Orders followed without hesitation. Desires anticipated before they are spoken. Respect given not because he is kind, but because he is powerful.
With you, it is different.
You never ask him to kneel. Never demand. Never remind him of what he can give you. And yet, the moment you speak, he listens as if the world has narrowed to the sound of your voice.
“Can we go out today?” you ask one morning, stretching beside him. “Somewhere normal.”
He turns his head toward you. “Anywhere you want.”
You smile. “The city.”
He blinks once. “That is it?”
You laugh, rolling onto your side to face him. “That is it.”
He wears expensive clothes even when he tries not to. He cannot turn that part of himself off.
But in the crowd, walking beside you, none of it seems to matter.
You slip your hand into his like it belongs there. Because it does.
People glance at him. Of course they do.
He notices every look, every lingering stare, every moment someone dares to assess what is his.
But you are not impressed by it.
You tug him toward a shop window, pointing excitedly at something ridiculous. Something small. Something entirely unnecessary.
“Oh, look at that. It’s so cute.”
He is already reaching for his wallet.
“Naoya,” you laugh, catching his wrist. “I am not even saying I want it.”
“You looked at it,” he replies calmly.
“That does not mean you have to buy it.”
“Yes, it does.”
You shake your head, smiling at him.
You do not want him for what he can give.
You want him.
You stop for street food instead of reservations. Sit on a bench instead of a private room. You talk about nothing and everything, legs brushing, shoulder pressed against his arm.
You tell him stories about stupid things.
Childhood memories. Half-formed dreams. Things no one in his world would ever bother to care about.
He watches you eat, watches you laugh, watches you exist without calculation.
“This is inefficient.”
You grin. “And?”
“And I have never enjoyed anything more.”
Later, you walk until the sun begins to dip, city lights turning on around you. You lean into him without thinking, head resting briefly against his shoulder.
“You are quiet,” you say.
He looks down at you, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“You make life feel simple.”
You blink, surprised. “Is that bad?”
“No. It is dangerous.”
You laugh softly. “Good thing I like danger.”
That earns a rare smile from him.
If you asked him to leave the clan, he would consider it.
If you asked him to give up his name, he would hesitate, but only because it would make protecting you harder.
If you asked him to stay exactly like this forever, he would agree without question.
Because devotion comes easily to him.
But joy does not.
You give him that.
At the end of the day, arms full of presents you never asked for, you turn to him, eyes warm and sincere.
“Thank you. For today. For everything.”
He studies you for a long moment.
“I would give you anything.”
You step closer, hands sliding up to rest against his chest, right over his heart.
“I know. That is why I do not need it.”
For the first time in his life, Naoya understands something terrifying and beautiful.
Summary: Naoya falls in love first, quietly and completely, believing silence is the only way to keep you safe even in an arranged marriage.
The ceremony is everything the Zenin clan wanted and nothing either of you needed.
You kneel beside Naoya on polished wood floors, the air heavy with incense and expectation. Elders watch from their seats like judges, eyes sharp and measuring.
This union is not about love. It is about bloodlines. Power. Control.
Naoya does not look at you.
Not once.
His posture is perfect, his expression calm to the point of arrogance. Anyone watching would assume disinterest, perhaps even disgust.
You wonder if he resents you for being placed beside him like a piece on a board.
When it is over, when the vows are spoken, and the room finally exhales, he rises without touching you. A servant gestures for you to follow.
That night, you sit on opposite sides of the room.
“This changes nothing,” Naoya says at last. “You will have freedom. More than most.”
You nod. “I do not expect affection.”
“Good,” he replies, almost too quickly.
You do not notice the way his hand clenches at his side.
Living with Naoya is strange in its quiet.
He does not raise his voice at you. He does not belittle or dismiss you. If anything, he keeps his distance, like a man afraid of stepping too close to something fragile.
Yet you begin to notice things.
At clan gatherings, he positions himself slightly in front of you. Always just enough to block wandering eyes. When elders address you directly, his eyes sharpen.
Servants learn quickly not to speak to you without respect. Corrections are made swiftly, without spectacle.
At night, you share a bed separated by inches of untouched space. He turns toward you in his sleep, as if his body betrays what his mind refuses to acknowledge.
You tell yourself it is a coincidence.
Naoya tells himself that silence is survival.
Naoya falls in love with you the way men like him do.
Slowly. Quietly. With resentment.
It happens when you speak your mind without fear. When you challenge him and do not flinch. When you sit beside him in silence and do not demand more.
You do not try to claim him.
That is what destroys him.
He learns your habits without asking.
The tea you prefer. The way you pause before speaking when something matters. The nights you cannot sleep and sit by the window instead.
He wants you. He wants you fiercely. But desire is dangerous.
Love is fatal.
If the clan knows, they will use you. Hurt you. Take you apart piece by piece to keep him in line.
So he says nothing.
He lets you believe he is indifferent.
But you begin to feel the shape of something unspoken.
It is in the way Naoya’s temper blazes when someone disrespects you. In how his hand lingers at the small of your back when guiding you through crowded halls, then pulls away as if he got burnt.
You confront him one evening, when it becomes too much.
“Why are you so careful with me?”
"You imagine things.”
“That is not an answer.”
His jaw tightens. “You are my responsibility.”
The words hurt more than you expect.
You turn away, unaware that he spends the rest of the night staring at the door, furious with himself for choosing safety over honesty.
The elders notice.
They suggest alternatives. Speak of duty. Float the idea of separating you for political convenience.
“They will use you,” he says, voice low and tight. “If they know.”
“You think I am weak,” you reply softly.
“No, I think they are cruel.”
Silence stretches between you.
“I loved you before I should have,” he admits finally, “And I hated myself for it.”
The words are not pretty. Not rehearsed.
They are devastating.
You step closer.
“I choose you. Even if the world does not.”
Something in Naoya gives way.
He takes your face in his hands like he has wanted to for months, forehead resting against yours. His breathing is rapid.
When he kisses you, it is possessive. Desperate and filled with promise.
The clan never wins.
Whether you leave together quietly, or stand side by side and dare them to try, does not matter.
What matters is this.
Naoya Zenin loved you in silence to keep you safe.
And when he finally speaks, it is because you are no longer something he can lose.
You are something he has chosen.
The house feels different after his confession.
Not louder. Not brighter. Just warmer.
Naoya moves through it with less tension in his shoulders, like he is no longer bracing for impact at every turn. He still wakes early. Still trains until his muscles ache. But now, when he returns, you are there, sleeves rolled up, hair loose, completely unafraid of him.
