she said.

Luke just shrugged. “You deserve rom-com shit.”

He kissed her like he meant it. Like they had all the time in the world. And when he whispered, “I’m gonna miss you like hell,” against her collarbone, she knew this wasn’t a temporary thing.

They’d figure out the summer.

Figure out everything else, too.

————

A week later, she got a text.

Luke: my mom wants to meet you. she already stalked your Instagram. she thinks you’re cute.

She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

And for the first time, that voice in her head—the one that told her she’d never be enough—didn’t say a thing.

Because maybe she was.

Maybe she always had been.

[sexy-monster-fucker]

You Could Love Me If I Knew How to Lie

Dr. Gregory House x Doctor!Reader

Story Synopsis: Reader is a Doctor alongside House. They have known each other for years, mostly been dancing around being intimate with one another. Even though it is painfully obvious to their close friend, Wilson. After finally allowing their guards to fall, the Reader receives a letter inviting her for her dream position at her dream hospital. She has to make the hard choice of staying or going. angst/smut/nsfw/new relationships/minor fluff/typical hospital talk/situationship/

Part 2/Summary: Day after Reader’s night with House prematurely ended, she comes in to work not realizing House has practically declared war with her. [Reader is a Pediatric Neurologist]

CW: mentions of blue balls, bit of angst, house is a complete asshole, mentions of house’s scar,

[Part 1] <- -> [Part 3] / [Part 4] / [Part 5/Finale]

a/n: I just know House is the most petty muff whenever he is upset, and honestly there is no excuse for how he acts in this. this is just who he is.

title track 🎶🩶

~~~

“Heard you got paged in pretty late last night… early this morning?” Wilson questioned as you watched the floors of the elevator click by.

You nodded, bags under your eyes a little darker than normal. Still stretching yourself awake. Regret of not staying with House last night heavy on your mind. By the time you got home and in bed, you barely got an hour and thirty minutes of sleep before your alarm went off. You could have always ran to some cheap department store and bought a bra. Slept on the sofa in House’s office.

“Everything okay with your patient?”

“Of course. Honestly, she shouldn’t have even been my patient. But, House was the one that figured that out. So he had to get me here to rub it all in my face,” you exhaled, giving Wilson the knowing look. He smiled, trying not to laugh in your face. Faking sympathy, even though you would not have given him the same treatment had your roles been reversed.

“And what was it?”

“STD. The girl is sixteen, it was the first thing I had them test for. Guess I learned to do it myself,” your shoulders hung half-heartedly defeated.

“Oh, God. He’ll never let you live that down,” Wilson grinned, bumping his elbow into you.

“And I know it,” you smiled. Doors of the elevator opening on your floor. Walking out with Wilson, both of your attention being brought to the huddle of people at the end of the hall. Jumping straight into Doctor mode, rushing assuming there was an incident. Cringing when you both were greeted by House. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Bright blue eyes zeroing in on you specifically.

"Perfect. Two more samples for my little statistic," House beamed as he clasped his cane with both hands in front of him. Leaning forward and directing all the attention of the group onto the two of you.

"That can't be good," Wilson whispered to you through a fake smile. Nodding in agreement as you prepared for whatever nonsense House was about to involve you both in.

"So, tell the class. When was the last time the two of you had sex?"

You choked at the bluntness of the question. Hand coming up to your chest as you were caught off guard. Side-eyeing Wilson. His hands waved off the question presented to you, "We are not going to answer—“

"For some of us, it could have been last night. But somebody was too sweepy," he mocked you. Brows resting heavily against his eyes. Trying his hardest to embarrass and belittle you. Clearly wanting to make an example of you. Frustrated with how the night prior had ended. Your teeth began grinding together behind sealed lips.

Wilson whipped his head to look at you. Eyes widened with concern, "You didn't—?!"

"I did not—" you hissed, not even allowing him to finish the damning question.

Taking a deep breath to remain calm in front of all the interns and residents House had roped into his scheme. Some of them more inquisitive to the game being played than others. Too young and inexperienced to understand the petty actions of House, still believing any Doctor with tenure knew all. Not realizing you all were still human and sometimes you gave into your human urges. Narrowing your eyes in on the older diagnostician. Refusing to let your expression reveal how badly this childish behavior hurt you.

Being reminded why you always tried to stay away from a relationship with House. At the end of it all, he was House. A sad man in chronic pain who used Vicodin and other's misery to make himself feel a little better. Incapable of caring for you the way you desired.

"Okay, since you don't wanna answer that one, we can try this one instead. When you had sex last, did both parties finish? It is customary, but sometimes one, or even both, parties don't get to. That's what my little statistic is about. An epidemic in men known as Blue Balls. Caused when a woman leads a guy on, not letting him have that sweet, sweet relief," House cocked a brow at you. Eyes rolling down your body with his words. Even while mocking you, he could not stop checking you out.

You pinched the skin between your eyebrows. A laugh of shock escaping you. Somehow after all this time, his audacity still surprised you. Your tongue pushed into your cheek as you crossed your arms over your chest.

"Hmm. Not really sure of the scientific side of that. But I can tell you that you and every other boy here have been apart of a different statistic. Fifty-seven precent of women fake their orgasms for their male partners benefit," you walked over to be face-to-face with him, "Something I'm sure Dr. House here has firsthand experience with."

"Alright, everyone. Dr. House is done. Go back to your stations," Wilson dismissed the congregated group. You grabbed House by the arm, throwing him into the nearest vacant examine room. Slamming and locking the door behind you. House stumbled into the room when he mis-stepped with his cane. Firm grip on the bed stabilizing himself. Huffing as he sat up on the bed.

"Good to know you are still such a ray of sunshine when you've had your sleep," he pointed at you with his cane.

You took a moment with your back still to him. Trying to catch your breath before you completely blew up on him. Turning around with your eyebrows arched and shoulders stern, "What the hell was that?"

"Scientific research. Obviously. Didn't you study at Johns Hopkins?" House continued his mockery of you. Tone of sarcasm almost being outweighed by the anger that laced it.

“You’re seriously so petty that you’re willing to compromise our new doctors with some nonsense about blue balls?”

“It is not nonsense! Check mine yourself,” House teased, gesturing towards his zipper.

You scoffed. Eyes practically rolling out of your head. Closing the distance between you as sharp eyes shot into his. Biting back all the mean and hurtful things you wanted to say to him. Finding yourself softening when he smiled at you.

“You’re so pretty when you’re mad,” House said as his eyes squinted up in a smile. Assuming he was undermining you, trying to get the upper hand.

“You’re such an ass,” you growled as you lightly stomped your foot. Face flushing at the compliment. Hand coming up to grab at your head as you tried to compose yourself, “If I’d known getting you turned on would get you like this, I would’ve left before I ever let you kiss me.”

“Right… but you didn’t,” House nodded, eyebrows raising as he looked at you.

“You told me to go home!”

“You yawned in my face!”

“You lied to me about a patient’s well being just so you could get your dick wet,” you bared your teeth at him.

“Ah. Not the patient’s well being. The well being of her mother,” House corrected with his finger wagging in your face.

You could feel your anger about to boil over. Hands shaking at your sides as you white-knuckle gripped your fists. Jaw locked as your eye began to twitch. Blowing air out your nose. Knowing all he wanted was a reaction out of you. Refusing to give it to him.

Deciding on a different strategy. You placed your hands on each of his legs, spreading them so you could stand between them. Hands splaying across his thighs, achingly close to his groin. Fluttering your lashes sensually up at him. Hooded eyes meeting his as your tongue parted your lips momentarily.

House leaned forward, closing the gap between your faces. Nose flicking against the tip of yours. Lips almost touching. Painstakingly close, lips parted preparing to accept the other when you spoke, “House… next time, try picking up one of the local strippers.”

Stopping both your movements. Your hand coming up and giving his cheek a light smack. House leaned back, biting his tongue as the vein on his forehead popped. Growling under his breath with a snort. Baring his bottom teeth to you as his nostrils flared.

You laughed at your victory. Stepping away from him seeing his body stiffen. “You do not play fair,” House complained.

“Awe, Dr. House. Not used to having someone match your game? Stings, doesn’t it?”

Earning yourself a prolonged scoff from him. Cane clicking against the floor as he stood off the bed. Arched eyebrows decorating the lines on his forehead as he stared at you. Mouth sealed shut.

“Want women to like you? Maybe try taking them on a date. Or, hell, just not being such a petty asshole to them. Compliment them from time to time,” you gestured with your hand as you spoke, walking towards the door.

“I told you, you looked pretty when you’re angry,” House snarled, voice still low. Stopping with your hand on the doorknob. Turning on your heel to face him once more. Eyes flat as you looked him up and down. Mind racing with all the things you could say to him. Wanting to smack him, wanting to cuss him out, yet the urge to kiss him still sat inside you. Giving him one final eye roll as you opened the door.

"Well, you do," House said matter-of-factly.

You parted from him, now being late on your rounds. It is very easy to loose track of time in the hospital. Only realizing how much had passed when you felt your stomach growl, reminding you that you did need to eat. Checking your watch and seeing that it was already afternoon. Coming to a natural end on one of your patient's files and deciding to head down to get some food.

Distracted by the other pages you carried in your hand, you bumped into Wilson. Stumbling backwards, but not losing your footing. Exchanging pleasantries. "Where are you headed?" Wilson asked.

"Gonna head down and grab a bite to eat. Wanna come?" you pointed with your thumb. He looked around for a moment, turning back and smiling with a soft 'yeah.' Chit-chatting about your most interesting patients on the stair-walk down. Explaining the trials you were running and how the MRI was turning out to be the worst part for patients. It was a longer than normal procedure. Having to lay in the head-cage while the machine banged and buzzed in your ear was not easy for adults, let alone children. Sitting out in the courtyard when he finally worked up the courage to ask you about the incident from earlier.

"So. Are you going to tell me what happened with you and House?"

You tried to laugh it off, clearly ridden with embarrassment. Taking another bite of your food as you looked out at all the other people sitting outside. Breathing deeply and swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat. "I got a call last night that one of my patient's mother's was distressed. When I got here, I found out that wasn't exactly the case," you sighed with your words.

"And...?"

You pressed your tongue into your cheek. "And I went into his office to confront him. And we... fooled around in his office," you smiled awkwardly. Wilson's jaw hung open. Eyes wider than you had ever seen them.

"Okay, we didn't have sex or anything—"

"But you 'fooled around'?!"

"I know— I KNOW! You and I have talked about it a million times and it's always a bad idea. But things just happened last night. I was sleepy, and he was handsy and I— I don't know what happened, it just did," your voice jumped an octave in defense.

Wilson could not help but laugh at you. Smacking himself in the face before leaning forward to stare awestruck at you. Attempting to force a sentence out, developing into another laugh followed by a heavy sigh.

"What have I done," you winced at the words you had said aloud. Your skin running hot, sweat beading upon your hairline.

"As your friend, and someone who cares about you outside of this hospital, I have to remind you how bad of an idea this is," Wilson steadied his voice. Looking at you with genuine concern compared to the joking nature you had both previously had. The hint of curve on his brows telling you how serious he was being.

You sat silently with his words for a moment. Trying to understand what exactly you were expecting from House. Romanticizing a certain idea of him in your head. Not without cause, of course. When he was good to you, he was good. Able to be more vulnerable with him then you had been with any other person in your life. Remembering the time he had called you to help him when he fell and could not hoist himself up do to the pain. Finding him laying in the floor. Exposed and angry. Pain throbbing in his thigh. That being the first night you had seen the scar. Not acknowledging it, or the fact that you were having to help him at all. Just assisting him to his feet and giving him his cane. Helping wrap a towel around his waist so he did not feel as unprotected. Walking with him to his bedroom. Giving him his pills, knowing he had to be in excruciating pain by now.

Sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. He was laid back in his pillows, hair still damp. Eyes glossy as he stared up at the ceiling, "I know you saw it."

"We don't have to talk about it," you whispered. Reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours. Interlocking fingers with a tight grip. Laying your other hand loosely on top. Examining his large digits. Tracing each vein and bone and scar, learning him. Sparkling, sapphire eyes stared at you. Trying his hardest to read your mind. Denying the tug in his chest at how beautiful you looked in the dimly-lamp-lit bedroom. Ethereal when your eyes faintly met his only for a second.

Recalling how he had sat up and pressed his lips to yours. Almost saying thank you with his action. Hand cupping the side of your face as he tenderly kissed you. Melting into his palm, finding solace in his touch. Guiding you to be laying down beside him. Hand flattening against his chest. Learning the rhythm of his heart. No other words were spoken between you. Simple consolation in one another.

"Whatever version of him you've made up in your head, isn't him. He coul— will hurt you, Y/N. I don't want to see you taken down in his crosshairs," Wilson rested his hand on yours on the table. You stroked your chin as you pondered his words. Nothing new. All things you had already told yourself.

“I know,” you said solemnly. Sitting silently with the newfound tension in the air. Wilson knowing well enough that the likelihood of you taking his advice was slim. You knowing that House would never be who he was in your mind. Watching Wilson get paged and leave you sitting alone. Staring down at the remnants of half eaten food on your tray. Playing out every scenario in your mind. There was none in which you did not get hurt.

Clearing off the table as you headed inside. Focusing back on the loose papers you had carried down with you. Opting to take the stairs. Hoping the adrenaline would get your brain in overdrive. Needing some conclusion on what the correct coarse of action was.

Freezing in your steps when you looked up and saw House standing with the young Dr. Cameron. She was beautiful and young and so very smart. And House liked her. A lot.

And as childish as it was, you saw her as a threat because of that. Pettily wishing she had never been hired by him. You knew better. But it did not change how your mind reacted.

“Ah— Perfect!” House directed his attention to you, “Here’s a good example of a woman directly leaving her prime. Dr. Y/L/N was the hottest piece of meat on the floor when she first started. Now she’s getting aged out by younger, hotter doctors like yourself.”

Stunned by his cruelty. Throat burning as fists balled at your sides. Warding off any tears that dared prick the corners of your eyes. The implication that you were no longer attractive creeped under your skin. Maybe it was the idea that he no longer found you attractive.

Eyes darting to Cameron’s face. Ridden with disgust and discomfort. Realizing they had not even been talking about you before House got his eyes on you. Just making sure he said something audibly enough for you to hear. Conjuring up whatever was meanest in the moment. Whatever he could do to hurt you.

And it did.

“Nice,” you deadpanned, eyes locked into his.

Walking away before he had time to mock the crack in your voice. This was how he was. Using whatever insecurity he could to hurt you when he had already beaten you down. Angry that you had ever convinced yourself he could be different. Embarrassed that you let him hurt you so badly. No one had ever had a hold on you like he did.

You rested your head in your hands at your desk. Hovering above the paperwork. Face hot to the touch. Wondering if he even cared.

Knowing he did not.

Deciding to spend the rest of your day locked away in your office. Getting as much done as possible. Because you would not allow him to ruin this for you.

~~~

[END//Part 2]

// Thank you so much for reading! I’m still very new to the whole House M.D. show, but I am enjoying writing this! I cannot wait to write more for this story. Reblogs and Comments are appreciated. If you want to be tagged in any of my future Fics, or have any requests feel free to let me know! //

{tags}

@houseslollipop ~ @megangovier ~ @iwmflbb ~ @yourgirlcarol ~ @needz1nk ~ @crimin4llyins4ne ~

[logansdoll]

begging for more dad logan please

406

Logan was always one to mind his own business, never really sticking his nose in anything unless it directly concerned him... until he heard your screams coming from next door.

CW: suggestive, profanity, takes place after Deadpool 3, heavy subjects, domestic abuse, more Logan interacting with kids (or rather kid), angst with comfort, etc.

If you or a loved one are experiencing domestic abuse, please call the National Domestic Violence Hotline (US) at 800-799-7233 for twenty-four hour assistance. Your voice matters <3

"Jesus-fuckin'-Christ," Logan groaned, throwing his forearm over his eyes as the loud, stumbling sound of your husband's work boots slithered through the walls.

'It's two in the goddamn morning...'

Audibly, the man bumped into a table, letting out a loud string of curses before kicking off his shoes, sending them flying into a shelf with two thumps.

No doubt making another mess for you to clean up.

Logan couldn't wrap his around someone like you ending up with an asshole like your husband.

Despite the countless other people on his floor, you were the first to greet Logan when he moved in—a pretty little thing standing in his doorway with a plate of cookies, a warm smile, and a boy no older than five clinging to her leg.

"Hi!" you greeted, instantly clocking the taut expression on his face. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting your unpacking..."

"S'fine," he nodded for you to go on, rubbing the sleep out his eyes as he leaned against the door frame, purposefully blocking his messy bed from your view.

He was napping, actually.

"I just wanted to introduce myself since you're new to the floor. And bring you a little something to say we're glad to have you," you went on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

Carefully, you held out the plate for him to take, the man examining at it with a suspicious eye.

"I'm (y/n), and this is my son, Caleb. We're your neighbors in 406."

Wary, but still wanting to be polite, he took the tray, eyes flitting down to the boy at your leg—the poor thing cowering further behind you under the man's sharp gaze.

You let out a small laugh, softly resting your hand in his curly hair, "He's a little shy."

Glancing back up at you, Logan's eyes suddenly locked onto the clutter of band-aids around your wrist, their formation... odd.

"What's with all the bandages?" he asked, bluntly.

Your face fell for a fraction of a second, though you quickly replaced your smile, waving him off.

"Oh, just a little kitchen accident. I can be a bit clumsy," you assured, your tone a little more distant than before.

Something in his gut told him that wasn't right.

But it was none of his business, so he dropped it, focusing his energy on the fact that you seemed to be an angel in human form, and the most persistent woman he'd ever met.

You worked as a baker at a local cafe, and often brought him leftovers or samples to eat, along with some of your own creations.

And despite his less-than-warm personality during the early days, you still kept at it; always greeting him with a warm smile and kind words.

It wasn't long before your son joined in as well, bringing over some of his comics for the two to read together on occasion.

Though not as much as a talker as you, he was still just as gentle, resting a quiet head on Logan's side as the man flatly read the latest Superman issue.

But it was when your husband would come around that things would become an issue.

Logan could hear your voice bleed through the drywall, groggily confronting the man—the words "Caleb", "Awake", and "School Tomorrow" seeming to push through the muffle.

Surprisingly, Logan had never met your husband before, the man leaving super early in the morning for work, and coming home inappropriately late at night.

And on weekends he just... wasn't around.

It was only times like this that Logan would remember he even existed.

And in that moment, he must've said something awful, because suddenly your voice was rising, becoming sharper and harsher.

'Fuckin' bastard...'

On those few off-occasions where you slipped up—missed a band-aid, wore too short of a sleeve—Logan noticed the marks.

A bruise here... a red mark there... the faint scent of peroxide.

Yet despite his frequent (frequent) questions, you seemed to always have an excuse.

Little mishap at the cafe...

I tripped over one of Caleb's toys...

Had a little trouble down the stairs...

He didn't like it one bit.

