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jordiemeow · 4 months ago

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You wouldn't make love with him. You'd make art.

pairing: literature student / poet!patrick zweig x reader

summary: patrick is a genius in everything but matters of the heart. but you don't make it easy on an insecure boy's poor soul.

Patrick doesn’t know how to do any of this—he, an eloquent speaker, master of rhetoric, a man who knows almost all the dead and living languages of the world. He has always guarded his secrets as carefully as Odysseus hides his true name from the Cyclops.

Pathetic, is it not?

For a man such as him to be so utterly smitten by you. Enraptured by every little thing about you, from the way you toy with his fingers while he recites Virgil to you, or the way your stockings are always full of holes. The smudge of lipstick always present on the edge of your mouth from your lips planting against his own, or the way you pocket each of the poems he writes for you despite your outwards protests.

He’s a paradox. A contradiction. A romantic, but a cynic. A writer, but a misanthrope. And worst of all, a modernist who secretly longs for bohemians and decadence. A paradox of sophistication and nihilism. A vision of cashmere, draped in apathy.

It’s like he doesn’t know who he is anymore, when he's with you. Like you’re taking all the broken, ugly, shameful parts of him, and making it beautiful. It’s horrifying, but he wants more. Please.

And now he has to laugh, at how absurd it was that this girl who probably hated the world preferred to be around him, of all people. He knows all of this sounds terribly trite and unoriginal, but he couldn't help it anymore than he could stop the sun from setting. None of this makes any sense, and yet he has never seen something with more clarity in his life.

He loves you.

But, as usual, the words stick in his throat, and he exhales as through trying to exhale his nerves and uncertainty along with the oxygen into the stale air of his bedroom. He’ll scribble poems and declarations of adoration into a worn notebook his grandma bought him, but when it comes to uttering such confessions aloud? God, he’s a coward. So, all that comes out is a teasing:

“You know I like it when you’re rough, darling, but you really ought to ease up on the make him bleed thing a little—“

That earns him a bit of pressure added to his back, and a hiss of his own making. Patrick is quick to offer a half-grimace half-smile over his shoulder as an apology, bracing his hands against the sheets while you continue with your ministrations. Dabbing at carmine incisions along his bare back that look oddly reminiscent of a werewolf’s claws. He supposes you are quite the beast in bed together. The thought makes him stifle a snort, which quickly becomes a hiss of pain when you wipe over the nail scratches raking up his skin.

“Ow, fuck, be careful—"

“Don’t pout, Pat,” you chide, your voice low as you cut off his whine of a protest. There’s a teasing lilt in there somewhere, a hint of your dry humour creeping into the words. “It’s unbecoming of you.”

“I do not pout,” he scoffs, his eyes flicking over to meet yours, narrowed slightly. “At what point have I ever pouted?”

Patrick knows that he should not push his luck without you—not when he’s perched naked by the end of the bed and entirely at your mercy as you wield an alcohol-soaked handkerchief. Although the air between you is not quite the icy chill he expects it to be. On the contrary, it’s almost playful.

“Besides,” he continues defiantly, resolutely ignoring the stinging down his back, “I do not appreciate being attacked during… well, you get the idea.” A lazy smile flutters on his lips and he angles his body around, his hands finding the curve of your waist to tug you closer. "You are awfully passionate, you know."

He has a very peculiar way of apologising, one that is often too self-absorbed to be even considered an apology. And Patrick Zweig has never been particularly good at those, though his mother always insisted he should learn a thing or two about proper manners. Not that she was ever very present, mind you—boarding school will do that to you, he supposes.

Your fingers are sure and practiced as you tidy him up methodically, the pad of your thumb gently skimming over a small patch of inflamed skin. “Attacked? Oh, how you exaggerate so,” you scoff, a hint of mild amusement in the depths of your eyes that you hide between narrowed eyes as you focus on your meticulous task.

“I do not exaggerate,” Patrick insists through gritted teeth, his other hand grasping the sheets in a fist. The pain is not the issue here, though he does flinch upon feeling the gentle caress of your fingers over one of the indentations. “See, that’s the difference between us,” he continues, his voice now laced with an exasperated air. “You take no prisoners. Absolutely ruthless."

It’s hard, as always, to determine whether his irritation is genuine or just an act to mask his discomfort at your lack of tenderness. He hates the feeling of being so vulnerable when you’re so… put together, like you take no pleasure or interest in the moment you just shared. Not even when the evidence is stained crimson along his back.

He shifts around, pulling you closer without preamble, his free hand wrapping around your wrist to still your motions. Something in his eyes has changed, the pools of blue once glinting with playfulness giving way into a more serious look. His lips pull into a tight line as he speaks again, his voice carefully measured.

“I don’t appreciate your coldness. You act like a bloody automaton at times,” he mutters, his jaw clenching imperceptibly. But he knows you can pick up on any of his discreet little ticks at this point. He's grown to be utterly transparent to you, and he hates it, because it is the exact opposite of what you're becoming to him. More and more of a mystery with each interaction. He loves you, but you are so bloody difficult sometimes.

“I’m not being cold. I’m patching you up, darling,” comes your light reply. Your free hand reaches up, thumb brushing over a smudge of rouge lipstick still present on his kiss-bitten mouth.

It’s the use of the pet name that gets to him the most, the way your sweet voice wraps around that single word. His frown deepens slightly. “Patching me up,” he echoes under his breath, his grip on your wrist loosening in favour of capturing your palm against the bed.

“Stop treating me like a fragile thing that might shatter with one wrong word. I am not made of glass.”

There’s something in the petulant way he says the words, the mixture of anger, frustration, and something else that is a little more difficult to define—at least for Patrick, who isn’t exactly known for his emotional intelligence when it comes to his own psyche. Said in a manner only a young man who has had the entire world served to him upon a silver platter could possibly manage.

Patrick Zweig has always been a self-absorbed, conceited ass, but he’s never been good with those who treat him with such apparent detachment. He’s the one who’s supposed to be casually flippant, indifferent. He is the one who’s supposed to be in control.

But you do not seem to care. Not even a little bit.

He doesn't quite recognise the desperation that colours his voice. He’s used to your indifference, the way you can just switch off whenever you want, but it stings. The more he tries to deny it, the more his own walls threaten to crack.

“At least look like you care instead of pretending that the last thirty minutes never happened,” Patrick snaps, his fingers tracing the delicate vein on your inner wrist absently, as if seeking comfort amidst the darkening atmosphere.

And you do soften somewhat. You settle upon the bed next to him, now dressed in only his half-buttoned shirt and your underwear, legs drawn up beneath you as your gaze drops towards your hand, and the way his fingers skim across your veins. It's almost uncomfortable, the tender touch in such a vulnerable place. You’re half-tempted to wince and withdraw your hand.

But it's Patrick. So, you do not. You allow it, even it makes you feel like you’re ready to claw your way out of your own skin. You allow it, because you love him, even if he is insufferable at the best of times.

Like now, for example.

"Sorry," you murmur, and it's not clear whether the apology is for the injuries along his back or the fact he's upset with your demeanour. Either way, you place a chaste, remorseful kiss to his shoulder.

Perhaps it’s your soft voice, or the light touch of your lips against his shoulder—but the tension in Patrick’s body is replaced by something lighter, something that could almost be mistaken for… relief. Something so unlike him. There is something about your words, your tone, the fact that you have given him any response that matters.

His grip on your wrist slackens, fingers sliding down the smooth curve of your palm before lacing through yours. “I don’t understand you sometimes,” he says quietly, his gaze fixed on your hands now intertwined against the sheets.

It’s his way of saying he forgives you, that the brief argument has been put behind you. For now, at least. His thumb brushes against the back of your hand in an almost absent-minded gesture; in truth, it’s more to soothe himself than anything else. The anger that was bubbling underneath the surface seconds ago is gone without a trace.

“And stop being so detached,” he adds in a soft whisper, his eyes finally lifting up to meet yours.

Patrick knows that it’s not easy to get a reaction out of you, that you’re guarded, that you’re reserved. He's used to your stoicism, to your tendency of shutting him out at the first hint of his vulnerability. He’s used to your coldness, but it never fails to annoy him, especially when he’s hurting and wants to just feel you.

His hand, still clasped around yours, pulls you closer, his free arm sliding around your waist. “You could at least act like it meant something.”

"It does. You do," you murmur insistently. Your own arms loop around his middle, chin hooking over his shoulder, although you’re careful to avoid the lingering passion-induced wounds.

His expression softens slightly, a mixture of relief (from hearing those words) and affection (from your chin against his shoulder) washing over his features. He takes a moment, savouring the feel of your body against his, the warmth of your breath on his cheek. The way your knee presses against his thigh.

He knows you have a hard time with expressing feelings, and words of affection from you are always hard-earned. They are not freely given, and Patrick knows that he treasures them even more because of it. His chest expands in a deep sigh, his eyes fluttering closed.

"Don't shut me out."

He's long since accustomed to the fact that you will never open up fully, that your relationship will always be one-sided in a way, with him baring his soul while you withhold yours. But it's the distance that he can't stand, the way you can retreat into yourself without warning.

His fingers tighten around your hand while his other hand rests on the small of your back, keeping you close to him. He's not letting you run from this conversation; one of you has to be brave for once. "It's almost like you're ashamed to be with me."

"No, that's not it at all," you reply, your voice quiet. It's an uncharacteristic softness, the way you speak when he gets in his head like this. A rarity. Or in the tender embraces you share after sex, reserved just for him. "You're the only good thing in my life sometimes, Pat."

Patrick almost wishes you could be less reserved for him, less protective and guarded. But he knows that it's wishful thinking. He's resigned to the fact that your detachment is part of you, your armour, your defence.

He's used to it, but it doesn't mean he likes it.

"Yes, but—" He begins, his thoughts cut short by the gentle touch of your fingers against his knuckles. You always do this. It's a habit you've picked up from him. Always toying with each other's hands when you're together. Something about the touch makes his chest tighten, and he almost forgets what he wanted to say.

He lets out a shaky, uneven breath, his forehead dropping against the curve of your shoulder exposed by the half-buttoned shirt. Part of him wants to tell you everything, how much he cherishes moments like these, how much your words mean to him—how much you mean to him.

But he's never been as eloquent as you are, even with a litany of poems under his belt. There's a difference between speaking them out loud and confessing them onto a page. So the words die on his lips. Something about the comfort of your touch silences any protest he has, even when it's only in his head. His fingers tighten around yours, and he places a brief kiss to your collarbone.

"Stay the night?"

"Mhm, okay," you hum in confirmation. You place your own kiss to the side of his head, directly into the dark chocolate strands of hair. The smell of sweat and sex still lingers between you, a welcome reprieve from the subtle tension a few moments before.

He allows himself to take some comfort in it, the knowledge that you will stay, that you will remain here with him. Patrick knows that it's not so simple, that you may yet disappear again, return to being that detached girl who could not care less about him—but for now, you are here. Warm and soft against his body.

One of his hands trails up to tangle in your soft hair, guiding your chin up to meet his eyes. And then he leans closer, his lips finding yours in a slow, unhurried kiss. His mouth moves over yours gently; he can still taste a hint of your lipstick underneath his tongue, a faded berry stain that smears between you.

And he takes a moment to just relish in it, the soft press of your lips together, before pulling away to speak into the scant air between you. "Sometimes I wish you'd be more demonstrative with me," he murmurs, entirely without thinking, his eyes fixed on your full, bitten-red lips. You don't even need lipstick like this, he thinks. Not when he can stain them red for you.

Patrick sighs, when his words are repeated in his mind—not that he has any intentions of taking it back. He's been craving your attention ever since you started this whole thing, ever since that night back in September, an entire season ago, but he hasn't ever been bold enough to ask for it. Not until now.

It was supposed to be a thoughtless confession, a passing remark, but the second the words leave his lips, he realises he meant them. Deeply. He wants your affection, your attention. Your love. Not this aloof, indifferent version of you that is always slightly removed and out-of-reach. He wants you to care.

"Demonstrative..?" You prompt after a moment of subdued silence. You release his hand, only to loop your arms around his neck in a loose embrace.

"Mhm."

His voice is low, the sound of it muffled by the way his mouth is pressed against your skin, his breath warm and uneven against your exposed collarbone. But there is an edge to his words—a hint of something more vulnerable than what either of you are used to.

"More affectionate," he clarifies after a moment, the words rushed. As if getting them out fast enough will lessen the inevitable blow of your scorn for being so weak. "More loving."

He feels almost like a child, begging for attention. Maybe he's searching for what his mother never gave him in you. That thought is a little too much to unpack right now, though. Especially when just your close proximity is making his head spin, his longing for you overwhelming any hesitation about voicing his thoughts. He knows that he's pushing further than usual, the words tumbling out as if he's physically compelled to say them.

But he can't help it.

The need for affection, devotion, is suffocating. He's not used to asking for more, to actually having to put his thoughts in words. Everyone else just gives him what he needs. The challenge is what drew you to him in the first place, but he is beginning to realise that he may have taken a bite of something more than he can chew.

His face is buried against the crook of your neck, lips grazing slowly over your pulse point. It isn't even fluttering, as if this doesn't have the same effect on you that it does on him. Truly maddening.

It is too much, perhaps. Too much honesty, too much neediness. But he cannot help the way his heart aches at the thought of your indifference, the way his soul cries for your love. His hands slide slowly up your back, tracing the warm skin just under the edge of your borrowed shirt. They don't stop until they reach the nape of your neck, his fingertips playing with the smooth skin and hairs there.

"Please?" He whispers against the shell of your ear. The quiet plea hangs heavily in the air, and for a moment, Patrick is tempted to just blurt it all out. To put all his cards on the table and let the pieces fall where they may. But he pushes the words down, locking them away in the depths of his heart.

"I love you," you say, tilting your head to catch his mouth in another languid, gentle kiss. A thousand words that you wouldn't dare speak aloud poured into the tender gesture, before you break free. But Patrick can't help but wonder whether it's a genuine confession or merely something to placate his aching soul. "I'm not good at this whole... romance thing, you know."

He shuts his eyes briefly at the sound of your words, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He does not trust himself to speak, his heart stuck in his throat.

I know, he wants to say. I know you're bad at this. You're bad at love and affection and vulnerability and relationships. But I need you to try. For me.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead he lets out the breath he's been holding and tugs you that little bit closer, fingers trailing slowly over the smooth curve of your spine.

"Yes, I know," he mutters. His tone is that of a sad, resigned acceptance of the fact that you have walls around your heart.

That this is it.

No tenderness, no declarations, no loving words other than those to appease him. You are fond of him, perhaps even fond of him too much, but he cannot expect you to love him in the way he does. He cannot have the love he desperately craves, and he is beginning to realise that there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.

He's not used to feeling so powerless.

A hint of bitterness creeps into his chest at the thought, and a part of him wants to pull away. He wants to put some distance between you, to distance his heart from this girl who does not love him but whom he loves with his entire being.

But it's impossible to resist the warm press of your skin, the soft brush of your fingers against his hair. He cannot push you away, and instead holds you even tighter against his chest. Some form of affection is better than nothing. Anything is better than nothing.

And that is when Patrick realises that no matter how much he loves you, no matter how much he craves more affection, he will take anything that you are willing to give him.

His mouth trails along your jawline, planting gentle kisses there; he's lost in the warm, familiar scent of your skin against his lips, the feeling of your soft body against his. There is a certain resignation in his touch, a bittersweet acceptance that this will be enough.

His mind is still spinning, his thoughts muddled, but his body responds easily where his brain cannot. The touch of his lips against your skin grows more urgent. Despite his realisation, he craves you, and if this is all he can get, he'll take full advantage of that.