It unsettles him more than any curse ever has.
“You should not be doing that,” he says, watching you struggle with a stubborn cupboard door.
“And yet, here I am.”
He exhales sharply and crosses the room. When he steps back, you reach for his sleeve without thinking.
Just a light touch. Casual. Familiar.
He freezes.
Then he relaxes into it, fingers curling around yours like it is the most natural thing in the world.
At night, the space between you disappears.
He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, and you rest your head on his chest. His heartbeat is steady under your ear. Strong. Alive.
“You can move if you are uncomfortable,” he says quietly.
You shift closer instead.
His arm comes around you slowly, carefully, as if he is afraid of doing it wrong. When his hand settles at your waist, his breath stutters, just once.
“I am not used to this,” he admits.
“I know,” you murmur.
He presses his lips to your hair. It feels like a promise.
Mornings become something sacred.
Naoya pretends not to watch you as you get ready. Pretends not to memorise the way you tie your hair, the way you hum under your breath. He pours tea without asking, already knowing how you like it.
Once, you catch him looking.
“What?” you ask.
He looks away too quickly. “Nothing.”
You step into his space, fingers tilting his chin up.
“You are allowed. You do not have to ration your affection anymore.”
His eyes darken with different
He kisses you then.
Sometimes, late at night, the anger resurfaces.
You find him sitting alone, jaw tight, hands clenched.
“They took so much,” he says without looking at you.
You sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
“But not this.”
He closes his eyes.
When he leans into you, it is with the full weight of him, his pride finally laid down. You hold him without comment, without expectation.
For the first time, Naoya is not alone with his thoughts.
The clan still watches. Still whispers.
But now, when you walk beside him, his hand finds yours. His grip is firm.
Summary: You loved Naoya Zenin in a world that punished softness. After your sudden death, he survives on grief and rage alone, never knowing who truly took you from him.
⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
Naoya never slept well, but he slept better with you.
Morning light filters through the paper screens, and you wake to the familiar weight of his arm across your waist.
He is close, his breath warm at the back of your neck, hair loose in a way he would never allow outside these walls.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.
“You always know,” you say with a smile.
He huffs, fingers tightening slightly as if to keep you from slipping away. “You breathe differently.”
You turn to face him, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. With you, his expression softens.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“You let me.”
“Only you.”
These moments are small, but they are everything.
His complaints about clan duties, about idiots who dare question him. Your laughter when he grows theatrical with his irritation. The way he listens when you speak, really listens, like your words are worth remembering.
Sometimes you catch the looks others give you when you walk beside him.
You pretend not to notice. Naoya notices everything, but he never speaks of it.
At night, when his hand finds yours under the blankets, you feel how tightly he holds on.
As if he already knows.
One day, you are simply gone.
There is no farewell. No final conversation. Just an empty space where your presence used to be.
Naoya hears about it in fragments.
An accident. Unfortunate. Inevitable.
He does not scream. He does not cry. He goes very still, like something inside him has locked itself shut.
Your room remains untouched. Your things are exactly where you left them. He stands there long after everyone else leaves, staring at a cup you never finished, at clothes that still smell like you.
At night, he reaches for you without thinking.
His fingers curl on nothing.
That is when the silence becomes unbearable.
Grief changes him.
Naoya grows sharper, more dangerous and brutal.
His talent refines itself into something new.
People learn not to speak your name around him, not because he forbids it, but because of the way his eyes go flat when they do.
He never takes another partner.
The elders suggest it. Casually. Politely. He stares them down until the air itself feels thin.
Years pass.
His reputation spreads. Fear replaces familiarity.
But some habits never leave him.
He still keeps to his side of the bed. Still murmurs your name when exhaustion sets in. Still turns, sometimes, thinking he has heard your voice.
When he is alone, truly alone, he allows himself to remember you alive. Laughing. Arguing with him. Touching his face like you are not afraid of what he is.
That is the version of you he carries into every fight.
Death does not come gloriously.
There is pain. Blood. The taste of iron.
Naoya lies on cold ground, vision blurring at the edges, and for the first time in years, he is not angry. He is tired.
He closes his eyes.
He sees you as you were that morning. Sunlight in your hair. Your fingers brushing his sleeve.
“Stay,” he tries to say, but the word never leaves him.
His chest tightens. Breath stutters.
In his final moment, he is not thinking of the clan. Or power. Or resentment.
He is thinking of love. Of you.
Then everything goes quiet.
He wakes expecting darkness.
Instead, there is light. Soft, endless, and warm.
Naoya sits up sharply, body whole, pain gone, confusion flashing across his face.
“What trick is this,” he mutters, already bracing himself.
“Naoya.”
Your voice stops him cold.
He turns.
You stand a few steps away, exactly as he remembers you, unchanged by time or death. When he stares at you, his breath catches, sharp and disbelieving.
“No, you’re not real.”
You cross the distance anyway, hands trembling as you reach for him. When your fingers curl into his sleeves, he freezes.
Then he grabs you as if he is afraid you will disappear again.
You feel him shake.
Feel the sound he makes break against your shoulder as he buries his face against you, holding on with desperate strength.
“You’re here. I died, didn’t I?”
“Yes. You did.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching your face.
“And you waited.”
“Always.”
The realisation settles slowly.
No walls. No clan. No eyes watching.
“Here,” you continue, pressing your forehead to his, “they cannot touch us.”
Something in him finally loosens.
For the first time since losing you, Naoya Zenin rests.
He keeps his arms around you, grounding himself in the truth of you, and allows himself to believe in a future without fear.
Together, at last, in a place where love is not a weakness.
Summary: There are rules to being an idol. Rules sealed by ancient contracts and modern greed. You signed yours willingly, knowing it would take everything, your voice, your body, your future. But no one told you it would also take him.
⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
You don’t know who unlocks the door first, but you’re both inside before it’s fully shut.
Jinu doesn’t speak. Neither do you.
The silence is loud in the dim light of the old rehearsal studio.
It’s the only room in the building without cameras.
No fans, no staff, just you and him.
Just floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a worn piano in the corner, and him.
You sit on the floor first. He follows.
For a moment, you both just breathe. Slowly. Like you’re trying not to fall apart.
“I felt it again,” he says quietly. “When we touched during the curtain call.”
You nod. “Same. It’s getting worse.”
The contract was intended to protect both of you.
Not from each other, but from distractions, weaknesses, instability.
No dating, no entanglements, no threat to the clean, powerful image the label spent years creating.
It started with rules.