Despite your marital status, Logan felt a certain warmth bubble in his chest at the sight of you, and often found himself rereading the notes you'd leave along with the food.

And although he wasn't ready to put a name to the emotion yet, he did, however, feel a sort of innate obligation toward you and your son.

One that seemed to be coming into effect right now...

"Don't yell at Mommy!" Caleb shouted, his voice followed by the scurry of small feet.

'The hell?'

Logan quickly snapped himself out of his thoughts, brows furrowing as he quickly sat up in bed.

That was the loudest he had ever heard the kid speak.

"Caleb, no! What did I tell you? Get back in bed! Mommy will be there soon!" you frantically ordered.

"What'd that little shit just say to me?!" your husband slurred, loudly, the sharp creak of the floorboard making it sound like he was lunging forward.

And with a harsh slap, followed the shattering of glass, large feet seeming to stutter backward.

"DON'T YOU PUT YOUR HANDS ON HIM!" you barked, fiercely.

"You bitch!" he fired back, a large crash following.

"MOMMY!" Caleb screamed.

Logan had never thrown on a pair of jeans so fast.

He was in front of your door like magic, kicking it open with ease, eyes widening at the sight before him.

Your husband was on top of you, squeezing harshly around your neck as you vigorously fought back, Caleb frantically tugging at his father's shirt to get him off.

Quickly, Logan ran over, grabbing the bastard and tossing him over his shoulder, sending him flying across the room.

You gasped for air, Caleb fighting through sobs as he scrambled into your lap, burying his face into your chest and clutching onto your shirt for dear life.

Motherly instinct kicking in, you were quick to lift his chin, disregarding your own injuries as you checked his face, eyes watering at the bright red splotch settling on the boy's cheek.

"Oh, baby," you sniffled, burying your face in his hair and you held him close. "I'm so sorry."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Logan was absolutely going to town.

He didn't use his claws, because—as badly as he wanted to—he wasn't about to murder a man in front of his wife and child.

But that didn't mean he couldn't give the bastard a classic adamantium-boned beat down.

Slam after slam after slam, Logan didn't stop, clutching the collar of the man's jacket tightly as he made ground meat of his face.

Even as a tooth flew... even as his eye swelled shut... even as his nose crunched.

Logan only stopped went he went limp, letting the bastard drop to the ground with a thud before turning back to you two.

Slowly, and warily, he approached, not wanting to frighten you or the kid more than you already were.

He figured he looked pretty scary—blood covering his knuckles, panting, unconscious man laying in his wake.

But, to his surprise, it was actually quite the opposite.

The moment he knelt down to your level, the two of you threw your arms around him, pulling the man into a silent bear hug.

His breath hitched, not at all expecting the reaction, but he hugged back anyway, pulling you both in closer.

Caleb buried his face into Logan's side, wrapping his arms around the man's torso to the best of his little ability.

You rested your head on his shoulder, nose bloody and neck bruised as you melted against him, your hands resting softly against his bare chest.

Like a spotty drizzle, he felt a few stray tears land on his collarbone, forcing him to turn to their source, only to see you look up at him with your beautiful eyes, all glassy with relief.

'Fuck...'

How could a heart be struck with both warmth and ice at the same time?

Though, despite what he originally thought, you actually cracked a small, thankful smile, only able to muster two steady words:

"Thank you."

taglist !!

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[secondsistershelby3]

A MONSTER BUT NOT FOR YOU [2]

Pairings: Joel Miller x immune!Reader

Summary: you were born and raised in shit, like so many other people born during the apocalypse, you knew that things would be even more difficult since that fateful day in 2015, but did you ever imagine that people would no longer see you as a human being, or maybe someone would?

Warnings: !SPOILER TLOU!, typical violence of the last of us, angst, blood, quite specific descriptions gore, age gap, SMUT, 18+, obscenity, !Legal!, flashbacks, I will try to make Joel behave in a fairly canonical way

Words: 2,0k

Note: I'm glad people enjoyed the first chapter, I had this idea in mind for a while but I never had the courage to write it because I thought it was a bad idea

MASTERLIST

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Boston, 2023

Your skin was cold as ice, almost as if you were dead, even though it was hot in Boston. You felt almost helpless, as if you hadn't moved in a week. At the slightest noise you jumped up in the air thinking that whatever made the noise was coming into the room with you. The room was dark, except for a few slivers of light that came in from the window during the day, the chains had left a mark on your wrists from how many times you had tried to free yourself. There was only silence

"uuuggh WHAT THE FUCK!"

well not completely silent, since every day you heard a voice complaining and pulling on the chains in the room next to yours. You could hear them always asking her the same thing: "count slowly and clearly from 1 to 10", "now hold out your hand" "say your name slowly", you always heard her answer.

Count, Veronica, count Veronica, count Veronica, always the same answers

For you, they only came in to feed you, they looked you up and down and then they left. No tests, no questions, no 'courtesy'

You didn't speak, you only used gestures: you kicked, you gave the middle finger, you spat, you pulled but not a single word. You had been in that shitty room for a little over a week.

No torture, nothing like that, it wasn't because you were weak.

It was because they hadn't fed you since they put you in this room. Not the food that is usually meant, something else that you wanted to repress for days but that in the end you had to give in, a souvenir of that night, along with others.

You had your knees pulled up and your arms around them, trying to stay "conscious", in case someone came in.

The door in front of you opened and you threw yourself back against the wall, panting and feeling your face throbbing, as well as your arms and legs.

"you're still… well you" Marlene approached slowly, still remaining at a certain distance.

"you're not going to say anything today either?" nothing. That bitch didn't deserve a word from you, she just had to give you some fucking blood tests and blood samples, instead here you are.

"I know you don't like this, but if I had told your sister and brother they wouldn't have let me do it, and this operation is important and we're sure we can do it with you" you were sweaty, out of breath but you still managed to give her a threatening look and suddenly you tried to sprint with your little strength but the chains were too short and they pulled your wrists for the umpteenth time. Marlene remained still where she was.

"you'll understand that all of this is for the greater good" you remained on your knees staring at a fixed point while you heard the door close and you returned to the dead silence, you don't know how much you would have resisted your impulses and you didn't want to find out.

—

"I told you that you couldn't trust Marlene, damn it!" Thomas whispered to Denise as they walked quickly to the building where they had left you because Marlene wanted to do some "tests"

"She seemed trustworthy, I.. I thought I could trust her…" Thomas turned quickly towards his sister, making her stop suddenly "that's why we shouldn't trust the fucking Fireflies" Thomas looked her straight in the eyes and sighed before starting to walk again.

Denise loved you and only wanted the best for you but she thought she could trust her, they both trusted the Fireflies, but for a while you had your doubts about that group, but they gave you extra rations, a comfortable place to sleep and in exchange they wanted you for a blood sample or test, but never for that long. They had to understand that Marlene wanted to screw them

While walking through the streets of Boston the two ran into some F.E.D.R.A. soldiers that surrounded where it looked like there had just been an explosion.

"it must have been those fireflies again" Thomas sighed - "yes.."

they only had one thing in mind, to have a talk with the boss of the fireflies

—

You hadn't counted how much time had passed since Marlene had spoken to you. But you knew that you were getting worse by the minute, your veins were pulsing all over your body and your almost primal instincts were struggling to get out and you were about to let go of everything, close your eyes and abandon yourself to the darkness.

But gunshots prevented you, you raised your head suddenly and opened your eyes wide, the gunshots continued and were reciprocated, you also heard people shouting commands from one side to the other, people running on the stairs, going up and down.

And then the door opened

"sir there's a little girl here"

it was your chance to recover and escape, but it wouldn't have been nice, not for you, nor for this F.E.D.R.A. soldier.

The darkness obscured most of your body.

"are you infected?" the soldier continued to slowly approach

"I'm sorry…" you whispered

"what-"

screams

gunshots

grunts

blood…

so much blood

the soldier was dead.

—

Tommy moved carefully as he entered the building with Denise and as he closed the door trying not to make any noise he felt a tap on his shoulder "Tommy…" his sister Denise's whisper scared reached his ear

"What-" as soon as Thomas turned he saw two dead bodies in front of the stairs. One was a firefly, the other was a soldier of the F.E.D.R.A.

"fuck…they got in" - "and if they got in it means they'll find her" they looked at each other at the same time and hurried up the stairs, fuck being silent, the F.E.D.R.A. had found the fireflies and that meant they would find you too.

Thomas went with the gun pointed in front of him as he checked every corner before moving forward, Denise looked at his balls with her revolver.

As they climbed another flight of stairs they heard the first voice

"Joel!"

fucking Marlene.

Thomas turned to Denise and put his index finger in front of his mouth to signal for silence. They stood against the wall as they walked forward, the voices getting closer and closer

"Ellie" was still Marlene's voice, it sounded authoritative as if she was scolding someone.

Thomas leaned forward slightly and saw 5 people, Marlene, next to her presumably a firefly, a girl who couldn't have been more than 15 years old on the ground, a man and a woman next to her. He could shoot one of the two unknown adults and they might have had a chance. Thomas took a breath and aimed the gun at the adult man, he put his finger on the trigger.

"Thomas, wait!"

Everyone turned around and the two smugglers immediately pointed their guns behind them.

"Don't shoot Joel!" Marlene stopped them immediately.

"Where the fuck is our sister Marlene?!" Thomas continued to keep his gun pointed, Denise did the same standing next to him.

"everyone put your guns down first, we're not enemies" Thomas raised his eyebrow

"oh no? so taking my sister as a guinea pig by surprise isn't being enemies?! - "now calm down and put your gun down Thomas and I'll give you your sister back" Marlene held one hand in front of her for safety while the other rested on the wound

Thomas looked from Marlene to the two strangers. "they have to put them down first"

silence fell in the hallway. "Joel does as he says" Joel glared at the head of the lights "Do it!….please"

Joel looked at Marlene and then Thomas and motioned for Tess to put her gun down, Thomas and Denise put theirs down in return.

"where is she?" asked Thomas as he slowly approached the group, continuing to check the two in front for safety. Marlene nodded towards the door next to the girl on the floor.

Denise looked at her brother and rushed to the door, took a deep breath and turned the doorknob and pushed it, letting light into the room.

Denise opened her mouth wide and gagged when she saw the scene in front of her, she put her hand in front of her mouth to keep from vomiting and turned her head to the side. Thomas put a hand on his sister's shoulder and tried to get his courage up to go in.

A F.E.D.R.A. soldier was lying on the ground with part of his guts hanging out, he had bite marks on his neck, his intestines were hanging out of his body. There were bullet holes on the walls, there were several.

Thomas turned his head to look for you but he didn't see you "fuck..fuck, fuck"

He immediately turned to Marlene and went angrily towards her, but the woman next to her raised her gun towards him "what have you done?!" Thomas had a look more than furious

"Thomas" Denise looked behind Marlene

"no christ now she have to listen to me, she have no idea of ​​the seriousness of the actions she have done!-"

"Thomas!" - "WHAT?!" he turned her head towards her sister angrily. Her sister had a worried look as she pointed her head towards the stairs, behind Marlene.

When your brother turned his head in that direction, he finally saw you, you had blood on your clothes and a little on your face, you were breathing fast, your face almost tired "holy christ.." he whispered before rushing towards you, your sister did the same, Thomas put his jacket on you. They just hoped that the two of them hadn't seen the body in the room.

"we had a deal Marlene, a fucking deal!" - "I had to do it, I needed you to help me carry the girl" Marlene sighed in pain with her hand on her hip as she looked at Thomas

"and I still need her" Thomas' eyes widened with an almost amused expression

"are you kidding us!?" your sister spoke to that statement

"my soldiers are dead and having your sister is more than indispensable, and I need you too" Marlene turned her head towards the smugglers

"Who is she?" asked the woman

"to you? She's a cargo"

"we don't smuggle humans and not with other kids" - "but how old do you think we are excuse me?" your brother looked at the stranger with anger

"he had to escort her to the government building, I had squadrons and armored vehicles but not anymore and you are the only ones who can do it"

"you are fucking crazy" your brother laughed

"there will be some fireflies there and they can escort you to Wyoming, that's where you want to go, right?" Your brother had an arm around you as he looked at you. Yes, they had wanted to go there for a while, they had heard that there was a community of survivors and they could finally be safe but they didn't know how to get there, but they didn't know if they could trust Marlene as much as they do now.

"and for you there will be more than a battery, I can give you also an armored vehicle with a full tank, weapons, supplies, I swear" Marlene turned her head towards the two smugglers then pointed her finger at you

"she may seem like a little girl, but you don't know what she is capable of, she is as much as you if not more, it will be more than essential" you looked with a cold gaze at the two strangers in front of you

"who said we accepted?" - "I swear I'm telling you the truth Thomas, I know what I'm getting into if I don't tell you the truth this time"

Thomas looked at Denise as the smugglers walked away to talk "I don't want to put her in danger" your sister spoke

"I can do it" for the first time in a week you had uttered a word "if this takes us to Wyoming…I can do it" you turned your head towards your brother more than determined

You walked down the stairs with your brothers behind you while you looked at Marlene without saying anything.

You had been locked up for almost 14 days but you finally got out but how long would it take you to get into trouble with these new "companions"

—

I swear the interactions with Joel will come, but first I wanted to introduce everything a bit

[innerfare]

Law Leaving - Part 2

Summary: Law isn't very good with words, but he needs you to know his heart is yours. Reader is a Heart Pirate and marine biologist. Features mutual pining and unrequited love. This thing I wrote here could be considered a prequel if you want to read it, and you can read Part 1 here and Part 1.5 here!

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Gn!Reader

Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff

CW: SFW // None

Word Count: 1,685

———

Law found you in the lab hunched over some algae samples. You wore your white lab coat over a top he’d never seen you wear before, a snug cardigan with dark red, navy blue, and cream stripes. Your earrings were new, too, silver hoops instead of the pearl studs you normally wore. And you wore your hair in a high ponytail instead of a low bun. He recognized your skirt, at least, plain black and just a little too short. 

He cleared his throat. 

Absorbed by your work, you hadn’t noticed anyone enter. At the sound of a man clearing his throat, you looked up, only to find your captain leaning in the doorway. 

He was in rough shape, and even though you knew his injuries had all been treated, you wanted to take his clothes off and inspect him yourself, to fuss over his wounds like a worried girlfriend. But you weren’t his girlfriend, and you weren’t about to let him know how you had cried yourself to sleep in his absence. 

You’d greeted him when he’d returned but not spoken properly, and that was exactly how you planned to keep it. So, you looked back down at your algae samples. It occurred to you that not too long ago, Law would have been hunched over them with you. The thought made you press your lips together. You studied the samples even more closely, hoping your captain would take the hint and leave you be. 

“Y/n-ah.” 

That low voice of his almost melted you. You’d known you were down bad for him, but it wasn’t until he returned that you realized the extent of it, that you were inhaling extra deep when he passed by to catch his scent, were clinging particularly tight to every word he uttered. You had promised yourself you would keep it a secret, though, determined not to let him think you were the type to just wait around for him to come back when he up and left, to accept being left out of the loop, to be happily sidelined.  

“We agreed to talk,” he said. 

“Did we?” 

You wanted to leave, but he was blocking the narrow doorway with his broad body, and you knew you’d have to touch him if you wanted to push past. And you didn’t think you could touch him, not after everything. You didn’t think you could do anything but dissociate and hope he left before your emotions bubbled up to the surface. 

God, you hoped he wasn’t there for that. 

Law watched you like a hawk, hoping your face might betray some emotion and he could get a feel for where he stood. At long last, he had managed to get you alone, but he could tell you didn’t want it. He wanted to fix it but did nothing for fear he would only make things worse. 

“Y/n-ah,” he said your name again, relishing the fact that you were there to hear it. On the lonely nights he’d muttered it to himself, you hadn’t been there to answer. Now you were, but you didn’t, just stared down at your algae samples. 

“What?” 

“Talk to me.” 

“About what?” 

“When you told me you joined for me, did you mean that?” 

“Of course, I did.”

“Did you stay because of me, too? Or did you stay because of the crew?” 

“I stayed for both,” you admitted. 

“Would you have stayed only for me?” 

The question caught you off guard, and though you knew the answer- a resounding yes- you didn’t want to tell him that. You didn’t want to be the only one confessing. 

When you didn’t respond, Law pushed himself out of the doorway and walked toward you. Just as he reached you, you moved to go around him, trying to escape before you had the conversation you had promised. Before he could think twice, Law reached out and caught your hand in his. 

You gasped. 

He lifted your fingers, stopping to admire the shade of blue you had painted your nails, only to see them bare. It shocked him, and in his surprise, he realized how selfish he had been to think he could leave and return to find everything exactly as he left it. You weren’t a toy, after all, you were a person, one he cared for deeply. And he had left. Even if he’d had no choice, even if he’d refused to give you details because he was worried about you, he had left. 

“Y/a-ah.” 

“Stop saying my name, Law.” You didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t look anywhere on his person, just stared at the ground for fear you would look up and instantly forgive him for being a mysterious asshole. 

Law couldn’t stop himself. He pulled your hand to his lips, pressing his warm lips into your cold palm. To call it a kiss wasn’t quite right. It was more of an embrace, an offering, even, that he gave to you. His heart thudded in his chest, the fear of you rejecting that offering almost too much to bear. But he couldn’t live with the uncertainty any longer. 

Either you wanted him, or you didn’t, and that would be the end of it. 

You wanted him. It was all you could think when he grabbed your hand, when his skin met yours, and when he brought it to his mouth, you melted. 

You knew in your heart that he could be as selfish as he wanted, could keep as many secrets from you, could leave as many times as he wanted, and you would still be there waiting because you were such a sucker for him. You were addicted to the smell of his soap, to the way his dark hair was all ruffled on the rare occasions he took off his hat, to the sight of his tattooed fingers holding yours. 

When you didn’t push him away, he turned your hand over. 

Your breathing faltered. You did your best to hide that fact. 

Law didn’t notice, too focused on steadying his own breathing. 

He kissed each of your knuckles, and when you still didn’t protest, he kissed the back of your hand. He worked his way up, pressing his lips tenderly into your wrist, stopping only when he reached the sleeve of your cardigan. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against your skin, not meeting your eyes. “I should have told you before I left.” He kissed your wrist again. 

The way he had to bend down to kiss your wrist had you looking down at him, and the fact that he lowered himself to you was not at all lost on you. You felt a flicker of hope, thought perhaps he felt a certain way, but you weren’t about to let him leave anything unspoken, not after everything that had happened. 

You weren’t about to be the only sucker. 

“Told me what?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Y/n-ah.” 

“Don’t y/n-ah me, Law. You’re back and I’m still here, just like we agreed, but I won’t have a one-sided conversation.” You pulled away from him, and he let you, much to your disappointment. But you only made it a few steps before he spoke again. 

“Room.” 

You blinked in surprise, going deathly still. You waited for a few seconds, mind racing. You wondered what he could possibly be using his devil fruit power for in that moment. Surely he wouldn’t try to trap you there. When you turned to look at him again, what you saw made you gasp, your legs almost giving out. 

Law held his hand out, and in it, was his beating heart. 