His lips return to your mouth in a hungrier kiss, the desperate need for you seeping into the way his tongue presses at the seam of your lips. His hands begin to roam the length of your body, tracing against the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips. He needs this, he needs this, and his touch grows more frantic with each passing moment. He can feel the bitterness begin to wash away, replaced with something else.

Something familiar. Desire.

Despite his earlier realisation, his need for you does not subside. No, it does not subside, instead replaced by a different need. His fingers move to the buttons of the shirt, a gentle tug in a silent plea for more—for your clothes to come entirely back off, for more skin against skin.

"Tired," comes your protest against his mouth. But you don't break away from him, hands still threaded into his hair. "I mean, we've already fucked, Pat."

His breath stutters in his chest at that, because he's not sure if it's an excuse for you to stop here, end this, stop them, or if you're simply tired.

It's not that different, he can't help but think. Not that different.

His lips trail over your neck, planting a line of hot, slow kisses down the side, but there is a hint of resignation in the way he touches you now. "You sure?"

"Mhm," you mumble. Your hand cards gently through his curls, the touch almost apologetic in nature. "We can cuddle, though."

Patrick almost lets out a sigh, his lips pausing against your throat. He's trying to push down any disappointment that threatens to break past the surface.

You do not want more. You're tired, you're done with him for the night.

It's fine. It's okay.

He presses one last kiss to the place where your neck meets your shoulder, the sigh that follows almost inaudible even in the silence of his room. "Yeah. Cuddle."

His arms loosen their grip around you to give you room to pull away, although a part of him doesn't want to. A part of him wants to hold onto you, to keep you close forever. But he does not want to come off as even more pathetic than he already has tonight.

Instead he settles for slowly sitting back against the headboard, opening his arms in a silent invitation. You shift back up the bed to join him, tucking in against him, head pressed against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around you again, holding you close to his chest. A kiss is pressed to the top of your head, and he tries to find comfort in the sense of closeness.

But your words from earlier keep coming back to his mind.

I'm not good at this whole romance thing, you know.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and tries to settle against the pillow. Despite having you in his arms and the solace it should give him, he can't help the way he feels a pang of discomfort at your words. He's not asking for romance, necessarily. Not for flowers and poetry (ironically) and grand demonstrations of love.

He just wants your affection. He just wants to be wanted. He just wants to feel loved.

"Does it hurt?" Your voice cuts through the silence after a while, reaching up with a hand to trace the tender skin at the back of his shoulder. He lets out a soft, somewhat strained breath at the feeling of your fingertips over the sensitive skin there. It's not pain, exactly. More of a warm, almost aching sting around the scratches.

"it's fine," he mutters, and he's not entirely sure if the answer is referring to the physical wound or the emotional one. It's hardly much different at this point. No matter what happens, you always inflict him with something.

A beat passes, then another.

He keeps his eyes closed, listening to the silence, to the sound of your intermingled soft breaths. He can feel his own heartbeat, the steady thump against his ribs, but it's almost as if his chest is cold. As if there's something missing.

That familiar lump rises again in his throat, and when he speaks, his voice feels strained. As if it's been a week of not using it, rather than just two minutes.

"You're not falling in love with me, are you?"

"I told you I loved you five minutes ago, Pat. Sometimes it is a marvel that you are a scholar at all with that memory of yours," you say, your tone light as the hand on his shoulder trails down until your palm is flat against his heart, right next to your head.

And his heart, which had been thumping steadily against his chest, stutters at the sound of your words. He opens his eyes and looks down at the top of your head, his fingers tracing absent little circles against the skin of your forearm.

You had said the words—I love you—back in January, and now again tonight. Does that not mean you love him?

"That's not what I meant," he says, quiet and gentle, almost fragile.

"Then what did you mean?" You ask. You can feel the way his heart is picking up, the steady thump thump thump picking up into something more erratic.

Patrick swallows, his throat tight and dry, and another shaky breath escapes his parted lips as he grapples for words. "Like... emotionally. Emotionally in love."

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You love me, you've said that. But you're not in love with me. Not the way I'm in love with you," he goes on, his words quiet and faltering. He just wants you to need him in the same way that he needs you. Like water in a desert, or the way a body needs a heart. You are his heart, or at the very least you're in possession of his own.

"Pat, I'm your girlfriend," you say, tilting your chin to look up at him. "I wouldn't have accepted such a title if I wasn't smitten with you, you know."

He has to bite back something between a scoff and a sigh. That's the thing. That's the difference. This isn't about the title you give it, it's about what's under the title. About the true emotional depth behind the world girlfriend.

"Yeah," he says, softly and bitterly. "My girlfriend."

His fingers tighten reflexively around your arm, and he has to force himself to relax. "I see the way you look at me, you know," he continues, his words low but laced with an unmistaken hint of vulnerability. One that surprises even himself. "I know you care about me, that you like me in some way. Love me, even. But I'm not what you need. And I'm certainly not your first choice."

"Then who is my first choice?" There's almost a challenge in the way you ask it, despite the tenderness of your hand against his heart. And he almost laughs at the question. Are you really that oblivious? He shakes his head, even if you can't see it, and answers with a single word.

"Art."

You actually jerk up at that. The way you look at him is somewhat incredulous, or perhaps even disgusted that he could say such a thing out loud.

"Don't be so ridiculous," you say, your words coming out a tad bit harsher than expected. And his chest aches at the way you move with such speed, the harshness of your voice and the hardness in your eyes at his words.

"Why? Because it's a little too true?" He says, his words tight and bitter. "C'mon. You and I both know you've got a thing for him." He props himself up on his forearms, shifting to match your upright position. "I'm not trying to be ridiculous," Patrick continues, a hint of frustration injected into his flurry of words. "I'm just trying to get you to see it. To see how you really feel, about him, about us... about me."

He knows how the words sound, and that you will undoubtedly take them as some sort of criticism or rejection, as if he hadn't wanted you there. But you both know the truth, he thinks. Patrick swallows, and his heart feels lodged in his throat. "You only chose me because he turned you down."

"Oh, piss off, Patrick," you say, the words—his given name, as opposed to the Pat you've always called him—practically sneered at him. "That's not what happened at all. I don't know how you've managed to jump to that conclusion."

He scoffs, and his heart twists painfully in his chest. It's hard not to grow frustrated, the bitter hurt at both your words and the situation he's fabricated in his head bordering on anger.

"It's not that much of an exaggeration, and you know it," he shoots back, his voice increasingly tight and strained. "You were desperate that night. You only came back to me because you knew I'd get on my knees and worship the ground you walk on, no questions asked."

The words are like acid in his mouth, but he can't help but feel a sense of bitter satisfaction—of victory—seeing the way you react. And he knows it's unfair, but he's too riled up right now (a problem of his own making, naturally) to care.

“You knew I’d come running the moment you called. You wanted that, you wanted me to drop everything and come crawling to you again, begging at your feet.”

"I've never wanted Art, you delusional prick," you scowl. And then you withdraw yourself suddenly, the movement almost violent in the way you disappear from his arms so quickly it's like you were almost never there.

You sit at the edge of the bed, legs draped over the edge as you card a frustrated hand through your messy hair. And at that sudden withdrawal, Patrick almost feels like something has been wrenched out of him, his hands clenching around empty air as you move away. He sits back against the headboard, his eyes fixed on your slumped figure at the edge of the bed, the sudden distance in the room almost palpable.

He wants to reach out and pull you back to him, to bury his face in your neck and kiss you until he can’t remember why he’s angry. But he doesn’t. Instead he swallows the words bubbling in his throat and lets the silence fall.

There’s a sense of resignation in the quiet that envelops the room. Patrick can feel the tension between you, the weight of all the things you’re refusing to say, while you stew at the edge of the bed.

He watches you, taking in the slope of your shoulders and the way your fingers are tangled in your hair (a nervous habit of yours, he's come to learn, but it seems more aggrieved than anxious at the moment), and his own heart aches with the need to bridge the distance between you.

But he doesn’t. Not yet. There’s something he has to say first.

“You’ve never wanted Art?” His voice is quiet, and he can feel the resentment brewing at the back of his throat. “You’ve never even thought about it?”

He’s grasping for something, anything, anything at all to convince himself that he’s wrong.

“Answer me honestly, and don’t you dare lie.”

"I can't believe you would even say that," you say, shaking your head. Your gaze burns into the ground beneath your bare feet, your knee bouncing. You're itching for a cigarette, but you can't bring yourself to move to get one right now.

"No, Patrick. Art's a friend, at most."

He almost scoffs at the words, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, really. And it’s not that he doesn’t believe you, either.

It’s just that he wants to. He needs to.

“Bullshit,” he mutters. “I see the way you look at him, the way you act around him. I’m not stupid.”

God, he’s grasping, and he knows it.

“You keep coming back to me because you know it’s safe, you know there’s no risk,” He scoffs, bitter with self-pity. Or maybe self-sabotage. “You know I’ll always be here, at your beck and call, because I’m in love with you, and you know how much that hurts me. But God forbid you ever let yourself fall for me too. That might actually be a challenge. That might actually need effort from you.”

"Patrick Zweig, if you're going to sit here and accuse me of being in love with your best friend and not you, my fucking boyfriend," you snap, turning your head back towards him. "I'm going to walk out that door right now. I'm not doing this with you."

His chest tightens uncomfortably at those words, at the threat of you leaving, of you walking out the door and never looking back. But he can’t back down, not now. Not when he’s so sure of this. He needs to know. He has to know.

He takes a breath, and ploughs on. Might as well dig his own grave at this point.

“I wish you would,” he scoffs, his eyes fixed on you in challenge. “I wish you would have walked out a long time ago.”

His heart aches as the words leave his mouth, the bitter irony not lost on him. He can see that they cut you, the way your shoulders sag and your expression clouds, and a small part of him hates himself for doing it. But there’s something else, some twisted, masochistic part of him that relishes the hurt he’s causing. Because at least you feel something.

He laughs, a harsh, hollow sound, even to his own ears. “Maybe you should leave this time, for good.”

"Maybe I should, Patrick," you snap in reply, your words nothing short of biting. The only thing that's stopping you from getting up and storming out right now is the anchor of the regret you know you'd feel as soon as the door was shut. "Run off into the sunset with Art, shall I? And you can go off and find a girl willing to write you the little sonnets and love poems you so clearly need."

A volatile mixture of hurt and anger and resentment wells up in his chest at that. Mocking his adoration for poetry is a low blow, and you both know it. He's never asked that of you—that’s not your way of showing affection. It’s his. A way of expressing his love, and you act like it's some inconvenience?

“Oh, I’ll find one. You don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I’ll find someone who actually wants me, instead of someone who just keeps me around because I’m convenient.”

He knows he’s treading dangerous waters now, that one wrong word might set you off like a powder keg. But he can’t seem to stop himself, the words tumbling out of his mouth like a flood he has no hopes of containing. At this point, he doesn’t even want to.

“I’ll find someone who sees me as something more than just a fallback, someone who actually cares about me, not just about what I can do for her.”

"And what can you do for me, huh? Except sit there and whine about the fact I'm supposedly in love with your dear old pal?" You fire back.

His heart aches at those words, the accusation like a knife to his chest.

Patrick swallows, his voice tight. “I have been nothing but devoted to you. All these years, everything I ever do is for you. I would drop anything, anyone, at your command.”

He scoffs. “I would literally take a bullet for you,” he says, the words practically spat out.

“And all you’ve ever given me is your scraps of attention,” He continues. “You come and go as you please, taking whatever you want from me with no regard for my feelings, and you have the audacity to act like I’m asking for too much?”

"I have never once told you that you were asking for too much, Patrick. What I am saying, is that it's absolutely ridiculous that you could accuse me of... of what? Wanting to be unfaithful to you, with Art, no less? Am I supposed to just take that in my stride and not act as if it doesn't make me sick to my stomach to hear that?" You say, the words pouring out of you, laced with derision and perhaps just a little bit of... anguish? as you rise to your feet. Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking on his part.

He knows he’s crossed a line, that he’s gone too far this time. But he can’t stop himself from doubling down.

“Why?” he says, his voice low. “Why does it make you sick, hmm? Because I’m wrong, or because I’m right?”

"Because you're wrong, Patrick. And it disgusts me that it could even cross your mind that I would ever do such a thing to you," you sneer in reply. "I mean, do you really think that little of me?" A dry, humourless laugh punctuates your words.

His heart aches to hear it, the disdain and indignation in your voice like a punch to the gut. He swallows down the retort that rises in his throat, the urge to hurt you back growing stronger with every moment you refuse to admit what he believes to be the truth.

But he bites his tongue, his voice a quiet confession as he says, “Sometimes? Yes, I do.”

You scoff.

“I think you could tear my heart out, smash it to pieces, and not even bat an eye,” he continues, his voice dropping into a quiet confession. “I think you’ll ruin me without a second thought if it meant you got what you wanted in the end.”

He takes a breath, his voice strained with the weight of his admission. The same words have adorned a page a thousand times, but speaking them aloud is something else entirely. He's not sure whether it's making him feel worse or better.

God, he feels pathetic.

“And that kills me. It kills me to know that you’ve got me wrapped so tight around your finger that I’m just willing to follow you around like a lost puppy, waiting for the scraps of attention you deign to give me.”

He laughs, a dark, humourless sound. “I must look pathetic to you, yeah?”

He hates himself for it, but he continues. There’s no point in stopping now, right?

“Tell me, do you laugh about me behind my back with Art when we’re not together? Does he tell you how I’ll do practically anything you want, that I’ll bend over backwards just for the thrill of being the one who gets a scrap of your precious time? I bet he does,” he says, his voice laced with animosity at just the thought. “I bet he gets off on watching me trip all over myself just for your attention. It probably amuses him, I’m sure it’s very funny to watch me suffer. A big difference from the Patrick Zweig everyone else knows, right? How delightful.”

"Stop it," you interject, the words a harsh demand. But there's a hint of desperation in your gaze, as if you cannot stand to hear such vile accusations. "I don't do that, Pat. Nor does he."

And his chest tightens at the hurt in your eyes, at the raw emotion that’s there. But he doesn’t let up, he can’t let up.

“Why should I believe you, hmm?” he says, his voice dripping with derision. “Why should I just take your word for it, just like that, when I know the truth?” Patrick scoffs, his eyes meeting yours in a defiant stare as he watches you tug your trousers back on.

“Because you’re supposed to treat your boyfriend with faithfulness and respect,” he retorts, voice flat with accusation. “But I guess we’re both falling short, aren’t we?”

"I do treat you with faithfulness, you absolute tosser," you bite in reply. You cross his room to retrieve your shoes, your face contorted into a scowl. His stomach churns as he watches, at your clear intention to leave.

“Where are you going?" he demands, his voice rising as panic floods through him. "You can't just walk out every time we argue like this, you can't—"

"I can't what? The only thing I cannot do, is sit there and listen to you accuse me of being unfaithful to you. I won't do it," you say, shaking your head vehemently as you drop down to the floor. Damn your stupid laced boots.

He lets out a frustrated huff, his mind reeling with the panic and hurt that’s swirling inside him.

“But it’s true!" he says, the words almost involuntary as they tear themselves from his chest. He's desperate at this point. To continue or resolve this fight, he does not know. But he can't have you leave. “You are unfaithful to me—maybe not in body, but at least in heart!”

"You are so... so stupid sometimes, Patrick, I cannot even fathom it. It hurts my fucking brain that you could even... you could even conjure up such a thing in your own," you say, as you fumble with the laces. He's the most intelligent person you know, sure, but that big brain of his is rendered utterly useless when it comes to matters of the heart.

Not that you're much better, really.