Then rituals. Then, when the public wanted more control, the label came up with magical seals.
Now, every time you and Jinu hold eye contact too long, you feel a twinge. Every time your fingers brush, your chest tightens. When he touched your cheek in a live performance once, you collapsed backstage and he had to pretend he didn’t care.
He did. You both do.
“I tried to ignore it,” you whisper.
“So did I. Then I started dreaming of your voice. Even when I was asleep, my body longed for you. Like the contract was punishing me for something I hadn’t even done.”
You look down at your hands. “I want to touch you.”
“I know.”
The silence stretches again, aching.
“Sometimes,” you say, “I think about breaking the contract. But if I lose this, everything I’ve worked for-”
“You won’t lose it,” he cuts in. “They’ll take it.”
You nod once. “I hate that you’re not allowed to care about me.”
“I do care. That’s the problem.”
You glance at him, heart thudding painfully.
His hand shifts closer to yours on the floor. Just a few inches away.
“Jinu…”
“I’ve been thinking,” he says quietly, not looking up, “if you can’t break the contract, then I’ll break first.”
You freeze.
“What?”
“I mean it. I’ll collapse. I’ll let the magic eat me from the inside out. I’ll fade, and I’ll fall, and they’ll have no choice but to undo it.”
You lurch forward, panic in your chest. “Don’t say that. You’d be hospitalised. You’d be-”
“I’d be free,” he says, finally looking at you. “And maybe then, we could be too.”
Tears fell from your eyes before you could stop them. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You already are,” he whispers.
His fingers barely touch yours.
There’s a burn, not from the curse, but from how much you feel.
Still, for a moment, you let them rest together. Pain prickles up your wrist, and you grit your teeth, tears falling silently.
He flinches, but doesn’t move away.
“I’m not afraid of pain,” he murmurs, voice low, trembling. “I’m only afraid of never holding you.”
---
The lights are blinding.
It was a simple plan.
The stadium breathes as if it is a living thing, a wave of glowing lightsticks and gasps, hearts pounding in rhythm with yours. You stand at centre stage, mic in hand, dressed in silk and silver, delicate, glowing.
To your left stands Jinu.
All sharp lines and shadow, but the way he looks at you makes everything soft.
A plan you both knew was your only chance.
The crowd roars louder when the intro starts. It's your newest track, never performed live.
A duet. The one the company didn’t want. The one they tried to delay, cancel, conceal.
But it’s here now.
All a part of your plan.
The lights dim. A single spotlight. And the fans.
Jinu sings the opening lines, voice low and calming. The lyrics are aching, intimate, the kind that feel like they should be whispered in the dark, not sung to thousands.
When your part comes, you almost forget to breathe.
Because you wrote this for him.
Every note. Every word. Every unsaid truth.
"I’d burn the contract if I could touch you for real..."
The silence between verses stretches like a held breath, to make the impact. It’s not part of the choreography, but Jinu turns to you anyway. His hand lifts slowly.
You don’t think. You reach for him.
And this time, when your fingers meet, there is no pain.
No static. No burn. No curse crawling up your skin.
Just warmth. Full and beating, like the centre of a star.
Your fingers thread together, and a golden light blossoms between your palms.
The audience gasps as one.
And the world changes.
The seal doesn’t flare. The magic doesn’t lash out.
Instead, something ancient bends. Bows. Rewrites itself in real time.
The chorus rises. You sing with all of your heart.
Jinu’s hand tightens in yours as your voices soar in unison, not fighting fate, not hiding love, but singing through it, rewriting everything.
You step forward together, closer, bound not by a contract but something older, something more pure.
His eyes find yours, and in the quiet, he mouths it to you “I’ll break first.”
But he doesn’t have to.
Because you’re already breaking, in the best way.
With the music swelling behind you, you drop your mic to your side. Your free hand lifts to his jaw. His eyes close, and you feel his pulse quicken. The crowd falls silent.
And you kiss him.
The world goes breathless.
There’s no blackout.
No sirens. No shattering seals.
Only golden light, wrapping around you both like a halo. Like the magic itself has chosen to bow to something stronger.
The screens catch it all, the look in your eyes, the way his shoulders fall with relief, the joy, the disbelief, the quiet miracle of it.
A human and a demon, not broken by love, but made whole by it.
The final note fades into stillness. For a moment, there’s silence.
Then the crowd erupts. Screaming. Crying. Cheering.
Not for a scandal. Not for a headline. But for something real.
For a love that didn’t hide.
You and Jinu stand there, fingers still entwined.
Somewhere in the company offices, they’re running. But it doesn’t matter.
Summary: You’ve always kept your distance from Furin’s top fighter. But when you get caught in a street fight you never meant to be part of, Sakura shows up to save you.
⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
It was stupid, honestly. You didn’t even know the guys you bumped into were part of a gang.
You’d just been walking home from work, hoodie up, headphones in, hands stuffed into your coat. You barely registered the shouts until someone shoved you, and you staggered backwards, almost falling.
“You got a death wish, brat?”
You pulled your headphones down, heart hammering.
“I didn’t mean to—”
One of them grabbed your wrist. “Think a sorry’s gonna fix it?”
Before you could answer, a figure stepped between you.
Leaning forward, black jacket slung loose on his frame, a silver chain swaying with each lazy movement. The moment he turned his head just enough for you to see his face, your breath caught.
Haruka Sakura.
You knew him by reputation. Everyone did. Top dog at Furin. Short-tempered. Dangerous.
You’d seen him in the hallways. He never looked at anyone. You never thought he even knew your name.
But now?
Now he was standing in front of you, radiating barely leashed violence.
“Touch her again,” he said, voice flat, “and I’ll break all five of your fingers.”
The man scoffed. “The hell are you, her boyfriend?”
Sakura didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
It happened fast. A blur of fists, the dull thud of knuckles against bone, the sound of bodies hitting pavement. By the time it was over, the group had scattered, leaving Sakura standing alone in the street, knuckles raw and bleeding.
You swallowed hard as he turned back to you.
“You good?”
You nodded quickly. “Y-yeah. I didn’t know they were gonna—”
“I saw.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bandage — a single, crumpled wrapper — and began wrapping it haphazardly around his knuckles.
“Here.” You stepped forward. “Let me.”
He blinked. “Huh?”
“You’re bleeding. Sit.”
He stared at you for a long second… then dropped onto the nearby curb with a grunt, long legs sprawled out like he couldn’t care less.
You knelt in front of him, taking his hand carefully.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“They touched you.”
You looked up.
His eyes were sharp, unreadable. But under the streetlight, you could see the tremble in his jaw.