“Law!” You thought something must have been horribly wrong for him to pull his own heart out of his body, but you were glued to the spot. 

“Take it,” he prodded. 

“What? I don’t-” 

“It’s yours.” 

You could see the strain on his face, could hear it in his deep voice, as if it pained him physically to be so vulnerable with you. You stared at the organ in his hand, his most vulnerable one, exposed and vulnerable for you. 

Emotion overwhelmed you, the hurt of being left behind, the fear of him never coming back, the love you’d realized you had inside you after he was gone. Tears picked at your eyes, and you willed them not to spill down your cheeks. 

“It’s been yours since the moment we met,” he told you, sounding as miserable as you had ever heard him. 

Completely speechless, you took a step forward, and with it, you saw his heart beat faster. You realized then that it had been beating fast the entire time, confessing all the things Law couldn’t seem to say. With a shaky breath, you reached out and accepted his heart. You held it in your hands like it might shatter at any moment. 

You pushed the organ back into his chest, but you didn’t pull away after. Instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him tight, your tears finally falling down your cheeks as you breathed him in. 

“I was so worried about you,” you cried against his neck. You knocked his hat off his head to tangle your fingers in his hair. 

“I was worried about you, too.” With that, he pressed a kiss into your neck. His kisses were not sloppy or feverish but instead communicated a deeper ache. He was like a starving man who could barely lift food to his mouth.

Finally, you gave him some reprieve. You lifted his chin and pressed your lips to his, the very same as those chaste kisses you had shared before but somehow more meaningful, more intimate. Your heart soared when he wrapped his arms around you, and it took all of your self control to pull away and look up at him. 

“You better not use this as an excuse to leave me behind again,” you told him. 

Something of a smile tugged on his lips. “The opposite.” With that, he kissed you again.

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[flaneur001]

Lost and Found

A/N- This is my entry for the Valentine's Day event by the sweet @unintentionalseductress for the lovely @ravenclaw-jojo (And coincidentally my very first event <3 ) Pairing- Toji Fushiguro x F!Reader Tags- JJK Office AU, Office romance, Mutual pining, Angst with comfort, Slowest of slow burns, Smut, Eventual Smut (p in v sex, Argument that turns into a heated makeout, cunnilingus, lots of teasing, a little edging, sex in front of a mirror) Word count- 12.7k

The strange bit about love is, it’s a dramatic being. A flashy, attention-seeking exhibitionist, really. It doesn’t cower, when it sizzles through the briefest of a heated glance you share across a room, thinking no one noticed. 

And surely, it doesn’t hide, when its remnants spill through the tears. Leaving dredges of exhausted, lingering feelings that just won't go away. They take root in your very self and cloy your insides. 

This selfish thing stays venomous to the end, preening as it shatters your pride, while it walks in its glory for all to see. 

For him to see.

 You licked your lips, as the salt stung your wounded heart, leaving an acrid burn in its wake. Never in the time you knew him, did you ever imagine that you’d end up like this. Drenched, in the middle of the street, fists clenched at your side in a stubborn, pathetic last show of resilience.

The rain was pelting in a blur of icy water. Your sweater clung uncomfortably to your form, the water seeping through the material of your undershirt, leaving a chill to linger on your skin.

Yet, it was the frigid empty look in his eyes that made you shiver. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The weather forecast had predicted a cold albeit sunny morning, followed by a pink mellow day. Hence, You had dressed for the occasion. Subtly trying to coordinate outfits with him. You had felt confident, beautiful even, when you left your shared apartment together.

Today was meant to be special, perfect. 

Memorable

So why then…

Why weren’t you surprised when he scrolled disinterestedly on his phone, as you fret over the several samples of cake lined before you?

You had kept telling yourself, over and over, that he’d come around. That it’s nothing. That you've just hit a plateau in your relationship. 

Everyone goes through this right? 

That it’s all in your mind, and that once you marry, things will change. You both will have something new to look forward to. To celebrate. To experience that feeling of being in love again.

A chance to revive a relationship that had concerningly declined into a dull, meaningless chore. An act. Something that you had perfected so well, that going through the motions had become second nature to you.

It was almost as if you had conditioned yourself to fill in the space left behind by him, to finish the unsaid sentences, and gotten used to feeling lonely even with him right next to you.

Learned to love him as he was. Just so he would stay. 

And He did. In incomplete phases. Somedays you got all of him, A bright luminescent gaze full of love, others there’d be a crescent of a smile gifted to you, peeking through the parting smoke of cloud-misted eyes.

It was enough to sustain you through the moonless nights.

When your only other company was the glare of your phone screen, and some sappy Romantic drama that you lived through vicariously, while he dozed off peacefully without a care in the world.

What people don't realize is that learned habits are the nicer distant cousins of addictions. Not particularly harmful, but their symbiotic hold on our minds is impossible for the weak to break away from.

And you weren't struggling. Weren’t trying at all.

You didn't have many vices, but if complacency was a sin, yours was an irredeemable soul.

It was partly the reason why you had let it drag on for so long. Adult relationships were meant to be straightforward and realistic.

So what if you didn't feel that zap of butterflies in his presence, that you had only ever read about? It didn't matter if your skin never tingled whenever he touched you, made love to you.

It all boiled down to a sense of companionship, and stability. He was there, right next to you.

And that was enough. Enough to survive a lifetime.

Or so you thought.

You stood there, hapless, bewildered at the words spilling out of him.

“It was too much for me, I was suffocated”

You resisted the urge to scoff at his insensitivity, at the sheer audacity of this man. 

Suffocated?

You should be saying that when you were the one pulling the weight of this ridiculously one-sided relationship. 

“Your expectations kept mounting and I felt…I felt…trapped” He ground, surprisingly firm. With no ounce of gentleness to soften the blow. As if he believed every word he said.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. He drove the point home, shattering your ten-year-long relationship into a rubble of insignificance.

“You’re just so needy. I’m sorry. But I can’t do this anymore” He apologized, profusely, while being the least bit apologetic.

All those years and he couldn’t even bother to fake sincerity for you.

A loud venomous laughter escaped you, spilling out in a hysteric fury. You slid the engagement ring off your finger and flung it at his feet. Tears, rain, and the rage-filled clouds thundered, punctuating this moment that you’d probably never forget.

A million feelings wrestled up your chest, fighting to hurtle out, and all you could manage was a whisper.

A sigh of twisted relief.

“Thank you”

And unlike him, it was genuine. It was freeing. It came from a place of weird vulnerability that still saw the man and wished that he would take it all back.

That he would gather you into his arms, and say it was all a cruel joke. And then you’d go back inside and finish your cake tasting like nothing happened.

But he picked the ring from the puddle at his feet and turned around. Walking away with a wordless goodbye, like a perfect stranger on a rainy day.

And you stood there. Confused and stranded amidst your own emotions.

Love is a strange being indeed. A stupid vagabond.

For all its bravado, it still yearns. Seeking a place that it could call home.

***

The first week, it still hadn’t sunk in. You adhered to your morning routine just the way you did when you shared this apartment with him. Coffee for two. Two sets of toasts. One crispy golden, and the other a tad burnt, just the way he liked. 

You cleaned every nook and laundered the clothes he had left behind. Ironed his work clothes, and restocked his favorite snacks. Didn’t watch the show you had on your wishlist for ages, because he insisted that he wanted to watch it together.

You winced as the dish slipped from your hands and shattered near your feet. In your absentminded daze, you didn’t even notice the cut left behind until it bled. Licking the wound on your finger, you swept the remaining pieces and emptied them into the trash. Another plate lost from your set. 

Another broken promise brushed under the rug.

It was the second week, when the doorbell rang like a wake-up call, bringing an envelope with your share of the deposit that he had received after canceling the booking for the wedding venue. 

And when the third week arrived like a grim reaper, standing outside your door in his likeness, a box in his hand, an empty suitcase, ready to collect his belongings and the soul of your dead relationship, that’s when you finally accepted it.

It was over...

So like the norm stated in the big book of breakups and galore, you donned your shoddiest pajamas, grabbed a tub of cheap ice cream, put on the angstiest of movies to drown your sorrows with, and swore not to shower, bathing in the stank of your gloom, for the rest of your eternal self imposed solitude.

“What’s the purpose of existing…” you trailed off sagely, propping your feet on the wall and laying on your back. Your eyes tracked the swirls of chipped plaster on your ceiling, imagining various images like your personal impromptu Rorschach blots.

A small sigh paired with a sharp click of tongue sounded on the other side of the speaker, and you instantly knew that you were about to get an earful.

“Shut.Up” A soft voice intoned, its edges roughened by the traces of habitual smoking. You could hear the squelch of something gooey, the sharp cuts of curious slices like incisions made on stretchy stale meat, and imagined the worst.

“Shoko, please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.” A groan escaped you, picturing your friend’s morbid amused grin.

“Don’t ask questions you can’t stand the answers to. And be grateful I’m being your personal shrink, instead of sending you to a legitimate one” She tsked, but there was no venom in her voice. Only the playful tinges that masked her actual concern.

“Look, I have said it before and I will say it again, He.Was.Not.The.Person.For.You”

She continued and you hummed along, now hugging the pillow to your chest which smelt faintly of his cologne. 

Sensing the trudging reluctance in your voice, Shoko sighed, a long sigh this time.

You heard her as she put away the scalpel with a clank, removed her sodden rubber gloves with wet snap-snaps, and dragged a metal chair across the room to sit, to give you her undivided attention.

“Remember when I lived in my old apartment building?” Shoko murmured, and the sudden change in topic made you frown a little but you nodded, as if she could see you.

“Uh-huh, I do. You hated it there”

“Exactly. Because the unit had mold infestation, there was a dumpster placed right under my window, so the air was always stale and funky, my roof leaked, and to top it all off—“

“The meowing.” You finished for her, giggling at the memory of her at your door in the middle of the night, sleep-crazed and whiny, asking you to let her stay over.

“Yes. The constant shrill meowing of the next-door neighbor’s cat. He had adopted the stray right around the time I moved in. ‘Hope’, he had named her. Things weren’t bad then, she was a sweet little thing, clinging to his side day and night.” Shoko recalled, puffing out a short breath.

You closed your eyes, strangely calm as her voice rippled in waves around you. Lulling your various intrusive thoughts to sleep.

“It was when the guy moved out suddenly one night, leaving her behind while she slept outside his door, that it began. Her cries echoed through the lobby when he didn’t return. She scratched at the foot of his door, and crouched low to peek under it, wishing to catch a glimpse of him inside. 

She loved him. Maddeningly so. To the point where she neglected food and water given to her by other residents. ‘Hope’, begged, bargained, and denied the truth, for days, weeks, and even a month. Right outside the closed door, engaging in some conversation that only she could hear,” Shoko paused, letting you imagine the small creature, on its futile vigil.

“And then?” You asked, half afraid of the answer.

“And then she died. Waiting for him.” She finished bluntly. Grimly. Meaningfully, as if trying to drive across a point.

“So, babe, always remember, ‘Naive hope is futile when spent knocking outside deserted doors’. When someone leaves, they have already left the moment they made the decision in their mind. Not when they put it to action.” 

Her words ricocheted through your mind and settled somewhere deep inside, lingering long after she had hung up.

‘Naive hope is futile if spent knocking outside deserted doors’

Your eyes traced over the words of the email sitting on your laptop screen. It was an invitation from Zenin Corp. Your workplace was celebrating its 10th anniversary, by conducting a company-wide team-building event, somewhere on an exotic island just outside the country. Funded entirely by the CEO. 

A week-long trip away from your worries. A perfect excuse to slack off and restart. And to think you were about to bail on this event. You rolled your shoulders and sat up straight, perching the laptop on your knees as you typed away. 

Closing the laptop, you smiled. The first time in weeks, as you left the swampy hold of your bed and bounded towards your closet. Pulling out a suitcase, you piled in your best outfits, ready for a breeze of change. Ready, to live again.

***

Many mightier than you have fallen under the red-bottomed heel of fate. 

You were nothing but a fly stuck on its windshield, as it monster-trucked all over your joke of a life, while you were forced into a reluctant front-row seat to this car crash of an experience. 

If nature had decided to turn your life into a sitcom, you desperately wished to rewind and roll back to the moment last week. When you had hit the ”send” button on the email and agreed to come on this trip.

Things were good in the morning when you had arrived with your coworkers at this palatial, swanky hotel situated atop a hill—overlooking the sea, and the tropical landscape of this “nouveau hotspot for vacationing” as dubbed by the influencers online. 

It was straight out of a luxury magazine. Somewhere only the crème de la crème of high society had access to. And you had felt weirdly out of place.

Nonetheless, you had decided to enjoy this little treat offered to you on a “complimentary” platter. Like hungry hawks, your coworkers descended upon the buffet, sharing excited conversations, and catching up on gossip after the lull of holidays.

It was all good. Too good in fact.

And that’s how we come to the current situation.

He was here. He was not supposed to be here.

Why the hell was he here, anyway?

The hall fell quiet, as Toji Zenin made his entrance. A crisp black shirt with the top three buttons undone, and sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Navy blue fitted slacks, and black dress shoes. To top it all off, his signature lazy smile, and that mysteriously eye-catching scar on his lips, completed the effortlessly confident aura that he exuded whenever he entered a room. Grabbing the attention and holding it captive, in his dark emerald shrewd gaze.

The CEO of Zenin Corp. In flesh. In his Six feet something, annoyingly imposing glory.

All the air was sucked out of your lungs as he casually sidled up to the General manager, grabbed a flute of champagne, and worked the room, conversing, greeting newer employees who hadn’t met him yet, and reacquainting himself with the older ones.

When it was your turn, you found yourself hastily reaching for a flute of Rosé nearby, hiding your expression behind the rim. You could feel him saunter towards you, lithely, like a panther out for a stroll, and pause. Head tilted to the side, that damn smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and those eyes. Roaming over your form slowly, sharply. Like the blade of a dagger tracing along your spine.

You sucked in a breath and cleared your throat, meeting his eyes in a show of feigned confidence.

He could tell, going by the mirth swirling in his gaze.

“Mr. Zenin”

He offered his hand, bending a little to level his gaze with yours.

“Too formal.” He corrected

You accepted his hand, biting your lip at the way it enveloped yours, in a warm comforting grip.

“Mr. Toji” You mumbled. A waver of doubt seeping into your voice.

He smiled wider, leaning in closer as he replied, with a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Too awkward”

“Toji…?” You enunciated the syllables feebly. With a question lingering in the air. One that was a coy inquiry about the current murky dynamic of theirs. He was correct in a way. Their history was too complicated to be insulted with forced formalities. Their professionalism belied a certain rapport they shared. 

But where did they stand now after all this time? 

He caught onto the question and answered, with an equally coy, mysterious grin lighting up his features, 

“Toji. Say it again, a tad more firmly.” 

“Toji.” You tipped your chin at him, and he broke into a silent chuckle, gifting you with a flash of his pointy canines, and a boyish charm that left some questionable swoops in your belly.

Satisfied with the interaction, he leaned back, letting go of your hand—but not entirely. His fingers lingered, his thumb finding the spot where your engagement ring should’ve been, tracing the lighter skin, in a quiet hidden caress of acknowledgment. 

He bowed his head courteously and broke away, continuing his rounds, unaware of the way your skin burned. As if his touch had scalded and marked you. You picked up another flute, this time subtly pressing your ring finger against the cool glass, to relieve this sensation.

You could feel several eyes on you, watching with barely hidden amusement—relishing the reunion of their favorite power couple. 

Your head ducked under their scrutiny, and a flush flared up your neck. His blatant familiarity bled through his actions like a wound he never let heal, scratching over the tender area anew, each time he shot her a look across the room.

She downed the drink and another, hoping to calm her frayed nerves.

This was indeed going to be a long week.

***

Something notable about being born middle class is the way you learn to walk with your feet pressed firmly to the ground. 

No matter how much the blue allure of the sky beckons, you never dare dream of flight. You live with your head down, with your wings clipped, and grow up with an instilled acceptance. That your life will look similar to a lot of your peers. 

You’ll study, work, study some more. Find a suitable companion, secure a steady job, marry, and live out the rest of your days in quiet predictability. A foretold story with a cliché ending.

And you did your best to stick to the plan—you grew up responsibly, studied diligently, and landed a sweet spot at Zenin Corp fresh out of college. It was a prestigious company. A conglomerate passed down from generation to generation.

Now the only thing left to do, was to slowly crawl up the corporate ladder, and save up enough to marry your longtime boyfriend.

But fate being its notorious self, threw an unexpected variable your way, blurring the preset path you were destined to follow. 

Your own version of the yellow brick road.

An unforeseen, unfortunate variable called Toji Zenin.

The young disinterested heir, forcibly made to bear the weight of responsibilities, behaved like a stubborn mule. And you being your unlucky self, were set with the daunting task to assist him.

Beginning a series of events that’ll alter your life forever.

Although reluctant to admit it, Toji possessed that impeccable business prowess of the ones that came before him. He was shrewd, lethal, and unforgiving while dealing with company matters, carrying the Zenin name like a flawless burden. 

His stature bore him a set of wings, allowing him to reach beyond the skies and peek at the heavens. Yet Toji preferred the mediocre simplicity. And that reflected heavily in the way he interacted with you.

He was keen, curious, and sometimes lazy, making him appear weirdly human in your eyes.

He wasn’t Toji Zenin when he was with you. He was simply Toji.

The man who could slay people with his razor-sharp negotiation skills was the same man who fumbled and flailed when it came to honing his foresight. He was brash—so incredibly impulsive—that stock trading became a task that fell directly under your supervision.

Together under your control, the company expanded by leaps and bounds. Zenin Corp experienced a success much greater than it had ever seen.

But that wasn’t all. He nudged you, poked and prodded sneakily, pushing you bit by bit outside those firm lines you had set for yourself.

You refused to dream. He fabricated them on a whim and dragged you along. Opening your tightly sealed eyes, to a world of possibilities. A vibrant colorful kaleidoscopic dream.

His world.

And somewhere along the way, you had borrowed the forbidden wings, unfurled them, and took flight. Taking a bite out of desire.

“How many times is that this week? Don’t you have any sympathy for me?” Toji leaned at the door jamb of your office and regarded you with an exaggerated frown on his lips.

“Mr. Zenin—“

“—Toji” He corrected

“Toji,” You smiled amused at his petulant behavior, “I have no say in your family matters. I’m only here to manage your schedule. And right now your schedule says that you have a blind date in thirty minutes” 

“No say in my matters? Do you want me to call you out on your bullshit? Because I will. The old man is so taken with you. He respects your decisions. More than mine” 

He walked in, and pulled out a chair opposite you, slumping down on it with his legs spread apart.

Oh, how you hoped that he didn’t see the flutter of a grin that threatened to break free. These days there was something abysmally wrong with you. 

If not, then why were you suddenly enjoying this power given so readily to you?

Lately, your conversations with your boss ran freer. Crossing that subtle line of professionalism into something more. 