He lets out a humourless laugh, the sound both rough and bitter. “Yeah, I’m stupid,” he returns, his voice harsh. “I’m just the idiot who’s completely in love with you, who can’t see that you’re completely, utterly enchanted with my best friend instead.”

Another laugh, the sound hollow in the air. “I’m the fool who’s just willing to look the other way while you sit there and make a joke out of me, while you string me along while you decide whether you want me or him.”

"I don't want him," you snap. You're all but yelling at him now, the level of volume certainly enough to raise some questions on the floor of the dorm. But given your entire conversation, propriety is not on the table right now, as you finally do up your laces and rise to your feet.

"I want you, Pat."

The words cut through him like a knife, slicing deep into his heart. His chest tightens painfully at the admission, the air leaving his lungs in a harsh exhale. Because, unlike all those other placating whispers, the vehemence in your voice now feels real to him. He’s silent for a moment, the only sound in the room his breaths. All he can feel is the rapid, heavy pounding of his heart.

Finally, he speaks hoarsely. “Then prove it, for once in your life. Show me that you mean it, and it's not just... just some bullshit to placate me."

"What do you want me to do, huh?" You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Declare my undying love for you? Run off and elope with you in the night?"

He shakes his head, the motion sharp and frustrated. “No, not any of that soppy nonsense,” he says, his voice still roughened by emotion. “Just look me in the eyes and tell me, honestly, that I’m the only one you care about. That there’s nothing between you and Art Donaldson.”

"There is nothing going on between us," you tell him, crossing the distance back towards the bed. Your eyes are dark and steely as you look at him, unyielding. "Not a single thing."

His heart thumps in his chest, the palpable battle between hope and lingering doubt sending a shudder through his body. It takes a moment for your words sink in, the sound of his own harsh breathing filling the silence between them.

Finally, his voice comes out in a raspy whisper. “You swear it on your life?”

"Do you want me to pull out a fucking Bible, too?" You snap back. And then the tension in your body seeps out a little, and you drag a hand through your hair. A moment's pause, and then your continuation is a lot softer, "I swear."

Patrick nods, swallowing hard. He's half-tempted to ask for a pinky promise, but that seems so ridiculously juvenile right now and would only lead to further embarrassment. But he needs to be sure. He has to be sure.

"Swear it on your family," he continues, his voice still choked. "On your father, your mother, your brothers. Swear it on everything you hold dear."

You let out a scoff at that; you're half-tempted to call him pathetic, to laugh at him for demanding such a thing. But you don't, tugging on the roots of your hair as you try to force the words out.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say. But the moment of hesitation passes. “I swear it. On everything.”

He feels the tension drain out of him, his heart easing at that response. He lets out a long, ragged exhale, the pain in his chest slowly lessening.

He believes you. He has to believe you. Because you are the substance he craves, and he is nothing but a lowly acolyte, ever at the mercy of his deity.

So in that moment, he just can’t bring himself to care if he looks ridiculous. He's already been enough of a twat tonight.

Without another word, he pushes himself off the bed and closes the gap between you, taking you in his arms and pulling you flush against him. He feels cold, standing up naked like this. But he’d face the harshest winds of the Arctic to feel you against him right now. A part of you wants to push him away, tell him that you want nothing to do with him right now. That you need time to process the fact that he had so little faith in you. Because fuck, that had hurt.

But the warmth of his embrace drains the fight in you. You melt into him, and you're almost tempted to cry as your arms loop around him. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of you—jasmine, cigarettes and lingering sweat from your earlier endeavours. God, that feels like a lifetime ago now.

The thought of you wanting to leave had terrified him, and it’s only now, with you safe in his arms, the reassurance you had given him settling in his chest, that the full force of the fear hits him.

His voice is a hoarse murmur when he speaks into your soft hair, the words thick with emotion. “I’m an idiot. A total knobhead.”

He laughs, the sound dry and humourless. “I’m so stupid it’s a wonder I haven’t dropped dead yet from pure idiocy.” He takes another shaky breath, holding you tighter. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, I was… I was utterly wrong, and I didn’t—“

He cuts himself off, exhaling into your hair as he searches for the words his brain provides but his mouth refutes. “I just don’t know what I would do if I lost you. I love you so much, it’s unbearable. I think I’d go fucking mad. You’re it for me." The words are whispered with a fierce desperation. “I know I act like a selfish idiot most of the time, but you have to believe me, I just… I just can’t lose you. I love you. I love you so much, and I would do anything, anything to keep you. So just… please,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. “Just please don’t ever leave me, my beloved. Please.”

“Don’t call me my beloved right now, you absolute arse. You don't deserve it,” you huff out in reply. But the words are tinged with something lighter again, even if it feels like you might burst into tears at the familiar term.

Patrick lets out a laugh, his voice rough and ragged but tinged with genuine mirth. He can practically feel the weight lifted off his shoulders at your tease.

“Bloody hell, I just bared my bleeding heart to you, woman, and you’re more concerned with my choice of endearment. I mean, where’s your romantic spirit, hmm?” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against your ear. “Here I am baring my soul to you, and you can’t even muster up a single I love you, my darling Pat?”

“I hate you too much right now to muster up such a horrible thing,” you whisper in reply, words muffled against his chest. The way you're clinging to him right now shows quite the opposite of disdain, though.

He gives another huff of laughter, the sound tinged with relief; he can see right through your facade. For once, it feels like you’re letting him in. He lifts a hand to your head and threads it through your hair, his voice softer and more affectionate now. “You don’t hate me, and you know it. You just like to act all blasé and casual, to keep me on my toes. Nothing is ever simple with you.”

“You’re such a bloody prick sometimes, Pat,” you breathe out in reply. “Honestly, I just… god.”

You shake your head against him. You aren't entirely sure whether you want to take off your boots again or just collapse into the sheets with him and hold each other, whispering nonsense to each other into the dark hours of the night. Or, the complete opposite, and allow that lingering hurt to take precedence and drive you to bid him goodnight and spend the night in your own quarters. Patrick is thinking the same, his mind torn in two. Part of him is desperate to bury his fear, his doubt, in a night of love and tenderness. To drown it in the comfort of your body, in the taste of your skin.

The other part wants to cling to you, begging forgiveness over and over and over until it sinks in that you're not leaving, not now, not ever. That you're his, that he’s yours. And he’ll never, ever doubt you again.

But he knows you, he knows you, and he knows that you're still hurt, still angry, still upset by the accusations that he’d made. And while his instincts urge him to take you in his arms, his chest tight with the need for touch, for comfort, he can’t bring himself to do it. Not when it might piss you off even more than he already has. Because sure, the basis of his argument had been solid. The need for affection, for something more than just tender touches late at night...

The accusations, though? Far too much.

So instead, he just pulls you impossibly closer against him, holding you tight to keep you both anchored together, his voice rasping against your ear. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

And you allow him.

“I was an idiot,” he continues, his voice hoarse. “A blind, selfish, stupid idiot. I let myself believe a load of bollocks when I should’ve trusted you. You’re the most faithful, the most wonderful, the most… the most goddamn perfect person—“

He cuts himself off, his voice catching in his throat. “You’re everything. You’re everything to me.”

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his heart thrumming in his chest. His eyes are shining with earnestness as he tells you, “I’ll never doubt you again. I promise. I swear on my dead grandmother, I’ll never doubt you again.”

“Oh, don’t bring your fucking grandmother into this,” you groan, shutting your eyes. “It’s so terribly morbid. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

Patrick lets out a shaky bark of laughter. He cups your chin, gently tilting your head up with the press of his fingers. “Can’t have my very serious and sincere promise to never doubt you again being tainted by the mention of a long-dead old woman in my family?” He shakes his head, his voice tinged with fond exasperation. “You are the strangest girl I’ve ever known, did you know that? Any other girl I’ve had a tiff with, they’d’ve swooned at the mention of my undying devotion. But you just worry about the deceased.”

“Is it so hard to believe I hold respect for the dead?” You reply, with a tiny little smile that tells him some of your anger towards him has melted away. “Besides, I’m not any other girl, you know. There’s a reason you’re so hung up on me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter, his eyes dancing with affection. “No, you’re not any other girl,” he agrees, giving your chin a playful pinch between his thumb and forefinger. “Which is why I’m so hopelessly in love with you, even when you’re being difficult and contrary and obstinate.”

He sighs, his tone affectionate rather than exasperated. “And when you’re not letting me take responsibility and properly apologize for my idiocy, which, might I add, is an absolute crime against chivalry and romance.”

“Just shut your mouth and take my boots off, after making me go through such trouble to put them back on,” you sigh. You pull free from his grasp to take a seat on the edge of the bed, watching him expectantly.

He lets out his own long-suffering sigh, though the corner of his mouth is quirked up in a smile. “My my, my stubborn girl has some demands tonight, does she?” he says, slowly lowering himself onto his knees in front of you.

“You’re very lucky I’m in a forgiving mood,” he adds as his fingers find the laces of your boot. A bold statement to make, judging by the argument he had started. But at least he's being a little more himself. “I don’t think anyone else would be so eager to give into such an entitled little princess.”

But he tugs the first boot off, gently setting it aside before moving on to the second, his hands moving with practiced ease. Despite the teasing edge in his voice, there’s undeniable care in his movements, a tenderness in the way he works. Fingers grazing over your ankles, working your shoe free and giving a teasing little tug to your frilled lace sock to watch it snap back against your skin.

“Honestly, you’re like a cat,” he teases as he tosses the second boot aside. “Spend all day lounging about and lazing in the sun, then expect me to come along and pamper you as soon as the sun goes down.”

He places a kiss to your knee, and then rises to his feet, settling back on the bed and leaning against the headboard. Patrick beckons to you, patting the space beside him. “Come here,” he says, his voice soft and coaxing; it’s not the first time he’s started an argument, and it probably won’t be the last. But he always knows how to ease the tension afterwards. “I’m not done pampering you yet.”

He gives a quiet hum of satisfaction as you settle in beside him, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulders. He tugs you as close as physics will allow, right against his chest, his other hand coming up to idly toy with your hair.

He’s quiet for a moment, simply basking in the feel of you against him, your bodies pressed together. Then, he finally breaks the silence.

“I really am an idiot, you know.”

His voice is soft, tinged with just a hint of self-deprecation, a contrast to his normal bravado. He shakes his head, his fingers twisting in your hair unconsciously. “I mean… I honestly, honestly believed you’d cheat on me, with fucking Art of all people, just because I… because I had a terrible day. Like all the work you’ve done to prove your loyalty is rendered null and void just because I let my insecurities get the best of me. Art,” he repeats, as if the very idea is ridiculous. “I mean, come on. I know he’s handsome and all that, but he’s one of the most awkward men I know. I’m honestly not sure he even knows how to flirt, let alone have an affair with someone.”

Patrick shakes his head.

“And you,” he continues, his voice gentling once more. “You’re like the picture of loyalty. It’s one of the things I love most about you. You’re fierce and passionate, but you give that loyalty to people you care about, and once it’s given, it’s as good as cemented in stone. You don’t go back on it. You’d never betray someone you loved, not like that, even if you were offered the sun and the moon on a silver platter.”

He lets out a sigh, tightening his arm around your shoulder. “And I know that. I do. But sometimes I get so… scared that you’ll realize how much better you deserve and just… leave me. For someone else who’s better at this relationship thing, or less insecure and angry and just… better than me.”

“Pat, I literally could not care less about finding anyone other than you—“

“And for the thousandth time,” he counters, his voice tinged with feigned annoyance at your stubbornness. “I know that. But my stupid brain still tries to convince me you’re going to realize I’m just too rough around the edges for you to deal with.” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve managed to put up with me as long as you have. I’m lucky to have a girl who doesn’t care about how incapable I am at everything outside of literature, and I go and accuse her of being in love with my best friend like a wanker.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a saint, is what you are, for putting up with me. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I thank whatever gods are watching that you put up with my idiocy on a daily basis.”

He gives one of the locks of your hair a little playful tug. “And if you ever do decide to leave me, just… make sure you have the decency to take pity on me and warn me in advance, hmm? I’d like the chance to at least grovel and beg for your forgiveness, before you walk out the door.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Yes, yes. I’ll be sure to give you a few days notice.”

“Good,” he says with a nod, his tone serious in spite of the mirth dancing in his eyes. “I think that’s reasonable. A few days notice, a good bottle of gin, and a chance to make an absolute fool of myself before you walk away. I doubt I’d be able to change your mind, but I’d at least like to go through the motions before you leave me to wallow in my own self-pity and grief.”

Patrick sighs.

"Probably find a new favorite bar to wallow in, too,” he adds. “I’d have to give up every spot we’ve been to together, especially the ones you like. Can’t go there anymore, since they’d remind me too much of you.”

He pauses for a moment, his fingers idly tracing the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere exposed by the half-buttoned linen. “I don’t think I’d ever find another bottle of gin I’d like as much, either. The one from the store down the street would be too sweet, the one from the high-end bar over on the main road would taste too tart… nothing would compare to the one we share.”

There’s a contemplative pause, where he taps his finger against you a few times.

“And I’d have to find an entirely new wardrobe,” he laments. “I could never wear these fucking argyle sweaters again. They’d remind me too much of you and how lovely you look in them when I loan them out to you.”

And oh, how beautiful he thinks you look in his clothes.

“I’d have to sell all my records, too,” he continues, his words tinged with a melodramatic amount of despair for the sake of comedy in an attempt to lighten the mood. “All of our favorites. Never listen to my Beatles records again, because every song I play would remind me of the hundred times we’ve bloody well sung along together and get all sad and pathetic about it. And don’t even get me started on all the poems I’ve written for you,” he says, shaking his head. “I’d have to throw out every single scrap of paper they’re written on. Or better yet, burn the manuscripts of my work as an offering to purge the memories. That would probably be more poetic. Much more fitting, I feel.”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes against him, and he knows you’re moments away from telling him to shut up for the rest of the night.

“And I’d have never enjoy a cup of tea ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, exaggerated whisper. “Wouldn’t even touch the stuff. And God, the movies we’ve seen together. I’d have to steer clear of every theatre for the rest of my life, at risk of remembering how you look in the dark with the film playing across your face.”

He takes a deep breath (because he’s been running his mouth for so long his lungs are in dire need of oxygen), his hand (which seems to be permanently stained with ink) coming up to cradle your cheek. “And the places we’ve gone together. The restaurant with the good pizza, the one you like, I’d never be able to eat from again. The park down the road where we like to go for a quiet walk sometimes. The museum we like with the beautiful pieces you love to stare at for hours. The bookstore where we pick out the ones with the stupid titles so we can read them aloud to each other. The coffee shop with your favourite drink, the art store you like to go to that always makes me drag you out after you spend an outrageous amount on supplies…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Everything would remind me of you. Fucking everything.”

And as playful as he’s being, he knows that part isn’t an exaggeration.

“Honestly, I don’t know how I’d even survive.” He says with a melodramatic sigh, shaking his head dejectedly, the very pinnacle of a pitiful boyfriend. “I’d probably wither and die in my own self-pity and despair, wallowing away like the pathetic and miserable creature I am until someone found me, stiff as a board and dried up like a mummified corpse.”

“Jesus, Pat, stop being so dramatic. You’re like a broken record. Giving me a headache,” you groan.

“It’s not my fault I’m so maudlin when I’m thinking about your hypothetical exit from my life,” he defends himself with an indignant huff of protest, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Not many things get me all pathetic and poetic and melodramatic, my girl, but the idea of you leaving me is absolutely one of them.”

There’s a brief pause, and you can just tell whatever he says next is going to drive you mad.

“But…” he adds, with a hint of mischievousness in his voice, “I suppose your beautiful, angelic, radiant presence just inspires me with such overwhelming despair that I have to write a tragic Shakespearean sonnet to lament your absence in my life, for my heart is heavy and my spirit broken after your cruel, heartless abandonment.”