“I’m not yours,” you said quietly.
“I know.”
“But you acted like it.”
He didn’t answer.
You tied the last of the bandage and smoothed your fingers over his palm.
His hand was warm.
“…You noticed me,” you whispered.
Sakura’s gaze flickered. “How could I not?”
You froze.
“I see you in the hall. You always look so far away.” His voice lowered. “I hate it.”
“Hate what?”
“That you never look at me.”
“I didn’t think you’d care.”
His jaw clenched. “I shouldn’t.”
But when he leaned in—close enough that you could see the shadow of his lashes, feel the heat of his skin—it was like the whole world paused.
His lips brushed yours, uncertain but burning with something fierce.
When he pulled back, his hand lingered on your cheek.
“You’re not mine,” he repeated, his voice rough. “But I want you to be.”
Summary: You’re a human artist captured by Aizen and kept in Las Noches to paint what you see. Ulquiorra is assigned to watch over you.
⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
The light in Las Noches never changed.
It was always cold, always pale. A hollow, artificial sky stretched across the ceiling of the world Aizen had built, and under it, you painted.
You didn’t know why he kept you, just that he had found you in the human world, brush in hand, painting the clouds.
And perhaps he thought it funny to keep a human like a pet. Or perhaps he liked the way you stared at beauty with something like reverence. Or possibly it was his ego, needing him to put his achievements on canvas.
But it wasn’t Aizen who stood in your doorway each day.
It was Ulquiorra.
Silent, unmoving, with eyes the colour of sea glass and a gaze so hollow it made your chest ache. He never spoke more than a word or two. He never stepped further into your room than necessary.
Until the day he did.
You had dropped your brush — a simple thing — and when you bent to pick it up, a paper fluttered to the floor. A drawing. Of him.
His hand caught it before it landed.
You froze.
He studied it quietly, eyes flickering across the lines of his face as you had imagined it — softer, almost thoughtful, captured in pencil and charcoal.
“You drew me,” he said, as if naming a foreign concept.
You swallowed. “I draw what I see.”
He was silent for a long time.
Then, to your surprise, he stepped into the room and handed it back.
“This isn’t how I look,” he said.
Your heart dropped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“I didn’t say I disliked it.”
You looked up. His expression hadn’t changed, but something had shifted in the air.
“I don’t understand why you do it,” he murmured. “This art. These… emotions. You feel so much.”
“I’d go mad if I didn’t,” you admitted. “It’s how I make sense of the world.”
“And what sense do you make of me?”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“You're empty,” you said softly. “But not lost.”
He didn’t move. But his gaze—sharp and intelligent—narrowed.
You continued. “There’s something in you that watches. That wonders. Even if you don’t understand the answer.”
He stood there, still as a statue, until at last he spoke again.
“May I sit?”
It shocked you more than anything he had ever said.
You nodded.
That was the first night he stayed. Watching you paint. Asking questions that didn’t sound like questions. Letting your voice fill the silence between them.
And in the nights that followed, something in him began to change.
He brought you things without being asked — a better brush. A fresh cloth. Once, a stone from the desert that he claimed “looked like something you’d like.”
You called it a heartstone. He kept it.
And one day, he reached out and touched your cheek with the back of his fingers — barely a graze, a ghost of a touch. But it stole the breath from your lungs.
“I don’t understand this,” he whispered. “But when I look at you… I wonder if I could.”
You covered his hand with yours.
“You don’t have to understand it,” you said gently. “You just have to feel it.”
And he did.
For the first time in his second life, he felt something warm where his heart should have been.
Where the Heart Should Be
Ulquiorra x Reader
Summary: You’re a human artist captured by Aizen and kept in Las Noches to paint what you see. Ulquiorra is assigned to watch over you.
The light in Las Noches never changed.
It was always cold, always pale. A hollow, artificial sky stretched across the ceiling of the world Aizen had built, and under it, you painted.
You didn’t know why he kept you, just that he had found you in the human world, brush in hand, painting the clouds.
And perhaps he thought it funny to keep a human like a pet. Or perhaps he liked the way you stared at beauty with something like reverence. Or possibly it was his ego, needing him to put his achievements on canvas.
But it wasn’t Aizen who stood in your doorway each day.
It was Ulquiorra.
Silent, unmoving, with eyes the colour of sea glass and a gaze so hollow it made your chest ache. He never spoke more than a word or two. He never stepped further into your room than necessary.
Until the day he did.
You had dropped your brush — a simple thing — and when you bent to pick it up, a paper fluttered to the floor. A drawing. Of him.
His hand caught it before it landed.
You froze.
He studied it quietly, eyes flickering across the lines of his face as you had imagined it — softer, almost thoughtful, captured in pencil and charcoal.
“You drew me,” he said, as if naming a foreign concept.
You swallowed. “I draw what I see.”
He was silent for a long time.
Then, to your surprise, he stepped into the room and handed it back.
“This isn’t how I look,” he said.
Your heart dropped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“I didn’t say I disliked it.”
You looked up. His expression hadn’t changed, but something had shifted in the air.
“I don’t understand why you do it,” he murmured. “This art. These… emotions. You feel so much.”
“I’d go mad if I didn’t,” you admitted. “It’s how I make sense of the world.”
“And what sense do you make of me?”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“You're empty,” you said softly. “But not lost.”
He didn’t move. But his gaze—sharp and intelligent—narrowed.
You continued. “There’s something in you that watches. That wonders. Even if you don’t understand the answer.”
He stood there, still as a statue, until at last he spoke again.
“May I sit?”
It shocked you more than anything he had ever said.
You nodded.
That was the first night he stayed. Watching you paint. Asking questions that didn’t sound like questions. Letting your voice fill the silence between them.
And in the nights that followed, something in him began to change.
He brought you things without being asked — a better brush. A fresh cloth. Once, a stone from the desert that he claimed “looked like something you’d like.”
You called it a heartstone. He kept it.
And one day, he reached out and touched your cheek with the back of his fingers — barely a graze, a ghost of a touch. But it stole the breath from your lungs.
“I don’t understand this,” he whispered. “But when I look at you… I wonder if I could.”
You covered his hand with yours.
“You don’t have to understand it,” you said gently. “You just have to feel it.”
And he did.
For the first time in his second life, he felt something warm where his heart should have been.
Not a drizzle, real rain. Soaking, cold, insistent.
The kind that clung to your skin and made the world smell like wet concrete and earth.
You didn’t bring an umbrella.
Of course.