Some days you would bring an extra lunch under the guise of making him eat healthier. Others you’d work overtime, bathed under the dim lights, a backdrop of cityscape shining under a canopy of stars outside the floor-to-ceiling windows in Toji’s grand office, and enjoyed an odd cup of coffee, with nothing but the rustle of documents to fill the companionable silence.

A secret solace and a stolen moment, made for a guilt-ridden cherished memory.

You knew you had a boyfriend—though he had been blowing off dates for ages. You knew that whatever this feeling was, it was nothing more than a fleeting distraction, a mere side effect of prolonged proximity.

But it didn't stop your heart from beating a mile a minute, whenever he tugged at that line you had drawn and pulled. Playing with it as he pleased. 

“But, you’re forgetting something crucial.” He leaned forward with a smirk, effortlessly stealing the mug from your grasp and taking a long, shameless sip of your freshly brewed coffee.

You licked your lips, unconsciously tracking the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“Something crucial…like what?” You replied, mentally kicking yourself at the way your voice came out raspy and low—as if you were parched.

Thirsty

“The fact,” he intoned, pausing for effect, “that I’m married”

“Since when?” you asked, raising a skeptical brow.

“Ha! You’re divorcing me already…my dear work wife?” he teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

Oh

So he had heard. The office was rife with rumors— whispers of speculations. Everyone seemed strangely captivated by the idea that Toji and you made a fabulous pair. The business scene was already acquainted with your combined prowess. Now, the only question that remained was—wouldn’t you be even better as an actual couple?

And so, the rumor mill churned. 

…and churned, until it had reached him.

You shook your head, doing your best to ignore the pleased, almost flirtatious look he was giving you.

“Don’t joke around. You still have a blind date to attend, and I—“ Your excuse to brush him off died on your tongue when he raised a hand, cutting you off.

“—And you’re going to accompany me on a very urgent business meeting. Pronto”

His plans were all but ruined, with a single call from his grandfather. With much hemming and hawing, Toji begrudgingly changed into the emergency set of suits he kept in his office and trudged along to his nth blind date this week.

As for you, you packed your belongings and shot a quick message to your boyfriend to check-in. After months of rescheduling, you had finally managed to plan a movie date tonight.

You were excited. Eagerly looking forward to spending some quality time with your partner, hoping it would help erase this strange feeling you’d been experiencing around Toji lately.

You: Hey babe! Are we still on for that movie tonight? <3

Babe: Ohh, was that today?

Babe: I’ve unexpectedly run into some work. Overtime again. Raincheck?

You stared at the screen, disbelief creeping in. Especially when—just a moment ago—you had checked his social media.

He was out. With his friends.

Just who did he think he was, lying to your face like that?

A twinge of inexplicable sadness bubbled up your throat, threatening to spill over as tears. Swallowing hard, you swiftly locked your office, stepped into the elevator, and rushed down to the basement parking lot.

It was dark and deserted. Most of the employees had already left. You unlocked your car, ducked inside, and rested your head against the steering wheel as your quiet sniffles turned into wracking sobs.

Why did you always have to be the one to initiate things? Didn’t he care? At all?

It was in the late hours, with nothing but silence as your companion, that you felt the most like yourself—real, flawed, messy, and so unbearably lonely.

You were exhausted from giving him yet another chance. Five years. Five years of waiting, of understanding, of making excuses on his behalf.

When would he finally understand that you were a person too? That you had feelings?

Just then a tap on your window jolted you out of your crying session. You hastily reached for some tissues, dabbing at your face as you turned to look at the person who wouldn’t let you be miserable in peace.

Your eyes widened and an embarrassed flush crept up your neck when your eyes met Toji’s emerald ones.

He simply raised a brow and silently gestured for you to unlock the door. You did, and he climbed into the passenger seat—wordlessly handing you his handkerchief before reaching for the stereo to put on some mellow music.

And somehow, that small gesture undid you.

The tears spilled over, harder this time. Louder, messier, and uglier than you had ever cried before.

He didn’t ask what had made you like this. He didn’t press for answers or offer empty words of comfort.

Instead, he leaned over the console, gathering you into his warm, muscular embrace.

He smelled of pine, soft petrichor, and something unmistakably Toji. A scent that wrapped around you as he traced slow, soothing circles on your back. You mumbled incoherent complaints. Words you wouldn’t remember later, but ones he listened to anyway.

A moment passed and he pulled back.

Just enough to look at you—just enough to swipe his thumbs over your cheeks, catching the tears on the plush of them. His gaze, usually sharp and unreadable, softened as he studied you.

Amidst the sniffles and hiccuped breaths, your eyes flickered, from the warmth of his gaze to the curve of his lips. That greed, that longing, that quiet hunger that had been simmering in the pit of your stomach surged forward, untamed.

And before you could stop yourself, you leaned in ever so slightly.

A beat of silence. A strange impasse, where both your breaths mingled, curiously teetering on the edge of something neither of you could take back.

You recognized the look in his eyes. Yearning. Hunger. A deep, insatiable desire that mirrored your own.

The seconds stretched, thick with quiet contemplation, until at last…he leaned in.

His lips brushed against yours in a kiss so soft, so barely there, that it made you choke out a whimper. Such delicate treatment from a man twice your size sent your heart into a tizzy.

But before you could kiss him back, your phone rang shrilly, shattering the moment, and making you both jolt apart.

Toji cleared his throat, looking away, while you stared at your screen in haunted disbelief.

It was your boyfriend.

A cold, sinking feeling settled in your stomach.

You had a fucking boyfriend.

And you had just cheated on him.

The clock had struck twelve.

And it was time for Cinderella to head home. To leave behind her Prince Charming and pretend the fairy-tale kiss had never happened.

What happened the morning after was something neither of you could have predicted.

Toji had been prepared to clear the air. To finally address what had been simmering between you for so long.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was the gaggle of employees gathered around you, taking turns to gawk at the offensive rock now sitting on your finger.

Seems there was a first time for everything. And today, it was Toji’s turn to experience heartbreak.

Weeks passed. You quietly resigned from your position as his assistant, moving to the R&D department without a word.

Not long after, the company was left reeling from Toji’s sudden decision to relocate to their overseas branch.

His excuse was at least better than yours.

It would be a lie to say you didn’t miss him.

After all, he had given you a taste of a foolish dream and a rebellious flight.

And you had been happy being his Icarus. Melting under the warm weight of his presence, even as you fell.

***

The current situation called for drastic measures.

In lieu of the beautiful sunny weather conditions, the employees had all but postponed the team-building event, turning it into an impromptu beach outing. A day full of sunbathing, frolicking, and volleyball in the sandy stretches of this slice of heaven on earth.

Unbeknownst to them, You were experiencing your own personal nightmare, as you stepped out on the balcony of your suite, watching your coworkers enjoy the lick of salty ocean breeze, while you stood there—rethinking all your life choices.

The screeching of kids running amok with sand in their hair, and the hustle-bustle of surfers and swimmers in their vibrant swim gear, sent a nauseating shiver down your spine.

Nope, absolutely not.

The waves whirled forward kissing the shore, making your stomach churn along with them, and it was then that you decided.

 You were getting out of this. By any means necessary.

And as luck would have it, the perfect excuse landed right in your lap.

During breakfast, the hotel staff announced a blind date event. Guests would draw a ticket with a number, and whoever had the matching number would be paired together for a “cute” hiking date along the scenic woodland trails surrounding the resort.

It was the perfect escape plan.

Not only would you get to avoid the beach-loving festive fiends, but you’d also successfully dodge any further interaction with Toji. Two birds, one stone.

And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, if things went well, you’d actually have something to look forward to for the rest of the week.

It started off well.

You had dressed the part—leggings, a fitted tank top, and a lightweight jacket in case the trail got chilly. Your hair was tied back, your backpack slung over one shoulder, and for once, you had approached the day with genuine optimism.

But it was premature.

Somewhere between what should have been an easy right turn and the realization that the trees all looked the same, it dawned upon you.

You were lost.

You bit the inside of your cheek as panic crawled up your spine languidly, and glanced at your phone. Zero signal. Of course. No location services, no messages, no SOS. Just your surmounting bad decisions and the steadily creeping dread that this might be the dumbest way to go out.

“Brilliant,” you muttered under your breath, shoving your phone back into your pocket.

You tried retracing your steps, sticking close to where the canopy wasn’t too thick, where the sun still managed to filter through, in golden, dappled patches.

But then, because fate was a notorious sadist, you miscalculated a step.

A loose rock, a moment of imbalance, and the next thing you knew. Pain.

Sharp, piercing, sudden pain that left your mouth agape in a soundless scream—jolted up your ankle.

You sucked in a breath, stumbling forward until you caught yourself against the rough bark of a tree, heart thumping frantically against your ribs.

Just fucking perfect.

You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling slowly through your nose, trying to will the ache away. Trying to wrack your brain to come up with an idea. Any idea, Why the hell wasn't your mind working?!

Maybe if you just—

A rustle.

A presence.

It wasn’t loud. Just the quiet shift of movement. Your shoulders straightened your senses on high alert, catching the faintest of sounds, feeling the almost imperceptible weight of someone watching.

You turned your head sharply, and your stomach dropped.

There, leaning against a tree, arms crossed, expression unreadable was Toji.

Your pulse stuttered, a weird sense of calm encased you, when his eyes held yours.

The dappled sunlight barely reached him, but even in the shade, he was impossible to miss. Broad shoulders draped in a fitted black compression shirt, sleeves snug around his forearms, veins peeking beneath the taut skin. Dark slacks hung low on his hips, a contrast against the sturdy boots planted effortlessly against the uneven terrain.

His hair—messy, unruly in a way that somehow suited him—shifted slightly with the breeze, and when his head tilted just a fraction, the motion caught the faint scar curving against his lip. His eyes, deep, sharp, impossibly green, trailed over you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched. Taking in every single inch of your body. The way you were gripping the bark, the way you were trying and failing, not to put weight on your injured foot.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed off the tree and made his way toward you.

“Lost?” His voice was as smooth as ever, but there was something else beneath it. Something sharper. An almost angry pointed jab.

You straightened, as if that would somehow lessen the indignity of this situation. With feigned bravado, you shot back, mulish, “No. I just—”

His gaze flickered to your foot. Then back up, unimpressed.

“Right,” he scoffed, not bothering to hide the skepticism in his tone.

You scowled, bristling at his calm, impassive demeanor. “What the hell are you even doing here?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crouched in front of you, his large hands wrapping around your calf. The touch was firm, steady.

You jolted, instinctively trying to pull back. “Toji—”

“Hold still,” he hissed through gritted teeth, ignoring your half-hearted protest as he pressed his fingers carefully over your ankle, studying the injury.

You swallowed, heat curling up your spine at the sheer casualness of it all. The way he handled you without hesitation as if you were something fragile, something that required care.

His touch was soft, his fingers were cold, yet it left something searing in its wake.

A beat of silence stretched between you.

His fingers slowed. His thumb brushed over the sensitive skin near your Achilles, a quiet, absentminded gesture. Then he finally spoke, in a low measured tone.

“You’re always running off without thinking, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. And a subtle nod at your shared past. A silent acknowledgement of the unmentionable incident. 

He wanted you to know that he remembered. 

So did you. As clear as yesterday.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly before standing, offering you his hand.

You eyed it. Then him. Desperately clinging onto your last bit of pride.

“I can walk,” you ground, forcing your voice to be steady.

He didn’t respond. Just waited. The guarded expression was back, save for the barest tilt of his head.

You hesitated.

 A beat passed. A quiet staring match ensued. While your eyes read foolish resilience, his countered with a solid challenge. One that brooked no argument.

 Finding yourself at a stalemate, you begrudgingly placed your hand in his.

His fingers curled around yours in a firm grip.

You half expected a cocky smirk or a teasing remark, but there was none.

And somehow, that made it worse.

The walk was sluggish. His hand remained around yours, firm but not forceful, a comforting touch that placated your frantically beating heart.

Your boots crunched softly against the earth, the only sounds filling the silence were the distant babble of a creek, the rhythmic drone of cicadas, and the occasional rustle of leaves. 

Sunlight filtered through the canopy in flickering patches, casting shifting patterns on the forest floor.

His pace was perfect. He didn’t rush you, matching your steps with smaller measured strides.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, finally…

“…What are you really doing here?” You murmured, breaking the quiet that had settled between you.

Toji didn’t answer right away. His grip on your hand tightened briefly as if contemplating how much he should let you know, before he exhaled.

“Tracking chip,” he said matter-of-factly.

You blinked, unsure if you heard him correctly, “What?”

He didn’t look at you, gaze still fixed ahead.

“The card you got for the blind date,” he clarified, tone soft, unhurried. “Had a tracking chip in it. For safety reasons.”

You frowned. And he sensed an argument coming so he raised his free hand, cutting you off before you spoke—

“It’s a precaution,” he continued. “So the hotel staff can locate anyone if they wander too far off the trails.”

Your brows furrowed, somehow you weren’t satisfied with his answer. Something didn’t add up.

“…So the hotel personally sent you to come find me?” You asked sharply. Pointedly.

No response.

Then, a slow, almost cocky smirk spread across his lips.

“No,” he admitted, finally glancing at you, amusement flickering behind dark green eyes. “I saw the alert and got there first.”

Your breath hitched.

Of course, he had.

This meddling, conniving, little—

You knew you would’ve eaten those words anyday. You did need his help. But you couldn't bring yourself to look past your petty grudges.

“You know, your expressions are so loud, I can almost hear them” He chuckled, bringing up a free hand to brush that strand of vibrant green away from your face.

You scoffed, yanking your hand back. “So what, you’ve taken up stalking now?”

You changed the topic, not wanting to get caught into his soft words and that beautiful beckoning gaze.

And it worked. The moment shattered.

Toji exhaled sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s called being prepared. Something you clearly weren’t.”

You bristled. “I would’ve been fine.”

He raised a sardonic brow, “You twisted your ankle on a fucking pebble.”

Your head snapped up, regaling him with a glare that could’ve burned a hole through him. “I was getting to my blind date just fine before you showed up.”

At that, his expression shifted. A flicker of irritation flashed across his features, he was unmistakably irked, but it was gone so quickly, that you wondered if you had imagined it.

“Right,” he scoffed, voice edged with a bite to it. “Because you’re so eager to throw yourself at some random idiot in hiking boots?”

Your arms flew up in exasperation. “Why do you even care?”

“I don’t,” he denied, a tad too quickly.

You narrowed your eyes. “Really? Because you’re acting pretty nosy for someone who doesn’t care.”

He paused. You knew you had done it now. Pushed him too far. Just when you were about to take back what you said— 

Suddenly…out of nowhere…

“You’re such a goddamn escapist.” He whispered, low with venom coloring his voice.

And the words hit their intended mark. Direct. A low blow.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, flat and steady. “You run the second shit gets too real.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbled up your throat. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“You left,” he interjected. Unshaken. “You always leave.”

And somewhere deep inside you knew he was referring to that night in your car. When he had swallowed his pride, and silently held onto you. Desperately, almost begging with the way he had held your wrist. But you turned a blind eye to it all.

Even still, you opened your mouth, wanting to win this round with something equally hurtful—

Heat surged up your throat, an argument forming, but before you could fire back, his arms were suddenly around you.

Your stomach lurched as he lifted you with zero effort, one arm under your knees, the other bracing your back, pressing you against him.

“Toji—what the hell—”

“Shut. Up,” he growled, adjusting his grip as if you weighed nothing.

“For once in your life, stop fucking fighting”

You glared, oddly chastised, hands braced against his chest as you struggled in his iron grip. “Put me down.”

“No.”

You squirmed, but his hold didn’t budge. Somehow it felt tighter than before.

It was futile to argue at this point, so you gave up.

You wouldn't admit it, but you were weirdly comfortable, being held like this. His corded arms felt like a shield, cocooning you into his embrace. 

The rhythmic sound of his boots crunching against the uneven terrain. The low whistles of air, sneaking past tiny gaps between rocks, and through the holes in the hollowed tree barks, made for a soothing backdrop. The creek nearby got louder, its wet slosh making you lament your sprained ankle. 

If only you hadn’t been lost. You would have probably enjoyed your hike with that blind date. Stopped for a picnic near the creek. Exchanged conversations that made you bond over discovered common interests.

You let your eyes close, picturing that moment. But then…

You saw him. His unruly raven hair, moving with the gentle blow of the wind. His dark emerald eyes, as green and viridescent as the canopy of trees hanging overhead. His face, somehow even more beautiful with that scar at the corner of his mouth. And your heart missed several beats, with this sudden epiphany.

You opened your eyes and blinked at him. Taking him in fully, as he continued his walk. His peaceful expression was marred by a frown, a stern set of his jaw, as several thoughts swirled behind his head.

All this time, and it was always him.

Toji Zenin.

The reason behind your sorrows. The reason behind your smiles.

The contemplative hike came to an end, and it was then that you noticed that Toji hadn’t brought you back to the hotel. Instead, he strode up the worn concrete steps of a handsome Cabin. Something straight out of a fairy tale.

It was nestled comfortably between the trees. Its exterior was all warm wooden panels, a sloping roof, and a wraparound porch that overlooked the forest.

It was isolated in a quiet charm—dangerously inviting.

Your heart fluttered, and an anxious inquiry stuttered out of your lips.

“…This isn’t the hotel.”

Toji didn’t even glance back. He let out an exhausted sigh instead.

“Before you add kidnapping to my list of crimes, let me clarify—This is my personal Cabin. It was much nearer to the spot where I had found you. Going to the hotel would be a whole hike down, and it wasn’t possible with that ankle of yours. Tonight we’ll rest here. Tomorrow morning, I’ll call my driver, and the resort’s medical staff to look at your injury, and then we’ll leave. Any questions?” He drawled in a deadpan voice.

“No.” You paused, letting it swirl inside your mouth, kissing your teeth in an awkward stubbornness, but then with a resigned sigh, feebly added, “Thank you”

He nodded then unlocked the door with an electric tap of his keycard.

***

The water ran over your skin in hot, steady streams, pooling at your feet before swirling down the drain.

In your effort to escape the surmounting awkwardness, you had excused yourself, to hide. To bide your time, and calm your nerves. 

You pressed your forehead against the cool tile and exhaled slowly.

Your ankle still ached, a dull throb pulsing beneath the warmth of the shower. But that wasn’t the real problem, was it?

No, the real problem was everything else.

You were supposed to be at the resort, on a mindless, easy blind date—exchanging pleasantries, indulging in meaningless conversation, giving yourself a distraction.

Instead, here you were.

In a forced proximity with the one man you wanted to avoid. 

In a cabin, in the middle of practically nowhere, stranded with your boss of all people.

The boss that made you feel things you shouldn’t.

You squeezed your eyes shut, dragging a hand down your face.

There was no escaping him now. 

Not here. Not like this.

With a deep breath, you turned the water off and braced yourself.

You stepped out, wincing as your weight shifted onto your bad ankle. Gritting your teeth through it, you limped towards the mirror, swiping a hand over the fogged glass.

Your reflection stared back. Tired and beat

You needed to get a grip.