He gives another melodramatic sigh, one hand pressed dramatically to his heart next to your head. “Oh, the agony, the pain of it all. How I shall ever survive without you, my sweet, sweet darling… I can think of no other woman, no other soul on this earth, who can inspire such passionate misery and sorrow within me. Why, without you, I’m but a mere shell of my former self. A man wandering through life’s garden, stumbling and blind without the glorious sunshine, without the warmth and brightness that you so beautifully provide. Oh, you must find it within your heart of hearts to take pity on me, and spare me the endless abyss that would be my life without your light and love.”

He goes silent as your hand presses against his mouth, his lips parting beneath your touch. He meets your gaze with an equal mixture of amusement and mock despair, his eyebrows arching in a comically dramatic display of desperation. It's a testament to his theatrics that the expression he manages to maintain is just believable enough to look genuine, with his wide, puppy-dog eyes that convey nothing less than a hopeless devotion.

What an absolute fucking idiot. Unfortunately, he’s your absolute fucking idiot.

He sighs against your palm, the sound coming out more like a low, resigned whimper (that he’ll absolutely deny outside of this interaction), his eyes pleading with you to show mercy on his poor, wretched soul. He lets his lower lip jut out in the slightest of pouts, as if that will do the trick in persuading you to remove your hand from its place against his face and spare him a kiss in its place.

You can’t help but scoff, even as you acquiesce, rolling your eyes as you withdraw your hand. "You are utterly ridiculous, you know."

“Can’t fault a man for pouring his heart out,” he counters with a dramatic sigh, his hand coming up to dramatically clutch at his chest in a gesture of mock grief. “I can’t help that you’re my muse, the source of all my inspiration. I mean, look at you,” he says, gesturing towards you as you sit up and fix him with a flat look. “You’re so beautiful, it leaves me weak and helpless to the machinations of my own mind.”

You move to cover his mouth again, but he catches your wrist.

“How can I be expected to contain myself in the presence of true, unparalleled beauty such as yourself, my love?” He adds, lowering his other hand to reach for you, gently taking hold of your chin again.

He studies your face, his eyes tracing the shape, the curve of your lips, the flare of your nose, with an intensity that borders on obsessive. The look on his face could only be described as one of utter adoration. “You’re the very definition of an Aphrodite, you know. The living embodiment of divine grace and heavenly radiance.”

Patrick ignores your scoff in pursuit of maintaining his theatrical display of affection.

“It’s enough to drive an ordinary man mad, with your flawless skin, your sparkling eyes, the beautiful curve of your mouth. I swear, the heavens themselves would weep at the sheer injustice of it all,” he continues, his thumb gently tracing the line of your lips. He gives a dramatic, shuddering sigh. “To have a goddess of beauty on the arm of a mere mortal… the gods would be furious, don’t you think?”

“You disgust me sometimes, Pat,” you say, fixing him with a pointed look. “I ought to tell Tashi about how much of a snivelling fool you become when you’re laying it on thick for forgiveness.”

"No, no, you mustn't," he returns quickly, releasing your chin to clutch desperately at your wrist with both hands. "I'd quite literally die if she knew that I'm such a snivelling, pathetic, lovesick fool around you. She'd never let me live it down, I swear it. I'd never hear the end of it."

"Then stop it with your flowery words," you huff, rolling your eyes softly. (Although, you both know you secretly love it. Except it’s much preferred in the form of the poems you can pocket, not this ridiculous display following an argument.)

"I can't help it, my darling," he groans, the perfect picture of despair and melodramatic pleading. "It's like a disease, a sickness that courses through my veins and fills me with the most desperate, pathetic, romantic nonsense. You're like my own personal muse, you know. My inspiration. My entire world wrapped up in one beautiful, flawless goddess of a woman."

“Stop it.”

"And if I didn't take every spare moment to worship the ground you walk on, the stars you shine amongst, the very sun and moon themselves that pale in comparison to your radiant brilliance," he sighs. "I might spontaneously combust. Or drop dead from the pure intensity of the love you've inspired in me."

"No more talking," you declare.

Patrick pouts as you (heartlessly) cut off his dramatic ramble, falling silent for a moment. "But I—" he starts to protest, before thinking better of it and stopping himself with a huff. "Fine. No more talking."

"Good," you say, placing a chaste little kiss to the corner of his mouth to placate him. "I cannot stand it when you become such a sap."

Despite his earlier protest, he softens at the feeling of your kiss, the subtle pout on his face softening into a fond, almost boyish smile. His hand comes up to touch his mouth, as if to capture the lingering sensation of your lips against his skin.

"Can't blame a man for his poetic tendencies, my love," he quips, his voice dropping into a soft, mock-offended tone as he lowers his hand to admire the rouge lipstick stain on his finger. "Especially in the presence of such an inspiring, radiant woman."

“No more talking,” you repeat, fixing him with a warning look.

Patrick’s smirk widens into a teasing grin, his eyes sparkling with a playful defiance. He parts his lips as if to protest once more, but a raised eyebrow from you has him pausing, his words dying on his tongue. Instead, he simply gives his thousandth sigh, his expression a perfect picture of mock-forlorn obedience. "Fine, not a word. My lips are sealed, sealed tighter than a safe from Fort Knox itself."

“You’re like a fucking thesaurus sometimes,” you sigh. “Or Shakespeare himself. It drives me insane.”

Patrick just grins. “I prefer to think of myself as a modern-day Shakespeare,” he says. “Just replace all the swords and daggers with cocktails and cigarettes, and voila! A modern bard of the highest order.”

And, just like that, the pair of you laugh, your earlier transgressions melting away in the light of the familiar banter settling between you. A warm blanket to ease the tension until only a puddle of young, imperfect, stupid love remains.

#jo writes ⋆˚࿔#jordiemeow #patrick zweig #challengers #challengers 2024 #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig x fem!reader #josh o'connor #patrick zweig fic #patrick zweig moodboard #challengers fic #olivie blake #late night proofread mistakes are not my fault #poet patrick my beloved #wanted to just be a bitch to him but. he deserves love im sorry #rare good ending to a jo fic??

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maybaankk · 7 months ago

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⠀ roses n thorns ⠀⠀﹒⠀　a.h x reader

this work includes / may include : rossi!reader, age gap (8 years), reader was born in 1979, aaron was born in 1971, reader is heavily italian, reader works at the bau, angst, rude!aaron because hes a sucker and doesnt know how to come to terms that he likes Y/N, fluff at the end, canon typical violence, fem!afab reader, reader is literally a ball of sunshine, religion mentions.

summary : when Y/N Rossi joins the bau at the recommendation of her father; aaron hotchner cant possibly see past the fact that she is far too happy to be in this field.

wc: 11.2k

The first thing aaron hotchner notices about Y/N is the smile plastered on her face and the box of canolis’ in her hands as she greets her new coworkers; he stares from his office window, arms crossed over his chest.

When the girl makes a b-line for his office a heavy grumble leaves his chest, he expects her to barge right in, but instead; she knocks and waits there patiently, holding the box of canolis’ in her hands.

He answers the door and she looks up to meet his gaze, that same sickly sweet smile plastered on her face, it makes his stomach turn and his chest feels like thousands of thorns are encircling it; he had only ever felt this way about Haley, and that was when he was in private school.

“Ah! SSA Hotchner right? my father said you’re the boss of this place.. he also told me that you like his canoli recipe.. so i uh, prepared a box of them last night” She smiles, and he can recognise that heavy twinge of italian in her voice, much like he can her fathers.

“Yes. That’s me, and you’re Y/N Rossi, correct?” He grumbles, and she notices how uncomfortable he looks, her brain flooding with thoughts before she stops herself; she’s not even been in the building an hour and she’s already accidentally profiled her new boss.

“Yes sir, that’s me.. where should i place these?” She squeaks, almost nervously, the confidence she once carried herself with dissipating into nothing, the smile also dropping from her face, in exchange for a nervous bite of her lip.

“The break room fridge, agent. it’s down the mezzanine to the left.” His arms still crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the woman in front of him; watching as she walks away.

“Thankyou sir, i’ll be on my way now, goodbye” She mutters, and he could wear he heard her voice crack as she left.

He starts to feel bad, but he can’t place his finger on why, but when you leave, the thorns in his chest slowly unwind themself, and he’s at ease once more.

In the roundtable room, you take your seat inbetween your father and your newfound friend Emily Prentiss, you engage in friendly chatter as everyone filters in; and eventually the brightly and beautifully dressed tech analyst, Penelope takes the remote, clicking it to show the photos of 4 men, all without their eyes and a cross carved into their left thighs.

“These men were found in alleyways all over arkansas last week; the local PD didn’t think much of it until they got.. this letter” She pauses before a note on worn lined paper flashes up, an intricate rose stamped onto it.

You speak up, gesturing to the crosses on the men’s thighs; your father looking at you approvingly; “Those aren’t christian crosses.. they’re upside down those are petrine crosses, more recently dubbed the saint peters cross, it’s possible the killer believes he’s not high enough next to god to carve a christian cross; as peter crucified himself upside down because he believed he wasn’t as worthy as jesus..”

Hotch only stares as Spencer nods at youe statement, chiming in “Y/N is correct; he may believe that these killings are for god, and that they’re messages.”

And then penelope shows something else on screen; “Well.. it gets so much worse, my religious geniuses, because their eyes were found near them with bronze chains next to them..”

Hotch finally pipes up, asking the table for input and he rolls his eyes when you pipe up again.

“That’s similar to Jeremiah 39:7.. Zedekiah watched his sons be put to death and then his eyes were put out where he was bound with bronze chains and he was dragged to babylon..” You wince at the cold eyes of hotch as you look at Emily; she only shrugs her shoulders.

When you and Emily arrive at the latest crime scene of the victim, you lift the tape; stepping under it and holding it for your partner, you greet the local detective at the scene.

“Hello i’m Agent Y/N Rossi, and this is Agent Emily prentiss..” you smile, though it’s not as bright as the ones you extended to your coworkers, afterall you’re at the resting place of a victim.

“Detective Peter Warner, Fayetteville PD.” The slightly shorter man speaks as he shakes your hand.

“Do you know anything about who found the body, and when? we weren’t briefed on that..” Emily asks, and you nod, crouching down at one of the evidence cards, shifting one of the bronze chains, your eyes widening.

“Emily! cmere look, theres.. theres a- oh holy fuck!!” You jump when you realise what you had touched was a slab of skin, specifically with a rose tattoo on it.

“What?! oh what the.. is that the victims skin??” She crouches next to you, picking up the dirt and pebble covered flesh in her hands.

“Yeah- it it’s.. wait a second; let me call up the office real quick..” You mutter, stepping back to make a call as emily requests an ice bag.

“This is SSA Derek morgan, what’s poppin’ sweetcheeks?” His voice rings out, and you roll your eyes softly.

“Ha-ha Derek.. anyway, do you know if any slices of flesh where found at the crime scene.. or if any of the victims had rose tattoos?” You ask, looking back as Emily holds up the bag with the flesh in, you grimace.

“Uhh.. yeah; they all had rose tattoos.. why’d ya ask?” Derek chimes over the phone, you can hear the chatter of the department over the phone.

“Well me and Emily just found a piece of flesh from the victim, with a rose tattoo on it.. i believe this might mean something to the unsub, maybe something religious again.. we’ll be back at the station soon” You walk back over to Emily, sighing softly as you get back into the SUV.

Back at the station you lean over the files, biting your lip softly; staring at the tattoos of the victims, all cut off with a razor blade.

“Hey, papa can you come over here for a second?” You call out to your father, and it feels like recently everywhere your father goes that pertains to you and the case, Hotch follows.

“Which bible verse was about roses and brides.. was it Song of Solomon 2:1-2?” You mutter softly, tapping the end of your pen on your lip.

“Why yes Picolla Mia; it does.. the bride replies-”

“I am the rose of Sharon and lily of the valley..” You cut him off, immediately dialling up Penleope; your brows knitted together tightly as you exhale.

“Office of Unfettered Omniscience. Penelope Garcia is in. Speak, oh fortunate one.” Penelope Answers, and a small giggle escapes your mouth.

“Hiya penny it’s Y/N.. can you search the names of the wives of all four men for me?” You speak, hearing her hum in approval.

“Sunshine, I can run marriage certificates from here and still participate in simultaneous Tetris tournaments.” She hums, you snicker again.

“Okay.. are any of them named Sharon and Lily?” You ask, and Garcia gasps.

“Oh my god what a freaky coincidence.. yes- All of them are named Sharon and lily..” She sounds scared, and you look at the brooding figure of your boss behind you.

“and where they married for number’s with 1 & 2 in them?” Your voice quavers softly, writing it down quickly in your cursive handwriting.

“yes.. victim one- Hector Mariposa was married to Sharon Mariposa for 21 years.. victim two- Nikita Ivan was married to Lily Ivan for 12 years.. victim three- vitores fausto was married to Sharon Lily Fausto for 1 and 2 months at his time of death. and victim four- Abram Katz, to his wife Lily for 12 years..” She sounds like shes going to puke.

After 6 more gruellingly tension, religious and gore filled days you finally caught the unsub, Brian Vitores; a schizophrenic tattoo artist and ordained officiant.

He would tattoo the men he killed, and them weasel his way into the lives, and he had in turn ended up officiating their weddings, because he was close to them; at first it was a coincidence they all had rose tattoos and wives named Sharon and Lily, and their dates contained the numbers 1 and 2.

But when his religious psychosis began, he believed he should kill them for god, because only god would bless them with such wives.

On the plane back home, you slumped into your seat, staring at the roof as you hear Hotch over the other side of the plane, you frown softly as he seems so free and happy with the others.

You stand and pour yourself a glass of red wine, sitting back in your seat as you sip on it, starting to read your book with your headphones in.

And before you knew it, you had landed; you pick up your bags, but not before Hotch stops you, you look up at him, not with the same smile you once had during your first encounter.

“Agent Y/N, we need to talk about your workplace condcut. you cannot be laughing during such a serious moment, especially not in the middle of the station.” He says to you, and you feel tears well in your eyes, you dab them away subtly.

“Yes sir, I apologise.” You speak solomnly, and you push past him, walking to your car in the parking lot, quickly sliding into the seat, turning it on and beginning the drive home.

In your head you can’t tell yourself why your boss seems to dislike you so much, you can feel your phone buzzing in the cup holder, it’s JJ.

“Hiya JJ- i’m on my way home, what’s wrong?” You sigh, pulling up into the driveway of your home, locking your car as you sit and talk to JJ.

“We were going to invite you out for drinks, me and rest of the team but we couldn’t find you anywhere.. are you okay?” She asks, her voice concerned and confused.

“Y-yeah.. i just, had a bad encounter with Hotch on the plain, he uhm. doesn’t seem to like me all too much.” You whimper, tears smudging your mascara down your face.

“Yeah.. me, em and spence noticed that, i’m not sure what he’s doing at all.. i’m so sorry girl..” She say’s empathetically.

“I don’t know either, but he got quite angry that i laughed at how penelope answers her phone so i just left without a word..”

At your fathers house, it’s a pasta night and everyone from the BAU is gathered in the kitchen, you however already know how to cook this meal, and so you’re upstairs getting ready for the night.

You walk down the stairs, adorned in your designer attire, your hair curled, everyone’s eyes land on you as you pad over to stand next to Penleope.

By the time everyone has finished the pasta and a the glasses of whiskey and wine are flowing, you can only fees his eyes on you, and by his you mean aaron.

Being followed to the bathroom and cornered by him was also not on tonights bingo card but here he is, cornering you in a hallway.