You stood at the school gates, staring up at the sky like maybe it would take pity on you. But the clouds just answered with another cold gust of wind.
“Oi.”
The voice came from behind you.
You turned, heart skipping.
Yamato stood a few steps away, watching you with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.
His hair was slightly damp, with little drops clinging to his bangs. He wasn’t holding an umbrella either.
But when he stepped forward, he started pulling the hoodie over his head.
You blinked. “Wait, Yamato, what are you-?”
He tugged it off and held it out to you. “Wear it.”
“But you’ll get wet-”
“I said wear it.”
You hesitated for a moment, staring at the hoodie in his hand.
It was warm from his body, soft at the edges, and it smelled like soap and rain and something faintly sweet underneath.
You slid it over your head, sleeves far too long.
He looked away like he was trying not to smile. “Looks better on you.”
Your heart fluttered.
The two of you started walking. There was no umbrella. No rush. Just soft rain and soft silence.
You walked close, shoulder to shoulder.
He kept glancing down at you when he thought you weren’t looking.
And when a car passed by, spraying water across the sidewalk, he instinctively pulled you in front of him, shielding you with his body.
You looked up at him, blinking through raindrops.
“You always this protective?” you teased, voice barely above the rain.
He glanced down at you, and then, without a word, leaned in.
It wasn’t a rushed kiss.
It wasn’t a goodbye, or a desperate gesture like the night before.
It was gentle.
Warm.
It made your breath catch.
His lips lingered against yours, soft and careful. Like he didn’t want to scare you.
Like he was learning what it meant to love.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. Rain dripped from his hair onto your cheeks.
“I’ve always been like this,” he whispered. “You just never saw me before.”
You touched the side of his face, fingers brushing his cheek. “I see you now.”
And under the rainy grey sky, standing in his hoodie with your heart pounding, you knew something had changed.
Summary: You’ve never even spoken to Yamato. But when five guys corner you after school, it’s he who shows up.
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You always knew who Yamato Endo was.
Everyone did.
The grumpy guy in class with sharp eyes and a reputation for fighting. He never talked unless forced.
He never smiled unless someone got punched. And he never looked at you.
You were just a quiet girl who kept her head down.
You didn’t start fights. You didn’t attract attention. You didn’t expect anyone to come running for you.
So when five guys followed you after school, laughing, calling you names, and dragging you into the alley behind the station, you didn’t expect a rescue.
You were terrified.
One of them grabbed your wrist. You tried to pull away. Another shoved you against the wall.
“Don’t touch me,” you snapped, panic cracking in your voice.
“Oh, come on,” one said, grinning. “We just wanna talk-”
And then, like a storm, he arrived.
Yamato.
He didn’t say a word. He just grabbed the nearest guy by the collar and slammed him into the pavement so hard it cracked.
The rest barely had time to react before he was on them, fists flying, body moving like he was born for this.
You could only watch, stunned, as one after another dropped.
Five on one.
He didn’t even flinch.
By the end of it, Yamato stood in front of you, chest heaving, hand bleeding, a cut on his cheek.
The others groaned on the ground, half-conscious and moaning.
You stared at him.
He didn’t look at you. Not right away.
He muttered something under his breath. “Idiots.”
Then, finally, his eyes flicked to yours.
“You okay?”
You nodded. Slowly. “Why… why did you come?”
He didn’t answer.
You looked down at his knuckles, red and raw. You reached for him without thinking.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he said, pulling back too quickly. But his voice wasn’t harsh. Just quiet and rough.
Like he didn’t know how to be soft but wanted to try.
You blinked. “You didn’t even know me.”
“I knew enough,” he said.
The silence stretched.
“You’re not… what they say,” you whispered.
He looked at you then, eyes searching. “What do they say?”
“That you’re cold. That you don’t care.”
He scoffed. “You think I’d bleed for someone I don’t care about?”
Your breath caught.
The wind howled through the alley. He stepped closer.
“You’re always so quiet in class,” he murmured. “But I see you. I always have.”
You swallowed. “I thought you hated me.”
He leaned in, close enough for his voice to drop to a whisper.
“I don’t hate you. I just didn’t think someone like you would ever look at someone like me.”
“I’m looking now,” you whispered back.
And then, without thinking, without planning or panicking, you kissed him.
It was soft. A little clumsy.
But he kissed you back like he meant it.
Like he’d been waiting for that moment since the day he saw you walk into class.
When you pulled back, he rested his forehead gently against yours.
“I’d fight a thousand guys for you,” he muttered.
You smiled.
“I hope not,” you whispered. “Five was enough.”
You didn’t sleep much that night.
Your lips still tingled.
Your heart wouldn’t slow down. Every time you shut your eyes, all you saw was him, his bloodied fists, his storm-gray eyes, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.
Yamato Endo.
The boy who never talked. The boy who fought for you.
Now, the boy who kissed you.
And today, you had to see him again. With everyone watching.
You gripped your bag tightly and walked through the front gates, trying not to feel like your skin was on fire.
He was already there.
Sitting in his usual seat. Hood up, head down, earbuds in. Same scowl. Same silence.
But when you entered, he looked up.
And you swore, only for a second, you saw a flicker of something soft in his eyes.
You sat down.
The silence between you stretched. You fidgeted with the strap of your bag, heart hammering like a drum.
You didn’t know what you expected. Maybe that he’d pretend nothing happened.
That it was a one-time moment. A rush of adrenaline.
A thing forgotten in the daylight.
But when the teacher finally dismissed class and everyone flooded into the hallway, you felt him beside you.
He hadn’t said a word.
But he was waiting.
And when you looked up, he offered his hand.
Not dramatically. Not shyly. Just like it was obvious. Like he’d already made up his mind.
Your fingers slipped into his.
Warm. A little rough. But steady.
You walked down the hallway together. Students stared. Whispered. Some flat-out gawked.
You squeezed his hand tighter.
“You don’t care that people are staring?” you asked quietly.
He looked at you.
“They should stare. You're mine now.”
Your cheeks flushed. Your stomach flipped.
“And you’re mine,” you mumbled, not quite looking at him.
He let out a small, quiet laugh. The kind no one else would ever hear.
Summary: You’re Hokage Kakashi’s assistant, often the last one in the office with him.
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The Hokage’s office was quiet, too quiet, except for the soft scratching of pens and the occasional sigh from across the desk.
Kakashi sat with his usual slouch, silver hair falling into his eyes as he combed through yet another mountain of paperwork.
You sat across from him, your own stack just as high, doing your best to keep your head down and your heart steady.