You inhaled and exhaled. Another breath, another lingering moment, and then steeling yourself, you stepped out of the bathroom. 

The first thing that your eyes caught was the white bathrobe that lay neatly folded on the bed.

You stared at it.

Touched it, almost hesitantly, fingers grazing the soft fabric before you picked it up and slipped it on, tying the sash securely around your waist.

It was Warm. Freshly laundered. A weirdly thoughtful gesture from a man who liked to pretend he didn’t care.

You could smell him on it, all pine and petrichor.

Shaking your head, you shoved that thought aside, padding towards the living room.

In your hurry to escape earlier, you hadn't let yourself savor the luxurious yet warm, welcoming interior of Toji’s cabin.

It was modest but beautiful. Wooden interiors, high ceilings. The furniture was functional, but lived-in. The couch was a deep-toned leather, a low coffee table cluttered with books, and the faint remnants of a fire still smoldered in the hearth.

But then you noticed, with a surprised start—

There was no light.

Instead, the room was bathed in the flickering glow of pine-scented candles, their flames swaying with the breeze that sneaked in through the drafts in the windows.

And Toji.

Standing by the window, lighting another one.

He had changed.

He looked impeccable, in his simple black t-shirt and loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips.

His hair was still wet from the shower, droplets of water rolling down his nape only to disappear somewhere in his shirt. His broad shoulders cast long shadows.

His sharp profile was illuminated by the wavering candlelight.

There was a certain allure about the sight of him—calm, steady, domestic—that made your stomach coil.

He glanced up, meeting your gaze, and you stared back, enraptured. The rain danced across the window, sliding down in swirls of beautiful tendrils colored golden by the flicker of candles inside.

Unable to take any more of this stare down, you decided to break the silence.

 “You look like a cult leader,” you blurted, a pathetic attempt at easing this weird tension.

Toji blinked, then exhaled through his nose, snorting, almost amused as he replied, “You’re welcome.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Where’s the power?”

“Storm knocked it out,” he said, placing the lighter down. “Won’t be back till morning.”

You nodded, soaking in the information. Wouldn’t be the first time you had spent the whole night with Toji Zenin.

But then, that was when you and him had a strictly business relationship. And now, you didn’t know where you stood. And that left a certain stain of doubt, a splatter of something more, onto this pristine white pretext of a situation. You had no reason to be with him here, alone. 

Yet you were. And the worst part was, he didn’t seem to mind. The proximity was welcome on his part.

Outside, the wind whistled through the trees, the rain was persistent now, tapping against the windows in slow, rhythmic beats. The storm wrapped around the cabin, folding it into its embrace, secluding it further from the world.

You pulled your robe tighter, shifting your weight as you felt the room close in on you.

Toji ran a hand through his damp hair, his gaze raked over you, too lingering to call it casual.

“This is weird,” you muttered.

He smirked. “A little.”

Another long pause. The room was surrounded by a weird vacuum of pregnant silence.

You looked everywhere but him.

While, Toji’s gaze dropped to your feet, catching you subtly shifting your weight from one to the other, he observed the way you kept adjusting your stance to avoid putting pressure on your bad ankle.

A sigh escaped him and he rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Sit.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your leg,” he said, already turning toward the kitchen. “I’ll wrap it before it swells any worse.”

You hesitated. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

You bristled. “Toji, seriously—”

But he was already grabbing a first aid kit from the cabinet, moving with that same quiet decisiveness that left no room for argument. When he turned back to you, his expression was determined and you knew you’d lost this battle before it even began.

With a reluctant sigh, you lowered yourself onto the couch.

The cushions sank beneath you as he crouched at your feet, effortlessly settling into a position that should have been uncomfortable. But, it wasn’t. Not for him.

Before you could think to stop him, his hands were on you.

Warm, big, and calloused.

His fingers skimmed over your calf, adjusting the angle of your leg. Your robe shifted with the motion, parting slightly to reveal the plush curve of your thigh.

And You saw the moment he noticed.

The slight shift in his eyes.The way his throat worked. The way his fingers tightened just a smidge, before he tore his gaze away, mouth pressing into a firm line.

Neither of you chose to acknowledge it.

Instead, he focused on his task, pulling out a roll of bandages and beginning to wrap your ankle with practiced ease. His touch was firm but careful. Not gentle, but thorough.

To dissipate the tension, you grasped for conversation—any conversation.

“How’d you even learn to do this?”

Toji smirked slightly, not looking up. “You think I made it through life without getting knocked around?”

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “No, but I figured you’d just walk it off and call it a day. You don’t seem the type”

“Sometimes.” He tugged the wrap snug around your ankle, securing it in place. “But I had to learn at some point. Can’t always rely on someone else to patch me up.”

Something about the way he said it, lingered.

You swallowed, shifting against the cushions. “Well… thanks.”

Toji nodded, gaze flicking up. His eyes were on you, probing, searching. As if he was debating whether he should do something.

And you got your answer when he braced his arms on either side you—

“You ran,” he murmured, point blank.

Your heart stuttered at his proximity. The bluntness of his question makes you lose several beats, trying to formulate some response, only to come up blank.

“You ran that night,” he repeated, voice strangely calm, controlled, but his eyes told a different story. “After I kissed you in the car.” This time, his tone held an almost accusatory note to it.

You inhaled sharply, and looked away. This was long coming. You should’ve known that he would want a clarification someday.

And he had decided that it was going to be now. When you had no way to escape. To run like you always do.

“You don’t have to answer,” he went on, turning back to your ankle. “I already know why.”

Something in the way he said that, made your chest tighten. He deserved to know. He had all the right to ask you this.

But like the coward you are, instead of giving him the truth, instead of admitting that your world had tilted, unraveled, and collapsed in that moment—

You lied.

“It didn’t mean anything,” you said, forcing the words past your lips. “I didn’t feel the same way.”

Toji’s hands stilled, and you felt like a jerk because going by the myriad of expressions flitting across his face, that hurt him. 

It had to have hurt.

He didn’t say anything immediately. Instead, he settled with a blank look. His walls were up, higher than ever.

He knew you inside out, but he didn’t call you out on the blatant lie you’d just fed him.

Instead, he let it settle, like a chasm stretching between you both.

He tilted his head ever so slightly. Dark emerald eyes studying, dissecting, contemplating,

Until he spoke.

“That so?”

Your stomach churned at the mild challenge and determination you saw reflected in his eyes.

You should’ve known he wouldn’t let this go.

“Toji,” you muttered, shifting guiltily under his scrutiny, but he wasn’t done.

“If you didn’t feel the same,” he pressed, “then why the fuck did you show up the next day wearing his ring?”

That… that caught you off guard.

He knew.

Of course, he did.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. To sell your lie as much as you could “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” he challenged, one brow arching in open skepticism.

A muscle in your jaw twitched. This wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have. Not now. Not ever.

But Toji was like a predator who had smelled blood in the water.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, dangerously close, leveling you with a domineering look. “We both know things weren’t fucking perfect with him, or else I wouldn’t have found you crying alone in your car that night.”

“So tell me,” he said, voice taunting, unrelenting, “why’d you suddenly go running back? Just what miraculous change occurred overnight that you decided to marry that man hours after you had let me kiss you?”

Your fingers curled into the robe, resisting the urge to flinch.

You should walk away. Should end this now.

But instead, you exhaled sharply, eyes flicking down to your lap.

“He didn’t blow me off that night.”

Toji didn’t react, but you could feel the shift in the air.

“He was out,” you continued, voice feebler now, almost ashamed, “Ring shopping.”

Your words somehow widened that invisible chasm. 

“He proposed the second I got home,” you admitted, a bitter smile curling at your lips. “And I said yes.”

Toji’s jaw clenched. “Because you wanted to?” He stressed.

Your stomach twisted, heart jumping up your throat.

“No,” you sighed. “Because I felt guilty.”

That did something to him.

His expression darkened. You expected him to be angry, but the look he gave you was something far worse.

It was understanding.

“So that’s it, huh?” he whispered, sitting back, raking a hand through his already messy hair. “You felt bad, so you figured you’d just settle. After All your life is some sort of a bargaining chip meant to be thrown away, because you felt like you had to compensate him somehow. Right?”

You hated how easily he cut you open and picked you apart.

Hated that he was right.

You exhaled sharply, frustration lacing your tone. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

And then he laughed, low, victorious. He seized the opening he was waiting for, ever since he had seen you in the hotel that day. 

His gaze flickered to your hands, then back up. He traced your empty ring finger, touching the lighter skin there, where the ring should’ve been.

“Then tell me,” he smiled,  almost amused now, almost cruel.

“If you were so sure about him, why the fuck is there no ring on your finger? What did that sacrifice leave you with…You should’ve been married by now, shouldn’t you?”

Your breath caught, and tears of embarrassment sprung to your eyes, but you held them back.

You should’ve seen that coming.

You looked away, exhaling slowly. “Because we broke up.”

For the first time all night, Toji actually looked surprised.

He had half expected something like, ‘We’re on a break’ but not this.

“For good?”

“For good.”

His gaze was stormy. His expression—a kaleidoscope of feelings. Things had finally fallen into place now. He had gotten the missing pieces to the puzzle. But there was something that still left him with dissatisfaction.

This wasn’t enough for him. 

You could sense it.

Before he could say something else, you cut in, babbling at this point, to fill the uneasy silence.

“And that’s why I wanted to go on a blind date today.”

His jaw ticked at that. He was much more open now. You could see his feelings reel on his face like a movie. 

You hadn’t missed the irritation that surged off of him in waves.

It was your turn to interrogate now. And you leapt at the opportunity.

“Why do you even care? You left too. And you have been perfectly fine living oceans away”

He didn’t answer right away. You didn’t get the response you had so anticipated. No explanation, no half-assed excuse

Just a steady unwavering gaze, locked onto you.

And then all at once, he moved. So fast that you barely had the time to react.

A sharp inhale, his hand cupping your jaw, tilting your face up. And before you could speak, before you could even think—

He kissed you.

His lips caught yours with a searing force. It unraveled something in you that you weren’t ready to face.

A muffled squeak caught in your throat, your hands flew to his nape, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

But when Toji tilted his head, deepening the kiss—something in you cracked.

A sigh slipped from your lips, soft, surrendering, inevitable. 

Because this was always inevitable, wasn’t it?

You opened your mouth slightly, and Toji groaned, tongue slipping in, tasting, exploring, taking greedily something that was always his. Like he was rewarding himself, the delayed gratification of someone who had waited for far too long. 

His fingers dug into your waist, possessive, sure, and in between heated kisses, between stolen breaths, he whispered, nipping at your lower lip.

“Do you still not feel anything?”

You should have told him the truth. Should have admitted that the way he touched you, the way he consumed you, made something inside you collapse, burn, and dissolve at the same time.

Instead, you kissed him back harder, deeper, needier, like he was an oasis in the middle of a desert. Like you had been parched for a taste. 

“No, I don’t.”

Toji chuckled darkly against your lips, teeth grazing, teasing. Enjoying this game of push and pull.

“Liar,” he murmured.

You barely had time to react before he took charge. You could feel that your words had goaded him into a challenge that he took all too seriously.

A large, calloused hand slipped down your jaw, pausing at your neck. He squeezed, just a little, just enough to make you shiver in anticipation. Then his hand journeyed down, downwards beneath the robe, moving it aside to expose your sensitive skin. His eager exploration slowed, choosing to let his fingertips map the uncharted territory with extreme leisure. He teased with light touches.

To your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, while he devoured you with his gaze. You could see that it was taking him every ounce of control to not hurry this along and just take what he wanted. Needed. Craved.

Rather, his other hand splayed against your back, pressing you flush against him, making sure you felt just how much he wanted you.

You gasped, feeling the rigid planes of his muscles against your plushness, feeling his throbbing erection brush against your stomach.

Your sharp inhale was cut off by his lips capturing yours again, swallowing the sound with a groan.

His hands moved slowly, deliberately, teasingly, dragging a myriad of sensations over your skin. He played you like an instrument. Palming, and cupping your breasts, thumb running over the pebbled nipples, pulling and pinching softly. 

Your mind felt fuzzy, your thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand as he pressed fervent kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking, biting, leaving open-mouthed wet and warm kisses, murmuring against your skin—

“Still nothing?”

You shivered in response, as his mouth descended to your collarbones and the valley between your breasts. He swirled his tongue around one pebbled peak, tasting and biting at your flesh, while he played with the other, kneading and squeezing until you were a puddle under his touch. All pliant and mewling. 

He smirked against your breast, now lavishing the other with attention, pleased with your reactions, with the sounds he was drawing out of you. And you soon felt yourself develop a second heartbeat between your legs.

Without warning, his arms slid around you, lifting you effortlessly.

A startled gasp left your lips as he carried you through the dimly lit cabin, past flickering candlelight and storm-swept windows.

The air was thick, the silence broken by the sound of your fervent kisses. Your lips meeting each other in an almost frenzied need.

You barely had time to think before your back met the sheets, and Toji hovered over you, eyes dark, lips curling.

“You gonna keep lying to me? To yourself? Because I have the whole night to prove otherwise” he husked, voice deep, teasing, and full of promise.

“So…” he drawled, ducking down to bite at your earlobe, before soothing it with a flick of his tongue, “What’s it gonna be? Yes or No?” 

When your only reply was a stubborn show of silence, he chuckled.

“I see” his gaze sparkled with excitement, resembling a predator preparing for a hunt “So that’s how it’s gonna be”

The surrealness of the situation wasn’t lost on you.  You couldn’t believe that this was happening. That You were in Toji’s bed, half-naked, covered in the marks left behind by him.

Your chest heaved, and you pressed your thighs together to relieve the unabashed need. 

Yes, you needed this man. Carnally. Biblically. Sinfully.

Lust in rivulets of undulated heat traversed through your body. He hadn’t removed your robe completely, yet you felt naked under his eyes.

Those emerald eyes. Storm-laden and destructive.

Strange how you saw your damnation and salvation married in them.

“One last chance to back out” his tone was business-like, a stark contrast to his earlier teasing remarks, as his finger looped around the belt of your robe.

“Because when I accept a challenge…” he grinned wolfishly, when you rewarded him with a nod of consent, “I play to win”

He paused, letting out a breath, before finally pulling. A soft tug and there was no going back.

You were completely exposed to him, in your wet and wanton glory.

He pulled the robe gently, from underneath you and tossed it away, never taking his gaze off of you. As if he half expected you to disappear.

“You’re beautiful” he whispered, caressing every inch of you with his lascivious eyes. 

You were sure when you started, that this was going to be a one-night thing. 

A night when you pilfer from the treasures of desires you kept sealed away, safe out of your own reach. 

But when he lowered himself, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead— it was then that you felt the first tremors of fear. The whispers of doubt at your foolish impulsive decision. What the hell are you even doing?

This was a bad bad idea. You can’t move on after this. This was Toji Zenin, how could you ever forget him, after you let yourself experience what it feels like to be his. A single night wouldn’t be enough, a single night would wreck you and fuck—

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers threading through the locks as he found your neck again, nuzzling, nipping, moving down with urgent intent.

He trailed open-mouthed kisses, on your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, your stomach, then his hands grabbed the plush of your thighs, squeezing, gently nudging them open, as he made his descent.

 He dawdled, leaving a teasing bite at your hip bone, then puffing out a breath, he paused, eyes melting into yours as he pushed your legs apart further. Looking at you from in between them.

His emerald eyes almost burned, like a forest fire, and he captured yours with their smokey, wispy, tendrils. Binding your gaze into a hypnotic pull.

You swore you saw a ghost of a smile linger on his lips when he yanked you forward, dragging your hips to the edge of the bed, but it disappeared when he ducked his head down and licked a long languid stripe.

From your aching clit, to your beckoning heat, and back up, teasing, tasting, sucking as if his life depended on it.

He set a torturous rhythm, his fingers dug into the curves, dimples, and divets of your thighs, prying them open and wider, as he hungrily feasted on your juices. 

“Hah fuck you taste so damn good” he murmured, in between sloppy kisses to your cunt, greedily delving in between your folds, like it was his last meal.

You had long lost any sense of shame, your hips had a mind of their own, bucking in time with the firm strokes of his tongue, chasing that sweet pleasure that he was so readily giving you. 

“Oh my god…Toji…yessss” you cried out, in delicious agony. 

“You like that baby? Like the way I make you feel?” He mumbled, the sound muffling against your sex, he lost himself in between your legs, eyes closed, as he worshipped at your altar.

Clarity was so far away, hidden behind a wave of lust-addled haze. The words almost tipped over your tongue, at his sly questioning, but then, you bit your palm, holding back any foolish confessions that would be difficult to take back, focusing instead on chasing your pleasure selfishly.

“What did I ask?” He hummed, the vibrations making your hips jerk and your eyes roll back, “I need you to say it, darling. Do you like the way I make you feel?”

“Shit…Toji…mnnnhh” you bit your lip, in a feeble attempt to deflect, but he was having none of it. 

You were too far gone, yet he was still very much in control. He moved his hand up your body, cupping your jaw, making your gaze meet his, as he caught your clit with other, pinching and sucking you into overstimulation.

He drove you close to that sweet release, dangled it before you like bait, only to snatch it away.

You whined, a desperate plea slipping out of you pathetically, “pleasepleasepleaseplease”

“Please what?” He smirked, still moving his palm on your cunt in painfully slow circles, “let you come?” He taunted, flashing you his canines in a smug, shit-eating grin. He had you right where he wanted you.

“Use your words,” he stressed, voice all saccharine sweet, as if he wasn’t actively edging you into madness, “Tell me how I make you feel, and I’ll let you come” 

“Toji please” you plead, “I’ll be good, please—“ you whined and begged, moving your hips against the slow motion of his hands, desperate to get some much-needed friction.

“Uh uh uh, that is not the right answer I’m afraid.” Yet his gaze softened, and he folded, “But I’m not a monster” He chuckled, as you squealed in surprise and grateful relief, hips rising off the bed, when he went down on you again.

Just when you thought you’d die of deprivation, he inserted two long fingers in you, pumping them in and out expertly, pulling an earth-shattering orgasm with that ‘come-hither-motion’, while he held you close to his mouth, tasting, licking every last drop of your release like his own personal nectar.

You caught your breath, your throat hoarse from all the noises you let out. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Toji lift his shirt. He was standing before his floor-length mirror.

You always knew he was muscular under those compressed shirts that left little to the imagination. But seeing the actual thing? The broad shoulders, the chiseled abs, the tan corded lines of pure muscle—rippling before you, as he removed his shirt, his back muscles flexing in the process, and you felt your pussy clench around nothing, with a shameless need.

This man was lethal for your heart.

Feeling your eyes on him, he smirked. Catching your gaze in the reflection of the mirror, daring you to look. He pulled at his drawstrings and pushed his sweatpants to his thighs, then his boxers, freeing his throbbing cock from its confines.

He was already leaking pre-cum, the wet noises of his palm fisting at his length, made you open your legs and match him—with a hand slipping between your folds.

You gathered the slick pooling there from your recent orgasm and slipped two digits in, groaning, moaning, imagining his huge cock filling you to the brim.