“Listen Y/N you’re driving me crazy and i- i wanted to apologise for how horrible i’ve been toward you..” he mutters, his big hands moving to yours.

“It’s quite alright sir-” You mutter, desperately avoiding the eye contact he’s trying to engage in.

“Please, call me aaron..” He speaks, his voice softer now, he squeezes your hand gently too.

“I haven’t felt this way since i was a dumb teenager in private school.. and by this way i mean that i like you, Y/N Rossi.” He blurts out, and that makes you look at him now.

“I- i’m inclined to say i like you too, aaron.. you’re extremely handsome..” you admit, blush coating your face in a deep red tone.

“If you’ll allow me.. i’d like to take you on a date soon.. possibly wednesday, next week.” Aaron speaks, now holding your waist, his hands bigger than your waist by a long shot.

“Yes- i’d love to go on a date with you, Aaron.. wednesday sounds perfect.” You smile, and then it was set, you figured out why your boss hated you, he didn’t, he was just lovesick and confused.

Authors note: Hello my lovelies, this is my second fanfic in two days.. i’m finally out of writers block; so here’s something for my coworker enemies to lovers fans and my aaron fans :3

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doctorho · 2 months ago

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Thinking about how Jayce would probably lose his marbles if you called him a good boy…..even if it was meant to just be a casual compliment or a teasing one at that he’d lose it. He’s so puppy coded and I need him.

oh yeah. i think his brain would just like. melt a lil bit. like?? he knows that a lot of people look up to him and respect him and all that, but he's also so so far removed from all of it. it's desensitized, the public adoration isn't really for him, the people just like that his near-disaster of an invention worked out for them and their profits.

the first time he hears people call him the golden boy his brain does a little spasm of that can't be right. don't they know he was seen as a dangerous criminal? don't they remember?

they don't know where he came from. and they don't care. it's stupid and pretentious, that they would now applaud him for the same thing he was condemned for before. and he remembers being just-a-student, just-a-foreigner, back when no-one really believed in him. back when they felt sorry for him. rolled their eyes when he talked.

and he knew! he knew what they thought about him.

so now the sudden change of public opinion feels... shallow.

he doesn’t trust it.

he knows he proved them all wrong, and he knows they value his opinion now, he knows they honestly do value what his work brought to them and the progress it's made possible, but that's about it. he doesn’t really let it get close to his skin.

so when you suddenly look at him like you see him, it's all the more jarring.

and then one quiet night he's hauling around some crates in the lab with you, and he picks up something that you're just about to point out needs to be moved, you blink and say good, a little surprised, thanks.

it sounds honest.

like it's for him. truly.

and then you're explaining the order of things again, and he just listens, helps out where he can.

you're only started saying the "can you-" when he's already at the other end of a long crate, ready to help you lift it.

"oh," you say next, "you're well trained."

that rewires his brain a little bit. he needs to recalibrate his breathing. he just barks out a short, surprised, breathless laugh as he lifts.

"Viktor doesn't really do a lot of the heavy lifting around here," he says as a way of explanation, even though that doesn't really feel like an answer. his brain is begging to go somewhere else with this, his muscles purring to life, itching to let him show you how well-trained he could be. gods, you have no idea how good he'd be for you if you asked, he's vibrating with just the idea of it. and the only thing stopping him from telling you this is that he doesn't know how you'd feel about it.

you just hum in answer, and together you lift the crate on top of the pile. he tries to gather his brain from the goop it's turning into. takes a breath. you've got work to do, and you're just co-workers, maybe friends, anything else would be a push.

and then he hands you a tool just as you're about to ask for it, and you hit him with the good boy, and he's pretty sure his brain melts and drips down all the way through his spinal cord, pooling at the pit of his stomach.

he can feel his pupils dilating.

he just takes a breath and tries not to visibly shiver, but he's not stupid. he can see that you've already seen his reaction, and oh, that's just not fair.

it's like you're studying him.

despite being fully clothed, he feels naked, and he can't fucking look away from you regardless. the room is dim and quiet and he knows most people have gone home already, and you're just watching him.

and then you smile a little, knowingly, and move on with the task, and he's left standing there, trying to reel in his brain-goop.

that feeling is left purring in the background of his head for the rest of the night. nothing else out of the ordinary happens, if he doesn’t count the occasional looks you give him, the ones that feel like...something.

and so time goes on. except now he catches you complimenting him more. still in mostly-innocent coworker context, but then every now and then there's a quietly murmured good that feels just enough like something else. something that belongs in the dark, with just the two of you behind a closed door.

and he is desperate to find out if you really mean it like that.

he is desperate for a lot of things.

the next time you're alone with him after hours, unfortunately it's after a whole night of sweet, glittering torture; he's escaped to the lab in the middle of a semi-formal event, at just the respectable point in the evening where he could get away without raising too many questions. and you'd left with him, dressed up in stupid, gorgeous formal wear, with your posture confident and skin shimmering under the golden lights, and he'd felt relieved being out of the crowd and breathless just looking at you.

when he gets to the lab, he immediately pulls out his notebook and starts scribbling down the idea he'd had, feeling like he could finally exhale getting it out.

you linger near, watching, leaning to the desk next to him. hand him an eraser when he needs it.

"thanks," he breathes, trying to ignore how small the space between you two felt. he keeps writing, and doesn't watch you crossing your legs from the corner of his eye.

"no problem," you answer, and then it's quiet until he puts down the pencil.

he looks over his work, and you gently press one single finger to the top of the notebook, tilting it downwards so you could read it too. he lets you, silently, and just watches your reaction.

"good idea," you eventually say.

"you think so?"

you lift a brow slightly. "yes," you answer, then meet his eyes. "why would i lie?"

his head is empty.

"to make me feel better?" he tries, and he knows it's not a real argument.

you hum, let go of the notebook. lean a little closer to him, and fill his senses with your scent in the process. "i'm not really in the habit of doing that. besides," you counter, "i don't need to lie to do that."

your voice is quiet and smooth like velvet when you say that, and jayce is pretty sure his every sense is working in overdrive now. his brain is an ember, still smoking, and his spine is an iron rod glowing hot, waiting to collapse. he's pretty sure he can feel the electricity in the room on his skin.

he meets your eyes and waits.

you smile, and yeah, he's done for. he's warm wax for you to mold as you please, and he's pretty sure that if you touched him now he'd melt to the floor in a single a man-sized puddle.

"you like being praised," you continue, and oh, he did not think that hearing it said out loud would make him feel like this. like his spine was begging to curl in on itself, like he's ready to fold, like he's ready to beg, and you haven't even touched him. "and, conveniently," you smile with a small chuckle, "you are very good at what you do."

he is suffering. he is burning from the inside out, slowly.

because this? strictly speaking, if you wanted to see it that way, this could still just be about work, and the leap it would take to flip it over to something else was miniscule, but still there.

he takes a small, shaky breath.

"yeah?" he asks, his heart shaking. squeezing the edge of the desk just to focus that energy on something.

you smile again. lean a bit closer. "yes," you answer, short and sweet, and then, "and, i'd imagine, at a lot of other things, too."

he exhales a surprised laugh, and closes his eyes, shaking his head a little. swallows around the remains of his composure. "like what?"

"like..." you tilt your head a little, and then place two fingers under his chin, tilting it up slightly, making him instantly meet your eyes. making him instantly melt under your hands. making him want to purr.

"would you get on your knees for me if i asked?" you say, and he feels like he's in a trance as he does, the fire at the bottom of his stomach curling into itself at the action. he holds eye contact the whole way down as best he can, and he likes the small smile you give him and the small thing flickering in your eyes.

"good boy," you say, and tilt his head up gently again, just enough for the presence of your fingers to be there, and the exhale he lets out next is halfway into a whine.

he's been burning for this. and hearing you say that soothes some itch in his brain, swallowing it up in a blazing delicious fire, and he wants to drown in it.

"you've been thinking about this for a while, haven't you." you say, and it's not really a question.

"yes," he answers anyway, exhaling out some of the tension at his core.

"and why didn't you say anything?"

"i was just-" he breathes, then swallows, takes a breath, "following your lead."

your fingers move from his chin to the left side of his jaw, brushing up his cheek gently, and he can barely think. he can barely form words. it's so gentle that his whole body focuses on that one small point of contact.

it's blinding.

you smile at him, and he's pretty sure his brain melts all the way through, his insides all a warm sticky mess, glowing and hot and swirling at the bottom of his stomach.

he'll gladly drown in that, too.

#fic talk #jayce talis x reader #jayce talis x gender neutral! reader #scribbles #arcane fanfic #asks #yeah thanks for the asks this was delicious the answer got away from me but hey here u go #have whatever this is #i have no idea how long this is i also did not proofread it i just started writing blacked out and this was here #shrug emoticon #you're welcome?#anyway all the bad bitches love puppy jayce i have spoken

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cashmoneyyysstuff · 1 year ago

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♡ chronicle #3 : going home ♡

fem reader pronouns mentioned in this one !

wc : 7210

bakugou has been acting different after your conversation at work.

it's not like he's gotten any less annoying, far from it. but he's been a bit more...bearable lately.

sure, he still steals your food and nips at you when you pull it away from him. but he's started 'begrudingly" sharing his portion with you, to keep it fair. whether it be an energy bar from your pantry or the dinner he insisted he'd make for himself but ended up conveniently making enough for the two of you.

he's also way more touchy, almost on the brink of clingy. he follows you around your apartment whenever you leave the living room like an angry puppy with rabies, but then denies he is. "you were just headed the same way i was." was his favorite excuse.

you had caught on quickly when he simply stood by the door and watched you fold laundry, then growling about how you took to long before taking half of your clothes and neatly folding them like his life depended on it. perhaps he was simply a clinger. you don't mind much, you get your laundry done faster with him here.

he's started sitting closer to you on the couch. slowly, subtly at first, but now he doesn't feel the need to be subtle anymore it seems. he can't be when you're practically sitting shoulder to shoulder. you don't mind much, he's warm.

you've slowly started petting his head more and more often. you don't really remember why you did before, but he didn't seem to mind it the first time, so you figured you were in the clear to do it again. he jumped after you'd first done it again while you were watching the notebook, but he didn't say anything. you didn't either so as not to get your head chewed off. you saw in the corner of your eye how he leaned his head a little more towards you, and how he turned red from the tips of his ears all the way down to his neck.

since you'd come to find out he liked getting praised, you'd start implementing the act of affection here and there and now he expects you to do it every time. it was hard to understand what he wanted at first since apparently him being a powerful and mighty dragon made him unable to use his words correctly. he'd just stare at you, fiery red eyes locked onto your face and a small barely there pout forming on his face. you'd learned to do it every time since then, otherwise he'd get cranky. you don't mind much, his hair feels really nice.

he still hasn't called you by your fucking name though, but you're desensitized by now.

it's been about an hour since you'd gotten back from work. you're watching a movie you chose, which ended up being lady and the tramp. bakugou complained at first before quickly getting absorbed into the movie. you find it frankly hilarious that the big, serious and scary dragon man enjoys watching disney movies but you digress, it was a good movie.

you can hear the microwave's low hum and you're already salivating at the smell from the leftover dinner bakugou had made yesterday. you're a little, just a smidge jealous of his cooking skills, sure. but you will not miss the opportunity to eat his food up, you've learned to suck up your pride and live with his stupidly handsome cocky smirk as you practically devour his food.

you've gotten to the famous spaghetthi scene and you're curious to see how the dragon man reacts to it. you feel smugness pooling in your chest when you see him trying to hold back a cheesy smile. you really can't blame him, there's a smile forming on your face unconsciously, this scene is really fucking cute.

"i love this scene, it's so cute" you sigh dreamingly "if only human relationships were that easy" you lament, resting your head in the palm of your hand.

bakugou, who's sitting right next to you on the couch, scoffs to himself "you humans and your stupid mating rituals. i don't know why you make things so difficult for yourselves."

"you can't just assume all humans are like what you see in drama's. most humans aren't like that" you deadpan. he pokes at your ribs and chuckles when you jolt and glare at him, just as annoying alright.

"of course i know that, shitty human" he says, shuffling around on the couch to get more comfortable, his arm brushes against yours when he throws it back around the couch for a moment and you hate how easily it makes you shiver. " but those drama's are somewhat cemented in reality, aren't they ? so it's stupid."

you roll your eyes, but you can't really disagree. humans did seem to make things complicated for themselves.

but suddenly, you're curious.

"well, how do dragons.." you fumble around with your hands looking for the right word "..date, then ?" you ask. bakugou rolls his eyes at you "we don't date." he copies in a pitchy voice, you tug at his horn and he growls, snapping at you.

"what do you do then ?" you groan as you dodge him, he knocks his head against yours and headbutts you. he's such a sore loser.

"we mate." he huffs "mate ?" you ask curiously and he nods, looking towards the tv, grunting in acknowledgement. "s'like—what you humans call marriage" he mumbles, his voice and eye contact trailing off.

"oh, okay.." you hum, nodding "so, how do you break up ?"

"we don't. there's no need."

you tilt your head at him, silently asking for more info. he sighs like he's irritated but really it's because you're staring up at him so curiously. you're eyes are big and bright and so annoyingly pretty. and your scent's way too fucking strong, it makes him want to hold you and keep you close to him, away from dragons and humans and everything else.

" everyone has a soulmate." he starts, absentmindedly prodding at the material of your couch "wether you find them at birth or at the end of your lifespan, you have one."

"you're soulmates the one that was made for you. there's an old legend you and your soulmate are stars seperated by the gods and you're looking for each other reflexively—or something" he adds, seemingly uninterested, but he can feel his skin heating up after every word "they understand you on a level no one else can, and whenever you're with them.." he cuts himself off and suddenly looks down at you. you blink up at him, surprised, but you don't move an inch. it feels like you've gotten closer somehow. something in the air has changed.

"it" he gulps "it feels right."

katsuki has understood why he feels the way he does around you for a while now. he thinks he's always had somewhat of a hunch when he'd first blasted into your apartment and hadn't killed you the moment you'd raised your voice at him. but he knew for sure when you'd had your..moment at your office.

katsuki's convinced himself he doesn't have time for soulmates, he doesn't need one. no matter how hard his old hag had tried to force encourage him to find his. he simply couldn't find it in himself to care.

and yet, now that he's met you, it's so, so different. he wants you. he wants you more then he's ever wanted anything before. he needs you more than all the gold and every treasure he could lay his eyes on. he can't hand you over to anyone else now that he's met you and he wants to be bothered, especially because you're human. something he's been taught to look down on ever since he was a cub. and yet here he is, clinging to you like a puppy. cooking for you, helping you with your stupid human chores and groceries and he listens to you when you ask him something, although begrudgingly.

and katsuki wants to hate it, he wants to hate the way you make him feel, wants to hate how mushy and soft you make him, he wants to hate you. but he can't. can't hate the way you make him feel and he can't hate you because when he's with you he feels so good. he wants more, more of this feeling, more of you.

dragons are greedy creatures after all.

you're lips suddenly feel very dry as he looks at you and you look at him. his piercing gaze makes you forget you were supposed to respond to what he said.

"o-oh, that's really..romantic" you breathe out. he huffs and he's so much closer now because you feel the air hit your face when he does "s'corny if you ask me" he says evenly, gaze focused on you.

"i did ask you" you quip, but there's no smirk on your face when you do, your heart starts beating a little faster "you seem to know a lot for someone who thinks it's corny" you try to lighten to mood, booping his nose and you watch his face scrunch up, huffing out a laugh when he bops his forehead to yours somewhat harshly again, but not enough to hurt.

" my folks told me about it. and it's a common tale back where i'm from, everyone knows about it."

and that clears your head a little bit. his parents. the place where he comes from.

you'd been too scared to ask him anything after things turned awkward a few weeks ago. it wasn't that bad, but bad enough to scare you off from asking again. you suck in a breath, sucking up your confidence with it.