You’d done this a hundred times before. Late nights, dim lighting, silence heavy with things left unsaid.
But something about tonight felt different.
Maybe it was the way he kept glancing at you, quick looks he thought you wouldn’t notice. Maybe it was how his voice sounded when he said your name earlier, a little too soft, a little too thoughtful.
Or maybe it was just you.
Your hand ached, so you set your pen down and rolled your wrist.
“You okay?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
You nodded, smiling a little. “Just stiff. I’ve been writing for hours.”
He leaned back in his chair, stretching until his shirt pulled tight across his chest, then gave you a look that was half fond, half guilty.
“I shouldn’t be keeping you this late.”
“You always say that,” you teased. “And I always stay.”
“Maybe I like that you do.”
You blinked. His tone was quiet. Barely teasing. Almost serious.
You looked at him across the desk.
The lamp cast a soft gold glow over his face. His mask was still up, but his eyes were warm. Focused. Nervous.
He stood slowly, walking around to your side of the desk.
You turned in your chair to face him as he leaned back against the edge of the wood.
You expected him to ask about another report.
He didn’t.
Instead, he reached down and took your hand, fingers brushing yours so gently you almost thought you imagined it.
“You do too much,” he said softly. “Not just for the village. For me.”
You swallowed. “I don’t mind.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why it scares me.”
Your eyes met his. His thumb traced your knuckles. Every nerve in your body was suddenly awake.
“Kakashi…”
He lowered his head slightly, close enough that his voice dropped.
“I look forward to these nights with you,” he admitted. “Too much. I don’t even know when it started. I just know I’d rather be buried in paperwork with you than sleep without you near.”
Your breath caught. “What are you saying?”
He hesitated for a beat, then slowly, wordlessly, reached up and pulled his mask down.
Your heart skipped.
“I’m saying,” he murmured, “that I want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time. And I’m tired of pretending that I don’t.”
The kiss, when it came, was careful.
Not shy but quiet. Like a confession sealed between lips instead of ink.
You kissed him back.
Fingers tangled in his uniform, heart thudding in time with his.
When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Still okay working overtime?” he asked, smiling faintly.
Summary: You’re the quiet new student with no interest in friendship. Yamato Endo takes that as a challenge.
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Unfortunately for you, Yamato Endo was nothing but trouble, with a shit-eating grin and a voice too loud for the quiet halls he stomped through.
From the second you set foot on school grounds, he made himself your problem.
“New kid, huh?” he asked, leaning over your desk during lunch on your first day. “What’s with the death stare?”
You stared harder. “What’s with your face?”
The entire table went silent.
A beat passed, and then Yamato burst out laughing.
“Oh, I like you.”
You wished he didn’t.
Every day after that, he appeared at your side like an overexcited stray dog that refused to be kicked. He asked you to spar in the training lot.
You declined. He offered you his bento. You shoved it back at him.
He called you “fun-sized fury” once when you nearly broke his nose.
But he kept coming back.
And you couldn’t understand why.
Not until the night everything shifted.
You were heading home late, hoodie pulled up, when three older punks cornered you in the alley behind a convenience store.
You didn’t start the fight, but you were sure as hell ready to finish it.
Or, at least, you thought you were. One against three wasn’t ideal.
You had one bloodied lip, and your knuckles were bruised when the first guy slammed you against the wall.
Then suddenly he was gone.
Yamato had arrived like a goddamn hurricane.
No words. Just fists.
It took seconds for him to leave the group sprawled in the dirt, groaning and cursing. He stood over them, panting slightly, before turning to you.
“You alright?” he asked, frowning.
“I didn’t need your help.”
He scoffed, but his gaze dropped to the smear of blood on your cheek. Without thinking, he reached up and wiped it away with his thumb, slower than necessary.
“You didn’t ask for help,” he said. “That’s different.”
You hated how warm that made your chest feel.
It didn’t stop there.
He kept showing up. But something shifted. He was softer. Less obnoxious. Still loud, but when he laughed, it felt like sunshine instead of noise.
You let him sit next to you during lunch. You let him walk you home once. You even sparred with him behind the gym, and when you knocked him flat on his back, he looked up at you with something like awe.
“You’re my favourite fight,” he said, breathless, still sprawled in the dirt.
You raised a brow. “Because I hit you the hardest?”
“Nah,” he said, eyes half-lidded, voice low. “Because you make my heart beat like hell.”
You froze.
He grinned.
And then you kissed him.
Just once. Short. Quick.
But he chased it like it was the first hit of something he couldn’t live without.
Now he never leaves your side. And you let him.
He calls you his favourite fight. And you call him your most exhausting weakness.
But when he wraps his arms around you after a long day, forehead resting against yours, the fight doesn’t feel like war anymore.
Thank you all who have decided to follow my humble little blog.
I must say my inso and the reason behind my fire for writing is all thanks to @multific ! Her amazing pieces and attention to detail have made me who I am.
Thank you to everyone who read my stories, I'm truly thankful and you are the reason why I keep going!
Summary: Sukuna Ryomen is a monster. A king. A curse born of blood and chaos. But for you, he is something else.
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The palace he built for himself isn’t stone and wood.
It’s bone. Cursed energy.
The remains of those who defied him. It pulses with life, his life. His power.
But in the center of it all is you.
Not a prisoner. Not quite. Though some days, it feels like it.
Not because he chains you but because his gaze alone is binding.
Sukuna watches you now, his eyes fixed on where you lounge under silk sheets, reading one of the human books he let you keep.
He doesn’t speak yet. He just watches.
Until your skin tingles with awareness.
“Say it,” you murmur, not looking up. “Whatever it is that’s making you stare like that.”
There’s a pause. Then a chuckle.
Low. Dangerous. Familiar.
“I want an heir,” he says.
You lower the book slowly.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Sukuna’s expression doesn’t change.
Still unreadable. Still calm. He is someone who doesn’t need to ask twice.
“You heard me.” He moves forward, hand moving to hold your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. “I’ve lived longer than most kingdoms. Slaughtered thousands. Ruled all. But no legacy. No bloodline.”
You blink. “And… now you suddenly care?”
“I didn’t. Until I met you.” His voice drops to a rasp, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “I want a child that bears my power. My blood. And your fire.”
The room feels too hot. Or maybe that’s just him.
You try to joke. “You don’t want a kid. You want a tiny monster.”
He grins. “Exactly.”
You sit up a little. “Ryomen… this isn’t just something you decide in a moment.”
“It’s not a moment. I’ve been thinking of it since the first time you defied me and lived.” He leans closer, his breath against your cheek. “Since you made me curious. Since you made me want.”