This was unbelievably hot. His reverent gaze on you, and his insistent palm moving up and down his erection, fucking his fist to the chants of your name.

“Yes baby, just like that” he praised, his eyes never leaving yours, as he bit his lip, looking at your reflection with a deep-seated appreciation.

While the more explicit expressions overtook the moment, for Toji it was something that he cherished beyond words.

He was hot and bothered, he was needy, he lusted like a fiend for you, yet he wished to make love to you. To reach the deepest parts of you, and to make you his. Mark you forever, so that no one would dare take what was his.

So when you both reached your peaks, crying out each other’s name in soft cries of pleasure, he removed his sweatpants entirely and bounded towards the bed. Without wasting another second, he pulled you into a wet, messy, sloppy kiss.

His hands moved under your thighs, cupping your ass, corded arms supporting your weight, as he carried you to stand before the mirror. Facing it. Looking at all your flaws and foibles up close while he hugged from behind, skin against feverish skin. His hands never left your body, touching, teasing, pinching, and squeezing. His face lodged in the crook of your neck, making blooms of hickeys that would last for days.

“Look at me”  he whispered, a hand splaying at your stomach, the other wrapping around your waist. 

And to be honest? You simply couldn’t look away even if you tried.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you whispered. 

You were done lying, done pretending that you didn’t want this man.

“Then hold on tight”

Your fingers found purchase on his biceps, holding for dear life, as his hands slid to the back of your knees, lifting you, and bringing your legs to your chest.

A wild blush rose up your neck when you saw your reflection. You were exposed, utterly so. And entirely in his hands. This required so much trust on your part, and somehow, it came naturally.

You trusted Toji. Because he was Toji.

He was your rock. Someone who always found you.

Someone you could rely on, someone that you Lo—Ohhhhh

No warning whatsoever, as his huge cock lined with your cunt, entering it in one go. 

A groan of pleasure reverberated through Toji, and he bit at your neck, slowly thrusting into your warm tight heat. 

This was madness. It was not supposed to feel this good. 

Yet here you were, mouth agape, tears streaming down your eyes, stuffed to the hilt, getting fucked in front of a mirror.

You watched his cock slide out halfway before he rammed it back in, setting a brutal pace. The room echoed with the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh. His hot breaths on your neck, his lips nipping at the shell of your ear.

“See what you do to me?” He husked, voice a heady rumble, “I can’t help it, you’re fucking perfect”

The rain had cleared into a light drizzle, making the first spots of stars appear like tiny specks in the inky sky. 

They bore witness to this passionate embrace shared by you and him.

Two souls, getting acquainted in the most primal of ways, intertwined. Lost into each other, not quite aware, of how they loved more than lovers.

***

Warm morning sun, notoriously peeped at the bare tangle of limbs, nestled into an intimate embrace.

Remnants of last night lingered as mementos on your skin, unfurled like sakura in bloom.

Remembering the past years, when he woke up to the blare of an alarm, and the cold empty spot next to him, Toji murmured a secret prayer, grateful to whichever God had blessed him.

For he did feel blessed. Immensely. 

He sat up in bed, bracing himself on an elbow, as he took you in. Your soft cheeks, he thought, that he would never tire of touching. And never admit, to having thought about biting into the apples of them, on many a slow afternoon.

Your brown hair was like a waterfall that cascaded under his fingers. He secretly loved the green streak in your hair—it made him remind of his own eyes.

Your plump lips. 

He was jealous…Of the rouge that sat upon them preening.

No matter how much Toji tried to hide, to bury himself in his work, to avoid you, Fate had been weirdly persistent with the way it always tried to bring him back to you.

His first and the last heartbreak.

Slipping out the sheets, Toji grabbed a pen and a sticky note. If he was going to do this, he would do this correctly.

***

The morning melted into afternoon, its poignant warmth settled across the room with a lazy stretch. 

Your eyes opened, bones heavy with a sated bliss. There was an ache in your muscles. A mark left behind by him on your body. Another solid print onto the pages of your memory.

You rose, finally leaving the comforting embrace of the bed, half expecting to see him mill about. 

Putting on some slippers and a fresh robe again, you made a tour of the house, eyes keenly searching for that familiar mess of black hair.

But the cabin was empty. Populated by dust motes, and the lingering scent of pine candles, that lay in puddles of melted wax over various pieces of furniture, across the living room.

You fought off the disappointment bubbling up your throat; reminding yourself that he wasn’t your boyfriend. That one night didn’t translate to something more.

Just when you were about to leave the living room, your gaze landed on the dining table.

There was a covered tray of food, and a sticky note on top.

To my work wife, By now, I know you’ve already imagined the worst. It’s okay, I understand. I would have too if I woke up alone after last night—after what we shared. Sweetheart, I may look like a jerk, but I don’t hit and run. I know you, and that’s why I wanted you to have this day to yourself. To sit back, relax, and really think about what you want. Because I want you. Not just for a night. For every single night henceforth, until the day I die. Tucked by my side, safe and sound—just like this morning. So that I don’t have to find excuses like blind dates just to steal mere hours with you. If your answer is yes, you’ll find plane tickets in the drawer of my nightstand. If you want. If you’ll have me, that is. Yours, Toji P.S. Please heat up the lunch—I made your favorite. P.P.S. I’ve scheduled an appointment for your ankle. The doctor will be here in the evening. My place is at your disposal. Enjoy the rest of the work trip, and don’t miss me too much. P.P.P.S. AND NO MORE BLIND DATES.

You tried—and failed—to stifle the stupid grin that spread across your face when you found the plane tickets to Japan in his drawer, booked under the name Mrs. Zenin.

But that wasn’t all.

Inside lay a token, identical to the one you had received from the hotel staff for the blind date event—bearing the exact same number as yours.

[httpscomorg]

Forbidden Secret Desire

Summary: You just can’t seem to find yourself in this stupid school for freaks, but just when you’re sure no one cares anymore, a man with adamantium claws disturbs your groaning with a promise. Except he forgot to mention everything good comes with a price.

(Find What I’m currently writing by checking my pinned post)

Parings: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: (Individual warnings per chapter) Anxiety, hints to violence, loneliness, I guess angst, manipulation (The reader is helpless and will look for anything to make her happy), some hints towards suggestive material near the end, bad language word use, pet names.

Word Count: 3523 (Find all chapters here) Chapter 2

P.S. If you’d like to be tagged, ask in the comments, you also have permission to send an ask, but make sure it is NOT anonymous, so I know your username, don’t worry, I’m scared of confrontation too. But this is a SAFE SPACE where I will not judge. Thank you again.

Xavier's Mansion.

Also known as the school for “Gifted Youngsters,” or simply for what society prefers to call, “Freaks.”

You’d been there for a few months. You have a very unique power, something even Xavier himself doesn’t understand how to control.

You get these looks all the time when you're walking in the halls of the mansion. You notice it when people cover their mouths to whisper about you and you can’t not notice it when you seem to create a bubble around you as some of the kids try to keep a distance.

Yea, it hurts. You couldn’t deny that either. Sometimes you’d even have to find a restroom really fast to cry to yourself in one of the stalls, but even that hurts when some of the students quickly flood out of the restroom after you enter.

Nobody knew how much it hurt you, nobody even knew what powers you really had. If they did, you would’ve already been sent to the ice box, but luckily, you didn’t know how to use your more dangerous powers. You figured Xavier probably knew about them, considering he can read your mind and he knows just exactly how powerful you really were, but he didn’t know if you knew about them. And what you don’t know, can’t hurt you.

The hardest part was going to class. While everyone else had a table of four people, you sat alone. You did every project alone, with high soaring grades by the way, and you never got to speak to anyone during discussion or free time before the bell rang.

Sometimes you wish you were just… normal.

Of course, you weren’t the only person that was avoided. There were a few other students and even some of the adults that were always avoided. The only true friend you seemed to have was Hank McCoy. Everyone used to fear him, thinking that he couldn’t control the “Beast,” so he knows how you feel. But sometimes it only felt like he tolerated you because you were smart, and you were the only student that could aid him in building anything related to tech, and nanotech, and coding, and all that good stuff.

“Have you figured out why it isn’t working?” Was the first thing he asked you as you walked into his lab. Not a good morning, no how’s class, and not even hello. “I was thinking it had something to do with our maths, that maybe we calculated something wrong but I’ve looked over it again and again and couldn’t find a single thing wrong with it.” He tells you, picking up his notebook which you could see was now full of mathematical equations and random scribbles which seemed to radiate with frustration.

“I don’t think we got the maths wrong, I’ve checked it about a thousand times.” You say quietly, then gently put your bag full of books down under one of his desks so it wasn’t in the way. “Pretty sure it just needs to be smaller. Nothing really about maths though. Other than that, the fibres need to be smaller.”

“So it is the maths?”

“Eh, kind of.” You groan a little and stretch before grabbing a small, delicate pair of tweezers. “This is still too big.” You tell him, placing a sample of part of your tech down under a microscope, strong enough you’re surprised it couldn’t see atoms. “See, this is about as thick as a piece of hair, which is about the size of…” You sigh, looking back at your maths. “It’s about 50,000 nanoparticles, so not a lot, but we need it to be a little smaller.” You tell him, then look away from the small bit of tech to look up at him, his eyes squinted in your direction as is he was trying to understand what you were saying. “Okay I’ll dumb it down. It’s about as thick as a piece of hair right now, we need to numb it down to about… only one hundred nanoparticles, so it should be about as thick as graphene.”

“What’re you two nerds going on about now?” Another voice cuts into your explanation. It was none other than the gruffy voice of Wolverine.

“Oh hey, Logan.” Hank abandons the workstation to go over Logan who was making himself some coffee. “Just figuring out something about nano…”

“Nanoparticles.” You finish his sentence.

“Yea, that.” He says plainly, not bothering to look at you as you turn away from their conversation and look through the microscope.

“Now how do I make you that small…” You whisper to yourself, gently lifting the particle string with your delicate tweezers and examining it through the microscope. “Hmm…” You hum to yourself.

“Y/N!” Hank calls for you, and you turn around. “I’m going out to pick up some lunch for the both of us. What would you like? I’m getting Mexican.” You tell him what you would like, and he takes a moment to clean his work area and stuff his wallet in his pocket before he finally leaves. Leaving you to stand by your desk, doing all the work that has to do with nanotech, but also leaving the Wolverine with you.

“So what exactly are you two working on?” You hear his voice behind you, then you see him next to you.

“Teleportation. Not as complicated as you think, it’s just the fear that gets to everyone really.” You look away from your work, and your eyes land on him. His arms crossed as he leaned on a nearby table, showing enough respect to not sit on your working table.

“Seems complicated. What could possibly be scary about it though? It's just teleportation.”

“Well. If you think deeper into it. Your body and every single atom and particle of your body has to be completely broken down into an uncountable amount of smaller pieces and then your body has to rebuild itself in the secondary location, you just have to hope that it rebuilds you correctly. Or the next thing you know half your right arm is also half of your left leg with toes for fingers.” You say without taking a breath, taking a deep breath after letting it all out. Staring back up at him, his eyes were now squinted in confusion.

“I don’t think anyone is scared of that except you. I’ve never even thought about that.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his scalding hot black coffee.

“Yea well… I’ve had a lot of time to think about a lot of things.” You tell him through gritted teeth, mumbling before grabbing your notebook.

“You know…” He pauses, placing his hot coffee mug on another table away from your work before walking back up next to you, placing his palms on your table where there wasn’t electronic junk lying around. “You aren’t the only one.”

“The only one?” You question, turning and grabbing another tool before looking under your microscope, turning the string around to try and figure out how to break it into a smaller piece, without actually breaking it.

“The only one that’s feared.”

You stop what you’re doing, still looking into the microscope but not actually paying attention to what was right in front of your eyes.

“I’ve seen the way some of the other kids look at you, bub. Like there’s something wrong with you. I know how it feels to not fit in.” He crosses his arms as he leans against your table, attempting to get your full attention. He clears his throat before speaking again. “I’ve seen you in the halls. Your name is Y/N, right?” You nod, his eyes and yours locked onto each other. “Logan.” He says, reaching his hand out to shake yours. Your hand basically gets engulfed by his as your soft hand meets his, which were rough and still yet soft, that surprised you, considering… “Hank talks about you a lot also. Not like he loves you or anything, he just tells me you’re smart. Like really smart.” He shrugs.

“Hm…” You hum a little. This is the first conversation you’ve had with someone in this school where they’ve actually treated you like a real human.

“Considering the way you explain this stuff, I’d say he’s probably right about you being smart.” He nodded towards the nanoparticles still sitting under your microscope, it was hard to see from even a foot away considering it was the width of a single piece of hair. “So what exactly is a nanoparticle? Or nano…”

“Nanoparticle" is correct. It just like a piece of tech or anything made of tech like certain fibers that can be visible to the naked eye but they’re very small. Just this one piece is the width of 50,000 nanoparticles.” You carefully pick up the string, and gently put it in it’s container.

“And what was that other thing you mentioned earlier?”

“Graphene?”

“Yea.”

“It’s made of about 50 to 100 nanoparticles, and it can be seen with the naked eye through a refraction of light in a mirror or clear substance that has a bend in it.”

“I’m not completely sure what any of that means. But I trust you know what you’re doing.”

“Yea, I’m kind of a nerd.” You chuckle awkwardly, then reach down to pull your bag over your shoulder, your social battery is pretty much near zero for the day, or maybe week. This was you first time ever speaking to Wolverine and you just nerd out on him? What were you thinking?

“Alright, I got food. Where are you heading?” Hank finally comes back, a bag full of boxes with the three of your foods in them in his right hand as he enters the lab, letting the metal door close behind him.

“I’ve got a bit of a headache, I was gonna go back to my room.”

“Well you know the rules. No food in the rooms.”

“Yea, yea. I know.” You sigh, setting your bag back down as he hands you your box of food and you hop onto one of the clean counters to sit down as you eat your food.

“Have you seen Xavier today?” He asks Logan, handing him his food also.

“No, he’s out on some special mission with Mystique right now, won’t be back for about another week.”

“And what does he have you doing? You never leave your room so I’m assuming he's’ got you doing something?” Hank stands next to Logan as they both talk back and forth.

“He has me teaching his third class and fifth class. I guess that one is the anger management class and the other is meditation.”

“Ah, so he’s got you teaching the two classes you used to fail in.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

After working in the lab, a lot shorter than usual, you actually head back to your room. You hate to admit it, but you’ve been ecstatic to meet Wolverine for years, and when you finally get to have a conversation with him, you just geek out on him about nanotech?

As you hang your bag on the wall and remove your jacket only to throw it on the back of your desk chair, you can’t help but want to just smash your head on a wall until you’ve forgotten about everything that’s happened today.

You mope as you walk into the centre of your small room, stopping and staring at the mess on your desk, a bunch of full notebooks covered in little pen markings of maths and science that no one else in the school would understand.

You walk to the desk, take one of the notebooks in your hand that had some free space left, and drop down on your bed. Reaching behind your head, you pull your sweater over your head and discard it on the floor before leaning against your headboard and clicking the back of your pencil until the led is at your desired length.

As soon as the tip of the led touches the paper, your mind wanders. That was so embarrassing… You realise, scribbling random maths into your notebook. I can’t believe I just made a professor hate me too… Not only had you dissociated, but you also completely nerded out. You talked about nanoparticles as if it was the only thing you cared about. You care about more though. You care about the family that was so scared of you they sent you off to this stupid school, calling you a freak and breaking all ties with you. No, you don’t care about them. But you care about your friends so much! You don’t have any friends. Hank is very special to you, he holds a space in your heart. A very, very small space. Yea he doesn’t care about you, you’ve just been able to make about a thousand breaks in his experiments. Then of course he would take all of the credit when he would show it to Professor X.

Why do you even try? I guess working with Hank is the equivalent of the other students going out to the mall with their friends. The only difference is he wasn’t your friend.

You take it back, you had one friend. If you could even call someone you only text cause you’re too scared for actual confrontation, a friend. Nightcrawler- or Kurt. The one guy who’s ever made an actual effort to try and be your friend, he’s just always out on missions. Or so that’s what his actual friends tell you. Maybe you should send him a text and actually verify whether he hates you or not… You get up from your bed and unzip your bag, sticking your hand into the pocket where you always shove your phone, but it’s not there. What the fuck? You take your bag off it’s hook and search the rest of the pockets, and still no phone. You go to your bed, searching under the covers and getting on your knees to check under the bed, still no phone. You check your desk, your discarded sweater, and you sweep the floor with your eyes looking for it, thinking it might’ve just fallen out of your pocket. You hate seeming desperate for a simple device that rots your brain to default, but God that phone is your escape.

“Hey, is everything alright-?” A voice cuts into your messy search as you turn around and your door is cracked just enough for him to stick his head in.

“Sorry, Mr. Howlett, I just can’t find my phone.” You chuckle awkwardly, standing in the centre of your room as he peeks around your room at the mess you’ve created.

“Again, you can call me Logan. I don’t mind it, I prefer it actually. Do you mind if I step in?”

“Yea, it’s fine. Sorry for the mess, I haven’t really had time to clean it.” You nervously link your fingers together in front of you and let your thumb pick at your skin as he comes in, closing the door gently behind him.

“It’s not a mess, just a sweater on the floor and notebooks on the bed.” Sweater on the floor. Of course. Yea, you were standing in the centre of your room, in your shorts and a black fucking clasp on bra. Now you suddenly feel naked standing in front of him, so you cross your arms, hoping to hide at least some of the embarrassment.

“Well uh, what’s up?” You try sounding cool but immediately cringe.

“You left this in the lab.” He tells you, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out your phone, handing it to you backside up, so you could see the glittery phone case, adorned with pink sparkles. “Was gonna give it to you in class but you kids go crazy over your phones.”

“Oh I wouldn’t go crazy…” You tell him, humour in your voice as you awkwardly look around your room, the sheets halfway off the bed and your pillows tossed in the middle, the result in the crazy search for your phone. “Would just be a little annoyed…”

“So is everything okay?”

“Yea, why do you ask?”

“I was knocking on your door and sayin’ your name. but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh,” You laugh dryly. “Sorry, sometimes I get lost in my head and kinda just block out all sounds and sometimes I’ll block out what’s in front of me."

“Oh I see.” What do I say to respond to that? “What were you working on?” Why is he still here?

“Honestly, I don’t know, I was just scribbling.”

“Had enough maths for the day?” He jokes.

“Had enough maths for the month.” You mumble, but then he laughs. A short laugh. But a laugh nonetheless. Isn’t he annoyed by you? Why is he still- “What would you be doin’ if Hank didn’t have you doing all this brain stuff?” Oh.

“Well uh, nothing probably.”

“Not one for hanging out with your friends?”

“Friends? Hah!” You laugh with sarcasm, then walk over to your discarded sweater, bending over to pick it up, deciding to distract yourself with cleaning. “It's not easy for a freak to make friends.” You mumble to yourself, hoping he wouldn’t hear, of course, he did.