"where—" you start "where are you from anyway, bakugou?" your voice is soft, meek as you ask. it's so low you could barely hear yourself but you did, and so did he. his eyes narrow the slightest bit and you have to steel your nerves to stop from flinching. he leans his head away, just slightly, like he can't force himself to go any further "why'd you wanna know ?" he asks, and unreadable expression on his face.

you shrug "i wanna know more about you." you reply. he squints at you somewhere, then closes his eyes and sighs.

"my people are from a place called yuuei. it's a great kingdom" he huffs, clearly proud.

you nod "then..why'd you leave ?" you probably should've been more careful with your wording, but you found you don't find bakugou as menacing as you used to when he first arrived. you don't know if that's a good thing or not.

his eyebrows furrow as he looks down at the couch, you don't want to upset him and you're about to tell me he doesn't have to divulge any personal information when he speaks again.

"i'm...pretty important over there.” he mumbled "it's—it doesn't matter anymore. i'll probably be replaced."

"what ? what does that mean ?" all he does is furrow his eyebrows more, clenching his fists. as if it were a reflex, you reach up and run your fingers through his soft blonde hair. his closes his eyes the moment your hand makes contact with his head, you hear a happy little chuff come from him as you scratch a specific spot he rlly likes right below his nape.

"in my kingdom, you have to do this sort of..duel, it's for power an' stuff.." he replies after a bit , his eyes still closed but the pinch in his brows returns the more he speaks "i was supposed to win. i was gonna win, but i—" a heavy scowl is present on his face and you could tell it was something hard to talk about for him. you're so focused you don't notice your movements have slowed down, but bakugou has. he nudges his head against your hand and grunts. you offer him a little mumbled out "sorry" and continue to abide to his wordless demand. it's endearing as much as it's bratty, but you don't mind much.

"that fuckin' bastard played dirty..and i lost. th't's how i got here" he groused. your eyes widen in shock, completely stopping your movements in his hair despite the groans of complaint you hear from him. "how far away is yuuei ?!"

"far" he chuckles humorlessly "very far. but i've sparred with him before, he couldn't have gotten so strong so fast. must've gotten somethin' from a witch or whatever.”

"you got blasted all the way here ?!" you squeaked, cringing at the pain he must've felt. with the state he'd appeared at..your wall, it was honestly amazing he had healed so much that fast. dragons really are something else, you thought.

he scoffs, shoving his head against your hand as if to punish you for rubbing salt in his still very open wound. "s'not that big of a deal" he stops himself for a second "i'm gettin' better aren't i, doc ?" he jests. you roll your eyes, a small smile appearing onto your face. he had been healing pretty well from what you'd seen.

"i can give you that" you sigh. bakugou gives you a once over than raises and eyebrow "well, did i satisfy your curiosity, human ?" he goads sarcastically, you fight the urge to roll your eyes again because you feel they'll get stuck to the back of your head with how hard you'd be rolling them. instead you offer him a tiny giggle, you miss how his tail raises upwards the slightest bit.

you hum pensively, and he rolls his eyes at you this time, you laugh. "yeah, i think i'm satisfied for now" you smirk, returning to your activities of messing around with his wheat colored strands of hair, making it messier and spikier than it already was.

"for now ?" he asks amusedly. but there's a subtle hint of genuine vulnerablity in his eyes that you can somehow see so clearly, you're still a little shocked about how easy this literal other wordly, mythical being was to read. or maybe bakugou was just very obvious. or maybe it's because you feel like you've known him you're entire life when you look him in the eyes for too long.

"mhm" you hum, smiling softly at him, your hand trails lower to the hairs at the nape of his neck, you get goosebumps when you hear his low growl in response to your touch "for now" you whisper. a beat passes.

suddenly, you're pressed down on the couch and bakugou's on top of you.

it happened before you could even process it. before you could even blink he was staring down at you, hands on either sides of your head and so close that you could feel his breath every time he inhaled and exhaled. there's a low rumble sound that's coming from him, you don't know from where. you can barely hear anything over the sound of your heart beating fast against your ribs.

he's simply staring, and staring and a beat passes. then he huffs, pouting to himself.

"you piss me the hell off, you know." he mutters

"wh-wha?! bakugou—" you're not even sure you could've said anything more coherent than this if you tried. your brain's scrambled, your cheeks feel hot and you cannot hear anything but him and your beating heart.

he cuts you off "katsuki." he growls. "it's katsuki. say it." he demands, sounding almost desperate.

"..katsuki" you mumble shyly, testing how the new name he'd given you sounds. it's pretty, you like saying it, you decide. he inhales harshly when he registers his name falling from your pretty lips.

"you—" he speaks " you have no fuckin' idea what you do to me, do you." he asks but he doesn't give you a chance to answer as he continues "'f course ya don't." he smirks, leaning in more so he could bump his nose against yours. your lips part to swipe your tongue over them and you feel your fingers twitch when his eyes flit over to look at the movement for way longer than necesarry before he keeps speaking.

"you, you're probably...nah, definitely the most infuriating human i've ever met." you huff, forgetting the position you're in for a moment before pouting up at him " you're not the most amicable dragon i've met either." you huff petulantly. he chuckles, adjusting a little to lean back just barely and give you that infuriating smirk. "no trust me, i am. any other dragon wouldn't have let ya mouth off like that at them for more than a second"

"so what, i should be thanking you or something ?" you snarked hotly, you go to cross your arms reflexively, but he stops you halfway. holding your arms above your head with one hand. he leans in again and you gasp slightly. his hold on you tightens ever so slightly when you do.

"yeah, you should be actually. coulda blown yer fuckin' head off if i wanted to" he snickers "but that's the thing." he says somewhat seriously "i didn't"

"thanks." you deadpan. he tuts at you, rolling his eyes again "shut up, i wasn't finished. when you mouthed off to me when i first arrived here. you had every fuckin' right to." he admits begrudgingly, looking away from you. your eyes widen in surprise but you stay silent

bakugou sighs above you " as much as i hate to admit it, you saved my life...or whatever. and the first thing i did was threaten you. i haven't met that many humans, but most of 'em were weaklings. wether they talked a big game or not, they should be prepared for what happens when you mess with me and what's mine."

"but you weren't after my treasure, or my scales, or my life. you were after payment for your fuckin' wall" he chortles " i thought that was what caught me off guard about you, so i figured i could at least fix your wall up."

he stops and his smirks melt away when he makes eye contact with you again. "but then ya offered me to stay. and i said yes. and i didn't fuckin' know why i did, but it just felt right to." he admits "i went along with your stupid human reasons that i could honestly give less of a shit about, without even fucking knowing why." he spills, inhaling as he finishes "but now," he swallows, leaning down so his lips make contact with your neck, you gasp in surprise "now i do." he rumbles lowly.

you can barely speak, can barely think straight and yet it's like your body's taking full control "wh-why?" you hear yourself ask. he looks up at you from where he's hidden in your neck and leans up until your lips are a breath away from each other. it startles you, but you don't move.

he looks at your lips then back up at you. red eyes peering at you, asking for permission. you exhale and feel yourself nod just the slightest bit, but just enough for him to get your approval. you want this, you need this. you feel like you'll lose it if you he doesn't—

the sound of the timer makes you both jump.

"oh—shit !" you squeak, surprised at the sudden noise, you look at the tv, and back at him. his face is fully red and he refuses to look at you anymore. it makes your chest hurts a little bit. just as fast as he'd pushed you down onto the couch he's already off you, quickly mumbling "i'll go check it." before dissapearing into the kitchen, you can just barely catch the sound of his retreating footsteps over the sound of your beating heart.

what. just. happened ?

you don't know how you fell asleep last night but you did somehow, because the next morning you're off from work, it's ten am, and katsuki is gone. he'd left a note in suprisingly neat handwriting saying he had gone out to get groceries for dinner tonight. it was your turn to make dinner today, but you appreciate it nonetheless, despite your heavy, heavy heart.

you hear a knock at your door and you assume it's him, even though you find it odd of him to knock, since you had offered him a spare key. the knocking is insistent and loud. you grumpily stalk up to your door, swinging it open. expecting to be met with an extremely pushy telemarketer but instead you're met with an extremely tall, red haired man.

he had to be a little bit taller than katsuki, from what you can see. his hair spikes up and blends together so well it takes you a moment to notice those front pieces aren't hair, but horns. you look behind him for good measure and notice a long, red tail swaying from side to side like a cat's. he smiles wide, opening his mouth to speak and you're suddenly face first with an insanely sharp set off teeth. those are way sharper than katsuki's, by a long shot.

he's a dragon.

"hey !" he chirps happily. he doesn't seem like that big of a threat, you dare even say friendly. friendlier than your dragon friend that's for sure.

"hi.." you say wearily, tightly clutching onto your door preparing to slam it in his face should he give you a reason to. he seems to realise you're suspicious of him, as he backs up a little bit, raising his hands up in surrender.

"don't worry, i mean you no harm ! honest !" he reassures, looking you up and down. he seems to find something funny because he snorts but tries to hold it in. you look down and realise you're wearing your most ridiculous set of sanrio pyjamas, with cinnamoroll slippers to match.

great. very awesome. just perfect.

you look away from his and he seems to sense you starting to become flustered, (his senses sure are sharp, you'll give him that) lighthearteldly chuckling "i like your...footwear" he jests pointing with his chin towards your feet "very cute."

"did you need anything ?" you mutter, refusing to look at him because you feel like you'd explode from embarrassment. he jumps a little, seeming to remember what he came for and nods " yeah, actually ! i don't know if you'll believe me, but i'm a dragon."

"i can tell." you respond

"ya don't seem to be all the shocked.." he chuckles, looking a little dissapointed. it's kind of cute and you crack a small smile

"let's just say you're not the first dragon i've met." he nods, humming to himself and you can't tell if he actually heard you, let alone understood you.

"well, that makes things a little easier." he says " i'm actually looking for someone, a friend of mine. he's been missing for a little while and i'm looking for him." he explained

you raise and eyebrow in question "and what makes you think he'd be here?" you asked suspicously

"my buddy's real strong, so i could sense his mana output was somewhere around here ! i was gonna go from door to door, but it felt the strongest over here, so i decided to check your residence first !" he beams.

oh wow.

you don't even want to imagine what would've happened if someone had seem him like..that outside of their door. you can just thank the heavens above he came to your door first. nevertheless, he seems harmless. and he's pretty endearing, you're heart can't help but squeeze for him a little bit.

"oh, well—"

"what the fuck are you doing here ?!"

you and your new dragon friend both jump at the booming voice belonging to none other than your blonde dragon roommate, having just returned from doing the groceries. he doesn't look pleased, unlike his friend, who's breaks out into a grin seeing him.

"bakugou, man !" he rushes over to his friend, his tail happily following along. he clasps his hand behind his friends back, said friend doesn't budge and opts to glare from the corner of his eye.

"what the fuck are you doing here, shitty hair ?!" katsuki growls again, hands tightening around the grocery bags. you wince at the harsh nickname but his friend doesn't even flinch, probably already used to your dragon friends potty mouth.

shitty hair (?) simply laughs "what type of question is that ? i came here to get you !" his friend throws an arm around his shoulder and katsuki's jaw tightens.

you can't wipe the look of shock on your face fast enough because katsuki notices it. his eyebrows furrow as he's sure you'd heard what his mysterious companion had said, not that you could miss his frankly loud voice.

a beat passes and katsuki just shakes his head, grumbling at his friends words." i didn't ask you to come for me."

his hold loosens just slightly on the grocery bags in his hands and he sighs, shaking his friends shoulder off and walking past you both into your apartment, you both follow after him.

"c'mon man ! everyone's been worried about you !" kirishima pleads, accidently bumping past you to reach his friend. bakugou insists on ignoring him, stuffing the groceries in the fridge and the pantry "you've been gone for way longer than you usually are when you get mopey, so i just wanted to check up on—"

bakugou throws his friend a pointed glare, the heat of his stare causes his friend to flinch and his tail to drop. bakugou clenches his fists once, then twice and goes back to putting tonight's ingredients away "get lost. i don't need you to check up on me." he all but growls "i'm obviously fine, so tell the others to quit worryin.'"

"as if ! what am i supposed to tell them ? that you're suddenly working for humans ?" his friend seems to remember your existence and turns to you, waving his hands around " a— a nice human, of course !"

as confused as you are, you offer him a small smile "no offense taken." he smiles at you, sharp teeth on display, you miss the way bakugou slams the fridge door a little more harshly than usual. "i'm not workin for them ! as if i'd ever stoop that low, don't fuckin' insult me !"

"w-well what am i supposed to get from...this ?!" his friend gestures towards the now empty grocery bags in katsuki's hands. bakugou rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to respond when you cut in.

"uhm, excuse me ?"

this might be the stupidest decision you've ever made, standing in between two huge men who also happen to be dragons was definetly not something you expected to happen in your lifetime.

"i can tell you have..issues" you trail off "but i would like to get some things straight first, alright ?" you look to both men for answers. your unexpected guest nods obediently while your grouchy friend simply grunts in response, looking away from you. you sigh.

"alright first," you turn to the red haired dragon man " who are you ?" he jumps, rubbing at his nape, suddenly bashful "oh, right ! sorry, how rude of me !" he apologizes to you so easily. he's been suprisingly easy to deal with and you're starting to doubt what bakugou said about other dragons being meaner than him.

"the name's kirishima ! kirishima eijirou ! i'm sorry i didn't introduce myself sooner" you hear bakugou scoff behind you but you choose to ignore it, nodding at kirishima's words. "..alright kirishima, what do you want from bakugou here ?" you ask, nodding your chin behind your back towards your spiky haired roommate.

kirishima nods " bakugou suddenly went missing after an incident happened at our ten-year-tournament. i didn't bother looking for him at first, cuz he likes to be alone when he's brooding." he chuckles nervously "but he didn't show up after a few days and suddenly we realized he had dissapeared. i couldn't just give up on my bro, so i went looking for him." he explains.

"well ya found me, whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo." katsuki deadpans " so now you can fuck off—"

you fix bakugou with a sharp glare, and he clamps his mouth shut in suprise, before grumbling to himself, deciding to kick his shoes off. you sigh, focusing back on kirishima who looks shocked for a reason you don't know, then fixes his gaze on you again and straightens up, you look at him funny but you don't bother asking him about his behavior.

"ten-year- tournament ?"

"yeah !" kirishima bellows like you're a sergeant "it happens every decade between multiple different factions within our kingdom to avoid resorting to an all out war" he explains " we organize a tournament with representatives from every faction to take part in a sort of all out combat tournament !"

" the winning faction is granted a significant advantage and influence. the tournament serves as a means to determine a balance of power and settle disputes peacefully." katsuki adds on from behind you, with kirishima nodding along excitedly.

your jaw practically drops to the floor as you process the information. bakugou looks damn near constipated when you look back at him in shock. he squirms and shuffles around refusing to meet your eye.

bakugou scoffs for the umpteenth time today, shoving his hands in the pockets of the pants he chose out a few weeks ago when you'd went to the mall "...s'not that big of a deal.." he mutters, basically to himself but unfortunately for him both you and kirishima hear him.

"what ?!" you both exclaim, bakugou squints harder, his expression souring. you turn to kirishima and he doesn't need to be asked anything to know you want to know more. he continues nervously, despite having bakugou's glare concentrated on him as if telling him to be quiet.

"basically, bakubro over here fougth against someone from another faction, but it didn't end well."

"fuckin' bastard played dirty.." bakugou snarls behind you.