You swallow. “You’re serious.”
“I am.” He kisses your temple. “And I’ll wait. Until you say yes.”
Your eyes widen. Him? Waiting?
“You’re obsessed,” you murmur.
“Of course I am,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You’re mine. And our child will be even more.”
His arms slide around your waist, pulling you into his lap as though the matter’s already decided. As though the world will bend around this truth.
You stare at him for a long moment. The ancient king. The curse of curses. Wanting this.
Wanting you in a way more terrifying than any battle.
And a part of you wants it too.
Not just the heat of his touch. But the idea that something soft could bloom in the dark. Something his enemies could never destroy.
You press your forehead to his. “Then convince me.”
Summary: A villain with a bruised heart. A hero with a bat.
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The first time you met Metal Bat, it was because he slammed a vending machine-sized monster into a wall just inches from your face.
You’d been trying to rob a black market weapons dealer. Not your smartest move, especially since a bigger, uglier threat showed up halfway through.
One second you were ducking behind crates, and the next, a blur of steel and black hair took down the thing with a single swing.
You blinked. He stood there in the aftermath, blood dripping down his arm and hair half in his face.
“You alright, or what?” he asked.
You stared. “You just saved a criminal, you know that?”
He shrugged. “You looked like you were about to die. I ain’t picky.”
You should have run. You didn’t.
He didn’t cuff you. He didn’t even ask for your name. He just walked you outside and shoved his jacket into your arms because you were shaking and soaking wet from the rain.
“Don’t catch a cold. That’d be lame.”
And then he left.
But then he came back.
You saw him again. And again.
Once near your favourite ramen place. Once in the alley where you slept when things got bad. Once when a gang cornered you and he just appeared.
He never said he was looking for you. But he never acted surprised, either.
“Still causing trouble?” he’d mutter.
“Still hitting things with a stick?” you’d shoot back.
It became a rhythm. Not quite enemies. Not quite anything else. Just two people who kept circling each other.
Until the night you actually got hurt.
A job went wrong. Too many people. Too little backup.
You ended up slumped against a brick wall, clutching your side, blood slicking your shirt.
He found you before anyone else.
You opened your eyes to his blurry silhouette. “You gonna arrest me this time?”
He didn’t answer. Just cursed under his breath and picked you up, careful but firm.
You woke up in his apartment. His jacket draped over you again. His bat leaning against the wall. Bandages clean and tight around your ribs.
He was sitting beside the bed, scowling.
“You’re an idiot,” he said.
“You’re warm,” you whispered, barely awake.
He looked like he was about to yell.
Instead, he touched your hair. Gently.
“Don’t do this again. I mean it. Don’t make me find you bleeding again.”
“Why?” you whispered.
His jaw tensed. “Because I don’t wanna lose you, alright? I don’t even know why I give a damn, but I do.”
He leaned in, voice low.
“I know you’re a villain. And I’m supposed to stop you. But when I see you cry, or bleed, or disappear for three days, it hurts.”
Your fingers curled into his shirt.
“I don’t wanna be a villain anymore,” you said.
He pulled you into his arms, rough and careful at once, like he didn’t trust himself not to squeeze too hard.
Summary: You’re a villain. Bakugou is a hero. Your love is forbidden.
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The alley was drenched in shadow, narrow and quiet save for the soft tap of your boots. The city hummed beyond, alive.
You slipped into the hidden space behind the crumbling warehouse, heart tight in your chest.
He was already there.
Arms crossed. Scowl in place. Hair catching the moonlight like a spark ready to catch fire.
“Three minutes late,” Bakugou muttered. “What, did you stop to rob someone on the way?”
You rolled your eyes and leaned against the wall across from him. “I tripped over your ego. Took a second to recover.”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The tension between you always started like this, cracking insults to hide how much you needed each other. His sharp eyes flicked over you quickly, the way he always did after a long gap between meetings.
Like he was checking you hadn’t lost a limb. Or your mind.
You hadn’t. Not yet. But it got harder every day.
“Missed you,” you said softly.
Bakugou’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, well… You shouldn’t make me wait this long.”
He crossed the space in two strides. His hands were warm when they gripped your waist, rough from training. You kissed him first—like you always did—because he hated how much he wanted to. Because he always pulled you closer anyway.
Your back hit the wall, but you didn’t mind. His lips were hot, demanding. Yours gave as much as they got.
Minutes passed like seconds. The kiss broke only when both of you were breathless.
“You’ve been in the news,” he said gruffly.
You didn’t answer. What was there to say?
“I saw what you did to that bastard with the acid quirk,” he went on. “You saved a kid. Didn’t kill the guy either. That’s not villain shit.”
You swallowed. “It was an impulse. Don’t read into it.”
“I always read into it.”
His forehead rested against yours, breath warming your cheek. The vulnerability in his voice wasn’t rare with you but it always hit like a gut punch. Katsuki Bakugou didn’t do gentle. Except for you.
“I don’t want this to end in cuffs,” he said quietly. “Or a fucking body bag. You hear me?”
You nodded.
“I’m working on something,” he continued. “It’s not official but there’s talk about pardon cases for rogue quirk-users. If we build a case, if you lay low, stop with the big jobs… I can get you out.”
You stared at him. “You want me to stop?”
“I want you alive,” he snapped. “I want to stop looking over my shoulder. I want to hold your hand in daylight. I want to sleep in the same bed and not worry it’s our last night."
He stopped himself. Looked away like he’d said too much.
But it was too late. You were already reeling.
“I’ve wanted that too,” you whispered. “I just didn’t think I could have it.”
“You can,” he said, looking back at you like it was the only truth that mattered. “You just have to trust me.”
You kissed him again, slow, deep.
Like a promise.
Weeks passed.
You disappeared from the headlines. Let yourself be ghost quiet. When pro-hero Red Riot got word of a rogue villain’s anonymous good deeds, Bakugou used it. Built the file. Pushed your case through back channels.
Then came the day.
Bakugou walked into the commission with your trembling hand in his. You walked out cleared. Under watch, yes. Probation, yes. But free.
No more hiding. No more back alleys.
Your shared apartment smelled like burnt sugar and fried rice. Bakugou was cooking, shirtless, while you leaned against the counter watching him fuss with the wok.
“You’re really domestic for someone who used to blow up buildings,” you teased.
He glanced at you, smirking. “Shut up. I’ve always been perfect.”
You padded over to him and slipped your arms around his waist, cheek pressed to his back.