“You’re not a freak.” He crosses his arms as you look over your shoulder at him.

“Yea sure. Everyone in the school would so easily disagree with you on that.” You say back, folding the sweater before tossing it into your dirty laundry basket. “Professor X won’t even let me leave the school because he doesn’t trust me. I’m sure you’re no different.” Shit that was supposed to be said in your head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You’d smack yourself right now if it wouldn’t make you look stupid, if he wasn’t in your room still.

“So you think everyone’s the same?” He asks, more of a statement.

“No I- I don’t mean it like that. I just-” He clears his throat.

“Come here.” He demands, looking into your fucking soul. So of course, with a gaze as threatening as his. You stand right in front of him after you walk up to him like Bambi in a traffic headlight. Wobbly, and frozen. “Good, now look at me.” Oh, you forgot that part.

You looked away from his shirt, and tilted your head back to look up into his eyes and for a man who’s so adept at killing his eyes were so soft, and broken…

“If you didn’t randomly blank out, you would’ve also heard Xavier when he told you the only time you could leave, is if it’s with someone else in case there’s an emergency.”

“Emergency from what? Me losing my temper?”

“Exactly that.” Is what shuts you up. “When I said I know how you’re feeling, I meant it.” His voice softens, and you feel your throat knot as you hold back embarrassing tears. “It wasn’t easy for me to make friends either, but honestly I prefer to be in a small crowd. Normally I’m not the one to comfort a student, but you just don’t seem to want to talk to anyone. Why’s that?”

“I’ve tried talking to people. They just give me a look and then walk away.”

“Does that actually happen? Or is that just what it feels like?”

Shit. You hate to admit it, but he makes a point.

What the fuck. Was your next thought as his hand moved up and he gently placed his hand on your cheek.

“I know you hate everyone at this school from the fucking bottom of your heart, but I’m gonna have you try to refrain from hating me. We can strike a deal by letting me take you out of the mansion. I’m sure you’d love to get out, can’t remember the last time you left.”

“Never have.” You whisper, shrugging your shoulders. Your voice is only quiet so your tears aren’t cascading down your face.

“Well if you can just promise to behave, and tell me when you’re getting stressed, then I’ll supervise you like Xavier wants.” He tells you, promising some sort of freedom. “I’m not saying I’m scared of you. If anyone is scared of what you can do, it’s you. Am I right?” You nod. “Use your words, bub.”

“Yea…” Your voice cracks as you barely mutter an entire word.

“Hey, hey…” He says softly, then he suddenly pulls you into a hug. “I’ve got you.” He gently rubs your back, which by the way is still bare since you never got to throw on another shirt. “Just cancel your plans with Hank, I can help you more than he ever will…”

He promises. His fingers gently run over the metal clasps on the back of your bra as you loosely wrap your arms around him, embracing his hug and you nod, not able to formulate any more words as you cry quietly against his chest, your tears wetting his shirt as you both stand there in silence. A quiet smirk on his face as he holds onto you…

[harmonyrae]

Ivy League

Spring Semester : Freshman Year🌸🌷☔️📚

Premise: Based on this post by PomeRinn aka @waterrinmelonn All the boys are modern rich international kids going to a prestigious university. They’re attending Yale, an Ivy League University in the American Northeast. They're all the same age. My FMC will end up with only one of them in the end.

Content Warnings: Mildly Suggestive & Explicit Language. Tooth-rotting fluff. Caleb angst. Mentions of animal abuse (they’re fine) & drugs (but it’s not). To be safe, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 7k

Part One

If you thought going home for winter break would be relaxing, you were very wrong. Right after finals, the student lead newspaper announced they were going to bring on new writers. The deadline for the application, which required a sample article, was before classes began in the spring. You’d spent all break curled up in bed with your laptop, writing and re-writing. 

Caleb had successfully dragged you to a New Years party, but when midnight struck and Marsha Matthews kissed him you left early. To his credit, he didn’t initiate, but he had danced with her most of the night so you can’t blame Marsha for thinking he was interested. He spent the rest of the break trying to apologize. The road trip back to Yale was tense, but you finally broke the silence to try and smooth things over. When he dropped you off at your dorm room things certainly felt a little more normal. 

Tara texted, letting you know she’d be arriving on campus a day late so you had the room to yourself for the night. You made yourself comfortable and revisited your application. You’d written a political piece about voting, a review for a new horror movie you saw with Caleb before Thanksgiving, a historical piece about the architecture at Yale, but nothing felt good enough. It wasn’t you. So you started writing a random short story, hoping it would inspire you.

Childhood best friends who went to college together, finding purpose, plot twists, it was fun to just write for the sake of writing. While you got the creative juices flowing, you still had no direction for the sample. A soft knock at your door makes you jump, you’d left it unlocked since you were in a cocoon of blankets and pillows, far too cozy to emerge to answer the door. 

“Come in!” 

The door opens slowly, the hinges squeaking, Sylus pokes his head inside, smirking when he sees you curled up on your bed. You had the hood of the hoodie Tara gave you for Christmas pulled up so the cat ears flopped forward, you knew what was coming. 

“I didn’t realize you’d like my nickname for you that much, kitten.” 

You roll your eyes and beckon for him to come in. He strolls in, leaving the door open. He sits at the end of your bed, kicking his boots off before tucking his feet under your throw blanket.

“Making yourself at home?” You feel his toe poke your thigh and you swat his foot. He chuckles, damn, you’ve missed that sound.

“What are you working on? The semester hasn’t even started yet.”

Rubbing your temples, you groan, frustration boiling over.

“The student paper is hiring new writers and I… I thought maybe I should apply. Now I’m not so sure. The application is killing me.”

“The student paper? Have you decided on a major then?”

You shake your head, closing your laptop and pulling a giant snowman plushie onto your lap. Your dorm room was still decorated for the holidays and you’re sure Tara won’t want to take it all down until at least February. And you wouldn’t fight her on it. Resting your chin on the snowman’s head, you close your eyes.

“I’m still undecided. But I like writing, so I thought I’d at least apply and see what happens.”

“You should.” He pokes your thigh again. “Let me guess, they want a sample of your writing?”

Opening your laptop, you pull up your best piece and pass it over to him. He reads silently, fully aware that you’re watching his every move. His brows pinch together, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. 

“This is… good.”

“You hate it.”

“No. It is good, it just… isn’t you.” He senses it too.

“I have two days until the deadline. Maybe I should just–”

“I have an idea.” Sylus interrupts. You cross your legs and sit up straighter. “What about… an interview with the son of a famous model?”

You’re gonna throw up.

“And maybe some exclusive pictures from his short lived modeling career?”

“You modeled?!” Your voice cracks and he rubs his chin, trying to appear deep in thought.

“What? You don’t think I’d make a good model?”

Yeah, you’re gonna throw up.

“No! I mean, yes, you would… But I… I just…” He lifts his hand to stop your blabbering.

“I’m sorry, you’re just too fun to tease.” You huff and cross your arms, like a kitten hissing but tucking her claws away. “I modeled as a kid, did a couple shoots with my mom. I’d have to check with her, make sure it’s okay. Your article would probably end up on the internet, don’t want to make her life harder. That energy is reserved for my old man.”

You raise a brow, he’s never mentioned his dad. Now it seems like that is very much on purpose. You lean forward and squeeze your plushie tighter.

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“Do you want to join the paper?” You hesitate, nodding slowly. “Then let me help.”

“You’re sure you want your childhood photos passed around campus?”

“It’s better than someone finding shit online. This way, I control the narrative.” 

He pulls out his phone, holding it to his ear a second later. Your eyes widen, is he calling his mom? Right now? Is this really happening?

“Privet Mama.” Oh good god, he speaks Russian. Of course he does, why are you surprised? 

“Yest' zapros.” 

He speaks quickly, even if you knew basic Russian you doubt you’d be able to follow. You watch him, when he blushes you immediately cover your mouth to stop from smiling. A rough around the edges guy like Sylus blushing is too precious. He glances at you, catching you staring. He smirks and rolls his shoulders back.

”Spasibo, Mama, lyublyu tebya. Do svidaniya.” 

He hangs up, but continues to stare at his phone. Just as you’re about to say something, your phone dings. When you pull up the text from him, you see there’s at least a dozen images attached. Without even looking at the pictures, you launch yourself forward and wrap your arms around his neck. You cringe as you realize how silly you must look, but his hands slide up to hug you back. 

It’s only after you hear someone clear their throat that you move. You look up to see Caleb in your doorway. Your stomach drops, while you knew the hug was innocent, you’re sure it didn’t look that way to him. With Sylus sitting on your bed, half tucked under a blanket. 

“Caleb! Sylus is helping me write my sample article for the newspaper application!”

He nods slowly, his shoulders tense. You wiggle your way out of your cozy cocoon and walk over to him. He hands you a bag of takeout, before turning to leave. You step into the hallway after him and grab his arm.

“Caleb… stop.” He stops, but doesn’t turn around. “He really is helping me with the application. I know it looked like… I know…”

“You said it yourself, Pips.” He spins to face you. “On the drive back, you said we’re adults. We can do what we want, with who we want. You said you wouldn’t stop me, so I won’t stop you.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. You watch him walk down the hall and through the door to the stairwell. You think about chasing after him, sitting him down, forcing him to listen. You know it wouldn’t help make this any easier. You know how you feel. You love Caleb, but you’re not in love with him. Your eyes water the more you think about losing him completely.

“You okay?” Sylus comes up behind you, his voice low. When you don’t respond, he cautiously puts an arm around your shoulder. “I can talk to him, if you want?”

“No. No… Let’s uhh…” You back away from Sylus and re-enter your room, putting the takeout on your desk. “Let’s start your interview. Go over the photos and all that.”

He humors you, lets you avoid the “Caleb situation” for a while longer. He returns to his spot on your bed and you open a new document, deciding then and there to pour your sorrow into writing the best damn sample piece the editors will ever read. 

🌸🌷☔️📚

Your application is immediately accepted and your piece is published in the next issue. Tara made a collage of the photos: glitter glue, stickers, the works. She put it right on the door to your room. Sylus didn’t mind the extra attention, he barely paid any attention to it actually. Girls asked him to sign their copies, even when you - the author - were right next to him. He started putting symbols instead of his name in English. The girls didn’t care, they’d flip their hair and wave as they walked away. When you finally asked him about it, his smile turned devious. 

“It’s Korean.”

“Is it your name?” He laughs. “What are you writing then?!”

“It’s different everytime. Sometimes it’s just ‘rice’ or ‘potato’.” 

You cover your mouth to stifle your giggles. His laugh gets louder, drawing the attention of those around you in the dining hall. 

“You’re a menace.” 

“And you’re my partner in crime.” He says with a wink.

Your class load wasn’t too stressful, more gen-ed courses. But you decided to spice things up, especially since you haven’t declared your major. What possessed you to sign up for a ceramics class? You had two weeks of pottery lessons your freshman year of high school and suddenly you have the confidence to take a college level course? Okay. Sure. Thankfully, you lucked out with Rafayel in your class. When your first attempt at the wheel turned into utter chaos he voluntarily sat next to you. He regularly left class with splatters of clay all over his clothes, but he never complained. 

“I can help you get a feel for it, if you want?” He offered.

“I can’t believe I need a tutor for ceramics.” You mumble, staring at the misshapen lump of clay before you. 

“Come on now cutie… You’re not awful, you’re just not good.”

“Rafayel!” 

He snickers while he moves his stool behind you. Before you can ask, he sits and wraps his arms around you.

“You’ve seen that movie 'Ghost,' right?”

You, in fact, have never seen the movie, but you knew exactly what he was referring to. You tried to push his hands away, your cheeks burning from the proximity.

“Don’t worry, I’m just helping you with your hand placement. I won’t kiss you or anything.” He pauses. “Unless you want me to.”

You toss a sideways glance over your shoulder, catching his wink. You attempt to relax and take a few deep breaths, letting Rafayel settle behind you and take your hands in his. He dips his hand in your water bucket and prepares the clay. Slowly moving your hands, he controls the pedal. He doesn’t apply too much pressure, just enough to let the clay glide through your fingers. His hands slide up to your wrists and your arms tremble slightly, you feel his breath on your neck as he chuckles. 

“Relax cutie, your wrists are too stiff. There, like that. Now apply some pressure here.”

His fingers press on the outside of your hand below your pinkie. At the same time, he lifts your hands higher, bringing the clay into a cylinder shape. You smile, instead of falling to the side the clay holds up. 

“Instead of digging in, use the curve of your thumb… No no, don’t use your arms, let your hands apply the pressure.”

His fingertips trace your thumb before moving to straighten your fingers and directing the clay back down. You can’t hear the rest of the class, or Ms. Brentwood going over the midterm project requirements. Just Rafayel, his steady breaths against your neck, and your heartbeat. 

With his guidance, you learn to make a pretty damn good mug. You draw up plans for your midterm project for a collection of mugs that fit together. You barely realize you’ve designed each mug to suit each of your friends.  🌸🌷☔️📚

Caleb has never given you the silent treatment before, luckily he only lasted a few weeks into the semester before barging into your room. Tara tip toes out and across the hall, you don’t miss how she leaves the boys room door cracked and peeks through. 

“I hate this. Are we just not friends anymore? Is that what this is?” He says, hands on his hips.

You close your laptop, this conversation is long overdue.

“Caleb, you’re my best friend. I… I hate that we haven’t talked.”

He sits at the end of your bed, keeping his distance.

“Then how do we fix this?”

“We talk, like we used to. Attack one problem at a time, no hiding.”

He nods, finally looking up. You can see it in his eyes, he’s afraid. Is he afraid to hurt your feelings or that you’ll hurt his? You’re not sure, but he takes the leap anyway. The conversation  that night stretches on. Tara eventually interrupts to bring you both food and to grab her laptop before retreating back across the hall. There’s no yelling, no pretending, no stone left unturned. By the time he leaves you’re unsure what will happen next with him, but there’s no doubt about how he feels.

“You’re right, there is a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. I’ve always assumed they were one and the same. I never imagined a life where we weren’t together. But, I guess… I guess I have to figure out how I really feel. Just… ugh…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Caleb. I promise.” 

You close the distance and hold him for what feels like hours. He’s tense, but he doesn’t push you away. Regardless of what happens, he’s your closest friend, you love him. And honestly? You won’t let him walk away, not after everything you’ve been through together. 

Caleb still joins the group for movie nights and dinner, but he keeps his distance for a while. You respect his space, letting him come to you. Eventually, he starts smiling again, sharing the latest gossip, showing you pictures of his new model airplane. Your new normal is tested when he shares he has been tapped by a fraternity. The same one Mark “the asshole” Blakely belongs to.

“Sigma Chi? Mark is a member, isn’t he? Why’d you want to be a part of a frat of assholes?” 

You don’t hide your frustration, pushing away the coffee he brought to drive your point home. Someone behind you shushes you and you lift your hand to flip them off. You hear a scoff and roll your eyes. Just because you’re in a library doesn’t mean you have to be silent, fucks sake. Caleb grins, at least your ire is directed at someone else for the moment. 

“Correction. He was a member.”

You raise your brow. Caleb looks at Zayne, who’s sitting beside you. Turning to Zayne, you see a smirk. Great, Sylus is rubbing off on him, he’s smirking now. 

“After what happened at the tailgate, Zayne and I found Nathan Finley - the president of the frat - and informed him about Mark's behavior. Finley took care of it. Turns out he appreciated our efforts and personally tapped me, he wanted to tap Zayne, but…”

“I told him I wouldn’t have time to participate in any fraternity events due to my rigorous course schedule and volunteer activities.”

If Zayne isn’t in class, he’s studying. If he isn’t studying, he’s volunteering at Yale New Haven Hospital. And if he isn’t there, he’s sleeping. He does disappear for a few hours on Tuesday nights, you’ve caught him sneaking out a few times. He still won’t tell you where he’s going. 

“I’m still going to drag you to at least one party before you graduate.” You poke his arm.

“Uh huh, sure.” Sylus’s sarcasm is rubbing off on him too.

Caleb gets accepted into Sigma Chi fairly quickly and is already bragging about the parties. He keeps most of the brotherhood bonding a secret, but given how quickly he’s put on muscle you’re guessing it involves dumbbells. 

So far, you’re enjoying your second semester at Yale. Until the second week of February arrived and threw a curveball in the shape of a social media post announcing the details for a Yale tradition you somehow overlooked. 

🌸🌷☔️📚

“Oh my god! Oh my GOD!” Tara squeals. 

You drop your biology book on your face with a grunt and roll over to look at her. She scrambles off her bed and slips on her snow boots. You swing your legs off your bed and toss your textbook to the side. 

Something’s afoot. 

“What? What is it?” 

She grabs her coat and sprints from the room. You chase after her and watch as she runs down the hall towards the stairwell. 

“Tara? What the hell is going on?!”

“Freshman Screw! This Friday!”

Twirling around, she gives you a pointed look.

“You better find me a good date!” 

And then she’s gone, down the stairwell and out into the snow. By the time you get back to your room you’ve still not quite processed the information she provided. What the fuck is this “Freshman Screw”? Sitting back on your bed, you’re about to pick up your textbook when your phone dings. Tara tagged you in a comment on Instagram. 

The official Yale page was a snoozefest, but the student lead pages were always on top of campus events. You pull up the “Yale Girlies” page and check the post Tara commented on. The post reminds students about an official dance hosted by Student Affairs. Swiping, you read the details. That’s when it clicks and you silently scream.

“Freshman Screw is upon us! Yes, it’s officially known as the First-Year Formal, but we know what it’s all about. Ladies, it’s time to find the perfect date for your roomie. Will their night end in ecstasy? Or will you ‘screw’ them over and save a hottie for yourself? It’s up to you!”

Tara wouldn’t screw you over with an awkward blind date. She’s too nice for that. Plus, she’s been dying to set you up with someone. However, the alternative is just as terrifying. You don’t want your blind date to expect anything from you. Not that you’re opposed to the idea… Shit, you need to find a date for her too!

“This year's theme is ‘Classy Valentine’s’ - you better hope your roomie tells your date to bring you flowers. Remember to make those meet-cutes CUTE!” 

Meet-cutes? You scroll down to read the other comments and find a few people asking the same question. The replies explain the tradition of your roomie setting up a ‘unique’ way for you to meet your date. People share their stories, everything from scavenger hunts to having to wear a silly hat and have your date find you. Tara is not going to let you out of this one. 

Tara teases you the whole week, mentioning different guys she’s considering asking for you. Begging you for a hint about who you found for her. It was actually pretty easy to find someone for Tara, you knew her type and who had a crush on her. She might hate you, but she’s talked about Andrew non-stop since meeting him in her sociology class. He agreed in a heartbeat and offered to help you figure out the “meeting” part. 

“You never know, your date might be closer than you think.”  

You’re sitting on the floor in front of your standing mirror applying your makeup before class when she says this. So of course, you panic. She wouldn’t. Would she?

“He was actually really excited, it was adorable.” She puts a fresh mug of coffee on your desk before grabbing her backpack. “Two more days, babe!”