"right..and this is where we are now" kirishima finishes, sweatdropping.

you nod, eyebrows furrowed. you feel like the puzzle pieces are connecting, but you're somehow just as confused.

"so, what you said about that duel stuff yesterday, and you being replaced—" you turn to bakugou, who finally decides to look at you and it stuns you a bit, you try not to let it show too hard.

"replaced ?!" kirishima repeats "no way, man ! you're our best fighter, there's no way you'd get replaced"

bakugou's eyebrows furrow a bit more in response, his expression bitter as he looks off to the side, you can see the hurt he's trying to mask with anger " 'm obviously not the best if i fuckin' lost.." he chokes out lowly. your heart hurts for him and you want nothing more than to bury your fingers in his hair and have him purr into your touch to make him feel better.

" we all know that yuma guy didn't play fair ! maybe we could have some kinda—re-tournament or something !" kirishima tries encouraging his friend but it's futile as bakugou's jaw tightens again, glaring daggers at his friend, silencing him.

"don't be dumb. there's no way that's ever gonna happen, the elders are gonna see what they wanna see, whatever we have to say doesn't fuckin' matter." he says through his teeth.

" but—"

"enough, kirishima." bakugou snapped "forget it." it's all he utters before walking off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

it's so quiet you could hear a pin drop, kirishima and you hold your breath until he let's out a hopeless sigh.

"hooooh, maaann...i messed up bad.." he covers his face with his hands, groaning into them. you walk up to him to rub his arm comfortingly. you don't really know what else to do but try to comfort him.

"hey, it's alright just—give him some time to cool off, he gets cranky after being around humans for too long." you chuckle. kirishima offers you a tiny smile, letting out a huff of laughter "well, he doesn't encounter humans long enough to get cranky at them."

you tilt your head in confusion "what do you mean ?" you ask.

"bakubro doesn't like humans, he makes that..really clear.." he sweatdrops, his tail swishes slowly. "but i've never seen him take anything from a human before," he looks down at you and flashes you a cute grin "he must really like you !"

your heart skips too many beats.

it pulses like it did yesterday, when he'd been so close. with his breath against your face and his face so close to yours and his lips so close to-

"hey, you okay ? you look a little sick.." you feel something hard against your forehead, then realise it's his pressed against your own "do ya have a fever..?" he mutters almost to himself.

you jump back damn near five meters away from him as you process how close he is. he's way less shy about being physical compared to katsuki, by a long shot.

"i-i'm okay ! no need to worry about me ! m'fine !" he pouts at your response " we must have freaked you out, right ? m'sorry for the outburst." he apologizes, bowing his head a little. maybe it's because he's so nice or you've gotten used to petting dragons, but you place your hand against his spiky hair, rubbing at it softly "it's really not your fault, no need for apologies."

his eyes widen for a fraction of a second then dilate and his tail wags like a puppy's. "okay..f'you say so." he mumbles shyly, his voice now barely a fraction of what is was before " thank you, human.."

you're about to respond when the bathroom door opens and your met with bakugou, who's face morphs from his usual grumpy resting face, to confusion, to being damn near enraged. kirishima's about to talk again, possibly trying to convince his friend to return with him but katsuki marches over before he can even take a breath and proceeds to rip your hand out of kirishima's hair with a growl.

you gasp in surprise, his hand is so warm around your wrist. it makes you feel warm all over. kirishima tries to speak again but is interuppted yet again and if you could think straight you'd feel bad.

"kirishima." katsuki growls lowly, grip still secure around your wrist "come outside with me for a second."

kirishima looks at his friend, then to you and your arm in his grip. then nods, his eyes are a little wide "okay, sure." he says. katsuki grunts in acknowledgement and kirishima walks off ahead, not before offering you a wave and a cheery 'it was nice to meet you human !" you offer him a weak wave in return, still stunned.

before he leaves, katsuki turns to you. he looks down at your hand like he'd forgotten he'd grabbed it. he looks up at you, ears and face reddening, but he doesn't make any move to let go. instead, he harshly grabs your hand like a ragdoll and places it ontop of his head. his eyes remain fixed onto your face, your heart beats so fast your afraid it'll blast out of your chest at this rate.

it takes you a minute but almost reflexively, you curl your fingers to start scratching at the mop of hair on his head. he closes his eyes almost immediatly, chuffing into the air as he leans into you just slightly when you scratch at the spot right next to one of his horns.

the entire interaction takes up 5 seconds, but you feel like decades just passed by, and you really don't mind much. katsuki opens his eyes slowly to look at you. his eyes shine like he has something he wants to say, like he's debating if he should say something.

"i'll be back.." he whispers, voice low and gravely.

"okay.." you whisper back "don't be long. you're makin' dinner tonight, right ?" you giggle.

he huffs in your face and some smoke comes out, he let's out a barely there chuckle when you scrunch your nose up at him " dumbass, don't think i forgot it's your turn. you're lucky m'letting it slide tonight." he snickers. you tug at his horn and he snarls at you. before leaning back up again. he looks at you for just a moment longer then turns away out the door.

the butterflies in your stomach fly around in a fury, flapping their wings away as a dazed smile pulls at your face. you're satisfied enough for now to ignore the seed of doubt growing in your stomach.

" woah, there's tons of humans here, huh ?" kirishima says.

katsuki merely grunts in response. they had decided to settle down at a nearby park. it's crawling with humans and katsuki is somewhat dissapointed to realise he isn't all that bothered by their presence anymore. not as much as before at least.

"it’s annoyin." he mutters halfheartedly, leaning against the park bench they were sitting on, he sighs. kirishima chuckles kicking at some sand, frightening some pigeons nearby. "this place is real peaceful, i can see why you've been here for so long."

bakugou scoffs "wasn't originally what i was plannin’. you think i'd willingly spend my time mingling with humans, shitty hair ?"

"well, kinda seems like it's what you were doing with the human you're living with," kirishima quips, innocently shrugging to himself "just an observation." he adds.

"spell observation, then you can try to act smart with me, dumbass."

"hey, not cool ! i'm not stupid !" kirishima whines. he can't help himself and chuckles. bakugou cracks a faint smirk.

" i wasn't gonna live with that shitty human, just happened to blast through her apartment after losing that stupid tournament. was injured an’ she let me stay till i got better, or whatever." he explains. kirishima furrows his eyebrows, visibly confused.

"i mean, you woulda been blasted off pretty far, but it's been weeks, man.. have you gotten weaker or-"

"of course not, shitty scales !" bakugou growls "as if that weakling extra would've gotten me that bad."

"but..you're healed now, aren't you ?" his red haired friend asked. katsuki cringes at the way he's hesitant to answer him.

"yeah.." he utters.

both men stay quiet after that. katsuki sees a man walking his dog and a couple with a little girl in between them.

"you like that human a lot, don't you." kirishima speaks into the silence. katsuki doesn't respond. he sees two humans walking together, smiling and holding onto each other’s hands.

"tch. as if i could like that shitty human.." he says. kirishima can hear his friend doesn't sound completely sure of himself, despite being the last person he expected to ever be unsure of themselves. the blonde barely lasts a minute before sighing to himself. he leans his forearms against his legs.

"i think.. i think she's..y'know.." katsuki groans, grabbing onto his hair, trying to hide his face to cover up his embarrassment. kirishima only smiles to himself knowingly. kicking his feet up slightly in the air. he scratches his hair in the spot his horns usually are, it feels weird to hide them, he thinks.

"yeah, i know." kirishima answers "so, what do you plan to do ?"

"i don't know" katsuki huffs, letting his hands drop from his hair to back onto his lap. " i don't fuckin' know.."

katsuki returns about an hour later.

you're a little saddened to see that kirishima isn't there with him. "did kirishima leave ?" you ask loud enough so he can hear you from the entrance. he doesn't respond as fast as you'd like him to, the seed of doubt forms again. he walks up to you right infront of the couch and your eyebrows furrow when you see his expression. he refuses to look at you like he did yesterday, your heart squeezes.

"he's waitin' outside." his voice is barely loud enough for you to hear, you turn down the volume of the movie you're watching to hear him better. you see him squint at the floor like he's upset about it.

"oh." you snuggle into the couch, trying your hardest to get comfortable "is he coming over for dinner ?" you ask.

katsuki clenches his fists, taking a breath "no, he—listen." he looks up at you and his eyebrow furrow harder, it's heartbreaking and you want to reach out to him but you can't bring yourself to move.

"i..i have to go." he says, keeping his eyes on you.

you feel like someone just punched you in the gut.

you don't know how or what to feel. you knew he wouldn't be able to stay forever, you're both completely different. you have different lives, different routines—you're fully different beings. but somehow you'd tried to convince yourself that you weren't all that different from each other. that because you'd gotten used to watching movies, bickering, cooking for each other and folding laundry together, you'd thought maybe things could be different. you could've made this your routine.

"o-oh. oh." you say, voice wobbly "oh, yeah, okay..but your injuries.."

"it's fine i—" he cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. you don't like seeing him like this. katsuki decides he hates the look on your face more than anything. " i was supposed to leave a while ago."

your heart hurts, so so much. it hurts because the look on his face shatters you. it hurts because his words are shattering you. you can't help but feel a little stupid, dragons were really something else. they're not like regular humans, of course he wouldn't heal like one.

"okay..okay." your grip on the remote tightens so hard it starts to hurt. katsuki bites at his lip, he stands there like he's stuck to the floor. the conversation is over. no tears, no screaming, no fighting. it's over but his body won't allow him to move. like he should stay, stay where he feels right.

he should stay here with you.

without another word, katsuki turns around and leaves.

you sit there on the couch for a moment longer, watching his back as he walks away from you. going back to where he actually belongs.

back home.

you feel a giant lump in your throat, your eyes cloud up as you hear the door close behind him along with the low sound of the movie still playing on your tv. you lay down on your couch and cry. tears roll down your face as you shove your head deeper and deeper into one of the pillows and sob.

it seems it was your turn to make dinner tonight, after all.

AAAANNND it is done ! ngl i kinda felt a lil pain in my chest writing this LMFAOOO ughhh my love hate relationship w angst is doin number on me rn :(( welp anyway i had alot of fun writing either way , and i hope you enjoy reading as well ! sorries it took so long ml's <3

taglist ! : @sikuthealien @rosemarygalaxy @guccirosegold @slashersl0t @queenpiranhadon @k0z3me @katsuisbaby

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itrainswhenurhere · 2 months ago

Text

guilty as sin? kiara carrera x rafe cameron

18+ mature

mlist

a/n: this story is set between s3/4 and is probably not plot accurate lols cos i lowkey don’t know how many years her kook year was from then (kiaras flashbacks are from the night of sarahs birthday party at the end of her kook year) also the other things like sarah collecting her stuff probably makes no sense at all don’t judge me i haven’t watched it in ages alsooo this is my first time writing like!!! ever!!! so please be kind yall

her breath caught at the memories attached to the 2 story skeleton of a house she had ‘willingly’ walked into.

it had been almost 3 years since the last time kiara had walked out of tannyhill vowing to never come back. 3 long years of forgetting, she liked to think.

she thinks of how much her life has changed along the way, she had walked away that day and continued on with her life while in her mind, the house lay still awaiting her re-arrival.

leaving behind (almost) everything attached to her kook year, was what it symbolised- completely nothing to do with the tall blonde resident that would haunt the halls during her sleepovers or 12 hour stays, appearing in the corner of her eye as sarah would drag her by the wrist down the winding passages to her room to do whatever she had so kindly picked out for them.

“alright,” sarah says, snapping kiara out of her haze.

“we need to do this quickly, just incase. i’m getting my pottery from downstairs, can you try and grab our old pictures from upstairs.”

kiara is standing on the first step of the stairs to tannyhill, having broken her promise to herself of never coming back but still thankful that she hadn’t returned for the reason she’d fought off everyday since her absence.

since the day she had come to the estate to confront sarah about kelly changs instagram story- consisting of the latter mid jump off a kitchen table, beer in hand, surrounded with people cheering her on under the blue and gold lighting, the same people that sarah had promised her would welcome her with open arms, the same people she had so brazenly defended kiara from when they would make fun of her.

kiara remembers stomping into the house full of rage and a hint of entitlement, waiting for sarah to come home that night and finally having to face her what kiara so righteously had to say (scream) to her.

which further proves the point she tells herself everyday of how the house had stayed there, and she had moved on.

she was now here with sarah cameron again to collect the blondes old things in a box, things she had never had a chance to get at the height of everything with the cross, with peterkin, with the gold.

it had been almost a year since ward camerons ‘untimely’ death. everything was going well for both of them.

the surf shop was going as well as a surf shop on the cut can go, sarah and john b where growing closer by the second and kiara, well, her and jj where doing amazing, she was 100% fully in the relationship and not in the slightest constantly thinking about the man who had who had terrorised jj for years whenever he puts his hands on her. which is a mantra she practices in mirror often, just incase.

kiara turns to the blonde, looking at her expectantly.

“yeah ok that’s fine, i’ll hurry.”

she isn’t sure what she expected, the house isn’t unkept by any means. rafe now owns the place, living there alone. the house stills stands so grand, so perfect, to a T.

the first room she stumbles upon as she stalks the corridors upstairs is the en-suite guest room.

it doesn’t look the way it used to, well, it does. it looks the exact same. it doesn’t feel the way it used to. all of the house she’s seen so far feels so phantom, so eerily empty, untouched.

maybe it’s the lack of background noise.

it was always there. no matter what, the liveliness, wheezie would be on the phone with her friends in the kitchen, complaining about something to do with her father, or rafe would have his friends over in his home gym, the thumping of weights from upstairs ringing throughout the house, or even the tv in the background.

hell, there was even the patter of footsteps that didn’t belong to sarah sounding behind her as she waited on the couch that night, phone in her hand, kellys instagram story open behind her knuckles- white with pressure.

“uh, hey kie, sarah’s not here.”

kiara quickly shakes herself away from that memory, as though physically moving her body could distract her from going down that rabbit hole again.

she leaves the room and walks with her head down to sarahs.

sarahs room is a time capsule, she thinks. for good and bad. the bed is made where kiara and sarah used to paint their toenails and talk about boys, kiara remembers always saying that no one in their year had ever caught her attention, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

her beaded necklaces still hang from her dresser, decorated also with shells and pictures and-

oh right. pictures.

kiara reaches over to sarahs’ vanity and one by one takes the pictures off of the tourist magnets that sarah had said add to the ‘island aesthetic.’

kiara smiles to herself at the memory. she thinks about how simple things were back then.

she continues plucking the pictures off the mirror, the photos all mainly of her and kiara, but sometimes wheezie. kiara grabs at the last one and looks down at it.

it’s a picture of her and and topper and some place she doesn’t recognise, except she does. the blue and gold light illuminating their faces, the slightly out of it look on both of them. sarahs’ birthday party. it’s a landscape picture them standing side by side, topper gripping his red cup, slightly distracted by whatever was going on to his left.

kiara grimaces.

she’s not even mad anymore. not at sarah. not at topper. not at anyone. she just doesn’t like the reminder of the night. that’s all.

in fact sarah sometimes brings the night up, as a joke obviously. kiara doesn’t find it funny- she doesn’t like to lie to sarah. so she doesn’t find it funny.

she scoops the pictures up- with the exception of the one from sarahs birthday, and prepares to leave.

she doesn’t make it far. she definitely doesn’t make it downstairs.

the warmth of his room is nice, she concludes. she knows he must stay in wards old room now but all her memories of him are still preserved here. even the ones she wants to forget.

the memories where her and sarah would sneak in and go through his things, laughing when they find the ‘gross’ magazines under his bed. sarah would joke about how the girls on the covers kind of look like kiara, they would both brush it off with a laugh, like all the women on the covers all having hazelnut skin and dark curls was some kind of crazy coincidence.

like when he would run in and scream at them for being anywhere near his ‘personal shit.’

like when his gaze would only fall on kiara as they both tried to explain themselves through choked out giggles.

like the way he put his hand on her thigh when he suggested getting back at sarah.

she’s currently standing in the middle of the rafe camerons old bedroom. the room itself isn’t as familiar as sarahs. she brushes her free hand over the top of his drawers and starts moving, there’s not at a lot of dust on most of it so she figures he must come here sometimes. she wonders why.

he’s in spain right now apparently. according to sarah, that’s what she’d said when she practically dragged kiara out of the shop and into her car.

she knew coming here again was a bad idea. she can still feel it. his phantom lips on hers.

her knees hit the front of the his bed and she decides there’s no harm in sitting down.

her index finger brushes across his fluffed up pillow. she knows it’s wrong to still think about it, especially because of jj, he loves her, she knows that. it should be that simple. it could be. maybe if every time he desperately tried to prove it to her she didn’t shut her eyes and think about rafe camerons hands slowly dragging downward on her body, moving lower and lower.

she’s lying down now, hopelessly staring at his ceiling like it could help her, like it could save her.

instead all it does is taunt her.

for 3 years, every time she had a man in her bed she would find herself seeing him out and immediately googling ‘is it true that you never forget your first time???’

for 3 years she thought about it.

how he had asked her what she was doing here so late.

how he had sighed and told her “i warned you she would do this kie.”

how he flickered his gaze downward when she crossed her legs onto the coffee table.

kiara shuts her eyes.

how he had invited her upstairs because ‘rose was coming home soon.’

how they had pretended to be an old married couple complaining about the noise from some party across the street.

how he had asked her what she wanted. how she wanted to do things.

shes holding her hands over her stomach now, sarahs pictures long gone.