“I still can’t believe it,” you murmured.
He turned in your hold. “Believe it.”
And then he kissed you soft, slow, like you were a fire he wasn’t afraid of anymore.
Summary: Everyone knows Metal Bat is loud, brash, and always ready to throw hands. But with you, he’s softer.
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You were used to Metal Bat showing up with bruises and blood on his knuckles. That was just how he operated. But tonight?
He had flowers.
They were a little crushed. Wrapped in a napkin. Slightly damp.
But still flowers.
You blinked at him from the doorway, taking in his usual scowl, the bat slung over his shoulder, and the incredibly out-of-place wildflowers clutched in his other hand.
“Are those... for me?” you asked, already biting back a grin.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he muttered, shoving them at you like they’d burn him if he held them any longer. “Saw ‘em. Thought you’d like ‘em. That’s all.”
You took them gently, brushing your fingers over the bent petals. “They’re perfect.”
He shifted awkwardly on your porch, scratching the back of his neck. “You got time for dinner or somethin’? I know I said I’d come by later but figured earlier’s fine too.”
You smiled. “Come in, Banchou.”
He always melted a little when you used that nickname. Not that he’d ever admit it.
Once inside, you placed the flowers in a glass of water, then turned to see him already taking off his jacket and plopping down on your couch like it was his own.
“Rough night?” you asked, walking over to sit beside him.
“Some low-rank monster thought he was hot shit. Tried to throw a car at a school bus.” He leaned his head back with a groan. “Didn’t end well for him.”
“For the monster or the car?”
He smirked. “Both.”
You curled up beside him, and he didn’t even hesitate.
One strong arm wrapping around your shoulders, tucking you close. He always smelled like smoke and asphalt, but underneath it was something warmer.
Something that made your chest ache.
“You ever think about taking a break?” you murmured, running your fingers lightly over his chest where his shirt was slightly torn.
He gave a grunt. “What, and leave the city to all those half-assed heroes?”
“You don’t have to protect everyone all the time,” you whispered. “You can just be. With me.”
For a second, he didn’t respond.
Then his voice came, quieter than usual.
“Don’t know how to be soft, babe.”
You tilted your face toward his, resting your forehead against his. “You already are. With me.”
He kissed you then. A little rough, a little awkward but sincere. He always kissed like he fought with his whole heart, his whole body, like he meant every second of it.
You climbed into his lap without thinking, cupping his jaw, kissing him again, slower this time.
His hands settled at your waist, almost reverent, holding you like he wasn’t used to anything this gentle.
When you pulled back, he was flushed, eyes still half-closed.
“Damn,” he muttered. “You got me wrapped around your little finger, huh?”
You smirked, brushing his bangs from his forehead. “Maybe.”
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.
“You better not tell anyone how soft I am for you.”
“I won’t,” you promised, resting your head on his shoulder. “It’ll be our secret.”
Though, considering how you were sitting in his lap, surrounded by flowers, holding hands with the loudest S-Class hero in the city, everyone probably already knew.
But if they didn’t?
You weren’t going to be the one to ruin his street cred.
Summary: You're a wanted villain. He's a pro-hero. Every meeting is dangerous.
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The hideout was quiet. Too quiet, after the storm of emotion that crashed through your reunion.
Katsuki hadn’t let go of you since he found you—arms tight around your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish again. Your clothes were still damp from the rain, clinging to your body, your breath coming shallow as you stood there in his arms, pressed against the cold wall of your safehouse.
“You almost died on me,” he growled low in your ear, voice strained and hoarse. “You don’t get to do that. Not to me.”
You could barely whisper. “You’re the hero, Bakugou. I’m not supposed to make it easy.”
“Don’t give me that shit.” His grip tightened. “You’re mine. You think I care what the world says?”
He kissed you before you could respond, his mouth crashing into yours like a man starving. It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t careful. It was fire and fury and pent-up ache, the kind of kiss that bruised your lips and stole your breath.
You whimpered into his mouth, your hands tugging at his soaked shirt, his calloused palms already under yours, dragging the fabric over your head.
The chill of the room hit you, but it was gone the second his body pressed flush against yours, burning hot.
“Katsuki…” You gasped when his mouth left yours to trail hot, wet kisses down your neck.
“You don’t get to say my name like that unless you mean it,” he growled. “You don’t get to look at me like you didn’t leave.”
“I didn’t want to leave,” you whispered.
He shoved you back gently against the wall, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. “Then don’t. Stay. End this shit. Let me protect you for real.”
You nodded, and that was all he needed.
He lifted you in one swift motion, arms strong beneath your thighs as he carried you to the low couch beside the fire.
He dropped to his knees between your legs like it was instinct, dragging his lips down your stomach, biting at your hip, tasting every inch of skin like he’d never get the chance again.
Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging as you gasped—his tongue found the most sensitive spot between your thighs, and you couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped you.
“Fuck,” he murmured against you, voice raw. “I missed this. Missed you.”
Your back arched as he devoured you like a man possessed, every flick of his tongue precise, every growl from his throat vibrating straight through your core. You cried out his name, again and again, until you were shaking in his arms, ruined by his mouth alone.
And when he rose above you, his eyes were wild—red-hot and blazing. His pants were already undone, pushed low on his hips as he lined himself up against you, hesitating just for a second.
“Tell me this is real,” he rasped. “Tell me you want this. Tell me I’m not dreaming.”
You reached up, pulling his face down to yours. “I want you. I always have. Burn the world down, Katsuki—I’m not running anymore.”
He groaned as he pushed inside you—slow at first, deliberate, filling you until all you could do was gasp and cling to him. Then he moved. Hard. Fast. Desperate. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, tangled with your cries, his grunts, the creak of the couch beneath you.
He kissed you like a promise, like an apology, like a man trying to memorize you with every thrust. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, holding your wrists down against the cushions.
“I’m gonna make you mine,” he panted against your lips. “I don’t give a fuck what they say. You’re mine. You hear me?”
“Yes,” you cried. “Yours, Katsuki, always.”
The fire cracked beside you, flames reflecting in his sweat-slicked skin as he drove you both to the edge—then over it. You came apart around him, gasping his name like a prayer, and he followed with a growl that sounded more animal than man, collapsing against you as he spilled inside.
You stayed tangled there for a long moment—sweaty, breathless, wrecked.
His head rested against your shoulder, arms locked around your waist like he’d never let go again.
“You sure you’re done being a villain?” he murmured against your skin.
You laughed, soft and shaken. “Only if you promise I get to be yours.”
He looked up at you then, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.