She slips out of the room before you can interrogate her. This week, you definitely hate her. 

Friday finally arrives, this has been the longest week of your life. It’s rare that the dance falls on Valentine’s Day itself, so it makes sense why they decided to lean into the corniness of the holiday. Your dress is perfect for the theme. Blush pink, a sweetheart neckline, ruffles and rose appliques on the skirt that hits right at mid-thigh. You almost didn’t bring it with you, but your mom reminded you of her 3 golden rules when it came to clothing while you were packing. Quality over quantity, know your colors, and pack for every occasion. 

Tara was still going through her dress options by the time you finished curling your hair. She was torn between a shiny pink mini dress and a sultry red midi dress with cutouts. 

“Try them on again if you’re still not sure.” You offer. 

“Per your instructions, I need to be at the bookstore by 6:30 and I am not going to be even a second late! It’s been killing me all week, I’ve given you more hints than you’ve given me!” 

You smirk and shimmy into your dress. Tara approaches and zips up the back before you even ask. Crouching to secure the straps of your heels, you look up to see her staring blankly into her closet. Finally feeling guilty, you stand and go to her bed to pick up the red dress.

“According to your date, they’ll be wearing a red tie. Go with the red.” Tara squeals and hugs you before shedding her robe to slip on her dress.

You watch from your window as Tara navigates the icy sidewalk in her heels on her way to the library. The only instructions she gave you involved you going to the urban meadows on Science Hill and sitting on a bench. 

“You’ll know which bench, trust me.” 

Trekking through the muddy terrain in strappy heels was not your idea of a good time. Especially since there were still piles of snow and patches of ice. If you fall and ruin your dress, you’re making your mystery date pay for the drycleaning. 

The meadow was barren at this time of year, but there were still string lights from the holidays. And it was peaceful. The sun had set, darkness dropping the temperature even further. But as you walked along the cobblestone path, it felt peaceful. There were only a handful of benches, while you weren’t sure what you were looking for it shouldn’t be too difficult, right?

Sure enough, there was a little red bag sitting on one of the benches. You cautiously sit down and poke the bag. When nothing bad happens, you take a peak inside. Bird food? You look around, there weren’t too many birds out at this time of night. With no note, you’d have to make an educated guess. Tossing a few handfuls out onto the pathway in front of you, you wait. A minute passes, and then another. A cardinal lands and pecks at the seeds, its bright red feathers seem to attract other birds and after another minute you have a little bird audience. You’ve never fed birds like this before, it’s strangely relaxing. 

A loud caw seemingly ruins the moment, followed by twigs breaking. You sit up, suddenly anxious. A loud crack draws your attention to the tree across from you. Looking up, you see something falling. 

THUNK

Birds scatter and fly in different directions as a metal object hits the ground. Hard. Standing, you approach the object and lean forward to inspect the damage. 

“Looks like he still needs some work…” 

You whirl around to see Sylus walking up the path.

“When I lost the signal I assumed a squirrel got him.”

He crouches and picks up the object. Once Sylus dusts it off, you realize it’s a bird. A rather large metal crow. You have a million questions, but all of them die on your tongue as you take in Sylus’s appearance. His signature dark torn jeans remain, but instead of a t-shirt or hoodie, he has a fitted black dress shirt. Tucked in and buttoned up. A red tie hangs loosely around his neck so the top button can remain undone. Instead of a suit jacket, he has his leather jacket. And instead of his go-to boots, he’s wearing dress shoes. You didn’t even know he owned shoes like that. He looks… good. Really good. 

Then it hits you.

“You’re my date?” You didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but your brain feels like mush at the mere thought of being on an actual date with this man.

“Disappointed, kitten?” He sounds… worried? 

“No! I mean, I just… I didn’t… Sorry, my brain is malfunctioning.” You joke.

He laughs, thankfully. He stands and tucks the metal bird under his arm.

“It’s alright, he malfunctioned too. Kinda ruined the surprise, but I tried, right?” 

You eye the bird and raise a brow. 

“Ahh, right. It’s a project I’ve been working on since before break. He’s going to be my final project for robotics next year. A couple upperclassmen told me to get started on my project early if I want to actually pass. Turns out the professor is a hardass.”

“Wait, you built this? Hold on… you said ‘him’? Does he have a name?”

Sylus smiles and steps forward, offering his free arm to you. 

“We should head to the Commons, the party has already started.”

You wrap your hand around his arm and allow him to guide you. He’s careful not to walk too fast, knowing you’re already wobbly in your heels. 

“I’m still deciding on a name.” He muses.

“What’s your favorite at the moment?”

“I’m feeling out ‘Draco,’ but keeping my options open.” 

Sylus makes a pitstop to drop off ‘Draco’ at his room. You’re surprised to find Zayne is gone, when you ask Sylus he shrugs.

“He’s been disappearing on Friday nights now. Not just on Tuesdays.”

“You noticed that too? Do you have any idea where he’s going?” 

He chuckles as he wraps his arm around your waist, keeping you close as you step back outside into the cold. By the time you and Sylus arrive at the Commons, you’ve come up with a handful of theories. Did he join a secret society? Have a secret girlfriend? Started an affair with a teacher? Both of you agree the truth is probably far less dramatic. 

The Commons has been turned into a romantic hideaway. Hundreds of paper hearts hang from the ceiling amongst warm twinkle lights. A makeshift photobooth sits against the backwall, balloon arches and gorgeous flower arrangements offering various backdrops. There’s a few tables and chairs available, each with a luxurious red tablecloth and rose bouquets at the center. A table of treats is fully stocked - Zayne would have a field day. Brownies, cookies, cakes, a chocolate fountain. You make a mental note to sneak a plate out for him. 

The DJ must have been given the instructions to only play cheesy romance songs. You cringe, deciding you will not dance to a single song they played at your Senior Prom. Bad memories. 

“Scale of 1-10, how good are my chances at seeing you dance tonight?” 

You want to make a snarky comment, but lose your nerve with the way the low lighting makes his eyes even more enchanting. He helps you out of your coat and passes it, along with his own, to the coat check attendant. You shiver as you adjust to the temperature, your fingers still numb from your time outside. Sylus offers his hand and you stare. 

“If you’d rather just sit and talk, I’m yours for the night kitten. We can do whatever you like.”

There’s no smirk or wink, he simply offers his companionship and you aren’t opposed. You sigh and take his hand. He immediately covers your hand with his, thawing your fingers with his palms. As you walk through the crowd, you notice a few girls giving you dirty looks. You’re tempted to call out to them, reminding them that their roommates are to blame, not you. Speaking of roommates, you spot Tara dancing with Andrew. The way she’s batting her lashes and swaying her hips tells you all you need to know. She’s a happy girl.

“Tara seems to be enjoying herself.” Sylus whispers into your ear. 

“She’s been flirting with him since last semester. I had to ask him.”

When Tara spots you, she pulls Andrew close, pressing her body against his. She gives you a thumbs up over his shoulder and you cover your mouth to chuckle. She eyes Sylus. She points at him, then points at you, then points at him again. Their silent conversation must have been impactful because Sylus leans in. 

“Dance with me.” It’s not a question, but strangely, you’re not turned off by his command. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you let him lead you towards the dance floor. His hand settles on the small of your back, holding your other hand to his chest. The songs have slowed down, couples swaying, some getting a little handsy. You keep your eyes on Sylus, trying to keep your nerves in check. 

“You still haven’t chosen a major?” His question surprises you, but you nod anyway. “What’s holding you back?”

“I… I guess I just don’t know what I want to do with my life. I don’t want to end up studying something I don’t really like and end up working a job I despise until retirement.”

Without realizing it, you’re much closer to him. Instead of backing away, you allow yourself to melt into his embrace. With your body flush against his, you try to continue the conversation. 

“My dad’s worked in finance his whole life and I can tell he’s miserable. He reminisces about his time in high school and college a lot. How he played football, wanted to coach, but then my mom got pregnant with my brothers.”

“You have brothers?” 

“Oh, yeah, I guess I don’t really talk about them. They’re twins, six years older than me. We weren’t close, they always had each other. But I had Caleb, so…” 

Mentioning Caleb brings on a wave of sadness. Is he attending tonight? Would he be okay seeing you with Sylus? Who is he with? Are they nice? Okay, you’re doomspiraling again… Now you’re flustered, accidentally stepping on Sylus’s foot.

“Shit… sorry.”

“It’s okay. Your brothers, after they were born your dad had to, let me guess, ‘get serious’ and find a career to support a family, right?” 

“Yup… By the time I was born he was in a management position. I don’t know, he’s never been happy. I don’t want that for me.”

“You do realize if you study something you later hate, you can go back to college. Study something else, change careers. Just because your dad didn’t doesn’t mean you can’t.”

The music changed to something more upbeat, but neither of you noticed. He continued to sway and your focus remains on him. 

“I know… I guess I worry that if I get married, have kids, I’ll be in a similar position. No time for silly dreams.”

“There’s always time for silly dreams. No matter how old you get. Or how many responsibilities you have. Don’t settle, but don’t try to predict the future. Allow your interests to change and if that means you have to return to these hallowed halls when you’re 30, so be it.”

He makes it sound so easy, so simple. 

“It’s more complicated than that though.”

“Sure. Life happens. Some of it bad, some of it good. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re capable. And smart. If you want something, I have no doubt you’ll get it.”

His confidence in you is inspiring. You wish you believed in yourself that much. Sylus’s thumb traces your cheek and you wince. He wipes away a tear, you didn’t even realize you were getting so emotional. Sylus leads you away from the dance floor and back to the entrance. He retrieves your coats and helps you into yours. 

“Come on. Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

You don’t argue. You know Tara will be livid that you didn’t get any cheesy photobooth pictures with Sylus, but you have a feeling you’ve ruined your makeup. Sylus brings you back to your dorm, holding your hand as you climb the stairs in wet heels. 

“Do you think Tara will notice if a couple packets of hot chocolate go missing from her stash?”

“Yes.” He hangs his head and sighs dramatically. “But I’ll replace them.”

He follows you into your room and watches as you slip off your heels, shoving your frozen toes into plush slippers. Without changing completely, you hang your winter coat on your desk chair and grab a hoodie. Sylus turns on Tara’s machine and heats up some water while you clean out two mugs. Once you have your hot chocolate, you sit on the edge of your bed with him. A comfortable silence settles and you feel more at peace than you have in weeks. The stress of ‘what to do with your future’ has been eating you alive. 

“Thank you.” You mumble into your mug, just above a whisper.

“Are you thanking your hot chocolate?” 

You hit his arm playfully and he laughs again. That hearty, rich laugh you’ve grown fond of.

“I’m thanking you. I’ve been overthinking this major stuff and I guess I needed someone to put things into perspective. So… thank you.”

He looks at you with a gentle smile. His leg rests against yours, his elbow bumping yours as you take another sip. 

“I meant it, you know. I have no doubt you’ll be just fine. You just have to stop doubting yourself.” He nudges you with his elbow. “You’re pretty impressive when you want to be.”

Before you get the chance to respond, you see movement outside of your door. Leaning forward, you look into the hall and see Zayne trying to unlock his door. You point and Sylus follows your gaze. But instead of being sneaky, Sylus stands and strolls over to the door.

“And where have you been, young man?” His voice acting could use some work.

Zayne jumps, he hunches forward and doesn’t look back.

“Sy-Sylus? That’s not funny.”

Sylus chuckles, but as he gets closer to Zayne his smile falls. 

“Zayne? What do you have there?”

You damn near sprint over to the door to stand on your toes to get a peek. Zayne is still hunched forward, using his body to shield something. Sylus puts a hand on his shoulder and he tries to shrug him off.

“Zayne.” Sylus’s voice turns serious.

“Just promise you won’t say anything.”

Sylus and you exchange a worried glance. Sylus nods and Zayne turns around to reveal a small cardboard box. You step up and reach for the lid, as soon as you open it Zayne is shushing you.

“Oh my god Zayne! Where did you–”

“Can we save this conversation until we are inside the room?” He cuts you off and nods to Sylus, who has the most adorable shocked expression. “Sylus, please…”

Sylus quickly opens the door to their room. All three of you file inside and as soon as the door is closed you’re quietly squealing and pulling the lid fully off the box.

“Oh my goodness, look at these babies!!” 

Inside the box are three kittens, two black and an orange tabby, all three with stunning bright blue eyes. You’re giggling like a fool while the trio stare up at you, but as soon as you notice them shivering you turn to Zayne in a rage. 

“Zayne, they’re freezing!”

Zayne passes you the box and starts gathering blankets and some of his t-shirts to form a little bed in his closet. One of the kittens lets out a tiny meow and you’re tearing up instantly. Reaching out, you let the kittens sniff your fingers. The orange kitten licks your hand while one of the black kittens backs up against the corner silently hissing. 

When Zayne returns he reaches into the box and picks up the black kittens, ignoring their pitiful attempts at swatting his palm. He moves them to the little bed he created. You carefully pick up the orange kitten and let them climb up your hoodie to get closer to your face.

“Zayne. What. The. Fuck.” Sylus whispers.

“They were rescued today, the only foster available can’t get them until the morning. There’s no one staying at the shelter overnight tonight and they need to be monitored. I would have called, but I knew you were going to the event.”

You sit down next to the closet and try to pet the other kittens. They’ve calmed down a bit, now that they’re no longer being jostled around. Zayne moves his space heater closer before grabbing a plastic baggie of a white powder from his pocket.

“Oh kittens and drugs, great!” Sylus sighs, flopping down onto his bed.

“It’s not drugs, it’s kitten formula.” 

Zayne mixes a bit of formula with water. All three kittens start meowing when he kneels down to offer the mixture. Placing the orange kitten with its siblings, you watch as they clumsily eat their meal. You turn to Zayne and cross your arms.

“Okay, spill. What the hell is going on?”

Sylus moves closer, sitting on Zayne’s bed to listen in. 

“I’ve been… volunteering at the animal shelter since the semester began. Every Tuesday and –”

“That’s where you’ve been going?! Not an affair with a teacher, you owe me 5 bucks.” Sylus claps and you shush him.

“...Every Tuesday and Friday night. They do a lot of legal work to rescue animals from abusive homes. These kittens were rescued from a breeder who… I’d rather not say what they did. These are Ojos Azules, they’re a rare breed, very valuable. If I left them at the shelter they might have become more hostile by the time the foster showed up.”

“Well this little guy isn’t hostile at all.” You rub the top of the orange kitten’s head. 

“True, but his sisters are very anxious.” He picks at a bandage on his hand. “I couldn’t leave them.” 

You look at Sylus, who is rubbing his temples with a somber expression. 

“Zayne, if our RA comes by…”

“I know… I know. It’s just for tonight. I swear.” 

“Sylus?”

He looks up and immediately regrets it. You hold up the orange kitten, a milk droplet stuck to his chin, his plump belly swaying. You hide your face behind the cat.

“Sylus, please don’t make me go back out into the cold. I like it here with the nice man with glasses. It’s warm and cozy.”

Zayne smiles, the first uninhibited smile you’ve seen from him since you met him. Sylus rolls his eyes and groans, he stands and starts cleaning up some of his things off the floor.

“Fine, but if they piss on anything, you two are cleaning it up.”

You quickly run back to your room to change into old sweats and a t-shirt, leaving your dress on the floor. Zayne has made up a makeshift litter box in the hopes they’ll ‘figure it out.’ Sylus checks the hall every 30 minutes like clockwork to make sure the RAs don’t make their rounds too early. You remind him they’ll most likely skip rounds given the event and how many ‘unauthorized sleepovers’ there might be. Still, he checks and shushes you every time you giggle too loudly over their feline guests. 

“Orange kitten, what would you name him?” Zayne gives you that look. “Oh come on, humor me.” He sighs.

“I’m not sure. Maybe Hippo, for Hippocrates? Or… Galen?” You stare at him. “He was a Greek physician and philosopher.”

“Okay, Sylus!” He looks up from where he’s hunched over his mechanical bird. “One of the girls, what would you name her?”

He leans back, not even bothering to argue with you. You know damn well it’s a bad idea to name them, you can’t get attached. 

“Lilith.” 

“Really? A demon?”

“The one who hissed at you. That one. She’s a little demon.” He turns back to his work, but glances over, smiling as the very kitten he’s referring to falls asleep in your arms. 

“I suppose you’ll be naming the last one?” Zayne asks.

“Dream.” You reply.

Sylus stops tinkering for a moment, smiling to himself. He finally joins you and Zayne on the floor to socialize with the kittens. 

It’s not long before you’re fast asleep with all three curled up on your chest. Zayne drapes a blanket over your legs and angles the closet door to keep you hidden. He takes a break to take a shower while Sylus keeps watch. He stands over you, admiring the way you scrunch your nose and huff in your sleep. A knock at the door makes you twitch, but you remain asleep. Sylus cracks the door open.

“Is my roommate here?” Tara stares at him, her expression a mix of hope and worry. Sylus is relieved it’s just Tara, he lets the door open a bit wider. Tara’s eyes widen, she crosses her arms and smirks. Sylus had shed his formal attire when you changed into sweats. He was changing into a hoodie when Tara knocked. She stares at his bare chest and waits for him to explain. As it dawns on him what this must look like, he shakes his head.

“No no no… now hold on. I was just changing. We weren’t–”

Tara holds up her hands. 

“You don’t kiss and tell, I get it. I was just making sure she’s okay before I head over to Andrew’s. Tell her I’ll be back in the morning?” Sylus nods. “And use protection!” 

Sylus grunts as Tara skips down the hallway towards a waiting Andrew. Sylus quickly closes the door and pulls his hoodie on. He sits beside you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. The orange kitten stretches and almost rolls off your chest, Sylus quickly grabs him. Instead of putting him back, he lifts him up, holding him at eye level. He lets out a tiny meow before yawning, his tongue sticking out and his eyes squeezing shut. Sylus closes his eyes briefly, steeling his nerves. When he opens them to see the baby falling asleep in his hand.

“For fucks sake…” 🌸🌷☔️📚

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: (If you'd like to be added to the Ivy League taglist comment a🎓) @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @alastor-simp @drama-trauma @0tterteeth @mysticcollectionvoid @godzillaglitter @godoffuckedupcats @klmpun @ariallaisawesome @spidy-spider01 @ankitavminkook @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname @hauntedbysmutm0 @withering-dream @lostwingz2236 @simpfortheseven @bubbleteakittyy @stellar-seas @babylilxc @havenhope-art @lly5duck @freddy-2002-blog @sylus-hunter @plzdonutpercieveme @saybeyonce @red-f1sh-blue-f1sh

AN: A few things: (1) Yes, 'Freshman Screw' is a real thing at Yale. (2) Zayne & cats are the perfect combo, you cannot change my mind. (3) Sylus with an orange cat is everything to me. (4) Finally wrote that pottery wheel scene with Rafayel - bless. (5) Mephisto being incomplete and falling from a tree makes me laugh every time.

AN #2: I am in a writing frenzy, I wake up excited to write it. So, it'll probably be updated fairly quickly. It's just SO CUTE OKAY!