“you’re sure?” he’d asked breathlessly. “mhm,” she murmered carelessly into his mouth

he’d practically torn her brand new sleep shorts into nothing trying to take them off so quickly.

kiaras hands twitch over eachother.

he had kissed all the way down her from her forehead to inbetween her thighs, whispering about how special she is.

kiaras hands move down.

she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back up onto her, his chin soaked all over.

she had tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants until he sat up on his knees and pulled them down.

he had teased her for what felt like hours.

kiaras hand lifts up her leggings.

he had caught on her entrance with a gasp.

her free hand slowly moves down.

he looked her in the eye and silently asked for her permission. she had granted it.

kiaras hands ghost over her underwear.

his head fell on her shoulders as he finally pushed himself int-

“kiara what the fuck are you doing up there?”

oh.

#lolll i’m gonna proofread in the morning it is 3:58am for me rn #no one hate on me #plrs #literally 2 posts ago i was bitching about how no one writes real fics anymore but this honestly doesn’t even count as one #also does this make sense i had no plan for this i just got really carried away #I JUST REREAD IT AND ITS SO ASS OH MY GOD #kiara carrera #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x kiara carrera #kiarafe #riara #obx #sarah cameron #rafe cameron x reader #kiara carrera x reader #works✧₊⁺

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riaki · 1 year ago

Text

ᴄɪɢᴀʀᴇᴛᴛᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛᴡᴏ | ᴀᴋɪ ʜᴀʏᴀᴋᴀᴡᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

syn: as strong-willed as he thinks he is, aki can't help but indulge you every once in a while. he's too weak for you. or, aki shotguns you.

in the past, aki would’ve never admitted to being an addict.

whether it be the cigarettes that are always a few inches away from his twitching fingers, tucked in his pocket— or the alcohol he lets himself indulge in as a sort of tradition he'd treat himself to; a toast to the next day he lives to see, he likes to think his resolve is a little stronger than an itch in his lungs here and there.

still, it's not like he refrains from doing it— his policy is that he's going to end up in the grave soon one way or another, so in his eyes, it's just one rusted nail in the coffin that's a sliver away from being sealed. you’ve complained about it before, but he just can’t rip himself away from the smoke. it’s too bad he can’t turn you pocket sized and carry you around in his palm; you’re a great substitute to the hit of nicotine in terms of soothing his constantly buzzing mind.

his leniency towards those types of things dashes when it comes to you, though. like the breaking foam of waves that crash against a rocky shoreline.

“i said, no.”

aki thought he’d already been firm enough with you the first time, but evidently not. even so, no matter how much you pout and whine— he is not letting you take a drag from his cigarette.

normally, he wouldn’t care. it’s not like he’s never shared one before— he used to steal drags from himeno all the time, until you expressed your disdain and he stopped immediately. it’s not that he doesn’t find your jealousy cute— quite the opposite, in fact. he just doesn’t want you getting any stupid ideas.

you’re certainly not making it easy for him, though.

“come on aki, please?” it’s not uncommon for you to plead like that. since you’ve started dating, aki, or rather, you, have found that the best way to melt his strength of will is to beg.

aki likes taking care of you. it’s in his nature; whatever spirit of a big brother that was left in him after he lost his family gradually nurtured and bloomed in your relationship, especially with someone as… irresponsible as you.

as such, it’s his (self appointed, you’d argue) job to make sure you’re in good health. and he’s very quickly picked up on the fact that learning to say no to you is the one and only lifeline keeping this relationship from drifting off into an irreversible spiral of spoiling you to no end.

in this particular instance, you approached him one morning with a poorly hidden agenda; the balcony door slid open as warmth from the apartment mingled with the chilly early morning breeze. aki was immersed in his newspaper and halfway through a cigarette when you’d spoken up, with the request to ‘have a taste’. he’d immediately said no and left you looking like a sad wet cat on the porch to make breakfast.

he’s regretting that decision thoroughly, now. you won’t stop bugging him, and even though he finds comfort in the sound of your voice, it’s the last thing he wants to hear right now. not because you’re annoying, but that he knows if you say his name in that tone a few more times he’ll fold.

“why not? you do it all the time! i just want to give it a try.” you sighed softly, tilting your head to the side as you lean against the cold marble of the kitchen counter, watching him wash dirty carrots. the vivid green leaves bob up and down beneath the pressure of the sink water as he scrubs them clean, before looking down at you.

“it rots your bones.”

“your bones are fine!”

“i already told you i’m not going to let you. just give it up, love.” he murmurs, turning his attention back to the vegetables in his hands. “cutting board, please.”

you oblige and lean over the counter, grabbing the wooden board from where it leans against the counter wall and hand it over to him. his hands are wet, so you don’t let go until you’re sure he has a firm grip on the board. he uses his other hand to turn the faucet off, droplets clinging to the reflective metal.

“aww, don’t be like that. what’s the harm in just one hit?” you protested, hauling yourself onto the countertop, legs dangling over the edge as your heels hit the cupboards. aki rolls his sleeves up again, revealing the pale bandages on his arms as he shakes the water clinging to his fingers off and grabs a knife and begins to cut into the carrots, dicing them up.

“don’t be stupid.” he scoffs, not looking at you. you watch his arm move up and down with each motion, the thud of the knife hitting the dull cutting board. "i always am." you grumbled under your breath, but he just ignores you.

“you know that’s not how it works. how do you even think people get addicted in the first place, [name]?” he murmurs, holding the carrots in place with two fingers on the leaves.

“it starts with one hit. just one cigarette. and then it turns into one pack, and then some.” he knows the process all too well.

you sigh forlornly, propping your elbows up on your knees and supporting your chin in your hands, kicking your feet in the air as you study the cozy kitchen. the potted plant you’ve been taking care of sits in the corner, tear-shaped leaves drooping beneath the shade of the cupboards. aki’s mug of cold coffee sits on the counter next to the sink, half full and calling your name. it’s the only thing he’s allowed you to be addicted to. and him, of course.

“you’re such a hypocrite.” you grumbled half-heartedly, rolling your eyes before letting your gaze drift to his profile again, studying the slight purse in his lips as he rests one palm over the blunt edge of the knife and cuts with the other one. you’ve always liked watching him cook; he’s good at it, and there’s something grounding in watching him sprinkle pepper and salt over a simmering pot of homecooked stew on a lazy weekend off.

he finally spares you a glance, peering at you through his dark lashes. his silvery blue eyes reflect a soft shine under the glow of the warm kitchen lights.

“i’m not.” he replies, nose wrinkling slightly as you grin in return and raise an eyebrow.

“sure. why don’t you prove it then, aki?” you challenged, leaning forward to stare down at him. even though you’re perched atop the counter, you’re still barely taller than him. not that you mind, though. you both know all of him belongs to you.

aki frowns, before shaking his head. “i don’t need to prove myself to you.” he mutters under his breath, giving you a resigned sigh. his topknot is messier than usual today; probably because you insisted on doing it for him.

he doesn’t even need to look at you to see the pout weighing on your lips; it shows through your voice when you speak again, as he dumps the carrot chunks into a plastic bowl and cleans his knife off on his apron.

“you’re no fun.” you complained, letting your hands fall to the edge of the marble as your fingers curl around the countertop. the sound of the city drifts in through the crack in the balcony door; the sound of trains whizzing by and the bustle of workers on their morning commute filters in through the breeze, a soundtrack to your morning. aki just bites his tongue and sighs.

you’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t even notice him step away from the cutting board, dumping the carrot bits into a plastic container and leaving the knife behind on the wood to stand in front of you. your knees graze his middle as he reaches behind you, looking for something on the kitchen counter and your breath catches for a moment when he leans in—

until he pulls back again, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. one end of the box is torn, a hole where he taps his finger on the other end and a cigarette slides out, a bundle of drug and addiction. you're about to be excited when you notice the brand label on the blue cardboard— wild raven, the same one himeno smokes. you know it's petty to be upset over such a thing, but that doesn't stop you from pouting like a petulant child (again), crossing your arms over your chest and nudging his shin with your foot.

aki is observant; it's not like he doesn't notice this. he just ignores it in favor of searching for his lighter, leaning over you to reach the elevated shelf of the counter where he last left the lighter you gave him, decked with worn stickers that rubbed off and left papery residue over time. the material is cold against his hands as he rubs his thumb over the cap; the feeling is familiar.

he clears his throat and your attention snaps back to him, like a moth drawn to a lamp. his expression is unreadable, but you try your best to decipher it anyway. you're only able to catch a hint of uncertainty in the slight frown on his lips before he speaks again and you're distracted by his smooth voice.

"i'll make a compromise. come here," he murmurs, tapping his index finger against the film and coaxing a stick out. it slips from the box and he catches it between his fingers, tipping the lid off and thumbing the spark wheel absentmindedly. not enough to strike a flame by any means— but it's enough for fireworks to go off in your gut as you look up at him again and scoot closer on the counter.

"what are you going to do?" you asked curiously, eyeing the cancer stick as he rolls it between his fingers. it slides down his knuckles and he catches it between his middle and index finger, lighting the tip with one swift flick of the lighter.

"you'll see." he answers simply, tearing his gaze off the cigarette to look back at you again as he slots it between his lips. suddenly you're mesmerized; the only thing you can focus on is the curve of his lips and the way the cig balances between them. you hear him breathe in as he leans a little closer to you, standing between your knees as he slowly inhales.

you're mesmerized. there's always been this draw when it comes to aki— something you can't place but that you recognize to be alluring; right now, the only thoughts running through your mind aren't about the cigarette so tantalizing close within your reach like a forbidden apple, or the wet carrot chunks left unattended in the plastic strainer. the only thing on your mind is how close he is, and what he'd taste like if you kissed him right now.

unfortunately for you, there's a stick of paper and drugs blocking your path.

fortunately for you, aki seems to have read your mind.

in one swift motion, he takes his cigarette out his mouth and leans forward, using his free hand to tilt your chin up. he notices the way your lips part like it's muscle memory whenever his own lips are close— it makes him smile; a minuscule, amused twitch of his lips as he exhales the smoke into your mouth. it curls in mini storm clouds like some sort of deathly mouth to mouth, and aki's fingers gently press into your chin to make sure the smoke settles in nicely, trapped between two lovers in a haze.

and before you can even process what just happened, the sensation of his lips pushing hungrily against yours floods your brain, sending a jolt of tingling electricity down your spine as the blaring alarms going off in your brain from the unfamiliar sensation of the smoke are silenced.

a fire spreads through your veins like molten lead as he kisses you, a veil of smoke drifting into the air, curling and snaking about like an oriental dragon made of vapor. it's as if you've been burned by the cherry itself; your cheeks feel hot and you can feel aki's fingers tremble slightly as they find your face, his thumb barely brushing over your cheek gingerly it's as if the slightest hint of pressure might make you vanish into thin air. he tastes like rich coffee and sweet smoke, and something bitter.

you're acutely aware of the way his other arm snakes around your waist, trapping you against the cold marble counter as your teeth graze his bottom lip and his fingers curl into your side. it's something straight out of your wildest dreams until the smoke clogs your throat like cobwebs and you rapidly pull away, coughing as your eyes burn and you cover your mouth. a rare laugh escapes aki's lips, and you shoot him a glare, to which he only ignores, letting it burn away.

it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts as you stare up at his face, pleasantly dusted strawberry red under the glow of the kitchen lights, the tips of his ears pink with a crude mix of want and embarrassment.

"you could've given me a warning next time." is the only thing you're able to get out, the rest of your words dying on your tongue as you cough again to soothe the itch in your throat, rubbing your eyes as you sulk.

it's such a childish thing to do, and yet aki can't help but find it endearing. he's in over his head, and he knows it's far too late to turn back now.

he grabs the ashtray he keeps on the cluttered kitchen counter, smushing the glowing red cherry of the cigarette into the ashtray, extinguishing the life from the ash as it fizzles out, and your hopes go with it.

"wait— you're not gonna do it again?" he glances down at you, blue eyes sharp with a sour expression on his pretty face. it's like you squeezed lemon juice onto his tongue.

"no. like hell i'm letting you get away with more," he says firmly, shaking his head as he steps away from you again. he has a sixth sense for when you're about to complain, so he puts a hand over your mouth to stop the noise from escaping before you can start.

even with the way you're glaring daggers at him, just the fact that you can stand to look at him after he violated your personal space like that makes his chest constrict. it's as if his heart is trying to burrow out of his chest and find its way into your palm. he looks away again to hide the flush on his face.

even then, it was a mistake to keep his fingers over your mouth, because he can feel the very instant your lips curve into a soft, doting smile that only worsens this touchy predicament he's found himself in.

"pleeeeease, aki?" even though your voice is barely audible, it's too much, and you can tell. before he can even blink, he finds himself staring up at you with his chin on your chest and your fingers tangled in his hair, newly loose with his hairtie around your wrist. it would've been cute if not for the shit-eating grin on your smug face.

aki groans and hides his face in your shirt, reluctantly letting you pull him closer. as much as he'd like to ignore the effect you have on him and continue preparing a warm lunch for the two of you, his willpower has melted away like the wax on a candle, no fight left in him to protest as you press a kiss to the top of his head.

"you're too much." he grumbles irritably, voice muffled.

you only smile, and although he can't see it, he can hear it when you speak, and it makes his heart pound wildly between his rotting lungs.

"you love me." and he hates how you don't even realize just how right you are.

aki doesn't consider himself a hopeless romantic. but if there's one thing to ever be addicted to, you're it.

#will it work #who knows!#not proofread #aki hayakawa x reader #aki x reader #aki hayakawa #csm x reader #csm #csm aki #chainsaw man #csm x you #chainsaw man x reader #aki hayakawa x you #aki hayawaka #hayakawa aki x reader #this took. way too many tries for it to even show up on tags #tumblr gives its stupidest problems to its hottest bitches #read: everyone who’s been fucked over by dividers #n e way this is super self indulgent if u couldn’t tell alr 😽

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